Leila. A Cat poem.

I wrote a doggy poem not long ago and Geoff Le Pard commented ‘What next? A Kitty ditty?’

Well, I didn’t want to write one similar to the doggy one, so I wrote this about my daughter’s cat.

Leila.

Someone said, ‘ Does your daughter own a cat?’

I answered, ‘Not at all, but a cat owns her.’

The puss is named Leila, and if on her chair you sat

She sits at your feet and gives a hard stare.

A pretty cat, she has long tabby fur

But is not very sociable, not liking people much.

But on my daughter’s lap you can hear her purr

As she delights in my daughter’s touch.

One day my daughter’s husband sat on her chair.

This annoyed Leila so she got her own back.

She sat on the Sky box, which he thought unfair

As she glared at him with a look so black

.

She runs the whole family with an iron rod

But the rod is set in a velvet paw.

She knows in ancient Egypt she’d have been a god

And that  knowledge is enough for her.

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My New Year Resolution

A bit late to be talking about this, I know, but the only thing I resolved to do was to write a poem a day. So far, I’ve managed it.

I’m posting today’s poem for you to see. I hope you like it.

I have no idea what prompted me to write this one!

The Local Dog Show.

Big dogs, small dogs,

Running after ball dogs.

Black dogs, white dogs,

Ready for a fight dogs.

Tall dogs, short dogs, 

And all kinds of sports dogs.

Good dogs, bad dogs,

Happy and sad dogs.

Short dogs, tall dogs,

Won’t come when you call dogs.

Skinny dogs, fat dogs,

This one and that dog.

All shapes and sizes

Hope to win some prizes.

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Maria and Tom have bought an antique table for the old cottage they have bought. When they hear strange noises in the night that sound like crying, they worry their house is haunted, but the sounds seem to come from the table.

They set about trying to find what is causing the disturbances. The answer is stranger than either of them had thought.

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The Littlest Christmas Tree

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

As it gets nearer to Christmas, Christmas trees are going up everywhere. Yes, I know some have been up since November! Here’s a poem about one.

The other trees looked oh so tall

To he, who was so very small.

And now it is the time of year

When everyone is filled with cheer.

Some men came for the tallest tree.

They took him with them, full of glee.

He was going into town.

In Market Square he’d wear a crown.

The littlest tree watched on as folk

Bought others. He was full of hope

That soon he would be picked to go

To a home where he’d put on a show.

But people passed him by and said,

“That one’s too small. Take another instead.”

His branches drooped. He was so sad,

Until a man came, with a lad.

Most other trees had long been sold.

The little tree stood in the cold.

“Look, there’s a small one,” said the lad

As he turned towards his dad

.

“It will just fit in our hall.

We can’t have one that is too tall.”

And so they came with spade and dug

Around his roots, all in the mud.

The littlest tree went home with them.

The lights and baubles gleamed like a gem.

He was so happy in that home

With all the love around him shown.

But Christmas passes soon away.

Then there came that dreaded day.

They took away the lights and balls.

“What happens now?” was all his thoughts.

He saw the tall trees passing by

On lorries, going off to die.

Their needles withering and brown

On their proud branches, drooping down.

Fear now filled the littlest tree.

“Is that what’s going to happen to me?”

But then the Dad came with a spade.

“I’ll not throw that for which we’ve paid.”

He dug a deep hole for the roots

And tamped it down with his big boots.

“We’ll let him grow, and then next year

We’ll bring him in again. Don’t fear.

And so the littlest tree was glad

That he’d been bought by this kind dad.

For now he has naught to fear.

He’s decorated every year.

I hope you enjoyed reading my poem.

If you would like to read more of my poetry, I have a poetry book recently published. It’s called Miscellaneous Thoughts and can be bought from your favourite store by clicking here where you can buy it from your favourite store. Or click on the book cover in the sidebar.

Autumn in Sussex. A Poem

I’m currently away in Southern Spain for a week and so I’m reblogging a poem I wrote some time ago. I hope you enjoy it.

The Downs are wreathed in mist, like smoke
From a dying fire.
The leaves are turning red and gold
Like flames upon a pyre.

Spring’s little lambs are grown to sheep
The swallows they have flown.
The blossoms that the summer brought
Their petals all have thrown.

Now autumn’s bounty fills the woods,
The hedgerows are ablaze
With hips and haws in colours bright
The senses to amaze.

The smoke from wood fires fills the air,
The scent of autumn true.
The autumn sun is cooler now
And mornings filled with dew.

