I am linking to a post on “Rhyme”, in which I answer questions regarding my poetry and those writers who have exerted an influence on my work.
I appreciate that some of my readers are already familiar with this article. However, for those who are not, I hope my interview on Rhyme will be of interest to you, https://rhymepoetry.wordpress.com/2017/06/01/interview-with-kevin-morris/
Nearly 2 am.
I am Awake when
I have no desire
For fire
(only sleep).
Yet I must keep
Alert
To avert disaster.
Though in truth
It is my bad luck
That it has already struck,
But the roof
Will not fall
And I shall recall
This impostor of a disaster
With laughter.
There was a young lady named Hocking
Who wore a single stocking.
She went down town
Her sorrows to drown.
The bishop found it shocking!
“The Poet And The Workman” can be found in my collection of poetry, “Refractions”. Refractions is available from Amazon and can be found in the Kindle store here, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01L5UC2H2.
—
Poet: “Why do you dig a hole my good man?”
Workman: “Because I can,
While those who are not able
Sit at a table,
Wasting time
Trying to make their verses rhyme!”
Poet: “I have a plan
To make my lines scan.
Kindly move your van
And I will be on my way
To versify the livelong day”.
“Workman: Why bless my soul
This poet droll
So intent was he on his goal
Of writing verse,
That the man’s fallen into that there hole,
To be a rhymer is most perverse!”
I remember a Russian doll, by the fireplace.
I took it apart
But could trace
Therein no heart,
For ‘Twas only art.
With no start
Or conclusion.
‘Twas a mere confusion
Of toy
And boy.
Many a life is undone
In the pursuit of fun.
We may turn and run
From the fact
Of an act
And the sun
Will continue to shine.
But, in the dark
The truth stark
Reveals that every fine
Day
Passes away
For delight
Must end in night.
“Hark the herald angels sing”
The Salvation Army band play
As I walk through Victoria station today.
The thing
Is that I want to believe.
The music half carries me away
And I grieve
That I can not pray
Other than in a formulistic way
Where words are heard by none but me.
Or (o distant hope
That helps men cope)
Perhaps by a being
(All seeing)
Who I can not understand
Let alone command.
There was a young lady named Simone
Who lived in a haunted house alone.
In the depths of the dark
She would sing like a lark
And the ghosts would sigh and moan!
There once was a snowwoman named Moriah
Who warmed herself by my fire.
She wore a coat of felt
And soon did melt.
O what a foolish desire for fire!
This snow
Fall
Will cover all.
But I know
That the click clack
Of heel
Will reveal
The black
Tarmac underneath.
And when the snow does cease
The path to my door
Shall be covered no more.
K Morris - Poet 