All pop songs sound the same.
Different voices
Singing of supermarket choices
Made by airheads who cavort
To music bought
By those who find a temporary bliss,
In a kiss,
Then move on to the next passing fad.
I am glad
For the snow came today.
It will not stay
But this cold I feel
Reminds me what is real.
I shall pray for rain
For it cleanses this inane
Civilisation of ours
And causes the flowers to bloom.
There was a young DJ called Weeks,
Who said “the broadcaster speaks!”.
He addressed the invisible crowd,
In a voice firm and loud,
But his listeners heard only squeaks!.
Look into my heart,
Do you possess the art
To reveal
That which I would conceal?
Like an eel
I am hard to grasp.
‘Tis perhaps
An impossible task,
So tell me my friend can you reveal
That which I would conceal?
From time to time, a line of poetry pops into my head. I can’t shake off the words of the poet and remain a little restless until the author of said lines has been discovered by me.
Recently the following lines kept running around in my mind
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
A quick Google search reveals that the above beautiful words where penned by John Keats and appear in his Ode on a Grecian Urn
The internet is often attacked for “dumbing down” literature in that it fosters a desire for instant gratification (the wish for easily digestable bite-sized entertainment in the form of stories, poems etc).
There is, in my opinion an element of truth in this criticism. However the internet does, at it’s best open up almost instantaneous access to the world of literature and, in the case of the lines sighted above, enabled me to quickly ascertain their origin.
Kevin
It is said that “every man has his price”.
We decry vice,
For the nice
Guy or gal
Shal
Not get caught
Doing what they ought
Not to do.
But who
Save the saint
In narratives quaint
Can with honesty say
There has never been a day
(An admission truly shocking),
When temptation came aknocking.
Some may not fall
Yet recall
The devil on their shoulder
Who whispered “you are getting older.
Only the fool
Adheres to the rule
That keeps him poor”.
That door
They may refuse to open,
Yet the devil’s words are spoken
And every word
is heard
By man and child.
Many, like Wilde,
Do persist
And resist
Anything accept temptation.
There was a young man called Paul
Who wrote on the classroom wall.
His teacher Matt
Objected to that,
So he scrawled all over Paul!
If we reduce
It to the bare bone,
Man stands alone,
His purpose to produce.
He is a mere factor of production.
What a reduction
Of you and me
To a robot who can not be free.
The dull
Texts that Marx and Bentham wrote
Are full
Of such stuff.
I have had enough
Of the dreary theory
Produced by long dead sages.
Weighty pages
Read
By those who live too much in their own head
And try to force the world to conform
By reform
Or worse!
My verse
Will not halt the curse
Of those who too much water drink
And in think
Tanks construe
Ideas of varying hue
Which, no doubt, they believe to be true,
Then foist them on me and you.
There was a young man called Di
Who’s poetry made the critics cry.
His verse was so sad,
It drove them half mad.
They truly wished to die!
The tabloids say
“They slunk away
As the grey
Dawn
Did warn
Of another dismal day
For old London Town”.
The clergyman does frown
And putting the newspaper down
Remarks “I see,
The papers have poets in their fee.
All I can say
Is there will be hell to pay
When she reads that, later today …
There was a young philosopher called Neil
Who said, “all we perceive is not real”.
It was his bad luck,
To get hit by a truck,
Which knocked some sense into Neil.
K Morris - Poet 