Mike Morris

Biography

I'm a middle aged journalist who wanted to write a little more creatively. I am two years into a Creative Writing degree at Hull University and have found that I enjoy writing poetry and short stories. I have had one poem published and have inflicted my work on others at Open Mic Nights. I also do stand up comedy to give me an added adrenaline buzz.

Samples

Outside My Window The perfects fill their car again. Rucksacks and waterproofs, Pocket maps and walking boots. Photos Facebooked like safari trophies. After a Sunday abseiling down The Matterhorn, they return to rustle up a Mongolian Banquet or two. "It's easy really as long as you've got the right ingredients." Bedtime stories quell the quins like their publisher said they would. Then it's ambassador's drinks, forty winks, a run, a shower and work. I lie unwashed like laundry cluttering, light fights dust and curtains to glint off foil take away trays and lighten the overdue bills. Time, like leftovers, should not be wasted, but days slip by like oiled ghosts away as I try to grab them and ask what they should be. Kicking Off Dean hits the turf with a thud like a cannonball taking out turrets and towers. Jumps to his feet with intent which is murderous. Hand makes a fist and he glowers. Dave shouts “come on!” cos he’s not for bottling it whether in war or in love. Palms on Dean’s chest show he won’t take a backward step now that a push comes to shove. The man in black whistles hard, holds up coloured cards. It’s time for him to intervene. But officialdom’s man can’t part the warriors. A crowd gathers to witness the scene. Prize fight it ain’t, like hippos on a skating rink They slide as they grapple in mud. A real slap knocks false teeth out on the centre spot To Dave it still counts as first blood. Circles his prey like a tanker with time to kill hoping to make his efforts pay But here comes the law and they’ve ruined his break So it’s time that they all ran away For Dave and for Dean it’s a regular scene So their bust up comes as no shock They’ll be back again with frustration to expend Each Sunday at eleven o clock. Forgotten Town Fire washes through battered streets made rubble. Death strides from home to home enjoying easy pickings amidst the cacophony. The killing rain falls until the dawn whispers. Smoke blackened refugees pick at debris mountains hoping for salvation. As dust covered bodies are unearthed mothers weep. The pit swallows the dead and takes their very existence.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Blog entries by Mike Morris

Don't (24/05/2013)

Outside My Window (24/05/2013)

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/mikemorris