Month: Sep 2012

After the Wars [new poem]

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after_the_wars

Sitting mindful in my ivory keep while
gazing down on every broken quantum
leap I glean that mostly all imagine they
are free though in reality their grooves
of mind are trapped in philosophical
obscurity [concocted by an otherside’s
degenerate elite] eschewing any sense of
how-to-be-a-human-being’s purity or
decency (an elevator ride to nowhere)

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The Ball’s in your Court [poem]

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ball_in_your_court

What’s that? You said.
(you must have heard a funny little noise).
It’s a ball, I replied.
Doing what? You sighed (exasperatedly).
Just bouncing on your own side of the court,
said I, (but not beratingly).
But why? You intoned. Is there something
I’m supposed to do?
I scratched my head awhile
(for in my game I have no place for patent guile)

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Rock of Sages [poem]

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rock_of_sages

There is a rock on which
I set my stately arse —
a throne through which
a myriad fleeting concepts
quaintly pass untainted
every countdown day to
when I exit right of stage
with no surprise effects
(bedecked in disarray).

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False Alarm [sonnet]

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false_alarm

It pains me deep to see your lively mind
entranced by vain delusions on your path —
to see your sparkling energies aligned
with what will have a hurtful aftermath.
For fortunes have been won from this deceit:
a certain day they’re claiming lies ahead.
The only way to join the new elite
is through expanded consciousness (it’s said).
It’s true that human cultures come and go
as nature deals with sickness on this sphere.
But this one’s not quite ready for that blow;
it’s not yet time for angels to appear.
The devastation day deceiving you
is this: Two won. Want to. To owe one too.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

Strange Experience

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Very strange experience just now. An Indian gentleman approached me in the street and said he’d been waiting for me and he had something to tell me. I said “Do you want money?” He said “No” emphatically. Then he said: “I feel your heart and your face shines. You are a good man who hasn’t found his place yet in life but it is coming. Believe me and be patient. There are many who are jealous of you. Many. Small people. Ignore them. Someone will find you soon and your heart will be expanded beyond your dreams”. Then he took my hand and placed it on his heart. I said “Are you an angel?” He said “Of course. And so are you”. Then he thanked me and went on his way. Now I’m sitting on a bollard in the street shaking.

Why aren’t you writing any love songs or poems?

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A number of people have asked me lately “Why aren’t you writing any love songs or poems?” On one level the answer to that is obvious. But on another level I reply: “Actually, every single one of them is a love song or poem because much love (as well as blood, sweat, passion & tears) goes into making them. For love is infinitely more than merely floating on a cushion of air or firing Cupid’s arrows everywhere!”

And thus the Day will Come [poem]

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and_thus_the_day_will_come

And thus the day will come when every mystery mote falls into place
when every vainly sign
[which chanced itself in every bleak unbrace
on every lunarscape or masquerade of hearting aching breaking veins
unmaking love refrains and all the broken promises and wrongnesses
and unexplainful silences misunderstandings empty ramblings all the
soulless vain mishandlings angry outbursts dried-up thirsting ousted
curseful never-coming-even-closeful best case scenes made arioso
though they should be grandioso riven run through cut to quick too
driven out and undervalued scavenges for healthful soulfood under
token lifeforce subdued silenced wholly misconstrued unlicensed
crisis torque aborted countless golden pleasures thwarted stridently
connivances beclouded drowned]
through specks of cherub-dusting
clean will straight be traced and quarantined as chastely atom beams

© 2012, Alan Morrison

The Cleanly Dance of Song [poem]

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cleanly_dance_of_song

When people speak with tongues which look like forks
in a road which should be only straightness all the way
I purposefully now destroy their Y-shaped glottal prong.
For satisfied I cannot be until all snaking sneakery
has been transformed into the cleanly dance of song.

They say one thing and then for reasons thoroughly
unknown to me — like juggling chunks of rotting meat
mordaciously — they take another different road
across which countless slimy toads have crawled but
never made it to the greenly growthsome other side.

In play I grab their swaying cobra heads which slyly
hypnotise the overbred and eager victim earing crowd
before those fangs with venom filled can morph a
winter coat into a shroud and break the sacred thread
which some (the wise) have labelled Truth instead.

I ever nowly wonder why they cannot walk on down
the simple path wherein a single sole cohesive tongue
would never wriggle in two parts thus leaving harmony
unsung (not to mention countless lonely broken hearts
from which each lastly drop of blood was wholly wrung).

Or else this world becomes a loathly labyrinth of walls
constructed from the skins and tongues of snakes in
place of vast and open spaces (scary for the uninitiated)
crazy-blazed and from abovely swathed with only light
and true to every law of life on earth is made of only love.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

The Scent of Autumn [poem]

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scent_of_autumn

An Autumn feeling comes upon me now
as if the dying Summer overreached itself
unable to regain its former health
like wilting purple flowers in my soul
like a browning leaf which clothes itself
for its sooning earthly role.

Although already now I long for Spring
(and all the budly burgeon that it blessly brings)
I let my longing fall into the chill of breeze
and feel the empty tendril-tinted freeze
I know will cover all
when Winter’s icy fingers
crack my tarnished crystal ball.

Despite my overwhelming sense
of letting lovely go
of no more left to grow
of griefness undefined
of leaving things behind
and stifling scent of gravely soilsome rot
I am precisely where I should be now
(although I wish it not)

© 2012, Alan Morrison

The Return of the Knights [sonnet]

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return_of_the_knights

How hard it is to be a knight today!
Damsels never now confess to feeling
they’ve fallen in distress or disarray
(building up defences for concealing).
The concept of his chivalry they deem
to be anachronistic foolery.
Such men, it seems, are judged to be extreme
and not respected for their bravery.
But though these knights have largely been mothballed
as ignorance extinguishes the light;
the time will come when they will be recalled
to stand alongside angels in the fight.
For when this world has slithered into black
the ones who see will cry: “The knights are back!”

© 2012, Alan Morrison