Biography of K.C. Ford
I spent the first ten years of life in the small village of Crowle, before moving to the steel town of Scunthorpe, North Lincolnshire. Leaving school, a variety of jobs followed, including tea boy on a building site, labouring to bricklayers and plasterers, periods of industrial painting, platelayer, sand blaster and factory work.
I spent around ten years on mainland Europe, working wherever and at whatever I could find. I have been married twice and am now divorced. I live in Hull, North Humberside.
K.C. Ford's Works:
Stranger than the Rest (a novel) and a poetry book entitled Essence of Days. Both of these books are self published as I have no desire to spend the next ten years sending synopses to sleepy eyed publishers.
K.C. Ford Poems
Odd One Out
My life is a mess, I've done everything wrong, on the urge of a moment I sing the wrong song.
A Wise Word
A wise word expressed when a hard hand expected, ensures the child chastised and repetition corrected.
Pharaoh's And Pyramids
Out of the sands the stones gathered, block on block rose a celestial stair that centuries of desert winds did not destroy the mausoleum of kings.
It all comes down to this, a stone above my head declaring birth and date of death. It all comes down to a mound of earth
If one day you recall my name, And if by chance this page revealed, then read these thoughts, walk through words lightly, as we through summer strolled,
The rim of the curved earth anchors my feet. and the business of men occupies my hands, But something beyond daily trivia
Under oak and elm and ash, Spring green grows over grass. The stem, the bough, the branch, the leaf restricts the sun as bars a thief.
There Is No Time
There is no time today to do what can be done tomorrow too, but as tomorrow never comes, perhaps I'll rearange my sums.
Drug induced sleep Deceives watching eyes Gathered around the dying bed that you pass peacefully into oblivion.
In this endless cycle of fashion, the poets rise in praise of whatever is the moments craze, chanting words with pompous passion.
The face is gnarled and full of wear, The eyes are pools of gathered time, as frail the body forward leans extending arm and hand to task,
There Is No Time
There is no time today to do
what can be done tomorrow too,
but as tomorrow never comes,
perhaps I'll rearange my sums.
Perhaps I'll do today what must
and when I sleep, I'll wake, I trust.