Month: March 2014

A Chisel’s not Enough [poem]

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a_chisel_is_not_enough

When fear hides behind a smile
then truth pretends it’s on the stage
held hostage to some understated
subterranean fairground barker’s
ageing clothes or costume of an
underrated acrobatic clown
A happy-fronted person might as well
affect a frown or leak some tears
For covering our fears takes no one in
but fools — whether with a grin
or other phoney face or gruelling
sojourn through the local loony bin

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The Panoply of Time [poem]

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the_panoply_of_time

A little speck of cosmic curiosity
buzzed wilfully across a page of tyme.
First one and then another leaf
was flipped with serial intrigue
against the passing clues and signs
secluded ersatz finish-lines

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Tantric Surfers of the Skies [poem]

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broken_surfers_of_teh_skies

bro
ken
peo
ple
everywhere
(broken = dead)
I see their look
I fall apart
Don’t know which is more in pieces
broken people or my heart
shattered by
the desperation
of their souls
the resignation
in their eyes
the thousand hearting whys
they never say —
I see it all
and even if they hide it well
I see it still
then tremble weep
and call out to my angel friends
to lend these souls their clothes
until their hearts unfroze
but drudgery goes on
as
bro
ken
peo
ple
everywhere
behind their walls
and comfortable
chainmail palls
avoid repair

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There is a Perfume [poem]

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there_is_a_perfume

There is a perfume
far beyond all odours
which a nose can know
or physical olfactory
senses outly show.

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Up in Smoke [poem]

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up_in_smoke

All we have on which to base our ego view of who we are
is memories, thoughts and notions from the past.
The present doesn’t figure in our minds in terms of
shaping our identity. For every moment lived up
to the full is secretly a false-self-slaughtering iconoclast!

This is no joke.

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Scenes of Conscience [sonnet]

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scenes_of_conscience

Her life swept through the air across the room
like glassy sand grains on a windswept beach
burying me up to my neck in gloom —
though salty tears were still within my reach.
The wheelchair by her side spoke to me most.
A single gloved hand dangled lifelessly.
Her hair was short — her face white as a ghost.
She stared up at the ceiling wonderingly.
I noticed then her sore and blistered hand
(the one which wasn’t hidden in a glove).
Such scenes as this our consciences demand;
a silent prayer I fired to realms above:
Forgive me if from time to time I whine:
so many folks have far worse lives than mine.

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© Alan Morrison, 2014