So many phantoms have there been,
Flitting through my waking dreams.
Spectres long forgotten stand,
Reaching out their ice cold hands.
Ghosts with nails sharp,
Tear the sinews of my heart.
Then with gaze cold,
Feast upon my immortal soul.
I will be taking a break from writing from 6-11 July. Well I won’t be posting here. My brain will, however still be turning over ideas regarding stories and poems for it is, in my experience impossible for the author to wholly switch off even when on holiday. I may post again prior to 6 July but, failing that I look forward to seeing you all on or around 11 July.
Kevin
The candles shone on the girl’s long black hair, which cascaded over her slim bare shoulders. Angela had chosen the expensive strapless dress with great care, after all it isn’t often that a young woman is invited out to dinner in what is, by many considered to be the capital’s top restaurant and with one of London’s leading celebrities to boot.
“Thank you for the meal”, she said fixing her soft brown eyes on those of her companion, “the food was wonderful”.
Angela’s companion heard not a word, for he was engrossed in the conversation of the couple seated on the adjacent table.
“Now how could I use that exchange without being sued?” the writer mused.
—
The sunlight danced on the becalmed sea. Children’s laughter, including that of her own 2 kids, Molly and John, reached Jessica where she sat on the beach towel.
“Mummy, mummy, play with me”, said Molly, tugging at Jessica’s hand. So intent on her musings had Jessica been that she had failed to notice the approach of her daughter.
“Mummy’s busy dear” Jessica said returning to her writing.
“The sunlight danced upon the becalmed sea. The excited squeals of children playing happily in the waves reached the girl as she lay on her beach towel”, Jessica wrote.
Oft he sought the perfect rose,
Enjoyed the flower where it grows.
Soon he found the blooms did pall,,
His dalliances they turn to gall.
Still he after pleasure strove,
Clutched noisome blossoms to his nose.
Thorns they speared him through the heart,
Still his desire did not depart.
They found him lying on a bed cold,
In his hand a fading rose.
A post in which L. L. Barkat argues that it is time for writers to stop blogging, (http://janefriedman.com/2013/03/15/its-time-for-many-experienced-writers-to-stop-blogging/). As an author with a blog and someone who blogs often, I don’t agree with Barkat’s perspective. Her views do, however deserve a hearing.
Barkat’s main argument is that most blogs receive comparatively few views so writers would be better spending their time (that not reserved for writing books) composing articles for sites with a big audience. Writing articles for big name sites will, in Barkat’s view gain more exposure for the writer than blogging via a personal blog.
I relish the connection my blog, newauthoronline.com provides between mmy followers and I. Such a connection can not exist where one writes exclusively for big name sites where there exists no direct link between the writer and their audience. There is, however no reason why a writer or any other blogger can not utilise their own personal site while also writing for websites with a following running into the hundreds of thousands (assuming one is lucky enough to be afforded the opportunity to contribute to such sites)! Barkat is correct that the writer needs to keep a watchful eye on their blogging to ensure it doesn’t eat up time which could be devoted to writing books.
I have no intention of ceasing my meanderings on this blog so don’t crack open the champagne just yet …!
Passion fragile as glass
Bliss empty as the passing of cash.
Love that endures while money lasts.
Lonleness yawns, it’s mouth vast
There is no love, only lust.
There is no flesh, tis but dust.
There is no joy, only moan.
Friendship tis fleeting, man dies alone.
I am pleased to announce that my book, “Dalliance; A Collection Of Poetry And Prose” is available to purchase from Bookseller Crow in Crystal Palace, (http://booksellercrow.co.uk/). Print copies can also be obtained by contacting me at newauthoronline (at) gmail dot com, (please put “Dalliance” in the subject line). “Dalliance is also available as an ebook from Amazon, (http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dalliance-collection-poetry-prose-Morris-ebook/dp/B00QQVJC7E). Below are examples of the poetry to be found in “Dalliance”:
Midnight
Midnight, black as pitch.
No scheming demon, ghost, nor witch.
Only the darkness, which in the human heart resides, manifests itself in cruelty and pride.
—
Let Us Away
Let us away and make hay,
For tomorrow we must pay.
Let us frolic the live long day,
But tomorrow we must pay.
—
Fire
I have felt the fire’s power;
It kindles brightly and sinks within the hour.
I have watched the embers dying fast;
Looked into the future and gazed into the past.
I have raked the ashes cold, felt the bleakness in my soul.
Many thanks to Laura A Lord for featuring me on her website, (http://lauraalord.com/2015/06/24/kevin-morris-featured-poet/).
Kevin
I must confess to not being a lover of all Wordsworth’s poetry. I do, however derive considerable pleasure from the poet’s “The Solitary Reaper”:
“Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.”
K Morris - Poet 