Safe in my flat
In the early morning
I hear the birds
And ponder on cats.
There is no divine
Merely the purring feline,
Part of great nature.
The imponderable creator
Of little man.
Safe in My Flat
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Tag Archives: nature
We Maintain the Urbane
We maintain
The urbane
And are witty
In the city.
But those who hark
To the fox’s bark
In the suburban dark
Find the urbane
Hard to maintain
And their wit
Begins to slip
In the Cold Air
In the cold air
A bird did sing.
I have my care.
But I heard a blackbird
Trill in the chill air,
Which took away my care.
Ere I Wrote a Word
Ere I wrote a word
I heard the morning bird
Who knows not of plot,
Yet he
Inspires poetry.
Keats had his Nightingale.
But All hearts fail.
Though poetry lives on
When poets are gone
Conscious of the Wind
The wind sings
In the trees
As I,
Alone,
Pass by
Gravestone.
Or, on the busy thoroughfare,
Oft, he catches me unaware
With piles of fallen leaves
And great boughs brought low.
And then I know
That all must go.
Poet Kevin Morris Reading His Poem Blackbird on Youtube
Yesterday, I recorded my poem Blackbird on youtube,
The poem came to me as I sat in my mum’s kitchen/dining area in Liverpool. The big clock on the wall ticked away the seconds whilst, in the garden I could hear the song of a blackbird.
Leaving
On my way home
I touched the stone
Of my local church.
And longed to stay
With the singing birds
On this summer evening.
I have oft heard
The birds singing
And regretted leaving.
I envy them
For, unlike men
They do not weep.
For they see not
The final sleep.
While I
Knowing that man must die
Have the beauty of birdsong,
Which does not last long
Circular
A circular seat
Encompassing a tree.
Age will defeat
Thee and me.
Blackbird
I see the sun shine
Think on the divine
And the tick tock
Of the ever-present clock.
I hear the blackbird
Who has heard
Not of clock,
And my fleeting word.
I Would Rather Be a Tree
I would rather be a tree
In the midst of the wood.
For in woodland glades
The traffic noise fades,
And the song of the bird
Fills the heart of the wood.
And the poet’s word
Is as nought to the bird.
K Morris - Poet 