Tag Archives: kevin morris poet

On Patrol

Leave a reply

On patrol.
She is in control,
Her whole
Being bent
On making him content.

His pent
Up frustration
Is expressed in dissipation.
He has long since lost control
And is losing his soul.

She stays for a while
Then leaves with a smile
And a wave.
The position is grave
And no one is saved.

On patrol again
She wonders when
Or if the men
Will ever see
The real she
Hidden behind the make-up.

Girl and man need a wake-up
Call,
But it is easier to fall
Than to arise
And reach for the skies.

Poems for Winter

Leave a reply

The official start of winter is 1 December. However, given the extremely cold bouts we have been experiencing here in the UK, coupled with winter’s impending onset, I wanted to share with you a number of my poems with a wintry theme:

The Clocks Have Gone Back
Thoughts On A Winter’s Evening
Will Spring Come Again?
Snow
Bee And Rose
December?
Leaf

Does Poetry Need To Rhyme?

13 Replies

A couple of days ago, an acquaintance asked me whether poetry needs to rhyme. My response was that there is no necessity as regards the use of rhyming in poetry. Eliot’s The Wasteland springs to mind as a poem where free verse is employed throughout large portions of the work.
Most of my own poetry does utilise a rhyming scheme. I feel most comfortable expressing myself in rhyme. This does not, however mean that my poems rhyme throughout, (there is no point in sticking to a rigid rhyming scheme if by so doing the poet loses the sense of what he is trying to say. It is better to have a line which doesn’t rhyme than force one and thereby garble the essence of the poem).
I would, as always be interested in your views. Does poetry need to rhyme? And at what point does poetry become poetic prose or simple prose as opposed to poetry as it is usually construed?

Kevin

Mannequin

2 Replies

As a mannequin in a shop window, at which people stare,
She stands in the glare
Of the bedroom light.
Once, such things did excite.
Now all is null
Or on occasions, he
Takes a dull,
Almost professional interest in yet another she.

Gazing at the girl, in her birthday suit
He thinks on the route
Cause of his obsession with mannequins.
Loneliness or sins?
Where begins
A man’s cursed traverse
Of the path to the ever lasting bonfire
Where desire
Ends in mechanical sport
With a mannequin bought
Out of boredom.
He knows there is no true joy in hoardom
For him or her.
Still, in despair
He takes a half-hearted pleasure there.

Night Duty

1 Reply

The click clack of stilettos.
Girls from ghettos
Feet are lost
In carpets they could never afford,
While a discreet board
Shows the cost
Of most things.

The lift bell pings.
What goes up must go down.
The receptionist, eyes lost in her book
Gives a slight frown.
Why bother to look?
For of course
A nod is as good as a wink
To a blind horse.

Inner Peace

Leave a reply

Sitting here
My mind is almost clear
Of old junk.
For now the detritus has slunk
Away to hide
Inside
The maze of my calculating brain.

The stain
Of a thing overthought
Frequently leaves me overrought.
This room is still and full of peace
So why can not my mind for long cease
In it’s whirring motion?
Must I forever be tossed upon this restless ocean?

I long for a lack of motion.
Yet there is no magic potion
To achieve a quiet soul,
A goal
Pursued by men of every nation
And station.
Though ‘tis a fact both sad and true
That inner peace is gained by so few.

Making Hay

Leave a reply

The young man makes hay
And little heed does pay
To the odd grey
Hair.
With desire he does stare
At maidens fair
While the hay turns bad
And the lustful lad,
With expression sad
Sees that the grey
Has chased the brown away.

The man strays still
But the rill
Of joy is almost dry.
Try
As he might
To lose himself in sensual delight
Man does hear
With fear
Night’s footsteps, creeping near.

Fast Cars and Film Stars

5 Replies

When you get your thousand pound
Handbag will it make a profound
Difference to who you are?
Throw in a fast car
And you on the arm of a film star.
I wonder, as I stand
Pint in hand
On the other side of the bar
Whether such things
Can happiness bring.

Would you throw over your boyfriend
For a man who would spend
All his money
On a sweet, brainless honey?
In any event why should I care
For it is not my affair
And we all have our interests such as they are,
Mine being poetry, and yours a fast car.