The Unquenchable [poem]
How does one measure love?
to know that it is made of steel
(the stable stainless kind)
and not a sludge of dreams unreal
eroding with the winds of time
and — made of words which only
rhyme for one day every single week
(a wretched prospect which I now
regard as wintergarden bleak) —
beguiles the careless soul into
a perfect rigmarole of drudgery.
The one thing which will tell me that
it’s love (true love, I mean) is the
sheer inability to properly explain
away its stark unquenchability
and lack of all restraint [no bland
docility!] and raw extravagance like
nature’s own abundant lavish ways
which almost seem to be in praise
along the lines of angels’ tongues
invisible which sing of all creation’s
origins divine [incredible design].
One can put it tidy in a drawer
(although you’ll hear its laughter
roar with mocksome tones for
imagining a dark and dingy storage
place could house the flaming fuel
which powers the human race!)
or shove it right behind a door, in a
wardrobe or beneath your gorgeous
carpets on the floor. But love will
never shrouded be; or quenched by
falling dark or futile fear’s finality.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 