Tag Archives: rhyming poetry

The Illusion of Time

I am often told

That time

Is merely an illusion.

Yet rhyme

Has beginning and end.

And time

My ever present friend

Will stop

This ageing clock

In the end.

When I Met the Poet Milton

When I met the poet Milton

In the supermarket shopping for Stilton,

And I spoke of “Paradise Lost”,

He said, “have you seen the cost

Of all these cheeses, especially this Stilton!”

The Night’s Companion (a poem written with the aid of AI)

She walks through the city’s gaudy glow,

Her unquiet grace in torpid midnight air,

Heels write stories only the lonely know

Of longing, forced laughter, and mutual despair.

Her sadness hides behind a smile.

She offers warmth for those who pay the fee,

Yet look behind her carefully constructed style

And you will see another she.

She’s practiced in the art of polite chat,

Of weaving silken moments, bright and brief,

Her eyes—two lanterns—never showing that

They sometimes flicker shadows dark with grief.

And in her step the wise will see

Others who have long left the player’s empty stage.

Sometimes, in her honest times she may truly see

That she has made her own mind-constructed cage.

 

(The above poem was composed using Microsoft’s Copilot, then modified by me. I meant to retain the poem as originally produced by Copilot. However, due to an oversight by me, only the present poem remains. This is unfortunate as it was my intention to publish both poems on my blog in order that my readers could take a critical look at the poem as originally composed by AI, and that modified by me).

 

 

Disjointed

Your perfume lingered in my living room

After you where gone.

The memory of skin against skin

Lives on.

 

 

Some would call it sin.

Perhaps, when all is said and done

One man’s fun

Is another’s sin.

 

 

The sky did not fall in

On me or you.

 

 

I am generally comfortable alone.

But I have the phone

Should I need you.

 

 

Your perfume will linger again

And I will recall

What some call the fall.

 

 

Perhaps pleasure and pain

Are somewhat the same.

 

But, if I am only dust

Why does Paradise Lost matter

 

Caught Up in Our Nightmares

Caught up in our nightmares

Of what may, or may not occur,

We forget the beautiful sunset

And that the earth in the wood

Smells good when wet.

 

 

Living in fear

We fail to hear

When birds sing.

 

 

Our spring

Is so brief.

Nightmare’s teeth

Pierce our hearts.

 

 

Yet we have art

And nature’s beauty

Ere we depart

Into that sleep

Where we are unaware

Of beauty or nightmare.

Pink Socks

When a young lady wearing pink socks

Walked into a shop full of clocks,

The shop owner named Lyme

Said, “it is high time

That you wore something with those socks!”.

The Joys of Cheese

When an elderly gentleman named Mr Foster

Choked on some cheese whilst in Gloucester.

A doctor called Louise

Said, “he liked cheese!

And he died whilst eating Double Gloucester!”

Walking Home in the Pouring Rain

Walking home in the pouring rain

I pondered on AI

And those who continue to maintain

The inevitability of progress.

 

The rain continued to fall.

Although I heard

No human word

Nature seemed to laugh

As I passed

Along the familiar churchyard path.

 

Kevin Morris Poet’s New Show on World Poetry Cafe

I am pleased to let you know that my new show on the World Poetry Café is now live and can be found here https://www.mixcloud.com/VictorSchwartzman/world-poetry-cafe-july-24-2025-kevin-morris/

As many of you will be aware, I am a regular guest on the World Poetry Café. However, I now have a dedicated monthly show, during which I read and discuss not only my own work but that of others. In this podcast, I read A. E. Housman’s wonderful poem, “On Wenlock Edge” and talked about the life of the poet. In addition, I also answered questions from the hosts regarding my view as to how people can best start their unique journey into poetry.

My segment appears approximately 15 minutes into the podcast, which also includes me reading several of my own poems.

Wet Mops

When young ladies waving very wet mops

Jumped and danced on the table tops,

All the old gentlemen cheered.

While I shaved my beard.

And the waiters they called the cops!