Rock of Sages [poem]
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).
I love that slablike crag:
It whispers riddles through
my backside bones and
welcomely writes wordy
drafts which glide into my
rowdy little shoulder-bag
of tidy tricks and dreams
accumulated moonbeams
silent stardust smithereens.
That boulder’s lifespan
overlaps my own at front
and back by centuries of
wind and rain erosion’s
smoothsome thereness.
Grained impingement on
my overweened awareness
chamfers off the corners of
my stonely debonairness.
The granite grounding
now beneath my haunches
somehow fuels my every
hunchly raunching restless
thought explored. I never
shall be bored if both my
buttocks are secured by
crazed escarpment’s
finely-tuned foundation.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 