There was a young man named Steve
Who’s practice it was to thieve.
He stole a hat,
From a policeman called Matt,
Which made the copper grieve!
There was a young man named Steve
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Tag Archives: poetry
Give me a diversity of seasons
Give me a diversity of seasons.
Save me from one, long heatwave.
Give me reasons
To rejoice
Ingenuine choice.
Let me hear the blackbird’s voice,
Not the crass
Mass
Who scream
For suncream
And complain
That the rain
Is wet.
The sound of rain
The sound of rain reached my ear.
‘Twas no cadence drear
To me,
Simply the rain,
Timeless, wild and free.
Naïve?
Naïve?
Who to believe?
What we perceive,
The signals we receive,
Are so much
Double Dutch.
Or are they so?
For the wise may know
The meaning
Of scheming.
An imagined delight
Takes flight.
The perceived swan
Is gone
And the old owl
Has no time
For the poet’s rhyme,
For behind each word
Is heard
The wolf’s foul growl.
There was a young lady named Claire
There was a young lady named Claire
Who had a steamy affair.
Her boyfriend Ned
Caught her in bed.
I swear I wasn’t there …!
Getting your self-published books into libraries
A useful article on how to get self-published books into libraries.
I know from my own experience, that approaching libraries directly is a productive means of getting your work onto their shelves.
I was delighted when Liverpool Central Library, wrote to confirm that they had added 2 copies of my collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind”, (http://moyhill.com/clock/), to their shelves.
As a result of me contacting Swansea University (my former place of study), they kindly accepted my donation of one copy of “My Old Clock”.
Consequently, from my own experience I can say that getting your self-published books into libraries is perfectly possible.
I knew a man who sought
I knew a man who sought
The wild bird
Who’s song he heard,
And once caught,
Oh, how he wept at the damage wrought.
The hay is soft
The hay
Is soft.
Time gently coughed,
As man and maiden lay,
Heedless of how the day
Passeth away
Shall I speak
Shall I speak of turtle doves
And innocent loves,
and a world where all are good
And do as they should?
Shall I talk of men upright
Who say “good night”,
And leave,
And never deceive?
Or shall I speak
Of the flesh that is weak
And men who seek
For the discreet door?
I know which you would prefer,
But a circle is not a square
And squire and maid
Are not always staid.
Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape
Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape.
There can be no escape
From the tomb.
The gloom
Is there
For those who care
To look beyond a sunny day.
continuing on my way
I passed that tree,
That did loom
Over tomb
And me.
K Morris - Poet 