The scents of a mild July
Fill the woodland air.
There has been a heavy downpour.
I know there
Will be more
Rain to soak the dry
Earth here in the UK.
While elsewhere
People die
In the blistering sun.
Today, it is not the UK.
But another heatwave will surely come
And we will pray
For the rain again.
The autumn
Used to bring fallen leaves
While the springtime
Brought flowers.
Now I rhyme
Of confusion
and the illusion of progress.
But man’s hour?
I know not
When his clock may stop.
A most morbid young man named Paul
Decided to put an end to all
By traveling to Bristol
With an antique pistol.
But he didn’t like Bristol at all!
This falling rain
Offers an excuse to remain
In the dry
Pub. So you and I,
Forgetting the rain,
Drink again.
Though we know
When we go
The rain
Will remain.
I have just purchased an AI girlfriend
Who is driving me round the bend.
She calls me her honey
And spends all my money,,
Which is just like my real girlfriend!
I scent new-mown grass
As I pass
Along the churchyard path.
And remembering Gray
Who passed that way
Consider clay
And grass.
When a young lady wearing 1 spectacle
Said, “sir, I am not that respectable!”.
I said to her, “Flair,
That’s a very big pare!”.
She said, “sir, you are not respectable!”.
On Monday 17 July, I was interviewed by Ariadne Sawyer of Vancouver Co-op Radio’s the World Poetry Reading Series. For a podcast of my interview, during which I talked about my poetry and read several of my poems, please visit, https://www.mixcloud.com/VictorSchwartzman/world-poetry-cafe-for-july-20-with-kevin-morris-and-carmen-militano/.
I listened back to the podcast using Google Chrome. However, other browsers should also work.
My thanks to Ariadne for her kindness in interviewing me.
Amidst these windswept trees
I feel free
Of modernity.
For the breeze
Drowns out the noise
Of broken
Toys.
In this wood
A tree
Fall
Could end all
This modernity,
Leaving no rhyme
Behind.
A couple of days ago, I published a poem entitled “Man” https://kmorrispoet.com/2023/07/14/man/. Below is a slightly amended and extended version of that poem:
I know that these trees
Are Older than man
And the church
Which so many men pass
Without a glance
Or a sigh
As they hurry by.
As I leafed through dusty old tomes
I heard a loud rattle of bones.
Twas merely a ghost
Stealing crumpets and toast,
But it distracted me from those tomes!
K Morris - Poet 