Poems

Cloud Cuckoo Land [poem]

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Cloud Cuckoo Land

As I dreamed me through the wilderness of this broken world
I came upon a country where they claim that only milk and
honey flow through fulsome flowing rivers in which molten
lava changed from gold alchemically swirls & writhes & rolls.

And in that strangeful dream of mine, with wide eyes I had
soon observed that every forehead of the herd of humans
(walking in a row) had ‘Wishful Thinking’ slavishly inscribed
(though maybe more precise to say they were lobotomised).

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Winging It! [sonnet]

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winging

We think that all that’s us should be “in place” —
all neatly stored in boxes on a shelf;
until the day arrives you’re face-to-face
with all the secret layers of your self.

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Why? [sonnet]

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Why

Why should existences exist at all?
Why should eternity not now apply
to physicality [I know… the Fall].
Why is there even need for questions why?

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When Troubadours were Bolder [poem]

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when_troubadours_where_boulder

Seeking ways to free myself from limitations,
I’ve considered all the options still available,
now that this zeal within me has awoken.
& it’s clear that if it cannot be accomplished
through some means which, in a basic sense,
could be described as “physical” (for it’s only
in the fleshly sense that limitations can apply)
then I must think beyond the flesh to find the
things I need — such as a home which doesn’t
crumble or decay (Oh, and some wings to fly!)

A new diagrammatic poem

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A new diagrammatic poem for you to “chew” on 😉It started as a dream which woke me in the night then, bleary-eyed, it turned into some words which, in my later waking state, seemed to be strangely right…

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© Alan Morrison, 2017

I will not wear a Poppy [poem]

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i_will_not_wear_a_poppy

I will not wear a poppy on that celebrated day;
though many others then will feel obliged,
as if by some strange law, to wear that flower
commemorating war. Each year it is revived.
Then one who claims to be offended by the
lack of paper flower pinned upon my clothes
and thinks that all should be like him or her
will be red-faced and full of rage and sternly say:
“How could you scorn the freedoms won by
those who fought so you could see another day?”

Then will I swift reply: What freedoms do you mean?
The “freedom” to be overseen in every little way
and spied on by your disingenuously “democratic”,
pederast-permitting, plastic, gymnastic government?
The “freedom” to live every day enslaved by
drudgeful work, extorted mortgages and rents
and subsequently have no unspent time to play?
To what freedoms could you possibly refer?
The “freedom” to inscribe your X upon a form,
when several years have passed since last you
X’ed that form before (to no avail, of course)
and take part in another manufactured war they
call “election-time”? (You think this is the norm?)

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Architect and Arsonist [poem]

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architect

Indulging in this new-found pastime
causes an infernal end to many
now no longer worthful stories —
generates incendiary glory —
casting them into a memory-hole
forgettery (or better still déchèterie).
For here I speak of bridges being burned.

“Do not look back!” intoned the voice,
as slowly round I turned my head
but stopped myself instead from
staring at the fiery flameful scene
behind, beyond the chasm of my past,
which now no longer must be brought to
mind, for fire to the rear means ice ahead
which will be melted into something
called the present — an imaginary trick
inside your head which comes up fast
and just as quickly melts into the past.

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