Poems
More or Less [poem]
the morer that I know
the more I realise
I do not know
though
better still to say
the morer that I know
the more I see just
how much more is
through the door
for bigsmall me
to grow
Enjoy the ride [poem]
sometimes I think that everything’s an emptiful distraction
[{(whether words or flesh or artefacts invented by the human race
or smiles or laughter even poetry and music’s comely face!
and most especially entertainment’s ambush-wraith
when spiced with life’s apparent inbuilt lack of faith
in what we mostly cannot willnot mustnot ever see)}]
waylaying us whichever zesty restless way we turn
from what we truly ought to see and flow and know (and learn)
some jewelery hidden in the dirty snowy clothes of time
a throne or elemental shrine in ether’s cloudy wine
a spinning leafy ricochet around a rose [uncrime]
a strangeness underneath this world’s assembly line
a priceless dreamer’s vision of a skybound vine
which, if one should intrepidly nontepidly and honely climb
will culminate in joyful mouthy cries of…
[pause here]
thoughts and words which never can be understood
save only by the one who bravely would ascend
the beanstalk bends of don’t-know-which-way-home
who shares a joke inside his newly gene-changed soul
acknowledging the role of everything material
deflecting unconnecting (though we think it’s just protecting)
us from fallingrising no disguising centri-fugal-petal
spinning stationary wisdom-bringing endbeginning
updown hymning inescapeful blackhole swimming
ardently against the tide
enjoy the ride
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Goodbye August [poem]
Goodbye, August!
I bless you for your late endeavour.
You started out believing you’re
the crown of Summer;
but, however much you try,
your destiny provides
the entry to the scent of Autumn.
Curtain Call [poem]
A cow will never languish in a snail’s shell.
A dragon would look silly in a spider’s web.
A horse cannot be hiding in a pimpernel.
A skunk could not be snoring in a featherbed.
Contrary to what most normal people claim,
square pegs can neatly fit in rounded holes.
The problem’s not the fit but wasted space
spent trying to play some unbecoming roles.
Mind-Fuck [poem]
If I could fuck your mind I would.
By what it would be fucked I cannot tell.
But something in me wants to fuck it hard;
I think I read you also do as well.
Bodies drenched in skinsmooth beauty
forn (and fawn) and porn themselves like
STD confetti on the potent wind of lust.
But physical attraction (when divorced
from mighty dreamfilled powers of mind)
is something I can never inly trust.
The Princely Path [poem]
A certain foetus (who I cannot name)
has slithered down the birth canal of life
into the world today. And in no time at all
I guarantee will slither out the other way.
They come.
They go.
Whether royalty or paupers
they all play their tawdry bit parts
in this raucous
hawk-filled
rotor-bladed
moving picture show.
Twelfth House Moon [poem]
A twelfth house moon fills up my view
and itself too
and fills the space between the forms
of me and you.
By you I mean not just a single soul
but every written scroll who ever lived
(for that is what we are —
some holy words breathed into flesh
from where we lose our way
our minds enmeshed
in mercenary dreams
and acquisition’s
jaded schemes
unless we let
the moon’s
unspoken
light into
our mind
and find
that we
are just
(in spite of what we may believe)
reflections too.
The moon
the mirror of the sun
and all of us
a shaft of light
each one.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
.
Daddy’s Girl [poem]
“Come and get me”, so you said,
“and take my body to your hermit bed”.
Those were your semi-whispered words
across the thousand loudly miles or more
of wasted latent pregnant space.
Sonnet Plus 2 [poem]
It was a face I knew I’d never see again.
The only time its leaves had blown across my view
was through the window of another endless train
which, in the opposite direction, crowly flew.
No answer came when, nonplussed, I had wondered why
those eyes — of all the others in this realm today —
should penetrate the weathered piercingness of my
disguised delight and throw me into disarray.
And then I saw her tender hands pressed on the glass:
her face which (puzzled) followed mine till seen no more.
Why would she want a man who travels pirate-class —
our lives spent on a train stuck in a corridor?
I was a blaze which burned for seconds through her why.
She was a breeze which passed across my broken sky.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Kid Gloves [poem]
Roll up! Roll up!
Imagination picks a fight with common sense
and Mr. Fantasy has booked a ringside seat.
A fat and crumpled three-piece suited man
(who I swear is only there to line his pockets
on a whim) sucks on a big cigar and smugly
grins at both the boxers who he represents.
Darkness lights the ring, as you can see;
delusion is the hugely biased referee.
The Naked Troubadour 