The cobwebs shine with dewdrops bright.
The spider in her lair
Thinks nothing of the rainbow hue
That scatters in the air.

And children kick the fallen leaves
As laughingly they run
To gather conkers, shiny brown,
Gleaming in the sun.

We gather blackberries from the hedge
And apples from on high.
Up in the tree they ripen now
To turn into a pie.

But autumn sometimes has a kick
And the rain it lashes down.
The wind, it howls within the eaves
And through the trees doth moan.

This poem is in the poetry book I submitted to my publisher some time ago. I’m still waiting to hear if and when the book will be published. I’ll let you know when it becomes available.

Spring. A Poem

Dandelions, like gold, cover the meadows.

Newborn lambs frolic in fields.

New leaves on the trees are casting their shadows

And winter’s cold grip quickly yields.

At the edges of woodland the primroses glow

And cowslips their scent fills the air.

Anemones dance when the breezes do blow

And birds sing with never a care.

Then bluebells and campions come into bloom

Their colour the blue of the sea.

The cuckoo, that herald of spring, will come soon,

His call echoing over the lea.

The song of the blackbird is like molten gold.

His notes are so pure and so clear.

Hearing him seems to banish the cold

And brings joy to all those who hear.

Robin is nesting, and other birds too,

The hedgehog is active once more.

The young of the deer and the badger and shrew

Play their games as in old days of yore.

The sun climbs higher and higher each day

Giving more of his heat and his light.

It sparkles like stars fallen into the bay.

All smile at the beautiful sight.

Hope and excitement come with each spring morn.

What blessings will come with this day?

New starts can begin once again with each dawn

And send us all hopeful away.

I’ve submitted a book of poetry, including this one, to my publisher. I am currently waiting to hear if they’ve accepted it. I’ll keep you posted about it.

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Here’s a bit about the story.

Maria and her husband, Jack, have moved into an old cottage. They want to furnish it with period furniture and buy a medieval table.

That’s when the mystery begins. Strange sounds in the night. Have they bought a haunted house? But a medium tells them it is not a ‘lost spirit’, but something else she does not recognise.

What is it that is causing them to lose sleep? The answer is more unexpected than anyone thought.

Love’s Sting

Today I’m posting a poem by my friend, Kevin Morris. Kevin writes rhyming poetry, and I love them.

Sometimes I have seen
The night light gleam
On angels whose wings
Have been clipped
By lustful lips,
Meaning love’s sting
Is not their thing.

Here is a link to Kevin’s website so you can read more of his poetry.

review of Light and shade (serious and not so serious poetry) by Kevin Morris

I recently welcomed Kevin Morris to my blog where he kindly told us a bit about himself. I have read his latest poetry book, and here is my review.

Kevin writes what I call ‘real’ poetry. I don’t like the so-called free verse that most poets seem to write nowadays. Free of what? Rhyme and rhythm. Both are what make a poem. Without those, it might just as well be a piece of prose, albeit in arbitrary lines.

Kevin’s poems rhyme, by and large, and they have rhythm. The poetry in this book is beautiful, and makes you think.

As implied by the title, the poetry is both serious and amusing. I love Kevin’s limericks. They are always witty and sometimes a bit naughty.

The serious poems are lovely and have deep thoughts behind them. This is definitely a poetry book to read many times over,

I have given it 5*

Guest post from kevin morris, poet.

Today I welcome one of my favourite poets to my blog.

Kevin Morris is a poet who writes both humorous and serious poetry. I will hand over to Kevin now, and he can explain about his poetry much better than I can.

Welcome, Kevin. Please tell us about your poetry.

I have, for as long as I can remember, been a lover of poetry. The first poem I recollect having read is Alfred Noyes’s “The Highwayman”, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43187/the-highwayman. I was (and remain)entranced by the rhythm of the poem and how it matches the beat of the horse’s feet, as the Highwayman approaches the inn:

“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.   
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.   
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   
And the highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door”.

I find good rhyming poetry profoundly beautiful, and much of my own work is written in rhyme. Take, for example my poem “Autumn Fly”, which appears in my forthcoming collection, “Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) poems”.

Image by FRANCO PATRIZIA from Pixabay

“An autumn fly
Buzzes around my head.
Summer is dead
Yet will not die.
Seasons pass.
We are brittle as glass,
This fly
And I”.

Whilst sitting in my study, in late autumn, a fly began buzzing around my head. This brought to mind the mortality of this tiny insect and also that of man. Hence the above poem was born.

I have many happy memories of strolling through the woods with my grandfather and it was from him that I gained my love of nature. This affection for nature was, I believe encouraged further by my reading of poems such as Keats “Autumn”. Much of my own poetry touches on the theme of nature. Take, for example my poem “Rain”.

