The stallion getting old
Feels the cold,
But When he runs with the mares
His cares
Seem far away.
He doth play
At romance
But cannot prance
As once was the case.
Another pretty face
Becomes as one
With lovers long since gone.
There are always mares
With which to pair,
To keep him warm
As the dawn grey
Slinks over the horizon
Ushering in yet another day.
I have updated my ‘About’ page to include a link to my interview on Croydon Radio. In addition, I have added a link to the print edition of ‘Lost in the labyrinth of my mind’.
To visit my ‘About’ page, please click: https://newauthoronline.com/about/
What do you think
As we drink
the wine,
Your fingers entwined in mine?
Do I want to know
And, if so
Is It out of a genuine care
To grasp Where
you have been
Or what seen?
Do I really want you to say
What thoughts of woe
Hold sway
During your average day?
I find it is easy to be kind.
But better not to talk
Of the demons that stalk
Our head.
Let us retire
To bed
For drink is the sire
Of desire
And in love’s fire
We burn
Ere we return
To our sorrow.
Let tomorrow
Go hang.
We will play today
Though the sky has long since turned grey.
My muses do tease
Please
And oft times freeze
My heart.
Entangled in my art
They know not that they are caught
Nor what the poet wrought
On once virgin page.
Upon my paper stage
They will forever play
Yet, from life, both I and them will fade away.
Letting go of one’s book can be difficult. Several weeks ago I was in the pub enjoying a pint with 2 friends. I had just sold a copy of my book, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” to my friend A. There it sat, in all it’s splendour within easy reach of 3 pints of beer. Just one careless elbow or a wrong move by my guide dog Trigger and my book would have been well and truly soaked! While I didn’t voice my concerns, I sat in convivial surroundings thinking “what if someone’s beer splashes all over my book?” However the book was, of course no longer mine as it’s ownership had passed from me to my friend A who is now entitled to do with it as he sees fit. While “Lost” remains mine in the sense that the creator of intellectual property/ideas retains ownership of them (unless he signs a contract signifying otherwise), once I sell and/or give away any of my books, the property in them passes to their new owner.
I guess my feeling of concern regarding that book and the 3 pints can be compared to a parent who’s child has reached the age of majority, the point at which they can leave home and enter into relationships without parental consent. Parents may worry that a particular date isn’t right. They can, however do nothing whatever about their son or daughter’s decision.
The copies of “Lost”, once sold are, forever lost to me. Doubtless their new owners will treat them with care and, I hope gain many happy hours leafing through my work. I do, however think from time to time about that book on the pub table and the 3 pints of beer …!
So many dinners
And diverse sinners
Knowing
Where they are going
Once the bill is paid
And the maid
With winking face
Shows grace
And retires.
Not so secret desires
Observed in his eyes.
She tries
To take refuge in drink.
They think
Of the time ahead,
Of the night’s dead
Hour and bed.
As a child she tottered on her mother’s heels.
So high
Struggling to reach the sky
Now her fate she seals
With deals
Done over the phone.
Alone
With guys
Her trade she plies.
Empty thighs
Open
And saccharin words are spoken.
But can one deceive
Those who yearn to believe?
She has his measure.
A man of pleasure.
Not bad
Just a sad
Boy
In search of a new toy.
He has No desire to destroy
But seeks for joy,
Angling with his hook of gold
For fish it is impossible to hold.
—
Gazing back
Down childhood’s track
She perceives a lack
Of love.
The light above
Is not red.
No drugs fill her head
Yet the dead
Thud
Of empty love,
Of skin against bone
Screams “Alone.
You are young.
Your chance you flung
Away
Without a care
To lie with your clothes
Heaven knows
Where.
‘Twas in work not play,
You lost yourself there”.
On Friday evening, I popped into my favourite local, the Railway Bell for a pint or two. While there I fell into conversation with an acquaintance who mentioned my book, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind”, (http://moyhill.com/lost/). I enquired whether he would like to see the book (I had a copy in my rucksack) and was told one was on order from his local bookshop. While I was delighted to learn that I had another customer for my work, I had to suppress a smile as the publisher holds no stock. Consequently my acquaintence’s order will find it’s way to Moyhill who will, in turn pass it on to me for fulfilment. I will then send a copy of “Lost” to the bookstore. How much simpler things would have been had my drinking companion gone direct to the horse himself!
The above does demonstrate that my book is showing up on all the correct systems, hence the bookstore being able to order it. I am, however still left feeling that I’ve been through rather a surreal experience!
Kevin
Sitting in a field
I watch the grain yield
To the fickle
Sickle
That momentarily spares a stalk
As onward the reaper doth walk.
When he does approach
Will I reproach
Him and say,
“‘Tis not my day
To die
For the birds fly
In a cloudless sky.
I would gather wild flowers to my breast.
Surely ‘tis not time to rest?
Reaper go your way
For I feign would play
Another hour under the sun”.
Will he reply,
“All things must die.
You have had your fun.
Did you not see time, as the river run
Away?
Cease your play.
Face it like a man, for you have debts to pay”.
Her name was Werner
He just couldn’t spurn her
Advance,
For she did dance
Ever closer.
He said, “I’m a grocer”.
She replied with a sigh, “Oh how I love bananas.
You must see my pyjamas
All covered in llamas.
To tell you the truth
My real name is Ruth,
But it is better to be a girl called Werner
For no one can turn her
Away.
Let us play
With the llamas.
I may lose the pyjamas
For the Bahamas
Are hot
And I have got
A thirst to slake.
Come, let us swim in yonder lake!” …
K Morris - Poet 