Month: Feb 2014

Uncle Alan’s Valentine’s Day Advice

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valentines_day
Many will have opted out of acknowledging Valentine’s Day tomorrow. Viewing it as cheesy, corny, schmaltzy and merely sentimental (rather than truly romantic), they will choose to ignore it, claiming it’s a huge money-making racket. All those things are true…BUT… I can absolutely guarantee that if you produce a surprise gift for your spouse, partner, lover, wannabe lover or wishtheywere lover — even if they are the most hardened anti-Valentine’s Day activist in the universe — they will still be over the moon and melt at your offering. Trust me on this. And if they then feel bad that they didn’t get you a present, tell them that a passionate kiss will be just right! You don’t need to call it a Valentine’s Day present. Disguise it if you wish. You could even save it till the Moon is Full at 00.54 Central European Time on Saturday, just after midnight, only missing Valentine’s Day by less than an hour (or it’s full at midnight if you’re in a GMT zone). Avoid using tacky wrapping paper or giving custom V-Day atrocities. Give something tasteful and simple. Tell them you got a serious case of Cupiditis and couldn’t resist because you really do love them and you believed it would make them happy and you couldn’t miss out on seeing their eyes light up and their hearts quicken. Tell them you wanted to give them joy — that it pleased you to do so. Then they will know even more how much you love them, for that is absolutely what love delights in. Make it a simple gift. (A Porsche would be inappropriate in this instance 🙂 ). Just make sure you tell him or her that it is from your heart to theirs. That is the magic phrase. Then you are creating a direct line — a silver cord between you and him or her. Those silver cords are vital in this fragile world and in the midst of so many fragile relationships. The more silver cords there are, the more beauty we infuse into it. I have seen couples (and I’ve been there myself) who have made a pact to ignore the V-Day and then felt very smug, as if they had participated in a political act of great significance. But, inwardly, deep down inside, each wished the other had given them something anyway. They secretly longed for it. Truly. Trust me. Even if you don’t believe a word of what I say, try it as an experiment. You will be blown away by the result. I look forward to any feedback. With much love, from my heart to yours.

Homeless Mothers [poem]

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homeless_mothers

She said she’d lost her home.
“I lost my home”, she said
so matteroffactly self-effacely
not a trace of horror or of irony
(though fire in me was kindled
by those cold one-bullet words).
I swear my eyes have never
been so moist as when
I watched those letters falling
from her crest onto my screen.
I nearly died of shame that
motherhood could spill out
on the street without a covering.
What kind of world is this
where nurture-souls can find
themselves unhomed?
Then, sensing my distress
she said that it’s just life
and… yes… she’s right…
for life has cruelty watermarked
across its page like tigers’ teeth
sunk in a bambi’s throat;
a bite wrought by a spider
with no antidote;
a trawler’s crew washed overboard
with all hands lost at sea;
an eighty-something lady raped
— the victim of brutality;
a woman stalked and hounded
by some twisted little creep
till desperately from some deserted
clifftop she did screamly leap.
So damnable unfairness
oozes out of every pore of life
which makes me wince
and not infrequently it makes me weep.
But when someone as lovely, lively
soft and inly fragile as she is
(I say that even though she often has
an outward toughness act built up
through countless undeserving scars)
becomes a roofless mother
making ends which never meet
I then discover empathetic strands
and want to kick my feet against
the rope which binds us
to the earth and think of roofs
in other ways of infinite more worth
than slate or felt or red and curly tile
or any other style — and so then
in my mind I join her on the sand;
we make a roof of sky and stars
and… Oh look, there is Mars!
and celebrate the loss of
solid-stated canopies and turn
our inner head around
to have an upward face to panoplies
of suns and myriads of galaxies
and in this way we found another view
of seeing home as more than
just a patch of ground
or four-walled place.
Instead home is a state of grace
wherein we find our core
and so much m o r e
and though we still need
shelter from incoming storms
the element which stealthly keeps
all solid homeless people warm
is seeing past intrinsic human norms
— discovering a sacred place —
where we don’t change ourselves
to gauntlet-run in someone else’s race
but (if only!) change the world around us
till its threshold makes us welcome
(says that loudly on the grassy mat!)
in such a way that even rocks
could be our pillows
and our home in any universe
would just be
where we hang our hat.

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© Alan Morrison, 2014

Sonnet for a Wounded Rose

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sonnet_for_a_wounded_rose

When first I met that frightened little mite
she’d barely look me squarely in the eye.
A suit of armour fit her body tight,
so cupid’s arrows she could nullify.
You see, a microscopic spear was thrown
which caught that rosy flower off her guard.
It pierced the tender spot where love is grown
so confidence and poise were badly scarred.
But yet, in spite of all the damage done
her beauty has increased a thousandfold.
A healing process in her had begun,
transcending any spearful stranglehold.
For often, wounds which seem to us austere
are given to us so we persevere.

.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014

The Integrity of Destiny

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the_integrity_of_destiny

He couldn’t remember the second time it happened. It was when he was a kid — not very long after the episode on the bus with his mother. Some character had come into his vision and it was as if an unseeable multi-dimensional screen had been switched on in his mind. He received impressions, scenes, conversations, sounds, smells, noises, like dribbles trickling down from some infinite network of the sum of human thought and action. Often they would come all at the same time, yet still be individually discernable — rather like those exploded diagrams of engines one sees in car manuals, in which you are shown even the smallest part but also the entire engine itself, thus making it clear how the whole thing fits together. Nathan saw people’s lives like that. “Exploded diagrams of happenstance and synchronicity”, as he called them.

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