My Life in Orbit – Short Story Poetry Reading by Ken W Simpson (plus interview)

Originally posted on WILDsound Writing and Film Festival Review:

Watch the Short Story Reading of MY LIFE IN ORBIT:

Story performed by Geoff Mays

Get to know writer Ken W. Simpson:

1) What is the theme of your poem?

It is a memoir

2) How would you like people to respond when they read or watch your poetry reading?

Live it with me.

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

I began with stories fifty years ago, and poetry about fifteen years ago.

4) Do you have a favorite poet?

Favorite poet, T S Eliot, favorite writer, Raymond Chandler.

5) What influenced you to submit to WILDsound and have your poetry performed by a professional actor?

I write to communicate, and aim to have my poetry heard as well as read.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?

Only poetry.

7) What is your passion in life?

Writing poetry.

    * * * * *


View original 20 more words

Come and See

A figure crosses a road
barely thinking
into the abyss
of a lonely night
past lights
malevolently blinking
above weird shapes
lying in wait
barely hearing
occasional sounds
echoing hopes
that reality is a dream
as the scene changes
down a road
where psychopaths roam.

Tidal Vibes

Bouncing around
Getting a kick out of sound
Who was that?
No one knows
The shape of disdain
An unkind sight
The infatuation of a dream
Scenes that disappear
Boats on the beach
Water flowing
Gracefully sliding
Beneath a bridge
A deceptive theme
Bequeathed to posterity
The dawn of another day
Go away.

Veranda View

My grandpa liked to sit
on the back veranda
and watch the birds
as they pecked
at scraps
in the ragged grass
near a lazy tree
not far
from a paling fence
I sometimes climbed.

He listened
to the bird songs
like an excited child
a small, wizened man
bald, with a pot belly
slouched in his chair
late one afternoon
unable to see me
or hear the birds
blind to his own demise.

The Night Garden

Blinking windows
a solemn sky
wary of the gloomy night
alienated by light-filled days
and shadows
unable to glimpse between trees
leaning over soulful shrubs
sensed but barely seen
a place for dreaming
watchful, waiting
quietly secretive
without the violence of the day
reflections disconnected
escaping from the present.