This rhyme
Is out of time
And I have not the will
To set it right
Tonight.
I am no sage
Yet dream of a golden age
Where clocks kept slow time
And to rhyme
Was thought the proper thing to do.
Perhaps this view
Is at least half true.
A good article in “Spiked”, by Joe Nutt, entitled “What is the point of poetry?” I agree with the thrust of this piece and, in particular with the concluding sentences,
“In the great and even not so great outdoors, I notice much more. Poetry has been, and is, a way for me to understand my life better, and because of that, I believe those closest to me benefit, too. Because I share the world with flesh and blood living beings, not with cables, screens and keyboards”.
For the article please visit http://www.spiked-online.com/newsite/article/what-is-the-point-of-poetry/20778#.WmMqfIinzIV.
With a click of heel
And a flick
Of her hair.
She passes, light as air.
As she wriggles her hips
He trips
Over each word.
He may be absurd
But an eel
Is not immortal
The wind is blowing
And soon I will be going
Outside.
Or perhaps I should hide
In here
As the weather is drear
And the prospect of writing
Is somewhat inviting.
A place of quietude
Where few intrude
Is this room
Where soon
I shall retire
To read
Or feed
My desire
For other things.
Some strings tie.
I am lost.
books.
The mirror looks
On while
On occasions the bell pings
Ushering in a smile
And perchance,
A kind of dance.
A turn of the key
And all is safely locked behind
My front door. Yet I find
That my troubles follow me.
I can not agree
With those who say
“Go away on holiday”,
For your troubles will with you stay.
True, there are drink and sunny beaches
Where girls, juicy as ripe peaches
Will soothe away your worries.
But time (often unnoticed) hurries
On and the holidays are too soon gone.
And you return
To the fact that can not be spurned.
“Those are my socks” she said
As we sat upon my bed.
Had I put them on?
I have quite forgot
Yet it matters not
For she is long since gone.
“Have you seen my sock?” another said, in her teasing way.
She also has gone her way.
Was it under the bed or elsewhere?
And why should I care?
Perhaps it is not so
Though I know each name.
A short skirt and heels
Is his heart’s desire.
She sighs,
Feels objectified
But complies
For the fire
Must be lit
And the money split
With one who
Loves her true.
Hearing shy laughter
I wonder what comes after
This thing
Which ends in no ring.
As mentioned in my post of 30 December 2017, I shall be appearing on Vancouver Co-Op Radio’s, The World Poetry Reading Series, at 9:30 pm (UK time), on Thursday 11 January.
During the course of the programme I shall be discussing (and reading) my poetry.
For anyone who would like to listen but is unable to do so, I aim to link to a podcast of the programme once this becomes available.
K Morris - Poet 