Tag Archives: k morris poet

Who Is The “I” In A Poem?

Who is the “I” refered to in a poem? Frequently (but by no means always) the “I” in question is the poet him/herself. We should not, however make the mistake of assuming that the “I” in a given poem does, necessarily refer to the person who has penned the poem. This issue receives attention here, https://wewritepoetryforum.wordpress.com/2018/03/31/poetic-tidbit-1-personas/.

Dogbotics

A friend, who works in the field of the biological sciences, informs me of a breakthrough in the sphere of human to animal communication. The development in question pertains to our canine friends and, as a dog lover of many years, I am delighted to be able to launch this exciting story upon the world.

My friend works in the little known field of Dogbotics. I must confess to not having heard of Dogbotics until I had the good fortune to become acquainted with my friend who, being of a shy and retiring disposition wishes to remain anonomous. Obviously being, as I am a man of the upmost integrity I will, of course respect the wishes of my dear friend and not reveal her identity.

Anyway, returning to the matter in hand, Dogbotics have developed a tiny chip which (when implanted into the neck of a canine) allows said animal to speak. I must confess to having been sceptical of this development until I heard it with my own ears. Imagine my surprise (I mean shock) when my own four-legged friend, Trigger (after having had the chip implanted) addressed me in the following manner:

“Hello, I’m Fido”.

Admittedly, his name is not Fido but (as mentioned above) Trigger. However his ability to voice in any manner (other than a growl, woof or whine) is truly staggering and will improve over time (or so my friend in Dogbotics informs me). In the meantime, I must remain content with such statements as that quoted above, together with such gems as

“Woof, I feel rough, that six day old pie I found in the street earlier is giving me a sore belly. Quick, I need to go outside!”.

I shall, of course keep you fully informed of the progresss of this exciting and innovative technology.

Kevin

There Was A Young Man From Dover

There was a young man from Dover
Who suffered from a terrible hangover.
When he called for the hair of the dog
His servant Hogg
Brought him a canine called Rover.

Too Much

I live too much in my head.
When I am dead
These words here said
May moulder in bookcases.

I hope they will be read
By those who’s faces
Are healthy with the glow
Produced by England’s country air.

When I go
Why should I care?
For I will not know
Whether it be so …

Some leave institutions behind.
I shall leave a piece of my mind
To be read
When I am dead
(or not as the case may be)!

It amuses me
To think what others may see
In scribbles left behind
By one who lived too much in his own mind.

Conspiracies

Conspiracy theory
Most dreary.
“Little green men are getting into my head”
He said.
“The Russians didn’t poison those people in Salisbury you know …”.

On and on they go
The crackpots who have heard or read
Something crazy and, of course it is true!
“The Jew
Is controlling the world and the holocaust is a lie”.
I wonder why people deny
History’s weight
And give way to hate.

The holocaust did take place
But weirdos and extremists after fantasies chase
While fake “historians” grin
And coin it in.

“Little green men” are harmless
While holocaust deniers are charmless
(But by no means harmless)!

Putin must be laughing up his sleeve
At the gullible idiots who believe
That Britain released a nerve agent on it’s own street.
So I greet
Each conspiracy theory
Most dreary
With a contemptuous smile
While
I bite my tongue lest my disdain
Is made plain in words.

There Was A Young Lady Called May

There was a young lady called May
Who performed in a very strange play.
Having neither beginning nor end
Her friends all contend
That it really wasn’t a play!

Loss

Shall I compete
With high-heeled feet
As the gods look down
And snigger or frown?

Aphrodite is flighty
Yet I have thought her divine
And from time to time
Still worship at her shrine.

Nymphs suppress a sigh
And smile.
They will, for a little while
Stay
Though they long to hie
Away.

Gloss
May conceal the crack of age.
I am at a loss
But should learn
To turn
Over a new page
For this stage
Is a temporary thing
And I am without a ring