Month: March 2012

I Loved you Long Before [poem]

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i_loved_you_long_before

I loved you so before I’d even seen you in your nowly flesh.
Something in your picture softly spoke to me of centuries
of enmeshed complex close relations needing now no
further complications but the thrust of straight simplicity
and gentle searing scald of love which, although already
having bloomed and blossomed down those many years,
is still in need of modernising (most of all of harmonising)
if no further detrimental influence of history interferes.

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The Unclosed Door [new poem]

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the_unclosed_door

I thought the door was loudly closed
forever with the tightest slam; but,
forgetful-minded man that I often am,
I did not see the gap beneath that
fatefully swinging slice of wood;
for the door, not being as sealed
and clickened as it should, could not
shut out the light from suns in far-off
friendly worlds which stole their way
below the barrier clench of bitter
fences stradling stenches wrenching
me away from where The Plan would
have me be (in tune with every word
in all my heaving hearting poetry).

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Fuck “Lagom”!

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Fuck “Lagom”! That’s what I say. Let’s feel everything as much as is possible – experience everything hotly without rage or bitterness. Let’s express our passion and joy to the highest degree – no holding back – no defence systems – no walls – no barriers – no games. Weep with the suffering. Grieve with the griefstricken. Stand up boldly for the oppressed and all victims of injustice. Never cross the road to avoid defending/supporting a fellow human being on your own side of the road. Love with all lovers. Sing with all songsmiths. Laugh every laugh there is to be laughed. Treat convention as if it was a dinosaur – extinct and alien. Let conformity drown in its own vomit. Let mediocrity choke on the dregs. Let’s follow our hearts if we know they are true to the spirit of life and love. Then, at least, we can die with a clear conscience…

She’s a Thoroughbred [poem]

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she_is_a_thoroughbred

I’m going to steal your broken heart, I said;
but not by force for that would be beyond
the dovetailed frame of love and peace.
If I could have your unmuted consent I’ll carry
it away and in my funfurred lair we’ll play.

Love makes me nervous, said she; her
coolness startled by my earthy brevity.
And from her glazed expression I can see
I made a strange impression on her
lifelong gathered concentricity.

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Sometimes I Must Avert my Gaze [sonnet]

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sometimes_i_must_avert_my_gaze

In some strange way it hurts to see your face.
It’s not a thrusting, piercing spike of pain
but rather like some shadowed chlorophane
where splendour morphs with melancholy’s grace.
Perhaps your visage bleeds with ancient throes
which rippled through your lifeline when it rained;
just as a swollen river overflows
when all its shorelines cannot be contained.
But even though I must avert my gaze
sometimes (for your affliction is my own);
such empathy my love for you displays
for in my heart your beauty I enthrone.
So if I ever quickly look away
please know it does not happen with dismay.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

Love Bubbles [sonnet]

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love_bubbles

You gave my magma permission to flow
as if it was a dam breached by the sea —
unleashed the power of my volcano
which dormantful had languished sulphurly.
But all those bitter fumes are now dissolved
as in your eyes I glidely rise to sky;
and through your lips my loneness is absolved
(although we kissed for hours, no time went by).
So now that molten rock runs down a stream
of ever-widening flood and torrid deep.
I now know you are more than just a dream:
My heart awoke from numbed-down oversleep.
For lava does not burn when in the sea;
but crazy bubbles wrap round you and me!

© 2012, Alan Morrison

There is One Flower [sonnet]

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there_is_no_flower

There is one flower I’ve known from time to time
which even grows in darkness (as I’ve learned).
It always falls outside my paradigm —
its size depending on how much I yearned.
It flourishes with trust and moonly light
and must be watered well with tears of joy.
The buds lie dormant in the dead of night
for only in the dawn they redeploy.
However, such a flower as this can wilt
or shrivel from neglect and fade away.
No bed of roses yet has drawn a quilt
of dovely down where I, in peace, can lay.
But now I’ve reached a meadow on my road
with flowers galore. Could this be my abode?

© 2012, Alan Morrison