When my friend said, “your poetry is dark”.
I could have said, “should I pretend
That we don’t all end
In the stark dark, my old friend”.
But I smiled and whiled away more time
In drink. But now rhyme
Of you and me. and truth in poetry.
I awoke to rain today.
I will walk where water drips
From spring leaves and flowers
For time slips away
And all our little hours
Are brief as butterflies,
Who flit by without a sigh.
Following on from yesterday’s post, in which I mentioned that my poetry collection, “Passing through: some thoughts on life and death” is now available to purchase in the Amazon Kindle store https://kmorrispoet.com/2025/05/17/passing-through-some-thoughts-on-life-and-death-by-k-morris-is-available-to-download-in-the-amazon-kindle-store/. I am pleased to let you know that the paperback edition of “Passing through” is now also available. To purchase the paperback edition please visit the below links.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F92G8PPR?
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0F92G8PPR/
I watch with delight
The play of the sunlight
On my wardrobe.
I came out of night
Unrobed into sunlight
To smile for a while.
And return to night.
The tinkle of windchimes
And birdsong heard in my mum’s garden
Brought into my mind
Life’s great beauty, and thoughts of mortality.
I may achieve a kind of immortality
Through my poetry.
But when I go
Above or below
Why should I care
For I will no longer be there
To know
.
Copyright: Kevin Morris.
On a cold December day
I stop
And suddenly become
Aware of the ticking clock.
The sun
Hides it’s face.
It will rain again today.
I will embrace
Old Father Time in rhyme.
I grow older
And sense his great hand
Waiting to land
On my bowing shoulders.
I must try
Not to waste time.
For the clock
Will, one day, … stop
I passed by men mowing the churchyard grass.
When I came that way again
The men had passed, to go and mow
Some other grass perhaps.
I have walked the churchyard path
So oft , and passing by graves have coughed
Due to the hay.
One day the mower will pass,
And I will lie under the churchyard grass.
I have dreamed
The strangest dreams
And believed them to be true.
When I die
Will I finally find the reality
Of all I see?
No, I will see
No more of dream
Or of what we call reality
For I will no longer be me.
As I try to write
The tick tock
Of the clock
Measures my day and night.
At other times
Lost in rhymes
I hear it not.
The beat of women’s feet
Has measured my pleasure
And pain. But the clock mocks
Us all. We fall
In love and lust,
And time turns all to dust.
K Morris - Poet 