Image by AlbiF from Pixabay

“The rain
Patters amongst these leaves.
I listen again
And ascertain
That it’s the breeze
Midst these trees.
Yet it sounds the same
As rain”.

As with “Autumn Fly”, “Rain” came to me naturally as a rhyming poem. I could not have expressed what I wished to convey had I utilised free verse, as rhyme comes naturally to me, whilst other forms of poetic expression do not.

Whilst there exists some wonderful poetry composed in free verse, to me much free verse is poetic prose rather than true poetry. Many poems written in free verse are beautiful. However, for me their beauty resides in their poetic prose, they are not, in my opinion poetry as I understand it (I.E. with real rhyme and metre).

One can not always be serious, and section 2 of “Light and Shade” is devoted to my humorous verses. Take, for example my poem “Jane’s Sad Refrain”:

“A young lady named Jane
Sang a most mournful refrain.
I could repeat her song,
As it wouldn’t take long,
But it’s copyright of Jane!”

To conclude. Poetry is, for me about rhyme and its rhyme with which I feel most comfortable. There is, as I said, some wonderful free verse poetry out there. However, for me at least much of this (but by no means all) is poetic prose rather than poetry proper.

(“Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) Poems”, by Kevin Morris will be available in the Amazon Kindle store, and as a paperback in July 2020).

Links:

Blog: https://kmorrispoet.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/drewdog2060_
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6879063.K_Morris

Thank you, Kevin, for telling us more about your poetry. I agree with you about free verse. It’s something I’ve thought for a long time. I have written poetry that doesn’t rhyme, but it always has rhythm. And I love the poem about Jane!

I would encourage everyone to search out your poetry books and to visit your blog.

Good luck with this latest one. I look forward to its publication.

If you have any comments to either myself, or Kevin, please enter them in the comments box. Feel free to reblog this.

those were the days

Some time ago, I posted a poem written by my Mum. I think it’s time for another one. She only started writing them when she was getting on in years, but the family all thought they were great fun.

Everything is so much further
Then it ever used to be.
The little shop around the corner
Seems twice as far to me.

The buses were always punctual
I could go with the greatest of ease.
But now they seem to be early
And my legs do just as they please.

The stairs are made so much steeper
I’m flat out when I get to the top
Amd the print in the papers is so small
That my eyes are beginning to pop.

I can’t do with the way people mumble.
I only hear half of the tale.
They tell me the news in a whisper,
Or shout till I feel I could wail.

The dresses are made so much tighter
Especially round waist and hips.
And diets are all in the fashion.
No goodies, like good fish and chips.

Even people are different this day and age
They all seem to look so much younger.
Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn
And look to be dying of hunger.

I met with a friend the other day.
She really looked old and withered.
I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought,
And I know I’m not half so bothered.

Everything is so much further
Then it ever used to be.
The little shop around the corner
Seems twice as far to me.

The buses were always punctual
I could go with the greatest of ease.
But now they seem to be early
And my legs do just as they please.

The stairs are made so much steeper
I’m flat out when I get to the top
Amd the print in the papers is so small
That my eyes are beginning to pop.

I can’t do with the way people mumble.
I only hear half of the tale.
They tell me the news in a whisper,
Or shout till I feel I could wail.

The dresses are made so much tighter
Especially round waist and hips.
And diets are all in the fashion.
No goodies, like good fish and chips.

Even people are different this day and age
They all seem to look so much younger.
Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn
And look to be dying of hunger.

I met with a friend the other day.
She really looked old and withered.
I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought,
And I know I’m not half so bothered.

I looked in the mirror to see for myself.
For I’m really not ready to go on the shelf.
But a grey-haired old woman was looking at me.
Even mirrors are not like they used to be.

If you enjoyed my Mum’s poem please leave a comment in the comments box.

Feel free to reblog. I would appreciate a link back to my blog if you feel like it.

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Winter: A Poem

Everything dead.
Nothing moves.
The skies of lead
Press down on the roofs.

The icicles hang
Like teeth in the maw.
Each one a fang
In a wolf’s jaw.

The wind with his knife
Cuts through to the bone.
Soon snow will arrive
And the swallows have flown.

The trees that were green
Are now turned to white,
And everything’s seen
In a glowing bright light.

But look what I’ve found!
A tiny green shoot
Pushing up through the ground.
A snowdrop, no doubt.

It tells of the spring
Not so far away,
And how it will bring
All the flowers of May.