A bird in my garden sang.
A pang
(I no not why)
Into my heart sprang.
Perhaps it is the knowledge that I will die,
Though birds will still sing
Be it winter or spring,
And bring
A melancholy joy
To girl and boy.
The tears start
When nature’s beauty overpowers.
Countless hours
Has many a poet spent,
His efforts bent
On personifying mother nature,
The creator,
Who has no heart
Yet lives and breathes
Through his art.
I was delighted to receive the below review for my collection of poetry, “Refractions”:
“I was touched with the wisdom and the heart behind the words. To know that the beauty of the world and all its glory is not lost on anyone makes me humbled.
I read and enjoyed all of these works and each one touched me on a different level. I look forward to reading more from Kevin Morris”.
Thank you to the reviewer for taking the time to read and review “Refractions”, which is available, as an ebook in the Amazon Kindle store. For the review please visit, https://www.amazon.com/review/RR1WAIUSHF5PF/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B01L5UC2H2.
Walking through the tube on my way home.
Alone
In this crowd.
Would
That I could
Be a cloud
Up above.
Yet we are all clouds
Blown hither and thither by crowds,
Trying to keep our identity in the throng
Whose song
Is “Work then home
Alone.
Perhaps a few drinks with the boys or girls
(the social whirl)
Or collapse in front of mindless television
(watching overpaid hosts
On reality TV interviewing ghosts
Who inspire derision, Not fear).
Sometimes we see it clear
But rather than confront the truth (which is difficult to do),
Instead flick through
Channels where you can shop till you drop
For the latest crop
Of gadgets (not needed before,
But once you saw
You just had to buy)
For one must be a “with it” guy.
Going to bed
Your head
Is clear for a while.
There can be no denial
That you may think
(unless your mind be muddled with drink)
Ere sleep “wraps up the ravelled sleeve of care”,
But beware
For you may dream
And all that does seem
Will be revealed for what it is, a soon forgotten soap opera in which you play
A barely noticed role then fade away.
A recently published study indicates that it is likely that dogs dream about their owners and that large dogs dream for longer than smaller canines.
The results of this study do not surprise me. I am now working with my fourth guide dog and have, from a young age grown up around dogs. Dogs wag their tails and perform other activities, such as running, growling or yelping while asleep. It is therefore logical (to my mind at least) to assume that our four-legged friends can (and do) dream. Anyone who has grown up around dogs will have observed them growling while asleep which indicates that they (like us) also experience nightmares.
http://www.themonitordaily.com/dogs-dream-owners-study-says/212676/
An alley cat prowls.
A wild dog growls,
In answer and howls,
Longing for tasty meat
To eat.
Feline
And canine.
Meet
And greet.
Her pointy feet,
Their mutual deceit.
I see a line
Of feline
And Canine,
Never ending,
Wending
It’s weary way
To the place where all must pay.
A series of emoticons showing various books, including “Peter Rabbit” and “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, some of which are more difficult to guess than others, (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3871186/Can-guess-books-emoticons-Titles-classic-children-s-novels-turned-emoji-tales-quiz-s-bound-leave-baffled.html).
There was a young lady called Mary
Who worked in a haunted dairy.
On seeing a ghoul
She said, “I am no fool.
You are not in the least bit scary …”!
—
There was a young lady called Mary
Who worked in a haunted dairy.
On seeing a ghoul
And being a fool,
She mistook it for a fairy!
I
Wish that the fly
In the ointment would die,
But worry it will turn into a bee
And sting me.
I
Conjured up the fly.
It grows in size
Which is no surprise
For those who feed
Flies, find they breed.
Man sews
A poisoned seed
Called want, not need
And goes
In search of flies to feed.
If I where a rentier living off capital
(The very idea is laughable)!
I would retire to the moors
(with other bores)
And shoot peasants
Yes, I think that would be pleasant …!
I would terrorise the local wenches
And build high fences
To keep at bay
Those intent on stealing my wealth away.
Huge parties I would throw
And my reputation for debauchery would grow.
The vicar would pray
Lest I give his secret away
While the bishop’s innocent daughter
Would, like a lamb to the slaughter …
But I am no collector of dividends
And my efforts bend
To writing verse
Which, growing worse and worse
Will, I fear, not fill my purse …!
The scent of leaves
Temporarily relieves
My introspection.
There can be no excuse
For dejection
When Autumn is here to seduce
Me with her heady scent.
I repent
Of fruitless hours spent
Over keyboards
While the squirrel hoards
Nuts in the nearby park
And the clear, sharp bark
Of a fox
Says “a pox
On your writing.
You ought in the outdoors to be delighting.
Take a walk in yonder wood
For the air
There is good
And Autumn fair
Is warmed by a gentle sun.
Soon winter will come.
Have done
With melancholy thought
For time, once passed can not be caught
And every second is dearly bought”.
