There was a young lady called Lin
Who committed a terrible sin.
I promised not to reveal,
So will the truth conceal,
But it happened in a place called Berlin
There was a young lady called lin
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Tag Archives: poetry
The Old Squire
The old squire knew he would die.
Heaving a sigh
He beckoned to his wife.
“Come near,
My dear.
The strife
Of life
Will soon be done.
I hear yonder church clock,
Chime.
O how time does run
Away.
Soon death will on this great door knock
And take my soul away.
Pray
One thing I would know
Before I go.
Was it you,
My wife most true
Or my mistress with her ribbons so gay,
Who put poison in my cup today?!”
Kevin’s poetry to be featured on Croydon Radio, on Saturday 25 February, between 4-6 pm
I am pleased to announce that several of my poems are scheduled to be broadcast on Croydon Radio’s Saturday Show, which is presented by Tom Cannon, and airs between 4-6 pm on Saturday 25 February. For further details on the Saturday Show please visit HERE.
For a my previous interview, in which I discussed my collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” with Tom, please visit HERE.
Wind
I can hear the wind laughing outside
At our human pride.
The tide
Of time moves on
And we are gone,
With the wind
That will rescind
All
These scribbles on the wall.
There Was A Young Man Called Stone
There was a young man called Stone
Who stole his dog’s bone.
The dog did howl,
Then, with a growl,
He ate his master’s phone!
Shall I Sit Out This Dance?
Shall I sit out this dance
As the dancers prance
Heedlessly by.
Why
On occasions Can I not join in
With my companions and grin?
The song
Of the throng
Helps me forget
And yet
I am not as other men,
For when
I smile
There is, all the while
Within
The knowledge of this temporary din.
Others see it to
But construe
Me speaking of such a thing
As bad form and bring
The conversation around
To matters less profound.
But, when they are alone
Do they not think on skin and bone?
I can reduce my companions to laughter
With my jokes, but after
Our fun
Is done
Closing time will come.
Do you judge writers?
Christopher Slater raises an interesting issue in this article entitled “Do you judge writers?” (https://ryanlanz.com/2017/02/16/do-you-judge-writers/)
My own view is that while it is difficult not to judge writers (their morals or lack of them), one should, so far as is humanly possible avoid doing so. A great writer remains so even if he (or she) was/is a terrible parent to their children or held/holds views with which most liberal (with a small l) individuals would disagree.
In this article for the Telegraph A N Wilson mentions the poet, Philip Larkin’s wish (expressed in his correspondence) to join the far-right National Front and Eliot’s anti-Semitism (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/personal-view/3588935/World-of-books.html)
Wilson argues that we need to separate the author’s artistic creations from their views. This is a perspective with which I concur absolutely. We don’t have to share an author’s views to admire their work and if we only read those who concur with our perspectives our lives and the world in general would be a very arid place.
Count Dracula Went Out To Dine
Count Dracula went out to dine.
“Red wine?”
The waitress said.
Dracula shook his head.
“No thank you my dear. Your neck is most fine
And the glint of that necklace against your skin
Temps me into sin.
Come near
And let me whisper in your dainty ear
Words of desire
From a vampire
To you,
My love most true”.
“Sir,
That gentleman over there
He with the coat of fur,
Who howls at the moon,
Will require my attention soon.
The Werewolf has his need
And must also feed”.
“Oh waitress most divine
I shall make do with wine.
But please, just one kiss from those lips so red”
The count said.
“I can recommend the steak.
Would you care to partake?
The chef (though a ghoul
And a bit of a fool
Can make
A rare old stake.
Why Count, must you really go?
And just when I was enjoying our conversation so …”.
I Saw A Great Tent
I saw a great tent.
In I went
And found therein
Every man’s particular sin.
There I met
A girl called regret
Who did smile
And for a while
Invited men to forget
All pain.
Returning again and again
They Forged their own chain.
I shook my head
As the gambler said
“This time I shall win”,
For I saw the bookie grin
Drinkers from far and near
Revelled in wine and beer.
They drank and drank
As the sun rose and sank.
“Cheers.
More beers
Here, barmaid for we are soon dead”.
Someone said.
As he spoke
That tent disappeared in sulphur and smoke.
Ivory Tower
The poet in his ivory tower
Has not the power
To change
This deranged
Place
Where the lunatic’s face
Flushed with belief
Brings the world to grief.
Those who think themselves sane
Cudgel their brain
And impose dreams
(which they call schemes)
For the improvement of man.
When dreams fail
The believers wail
“We will get it right next time”.
Or, for shame
They blame
The poor
Gardener who asks nothing more
Than to be left alone to cultivate his garden.
The poet begs pardon
To be excused,
With an amused smile,
For there can be no denial
That time spent in rhyme
Keeps him safe from humanity’s grime.
K Morris - Poet 