Year: 2011
The Empty Swing [sonnet]
There is something about that empty swing
which speaks to me of spaces left unfilled
by little people who no longer cling
like climbing vines nor grow like daffodils.
Some other void usurps their playful place
(where laughter once concealed the hammerblow);
now ominously haunts the interface,
while dangling hollow chairs sway to and fro.
10-14, Part 1 [sonnet]
Some say sonettos throw you in a cage,
imprison you, your back against the wall;
claiming they herald from a bygone age —
a time of courtly love ‘Neanderthal’.
Poetry, they feel, should always run free —
stream of consciousness, never bow the knee
to any structure pre-prepared, rigid,
or written verse is bound to be frigid.
Flaming Tongues [sonnet]
In all my many tangletimes of love,
I never have relinquished all control.
In sensing peril’s pall (as I adjudged),
I never pledged the last ounce of my soul.
God knows I wanted all the tongues of fire
which beckoned me in flames to form a whole.
Yet never would I give what was required;
(I hadn’t met the other magnet pole).
I Knew Two Lights [poem]
An age ago I knew two lights
which hovered brightly in my eyes;
on an eighteen-carat platter
they were served without goodbyes.
But fate made the strangest turn
and took away their glow;
then latterly (not by chance)
they came into the fevered flow
of my mute meandering mind;
and now I disturbingly find
that I must
unbury the dream
revisit the scene
renovate the theme
rekindle the joy
reawaken the pain
repair the destroyed
restore the gleam
by the going-through-of-it-all again.
Startled Shoes [sonnet]
Where is the open heart I vainly seek
who will not flee from love in startled shoes;
who, when kissed, will show her soft undercheek,
for whom defensiveness is not a ruse?
Where is the forthright face, unspoilt, wide-eyed
whose stratagem is only beauty, peace
and truth — whose countenance cries humbled pride,
whose mystery unfolds without a crease.
Ironing
I love ironing. It’s the only situation in the world where you can take something that looks like shit and transform it into something wonderful in less than five minutes!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Tarnished Lotus [poem]
Once upon a time,
a Golden Lotus nestled in
this throbbing heart of mine.
But over all the years of bloom
and fruits upon the vine,
so quietly it tarnished
and lost its pristine shine.
At first I didn’t notice
or feel the subtle shift;
equivalent geographically
to continental drift,
in which the surface stays the same:
until an earthquake happens,
there are no signs of risk.
Taking Crap from No One
My top New Year’s Resolution this year was to take crap from no one. If anyone gives me crap, plays silly games with me or messes me about, I simply walk away with a smile and a “so long, have fun”. So far, I kept it. I had to use it a few times already. Only thing is I end up sitting on a mountain-top all alone and contemplating my navel. There’s always a trade-off! 
😉
Oh You! [poem]
Oh you! whose religion is repression,
whose nakedness is anger,
whose politics is leave-your-mind-behind,
while wearing an indignant expression.
Oh you! whose nationality is frontiers;
Whose perfume is regret,
whose smorgasbord is Attitude Buffet
while sitting on myriad fears.
Oh you! whose face is made of rubber,
whose hobby is despair,
whose heart is like a weathercock
in foul and windy weather.
Oh you! whose hopes are a semi-colon,
whose energy is glue,
whose philosophy is “couldn’t-care-less”
so long as it suits you.
Cyrano de Bergerac
Cyrano de Bergerac, on hearing that Molière had stolen a scene from his play, said: “My life’s work has been to prompt others and be forgotten“. Too many untalented relics of mediocrity steal the limelight – often through plagiarism and clever PR – while the real geniuses remain in the shadows until they shuffle out of the world in obscurity. Such is greatness in this illusion-loving world.
The Naked Troubadour 