Tag Archives: Poetry

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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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.

A New Book of Poetry by Kevin Morris

I am not a fan of modern poetry. I’ve said this before. I’m not saying many of these poems are not poetic, and beautiful in many ways, I just can’t recognise them as poetry. To me, poetry should have at least rhythm, if not rhyme. (And as someone who has written poetry, it is much more difficult to deal with rhythm and/or rhyme.) Many of these modern poems, or Free Verse, would not be recognised as poetry if they were not in lines. (In many cases, seemingly random line breaks.)

My friend, Kevin Morris, writes poetry that I recognise as poetry. He writes humorous verse along with other more philosophical ones, and they rhyme and have rhythm.

He has been featured, reading his own poetry, on Canadian Radio on more than one occasion.

He showcases some of his poetry on his blog. (address below).

I am delighted to announce to you all that Kevin has a new book of poetry out. It is called Leaving, and Other Poems.

Here is an example of one of the poems from his latest collection.


I see the sun shine,

Think on the divine

And the tick tock

Of the ever-present clock.

I hear the blackbird,

Who has heard

Nought of clock

And my fleeting word.

(Blackbird can be found in Leaving and Other Poems, which is available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09R8NG6WQ/).

Connect with Kevin on the following sites:


Blog: https://kmorrispoet.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/drewdog2060_

The review below was of Further Selected Poems of K. Morris, also available on Amazon, as Leaving and Other Poems is only just out and it has not got any Amazon reviews yet.

Hannah Symonds

5.0 out of 5 stars

Funny yet thought provoking

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 29 March 2021

Here we have some funny but also thought provoking poems and limericks. I have to say I do prefer the limericks that are in this book as they are very amusing. My favourite poem in the book is Sparrows in the tree as we get a lot of sparrows in our garden, they are very common in the UK. Now every time I see a sparrow I will be thinking of this poem. My favourite limerick in here is There once was a turkey called Paul, just from the title alone you know it is going to be funny. I laughed my socks off on this limerick. Thank you once again to Kevin who has written some truly fantastic verses.

And a bit about Kevin.

Kevin was born in the city of Liverpool on 6th January 1969. Having attended The Royal School for the Blind and St. Vincent’s School for the Blind in Liverpool, he went on to read History and Politics at the University College of Swansea.

Having graduated with a BA (Joint Honours), and an MA in Political Theory, Kevin moved to London where he now lives and works.

Being visually impaired, Kevin uses screen reading software called Job Access with Speech (JAWS) which converts text into speech and braille, enabling him to use a Windows laptop.

Much of Kevin’s poetry is written in his home, which overlooks a historic park in Upper Norwood/Crystal Palace, a suburb of Greater London.

 Have you read any of Kevin’s poetry? Let me know in the comments box.

How about a free, exclusive story? You can get one, by me, by clicking on the link below.

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.

By clicking on the link, you will join my quarterly newsletter. But don’t worry, you can unsubscribe at any time, including as soon as you have downloaded the story, if you wish.

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Winter. A poem

As it is now well into the winter season, here is a poem to celebrate it.


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.

I hope you enjoyed reading my poem. I would love to hear what you think of it.

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My Welsh Holiday

In September I went to Pembrokeshire in South Wales for a week’s holiday. Now Wales is not noted for wall to wall sunshine, but this year it decided to be exceptional. Glorious sunshine. Shorts and tee-shirt weather.

Because I’ve written poems about Scotland and England, I decided to write one about Wales, and to share it with you all. I hope you enjoy it.

Croeso y Cymru

Land of the dragon,

And King Arthur’s court.

Land of Myrddin

Where Magic was wrought.

Land of the Druids,

Land of the bards.

Land of mystery

Her secret she guards.

Land of song

In chapel and pub.

Land of mountains

Soaring above.

Land of beaches

Next to the sea.

Children playing,

Laughter and glee.

Land of deep valleys

Known as Cwm.

Land of coal mines

In underground gloom.

Land of the last gold

In Britain is found,

The Romans dug it

From deep underground.

Land of Eisteddfod,

Of singing and dance.

