Just for the Record [poem]
Just for the record
[if there’s anyone remaining here
who listens to some words awhile
which come in shapes of tears
{and loves to bathe therein}
and sometimes even come
in hesitating smiles],
I can absolutely guarantee
that in this frozen, crazy world
wherein we weirdly dwell,
if you swim against the tide
(by which I’m meaning ANY tide),
you can take comfort that you’re never quite alone
in standing up in bold against this living hell
— this dirty fairground ride which offers
every passenger a worthless bone
provided they remain in place
and always face the way they’re told and
never question if the orders they receive
are nothing more than worthless lies.
Tides (unless they’re put in motion
by the action of the lovely Moon, who,
when I’m asleep will stroke me with her hair)
inevitably drown themselves and those
who ride their storms or shelter there;
and by their nature they go nowhere,
caring nothing for the driftwood creatures
hewn from dark and fossil coals
[such ugly dazed encaged and lifeless forms
were either born without or sold their souls]
now strewn across their surface
(for by nature they eschew the deep);
and somewhere in this universe
there must inevitably be a heap of wood
washed up upon a distant shore
made-up of large unprecious stones,
emitting ghastly drawn-out groans:
“We wish we had done more to be a tree
and listened to that voice which said:
‘Don’t float upon the tide. Be free!’”
© Alan Morrison, 2016
The Naked Troubadour 