Caught up in thoughts of work
I heard a bird sing.
I have been touched by beauty
And knowledge of my mortality.
He flies free
While I feel the futility
Of my work
When he sings.
Work
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Tag Archives: kevin morris author
Jacinta’s Splinter
When a young lady named Jacinta
Went and trod on a splinter,
She hopped all around
And said something profound.
And then she cursed that splinter!
Early October Thoughts
The wind is fresh
Carrying the scents of life and death.
While from a tree
The autumn leaves are falling on me.
I lose myself in rhymes
Of passing time
And others who once stood
In autumn’s wood.
My friend collects acorns from leaf-strewn lawns
Hoping that Oaks may grow.
Others may see the fully grown tree.
While we will not know.
If there is No Heaven or Hell
If there is no heaven or hell
Then one may as well
Give in to sin.
But they say Hell’s fire is hot
So perhaps better not
Play with pretty Miss Moriah.
Though I have heard the atheists tell
There is no hell.
So I’m going to heaven
With Moriah at 7 …
The Man Who Liked to Eat Chalk
A man who liked to eat chalk
Said that it helped him to talk.
One day, feeling bored,
He swallowed a blackboard.
Which worked very well with that chalk!
Ghosts and Ghouls
It is often said that the dead
Are, forever, dead
And that only fools believe in ghouls.
But, having read
Of ghosts and vampires. When I retire
To my bed
I feel the dead
Draw near.
And in my troubled dreams I scream
In fear.
Yet ghosts and ghouls
Are for fools –
Or so I hear …
Reading in Bed
When I met a young lady in red
Who said, “do you read when in bed?”,
I said, “dear Miss Ling
Do you fancy a fling?”,
She said, “I only read in my bed!”
A Visitation
Hearing you cry twice
I thought of rats and mice.
You live in my heart
Inspiring my art.
In Shakespeare’s Macbeth
Your cry portended death.
When I hear your cry
I know I too must die.
But perhaps you and I
Will find in rhyme a kind
Of immortality –
Though, in the graveyard plot
It matters not.
Careless Miss White
A careless young lady named Miss White
Often falls in the street at night.
A kindly vicar called Paul
Said, “many young women fall”,
As he picked her up last night …!
Progress
Some speak of the inevitability of progress.
While I rhyme of springtime
And trees that bud in ancient woods.
But autumn will surely come
And the trees undress.
Bare branches breed despair in some.
But spring sun will come
And buds appear in gardens and woods.
For nature has her cycle
Of death and rebirth
And cares not for what
We label as progress.
K Morris - Poet 