The Slightly Open Door [sonnet]
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
The Naked Troubadour 