Month: Nov 2011

Eyes Down [poem]

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They averted their gaze when they looked into mine;
I know that look — I’ve seen it many times.
I saw the children dwelling in their hearts
cowed defeated — couldn’t even start
to stare into the eyes of those who stood
before their sallow frozen features.

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The Slightly Open Door [sonnet]

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A thousand tonnes of tristerie rose right
into the airy heights above my form
exploding into gladnesses of light
and blew away the wasting Northwest storm.

Such was the slim rejoicing waft of air
which breathed itself aloud at freedom’s leap
for joy; while every molecule stood there
uncloyed. Relief stood hairs on end hell-deep.

How welcome was this analgesic swell
(no more those drowning wasting bursts of rain)!
For in this stumbling blundering burned-out shell
an endless loop was stopped in mid-refrain.

But let me add: Although some c(h)ords were cut
lovemusic’s door is never wholly shut.
© 2011, Alan Morrison

Urban Legends [sonnet]

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“It’s not good for a man to be alone”.
That’s what it says in some religious sphere.
I read those words and thought them overblown
no matter how enchanting they appear.

They say one shouldn’t lay out in the sun
although I’ve done it all my life with bliss.
They say you’re adult when you’re twenty-one;
some kids think they’ll get pregnant if they kiss!

Instead of giving credence to such tales
reality should swiftly soon be checked.
For if we follow futile vapour trails
then disappointment’s all we can expect.

If I my heart I want to pacify
it’s safer just as me, myself and I.
© 2011, Alan Morrison

You Were… [poem]

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You were a light
a singing rock of shineness
in my darknesses
your thereness (like your skin)
was always soft and velveteen
you never goodbyed on a whim
or skimmed the surface
in a swim of unseasoned sanctuaries

You were a dream
an ever hand of kindness
through my starknesses
your shareness (like your form)
was only ever selfless done
you never once became a thorn
although you could be
(if you felt there was a threat) a little prick

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Seen [poem]

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Delicate jadedly gentle I whispered through the reeds
pointedly gathered in your flaccid-fading fulcrum.
I grasped the sprightly flower of your soul’s
fast unblooming fullness in a dream
of neverending treasure
while pleasurepain’s
reverie overstays
its unwelcome
& rendering
subplutonic haze
with drive-crazy rain’s
manic made-to-measure
harrowing lack of self-esteem
you brace your self in pigeonholes
while harbouring thoughts of kingdom come.
Hopelessly hazyhelpless I hide me in your leaves

© 2011, Alan Morrison

Acacia Marker [sonnet]

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What far-dimensioned madness drives that flight?
This question forms in aspic’s driving wake.
That hand signed up as someone lilywhite;
but no one knew the signature was fake.
Amidst the fallout fantasies I strayed;
not knowing that the tail was toxin-tipped.
My back was turned — the scene was tailor-made.
For such imposture I was ill-equipped.
So now I take a marker in my hand;
Acacia is the wood that I prefer.
With this a line is etched into the sand;
thus foolsome firestorms cannot reoccur.
Such lessons never come too late to learn.
Once bitten, twice shy — next time I discern!

© 2011, Alan Morrison

From where I Stand [poem]

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“Pride comes before a fall” (so they say).
I guess that’s just another way of saying
“The bigger they are the harder they fall”.
But that has never been how things unfold…
as I recall

When I survey the picture of this world
(acrylic, oils, aquarelles or drawn)
I see no sign of falls or tumbles down.
Jack never breaks his tarnished little crown…
as I have found

The kings of spite survive and gloat deceit.
Their conscience seared and full of bile
while truly great ones flounder with their dreams
and will not sing in choirs of rage unclean…
as I have seen

If only for one frozen second we could see
that freedom is a word for slavery
and knowledge is a masquerade we learn
then live in darkest ignorance like worms…
as I discern

The only way I keep me from despair
is through the thought that nature has a way
of dredging out the river of the damned
which stains these groaning Lands. That is my hope…
from where I stand


© 2011, Alan Morrison


Dream-Filled Drawer [sonnet]

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Opportunity hammers on the door
and waits in vain to see it swing ajar.
(Inside the room one scents a dream-filled drawer).
Must obsolete things stay the way they are?

That wooden entrance wouldn’t open free
for all the debris lying on the ground.
The blood poured from my bent and broken knee
and by its sanguine sourness hope was drowned.

It’s clear that there is only one small chance
to grasp a nettle by its wilting leaves —
a narrow window in the deathly dance
through which a weary body stumbly weaves.

Not satisfied to leave it all to fate
encamped upon that threshold I shall wait.

© 2011, Alan Morrison

Autumn Gravestones [poem]

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whispering sheaves of grass
hang gracefully over plains
of delicate earthen dirt
and I long

shimmering weaves of glass
shine forcefully under waves
of predicate heathen hurt
in my song

slithering grieves en masse
slide remorselessly at graves
of semicut seething spurt
ness so strong

shivering leaves alas
wake patiently outside frames
over deadweight breeding births
which go wrong

quivering breathe impasse
breaks vacantly into flames
while sensate wuthering works
won’t belong

withering wreathes amassed
make abundantly their vein
when heartrate shuddering jerks
cue the gong

© 2011, Alan Morrison

Skylark [sonnet]

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O little bird! You are so frail and wan.
I caught your eye while waiting for the sun
to rise above the sea and burst upon
my withered soul. (The dance had just begun).

At last I understand your quirky flight —
the way you dart around in shadowed trees.
It’s clear you are a creature of the night;
your circumspection brings me to my knees.

Yet even though your wariness frustrates
(for never would I harm one precious wing)
my heart your siren song still captivates.
The day will come you’ll wear that missing ring.

If you would only settle in my tree
then soaring high and larksome I would be!

© 2011, Alan Morrison