Year: 2011
Autumn Gravestones [poem]
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]
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
Tricorne [poem]
I wear a three-cornered hat.
Not by choice
for on my head it has been thrust
like a prickly crown of thorns;
never before has such a cap
by my sore head been worn.
But on my skull sits
this stereotype
a swashbuckling symbol
of piratonic fantasy
of 1700s military
colonial or pilgrim mode
take your pick
as you wander down the road
in that strange triangulation
into which I softly strode.
Quietly Wonderful [poem]
You are quietly wonderful;
I tell you so you know.
You have no need of accolades
praising fake parades with fanfares
blazing on a stage with prizes
given or a coach by well-groomed
horses driven
Each Poem is like a Snapshot of One Part of Reality
Each poem is like a snapshot of one part of reality. It is the truth but it is not the whole truth. It is like one facet of a diamond which, when it twinkles in the light, does not represent the entire gem. Therefore, any poem does not tell the whole story; it tells the part of the story which is the strongest and most relevant at the time. If one waits patiently, another part will come in another poem; and then a picture is formed – a picture which is always in formation. The poem is part of the eternal dance…
© 2011, Alan Morrison
eyamsotyred [poem]
eyamsotyred
sotyredofstrugling
struglingtofyndthereel
tofyndsumshellturdlee
sumrelivuns
2maisituayshun
(maibondidgesounfree)
wichecsplaynzwye
evrithyngterndfromm
litetoodarc
wenyungfreshmeewuzbitraid
withowtaneeconshunce
withautevunreelizing
sheewerdooinganeethingrong
hazthewurldreelichaynged
sowmuchthatniytiznaudai
eyamsotyred
tyredofthyngsgoingbump
inntheday
bumpingawaiwithther
wontuninflayshun
andhooammeyeeniwai
toocomplanesezduhvois
inmyehedthinkeyed
rarthuhbeeded
thereyeveseditt
thewurdswichhav
allwaizebeanonmaimind
andinnit
wurdzwoshing
arowndelikemowthwosh
forthebraynethaylthink
eyaminsanebutteyamknot(ted)
insydelykeabaskitov
snaykesandeyamsoverislayked
sotyredsoslaykedeyecarnt
fitethisnomooreforeym
toobattelsoarandbrokt
sochowktinmyesole
nowunnreelikeres
itzorlwunnbiggayme
uvchesstoothemm
eyamaniteandallwaizhavbean
butteyethinkthearisnoplayce
leftforusonthechessbord
coztherooleshaveorlchaynged
owtovallrekognishun
thatizmyestanding
andendgaymepozishun
eyamsotyred
sotyred
ovevreething
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The End of the Tether [sonnet]
I have lost everyone and everything.
Every precious thing — every meaning one.
I watched all those to whom I once did cling
just vanish in the night and they were gone.
Perhaps that’s as it should be in my world
for windowless I orbit distant stars;
long longing for a view I sunless curled
through galaxies and countless grey memoirs.
And then some voice said there is always hope.
I’ve heard those empty words before (I winced)
shaped like a neat and tidy noosely rope
so by that thought I cannot be convinced.
When tether’s end has finally been reached
the heart of all that sings has been impeached.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Framed [new song]
When all the cards are down
And with my feet firm on the ground
I can see the pack was never full.
Missing was the Queen of Hearts
Well it was pinned with feathered darts
To a half-done painting on the wall.
Narcissist [poem]
if he/she/it is a narcissist…
p a u s e…
(can a mere “it” be
a narcissist
for an “it” has no need
to dwell upon itself
for an “it” just isn’t human
so is free from every wretched form
of navel-gazing
ego-blazing
hellfire-razing)
so…
On the First Day of This Year
On the first day of this year, I made a resolution to take shit from no one, never to settle for less than what is the best possible and always to gyrate to the highest ground. That is the first New Year’s Resolution that I’ve actually kept. So I echo it again as the year draws to a close: I will in all circumstances take shit from no one. I will not compromise on getting the best of all possible worlds in all things. I refuse to let others dictate my life for me or to let them mess about with my head with their twisted “logic” and manipulations. I will stand my ground and preserve the sacredness of my space – not on an ego-trip but so that I can be more useful to others in this world where too many try to puff themselves up and destroy the dreams of the brave. If you’ll join me on my journey I will be overjoyed!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 