My coffee grows cold,
And I old.
And here I sit
Playing the wit,
Until death calls time
On wit
And rhyme.
My Coffee Grows Cold
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Tag Archives: kevin morris author
Cyberspace
Playing around in cyberspace
We come face-to-face
With the vanity
And utter banality
Of our flawed humanity.
Progress
Walking through the churchyard
On a freezing evening,
I consider progress. ,
And pass by
Fading inscriptions
On tombstones.
The Fine Old Bureau
There was a young lady named Flow
Who lived in a fine old bureau.
When they said, “what an antique!”,
She would awake from her sleep
And say, “no, I’m young Miss Flow!”.
When a Young Man Eating a Trifle
When a young man eating a trifle
Got shot by an old-fashioned rifle,
A policeman named Ted
Said, “he is dead!
Which is serious, and no mere trifle!””.
When a Young Lady Reading a Thriller
When a young lady reading a thriller
Accused me of being a serial killer,
I said, “Miss Hocking!
Your suggestion is shocking!
But I admit to writing that thriller!”.
My Dog Kicks Earth
My dog kicks earth.
There is sleep.
And death,
Which is the final
Sleep in earth.
Should Writers Fear AI?
I recently posted about my experience of using Chat GPT to create poetry, https://kmorrispoet.com/2023/02/13/what-happened-when-i-entered-one-of-my-poems-into-chat-gpt/. In that post I discussed the results of entering my poem Midnight into Chat GPT and how the AI continued my poem (which was originally published several years ago).
This morning I came across this article, https://ai.plainenglish.io/writers-dont-fear-chatgpt-81e1128b11c1
, in which the author argues that writers should not fear AI. Whilst I am sure that Chat GPT (and other AIS) will improve over time, I agree with the author’s view of the matter.
I Have Awoken to Birdsong
I have awoken to birdsong
And lain awake
Until sleep takes me again.
I measure time
With clocks. Birds and flowers
No not hours,
Nor do they see me
Conversing with time
In a half rhyming rhyme
Until my song is done.
Miss Rose and My Bedclothes
When I found naughty Miss Rose
Sleeping nude under my new bedclothes,
I said, “my dear,
The bishop draws near,
You’d better stay under those bedclothes!”.
K Morris - Poet 