I was honoured to be interviewed by Annette, on Blogtalkradio, regarding my poetry and other meanderings.
The show also includes me reading several of my poems.
A big thank you to Annette for interviewing me!
Kevin
The thing he can not express
The dress
That never was
Because …
Words he can not speak
Leave him weak.
Should he seek
For answers from the Mother Superior
Or her inferior?
The inferior speaks the truth.
Does the roof
Then fall in
Exposing Mother Superior’s sin?
Oh how frail
Is the veil
Separating heaven from hell, and how easy to expose
The fact that the emperor has no clothes …
The sun comes and goes on a cold Autumn day
And I think on fun and how quickly it passeth away.
The flower that bloomed
Is soon entombed,
Or if it blooms still
A rill
Of tears
Marks it’s all too tender years.
There was a young man called Judd
Who married a girl called Rudd.
They where happy together
In all kinds of weather
And particularly relished the mudd!
Wrap
music. Crack,
Discordant sound.
Young men who think they have something profound
To express
Impress
Girls near cracking point.
Lyrics disjoint.
I don’t see the point
But then I am from the right side of the street
And do not meet
Those who make up for what they lack
With Crack.
Hard men
Go down when
Those with faster toys
Mow down boys.
A crack
And all goes black
For one who once did wrap.
I am of a certain background
And have nothing profound
To say
As I overhear a girl who does wrap
Along
To the song
Of Crack.
2 Cars in search of a crash
Jump red lights
On nights,
When black ice
Holds the heart in a vice-like grip.
Girls trip
By
On heels to high
For walking.
Tongues are talking,
“They are prisoners of their own making”.
Much head shaking.
Vehicles collide and slide
Down the embankment towards the river of unmindfulness
Where those who drink
Into forgetfulness sink
And remember not
That it is their lot
To constantly pay
the ferryman Who carries their soul away.
It catches up with you, in the end,
Although its easy to pretend
That the late nights
And fights
With an unknown friend
Under the sheet
Will not defeat
Roistering youth.
The truth
Oft creeps
Up on a man as he sleeps.
Or when, on seeing nature’s beauty he weeps
Over something irredeemably lost,
And counts the cost for a while,
Then with a weary smile
Returns to the merry-go-round
Which will spin him round, and round and round
My finger lingers
Over the delete button.
One little caress, a mere press
And the process
Will be complete.
The call button.
Am I a glutton
For the fire
With a desire
To burn on a pyre
Of my own making?
Heads shaking
I see
Telling me
I need to be free
Of thee.
One final spree
For you and me?
I imagine the glee
In your eyes
Where no pitty lies.
The smile
Of the Cheshire cat vanishes while
Only a thin lipped grin
Of distaine remains.
Bluffing.
Toughing it out.
The spider expects a rout
And does employ
The oldest stratagem to destroy
Her foe.
Hey ho
There is nothing new under the sun.
A few turn and run,
While others, having done
As the spider does ask
Find it an impossible task
To escape the pretty creature who spins
Her web composed of human sins.
A few demand
To see her hand.
A command
She can not fulfil.
The spider sulks,
Skulks away
And goes in search of other prey.
It had slipped my mind
But now I find
That it is National Poetry Day.
Poets will make hay
Or not
Depending on whether they have lost the plot.
I have got
No plot at all
So will my readers stall
With words that writhe
As they strive
To go somewhere.
Shall I write about a pair.
A clever play on pair and pare?
I swear
That the pair
I have in mind
Is more divine
Than any wine
One will find
In vineyard
Where maidens pick the hard fruit.
How long shall I pontificate?
For it is getting late
And National Poetry Day
Will soon pass away
Have I anything to say
Or do I merely play
With a word
Absurd
Which, joined with another,
(All words are brothers)
Forms a sentence perhaps,
Or do I collapse
Into something, I know not what?
Indeed, I believe that I have lost the plot.
K Morris - Poet 