Tag Archives: poetry blogs

Poetry and Historical Fiction on the World Poetry Cafe

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On Thursday 29th January, I appeared on the World poetry Café together with the author of “Through the Roman Gate”, a historical novel which is available to purchase in the Kindle store. The book sounds like a fascinating read and I will be downloading it onto my Kindle.

 

During my segment of the podcast I read a number of my recently published work and talked about what inspires me to compose poetry.

 

To listen to the podcast please visit https://flashfiction2.substack.com/p/world-poetry-cafe-jan-29-kevin-morris?utm_source=podcast-email%2Csubstack&publication_id=5716717&post_id=186013381&utm_campaign=email-play-on-substack&utm_medium=email&utm_content=play_card_post_title&r=dv63h&triedRedirect=true. My segment appears approximately 27 minutes in.

 

I am grateful to Ariadne Sawyer and Victor for hosting me on the World Poetry Café.

Dash

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Sometimes I dash

Along the churchyard path.

But those who sleep

Have no appointments to keep.

And I pass by

The graveyard plot

Until I do not.

 

 

Yet I must

My final appointment keep

With worms and dust.

And the earth

Will continue to turn

Without heed or need

Of me

London Encounter

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Walking along the familiar street

I meet

A lady who asks me

For £1

So that she

Can get to bank.

 

I give her the pound

And laugh at her story.

 

I receive no thanks

But get asked for £5

(Which I deny I have).

 

I go home

Thinking on philosophy,

Lies,

And the fickleness of charity.

 

But who

Exploited who

I wonder

As I sit alone

At home

Writing poetry …

 

(Note: “Bank” refers to bank station on the London underground).

When Dracula Went to a Pub

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When Count Dracula went to a pub

In search of some good wholesome grub,

A barmaid named Kelly

Offered him fruit jelly.

But he wanted another kind of grub …

Dom

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Have you heard of a dominatrix named Nicks

Who is known for her love of sticks?

If you ask how I know,

I heard it from Vicar Joe;

Who is known for his love of sticks …

Cold Birds

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Standing in the cold park

I heard the birds

Sing in early January.

 

I will hear them in spring.

And think I see

Cold birds.

 

 

Yet I know that the  winter

Lives in me

And poets sing

Of what is true.

Dodgy

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Whilst browsing a dodgy website

I encountered a young lady named White.

She came round to mine

And after much wine

I kissed that young lady good night …

Generation Z

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I am dating a young lady from Gen Z

Who says that she is in love with me!

She calls me her honey

And thinks I have money.

So don’t tell her the truth about me …

 

A Memory

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You padded around my flat

Silent as a cat.

 

 

I strain

To remember your name.

Then it comes back.

And I recall

You wanted something else

And I, wanted you,

And fell from grace.

 

A few years  later, you called my name

In the street

Were intimate strangers

By mischance meet.

 

 

You were no old flame.

Yet the memory remains

Of a girl, perhaps  half there.

And your friend in the street

Who knew it was true

But claimed a mistake

Had occurred.

 

 

Yet, I knew you –

A sleek black cat

Who lost her fur

In a gentleman’s flat.

Lethe

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One day

I will cross the Styx

And drink of Lethe.

 

 

All our memories must decay.

But some succumb

To Lethe

Before they make their way

Over the Styx.

 

 

We grieve

For those who are here

Yet gone away.

And pray

That when we leave

We may

Recognise Charron.

 

Yet some who forget

Before they cross

Know not what

They have lost