Tag Archives: kevin morris poetry

Wild Flowers

I perceive
The flowers as I
Pass by.
Should I
Grieve
That they will die?

I paused and smelt
And felt
Their slim stem that I
Could so easily break.

I chose not to take
And did the blooms forsake
For I
Know that they shall die

This poem and others like it can be found in ‘The Writer’s Pen and other poems’, available here for the UK and here for the US.

The above pictures were taken in Spa Wood, SE19.

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Bluebells close-up

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Yellow flowers close-up

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Wild garlic close-up

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Blue flowers close-up

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White flowers close-up

In the woods dark heart

In the wood’s dark
Heart the breeze
Whispers in the trees
Words that I can not comprehend.
May god send
Me peace
And this breeze
Never cease.

‘In the woods dark heart’ can be found on Amazon in ‘The Writer’s Pen and other poems’ by Kevin Morris, available here for the UK and here for the US.

All of these pictures were taken in Spa Woods, SE19.

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A picture of the path leading into the woods

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A large tree close-up

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A large tree

When My Friend Whose Name Is Ted

When my friend whose name is Ted
Turned to me and said,
“If I had the time I’d use internal rhyme”,
I said, “you just have Ted!”.

There Once Was A Clever Ukrainian

There once was a clever Ukrainian
Who grew a spectacular geranium.
It had many pink flowers
And she spent countless hours
Tending that geranium which grew in her cranium!

Do Nymphs Still Play?

“Do nymphs still play
In woodland glades today
And the sunlight gleam
On pristine stream,
Where Flighty Aphrodite
Goes dancing and romancing?”
I asked Christine.

She made reply,
With a sultry look, in her one good eye,
“I aim to please
But the pollon makes me sneeze
So no rolling in the hay
For me today”.
Christine is such a tease …

What Constitutes the Erotic for you?

What constitutes the erotic for you?
Is it the stiletto shoe
On an ankle slim
That tempts you into sin?
Or is it the red light
Which winks
At kinks
Both day and night
That does it for you?

Some prefer
The bare
While others consider the covered
Erotic, for the exotic
Is a mystery to be discovered.
I find at night
That there are better things to do
Than write
About the stiletto shoe …

There Once Was A Writer Named Sage

There once was a writer named Sage
Who told all his business on the page.
Each affair of the heart
He described in his art,
And his lovers they all sued Sage!

I Have Not Thrown Away

I have not thrown away
That which you gave me the other day.
A worthless thing perhaps,
Yet hope takes time to collapse.
Maybe tomorrow
With a twinge of sorrow
It will be thrown away.
Or, like a coward
I shall put it in a drawer
Where it shall be seen no more
Save only by me,
Though ’tis better to be free
Of both it and thee.