Me reading a selection of my limericks.
K Morris reading a selection of his limericks.
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K Morris reading a further selection of his poetry.
Me reading several of my poems.
Cadence
Wind chimes
Sound,
Their cadence more profound
Than these sad rhymes.
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Kevin
Nothing in Particular
On a fine
December day, when the sun does shine,
I breathe in the smell
Of old books, and hope all may be well.
Dust causes me to cough.
One may scoff
At the idea
Yet I fancy, death brings up the rear.
My wardrobe door creaks at a late hour.
Reason’s power
Has gone astray
And I pray
That despair
Remains in his lair.
Inner Peace
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
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.
Double Dutch
I sense but can not touch
And to write it down would be double dutch.
These trees,
These fallen leaves,
This breeze
All speak wordless words
By me only half-heard.
Often have I tried to grasp that which I can not hold,
A thing more precious than any gold.
It is a story told
from ancient time
Which can not be captured in this poor rhyme.
Flies
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.
Shark
For the blank
Stare
Of the fish tank,
thank
the shark
Who dwelt in the dark
He has had his wish
And eaten all the fish,
But can no longer glare
As consuming his source of food
Perforce
The reaper stark
Did intrude
And made the shark
His food …
K Morris - Poet 