Month: Jun 2014

The Ballad of Little Nate [poem]

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the_ballad_of_little_nate

When Nathan D. was just a little boy
his parents tried out every ploy they could
to stop him touching fires and stoves.
But everywhere he went, his little hands
would reach out roving for some burns.
They thought he’d never learn to do
what’s right (as right was, in their view).
Forever putting hands on red hot things
(desiring as they did to keep their son
on tightly tied-up apron strings)
they soon assumed he was a special
psychiatric case and would, if things
continued as they were, bring on the family
ignominy and neighbourhood disgrace.

One day, young Nate had looked them frankly
in the eyes and asked them straightly why
they thought they had the right to censor
what he does in life. They said that it’s
“because we are your parents and
your parents know what’s best for you.”
“You don’t at all”, said little Nate, as they,
astonished, heard their own son say to them:
“I’ve put you to the test. The day has come
for full disclosure of the rest of what I’ve tried
to say for years, but hadn’t had the go-ahead.”
“Never once”, the little boy went blithely on,
“have you directly asked me why I love to
suffer burns and other kinds of bitter pains.
You just assume it’s a mistake or wrong —
as if I’m likened to you as a broken song —
though lately you’ve begun to think I’m mad or
something’s programmed badly in my brain.”

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Broken Fence [sonnet]

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broken_fence

Not wishing to be overwhelmed with love
she sits her self down on the broken fence.
She knows that all it takes is one small shove
and then the endless falling will commence.
And so, to stabilise herself, she nails
her legs on to the wood. But then, to keep
her rigid poise, her little arms she flails.
(Throughout this process she was fast asleep!)
Despite the windmill weirdness of her hands,
I dodged those flailing fists to set her free.
The nails I ripped out (blood sprays where it lands)
and smashed that fence to smithereens with glee.
The moral of the story? Don’t be fazed
when women, to defend themselves, act crazed!

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© Alan Morrison, 2014

Unzipped [poem]

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unzipped

Wandering wiseless on some smooth
indecent steep and sandy dune
he wondered if those grainly rumours
could be true that he should stand
astonished, still, in front of only unly you
who’s not (viz. yet) been fully met on this
unset trajectory of pain and pleasure ride.
He waits, just as he’s done for thousands
more besides this molten lava year
(if time indeed exists outside this sphere)
as fragment bits of ideas hurtled down
through treacle air around his cadence.

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Flower in the Night [poem]

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flower_in_the_night

While walking through a forest dark, unbright
[for all this world is thick with rooted-in-one-place
and never-really-meet-the-other ownsome trees
abundantly enrobed in everdying leaves
which hinder our receiving of the light]
I found myself in newly rough-hewn paths
where shale is gemstones, jewels and wreaths
and there — to my surprise [yet not] —
I stumbled on a flower in the night.

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Wrestle [sonnet]

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wrrestle

How easy it would be to string a noose
up from a tree and give that soul of mine
to charity. (Though I’m not so obtuse
as to from 3-Dimensions disentwine).
A voice has whispered long and low to make
me interrupt the flow of destiny
and wrestle me from being wide-awake
to forfeit my alignful synchrony.
But having seen the face behind the voice
(for spirits in this world aren’t only light)
I realised those words come with a choice
and warfare that’s unseen invades the night.
I wrestle every day (but not for sport);
all charlatans with stealthhood I will thwart.

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© Alan Morrison, 2014

Riding her Waves [sonnet]

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riding_her_waves

A woman’s like a wave you have to ride.
She ebbs and flows — receives you on her swell;
expects you to discern her crimson tide;
to know her stormly undulations well.
Acquaint yourself with lunar almanacs
before you surf in peril on her sea.
For on her waves there are no trails or tracks —
from hurricanes there is no guarantee!
But if you let her crests flow where they will,
and give her breakers space to turn to foam,
you will, in time, your destiny fulfil
and on her billows you will find your home.
Although it seems her waves throw you around,
surf-mastery’s the key, as I have found.

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© Alan Morrison, 2014

Doors Galore [sonnet]

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doors_galore

My doors have always opened up with ease
They have no lock; with just a finger-shove
they come ajar — I never have to squeeze
my body through the gap (helped from above).
So doors galore’s the subject of this piece;
I revel in the portals of my world.
The openings I find only increase;
and often over thresholds I am hurled.
However, here’s the thing about my doors:
Whichever one I push — tall, small or wide
(and in my life there have been many scores),
there’s nothing for me on the other side.
For every time I find an open door
what lies behind is just a dozen more!

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© Alan Morrison, 2014

Nail in the Wall [sonnet]

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nail_in_the_wall

Silence is unbecoming for a dude
who claims to be a poetspeaking voice.
But sound, you see, is nought at altitude
and nothing will suffice with mere rejoice.
On walking in the room (it’s colours bland
and pastel pukey) — just one nail pierced through
plaster (spaced-out atom-smasher scabland) —
word-arranger plagiarised his own spew.
Meanwhile, some shelter from banana trees
had lent itself with generosity —
the antidote to stratospheric freeze
[my neverending curiosity].
That shard of metal stayed put in the wall
while neath those trees I honed my lovened scrawl.

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© Alan Morrison, 2014