Poems
Filigree Dreams [poem]
There is a weeping willow tree
I wish to climb.
It’s branches lithe and lone
hang droopingly
inviting me to hold its trunk
in summertime
I stood not far from where she grew
and touched her bark.
Her heaven scent perplexed
my solitude
while hazy clouds of dreams divined
a latent star
Isthmus Incident [poem]
If freeze can melt we’d grasp that
every little gesture that we make;
all the frantic measures that we take;
everything we do no matter how much
it may seem to be spontaneous, impulsive
or haphazardly impromptu has been carefully
designed with just one crucial phrenzied frantic
crazed and desperately gigantic fazing theme in mind
Every time we dress or fluently determine to impress
some other out there human in our field of view
or otherwise ignore someone we judge to be
an utter bore or smoke some stuff or drink
more than enough or waste some time
on celluloidal fantasies then digitise
online we are simply covering up
one outsized grossly elephantine
intrusion in the room that’s dogged
us from the moment we were born (by
which I mean the startling instant when we
grudgingly or wilfully became a conscious me
a separate subtle entity apparently forsaken and
forlorn) or should I say impertinently torn—not only
from the warm wet womb but even from that vastly
darklight unknown inexpressful space where we
1ce were when we weren’t we & now though
we imagine that we’re free in truth we are
enslaved by just one single fazing thing
which I presented in that line above
to wit that we are herefully alone
impostors on a dream enthroned
meandering our wiseless way across
the cosmic interplay of one intruder of
the airwaves to another while we foolfully
and ignorantly shovel heaps of decomposing
detritus to thwart the crippling solitude endured
by all the pinpoint parts of separated consciousness
which individuatedly play hard and compensatingly
caress the countless shards of beingness arrayed
through time and history—a tale of lifesome
tragedy unless one cares to look between
the pages of the book entitled “Melody
Behind All Things” where every type
of mission and adventure will be
thrillingly displayed….eventually
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Deathwish [poem]
If I should die before I’ve had the chance to look
an angel in the eye and say with all the impetus
my rusty breast can cry: It’s you I ever want to be
with when the time has come to say goodbye then
cut the finger from my ringless hand and burn it
fast without a single strand of sentimental mercy
till the flames blood red have formed the letter Y
Blob of Love [poem]
A question like a shooting star (the cosmic face of why)
had hurled itself like cobweb dreams across the milky sky.
Just what is love? the meteor streamed —
to which no answer came (at least it tried).
Followed soonly by another query posed:
I said what do you think love is?
To which a myriad voices then replied
and gave their stilted theories which
I here below repeat condensed so you can see
just what the blinding blaze of love is up against.
Domino Theory [poem]
When cold possessive mine becomes instead expanded
warm impassioned mind and ropes and chains are
used to form triquetra shapes entwined in
place of shacklebondage pantomime and
prisons change to light refracting prisms
and chainmail suits are made for two
instead of one, then dominoes will
tumble back to back in one long
line until the universe is rid
of every vision-crushing
brain-concussing
cul-de-sac
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Rhyming Couplet [poem]
I always say too much so please forgive me
if my words seem like a gush. I promise you
will never drown beneath them; they have
spaces in between so you can safely dream
and breathe them into common sensely
sentences if that’s your only chosen path
across a weird and widely lifesome epigraph.
Beyond the Edge [poem]
If we never fly
beyond the edge
how will we keep
our sails in trim
[wings are here
a suited synonym]
or understand
the ins and outs
of how to swim
with graceness
when your boat
capsizes right
upon that edge
but then instead
of paddling for
our lives to keep
from falling down
into the foaming
white unknown
we need to practise
playing the role of
f r e e f a l l
b a c k w a r d s
trustingfully loud
and latchkey kids
who come and go
like ghostly priestly
will-o-wisply old
Melchizedek and
have no priceful
precedents but
riding free upon
all surf wherever
that may be and
wherethewind
shall blow our
wide and never
ending destiny.
For if those gusts
originate from
azure & abovely
noble realms
and never from
the downly deep
of othersidely
dark undeevy
dreadful drowns
then safely we
can roam upon
that stormful
raging foam
[despite the fact
we pass through
countless strands
of crippling strife]
which in our hyper
always ignorance
we unpoetically
insist on calling
[euphemistically]
LIFE
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Blindfold [poem]
Why can’t all things in heaven and on earth
be simple lucid and revealed (such as what
developed long before my birth and what will
someday soon transpire after I fall in a heap)?
How come so many mysterious things insist
on being concealed? I swear I won’t misuse
them or take advantage of the knowledge
sell them or abuse them. I promise from the
bottom of my beating heart that I will bring
there no dark thing where evil can result or
use the data to exploit the black side of occult
or ill-thought schemes or wizardry deceptive
or confounding so that others would be badly
influenced by me — becoming no more free.
Exile, Part II [poem]
Sliding through the tensile twisted vortex
left by tortured coils of disconnected DNA
I move with grace into the insubstantial air
with multiple crushed and creviced vertebrae.
A noosing strand of rope endecorates the wall
while shadowed hangmen rudely shelter
harmlessly, effective from today. Outside the
cloistered cosy confines of protective coated
crinoline, successive waves of hopeless jerks
convulse spasmodically my beatsome little heart.
What is it with You? [poem]
what is it with you?
stealing every little thing that moves!
not content to rob men of their hearts
you empty all their pockets plus their
dreams and even clean out every hotel room
of all free-standing artefacts available for
filching — anything, so long as it suits
your nobbling snaffling pilfermaking groove.
shampoo for your unconditioned hair
bars of soap and stuff for cleaning shoes
and even ashtrays disappear into your swag
that beige and bottomlessful bag
you carry on your sloping shoulder
so you always have to yank it up and over
with a careless shrug. I swear I saw a nest
of writhing rats within that stashly habitat
The Naked Troubadour 