In Llangollen’s valley

The whole world does prance.

Land of the Celts.

Land of the sheep.

On her green hillsides

The lambs they do bleat.

Land of the raven.

Land of the kite.

High soaring above

In graceful flight.

Land of steel.

Land of slate,

Dug from the mountains

Our roofs for to make.

Land of a language

With beauteous sound.

But try to pronounce it

Your tongue will be bound.

Land of the daffodil

Land of the leek.

Symbols of Welshness

For those who do seek.

Land of green hills,

Of valleys and dales.

Croeso y Cymru.

Welcome to Wales.

I would love to know what you think of this poem. Please post your comments in the comments box.

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Autumn in Sussex. A Poem

As it’s now Autumn, officially, I thought I’d post a poem about that season. I think I’ve already posted it previously, but I’ve new followers who haven’t seen it before.

So here it is.

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.

England. A poem

I almost entered this into a contest a year or two ago, but in the end chickened out. I thought I’d share it with you. I hope you like it.


That misty isle across the sea
Will always be a home to me.
The cliffs of white that guard our shores,
The rolling Downs, the bleak, cold moors,
The skylark with his liquid song
Soaring high above the throng
Of hikers, picnickers and such,
Whose hearts he never fails to touch.

The little streams and brooks do run
Through woodlands, glistening in the sun.
The little fish are swimming here;
A kingfisher is always near.
A flash of blue above the stream,
A dive, then gone, that silver gleam
Of minnows, gone to feed his brood
In holes, all waiting for their food.

In cities where the pigeons fly
The wind-blown litter flutters by.
The cars and buses, cycles too,
Line up at lights, forming a queue.
The city’s clamorous roar assaults
The ears, but never, ever halts.
The busy folk all rushing past.
They never slow, time goes so fast.

The little market towns do snooze.
The slightest little thing is news.
In pretty villages with greens
Are cottages with oaken beams.
The church bells echo o’er the fields
Calling us with merry peals
As they have done for many a year
Bringing hope and lots of cheer.

This land does not a climate boast.
Just weather blown from coast to coast.
All in one day, this land can get
All four seasons, sun and wet.
Though no extremes do us attack,
Do not go out without a mac
For rain can come at any time,
Though rarely with a gale force nine.

The English folk are stubborn, too,
As we showed in World War 2.
We do not push, but stand in line,
Waiting patiently till it’s time.
We do not wail and wave our arms
We think such behaviour has bo charms,
But when we’re roused, then just watch out
We’ll demonstrate, wave flags and shout.

And so my country is unique;
Its people never really meek.
An upper lip that’s stiff conceals
A wicked humour that reveals
Our lack of deference for power,
Our love for bird and bee and flower.
Abroad may have its charms, it’s true,
But England’s magic’s ever new.

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Poetry Month: Warlord of the Forgotten Age #fantasy #adventure

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

Facing their destined foe
Enduring scars

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The origin of the Limerick is uncertain. I read that it was around in the thirteenth century, but the rhyming sequence was different, and so I ask, “Can they be called Limericks?”

Some sources say it came from an Irish soldiers’ song called “Will You Come up to Limerick.” People made up verses as it was sung.

They may also have been a way for people to remember things. It’s easier if there’s a known rhythm .

It was made popular in England by Edward Lear who wrote his “Book of Nonsense” in 1846, although he did not call his poems limericks, but Nonsense Verse.

Wherever the name and the poems came from, they are an important part of our culture, and the form appears from nursery rhymes to songs.

Limericks were typically rude and bawdy, but as this is a family-friendly website, I’ve kept mine clean. I hope you enjoy these two.

I was inspired to begin to write this form of poetry by reading many written by Kevin Morris, who seems to be the Edward Lear of today. Thanks Kevin.

So without more ado, here are my poems.

One day as I played my violin
The door opened and Mother came in.
She said with a frown,
“Please put that thing down.
Nobody likes your vile din.”

Image by athree23 from Pixabay

Difficult maths is my pride.
I can solve it when others have cried.
Cone volume divining,
Circle area refining.
I think you can say it’s pi-eyed.

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