I feel the wind
On my skin
And hear him
Whisper in the trees
Reminding me of you.
I go in
And face my darkening window
Were I to die tonight
I would go happy –
Yet tomorrow will probably come.
I will walk in sun
Or rain.
Then, returning home again
I will face my window
But not the same
One as tonight
On Thursday 19th March I hosted a segment on the World Poetry Reading Series World Poetry Cafe March 19 2026 with Kevin Morris by VictorSchwartzman | Mixcloud. During my section of the podcast I read William Wordsworth’s the Solitary Reaper which is one of my favourite poems. In addition, I recited a number of my own poems and talked about my poetry.
To listen to the show please follow the above link. My bit starts some 20 minutes into the podcast.
The scent of new-mown grass
Catches me as I pass
By graves in spring.
I take delight
In this brief light
As birds sing
Over tombs and grass
When I take the short walk
Through the churchyard, my thought
Often turns
To lessons not learned
And chances spurned.
And then I turn
To my so ordinary day
And say,
“I will learn!”
Yet still my way
Remains the same
Treadmill of pleasure and pain.
But my demons will stop
When the devil knocks
Early March.
Winter’s last blast
Tries to deny
The spring
I met a young lady named Vera
Who said all the people fear her!
I said to Sky,
“Please tell me why?”
She shivered and said, “go ask Vera!”
I shall compose
A poem grandiose
To love and lust
And how I just
Pricked my nose
On yonder rose!
When a Marxist who had lost his glasses
Said, “religion is the opiate of the masses”.
And I said, “How so?”
He said “I don’t know!
And comrade have you seen my glasses!”
There was a young lady named Fay
Who met with a gentleman one day.
He said, “I’m a buccaneer!”
Which Fay found quite queer,
As he worked in a field of hay!
In the quiet time
Before I go online
I see the sunshine
Fall on my office walls.
If I could stay
And watch the sunlight play
I would be happy,
Temporarily.
I have seen another January
Come and go
And trust I will see
The coming spring
Bring flowers to me.
But man’s hours
Are brief as flowers
And I may go
And not know
January or spring
K Morris - Poet 