Angel Chances [poem]
Here this man now sits and stands and paces
round the room while twin-scented swirling
strands make fiery dangling traces round the
edges of his tiny ever-[never]-reaching hands
The strands of which I speak are two and golden
flamed and tainted handsomely and guaranteed
to thrill and ultimately fill the yearning burn of
glistening dreams (undoing over-tightened seams)
Sense and spirit give the key to grasp the strands:
A sense of sharp adventure lone and wide then
casting every hindrance to one side (the only way
to verify that we are truly wholly dancingly alive)
A spirit of surrender then completes the picture
of adventure under which we can resign our tiny
selves to destiny’s design and shelve our selfish
fancies which are rooted not in angel chances
For, although adventure should forever be our
sanely sought unbought uncensored zone reality,
unless we can embrace experiences suddened to
us on a plate, our boldest exploits we invalidate
Something other than our ego selves determines
how we’re touched by interfacial carousels and
what we need to learn, eat, drink and what we
treat as obsolete or take on board for us to think
If we wrap adventure and surrender strands
around our spiritbody dance we manifest the
clean disturbing frisson of incendiary romance
which, in a lesser turn of phrase, is known as life
© Alan Morrison, 2017
The Naked Troubadour 