For Every Dream which Drowndly Dies [poem]
We turn over the same bit of soil with our clodded shovels
time and time again. Like nodding donkeys on an oilfield’s
dour terrain our motion moves perpetually, verse with no
refrain. Prosaicly [phonetically speaking – note there’s no
mistake] when we’ve finished with our spades we try to
smooth it with a rake! This patterned repetition is embedded
in our psyches as an over-slightly loathesome spikey lump
of worthless writhing superstition. Obsessive-compulsive
behaviour, said the uncredible shrinking man whose lack
of obvious mercy far outweighed the hurting crowd of
interspersed subliminally underversing fountainheads.
If only we could grow some substance to our metaphoric
beards we would find that from then on there would be
no further processes which sanity proclaims as weird
(nessly) charging blame. For every dream which drowndly
dies, ten thousand more will take its place; but only when
some courage makes our unevolving souls begin to grasp
the higher branches with our empty-fingered hands will we
then find our wings to fly and make a stand against the lie.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 