Poems
Over Seas [poem]
How can we love we truly well? she said.
For you are over many seas and dale and dell
and though the distance makes a difference
to the mystery (plus we know no history)
I fear that longingness will take its toll
upon the soul
of who we are
when we’re afar.
My Hyper Cosmic Valentine [poem]
How come I see that face
and know the one who lies
behind the mask
was (in another time)
my heart’s delight
my joy my pain my
want-to-get-it-right again
no matter how many
days and nights and
months and years
and centuries it takes?
The Unquenchable [poem]
How does one measure love?
to know that it is made of steel
(the stable stainless kind)
and not a sludge of dreams unreal
eroding with the winds of time
and — made of words which only
rhyme for one day every single week
(a wretched prospect which I now
regard as wintergarden bleak) —
beguiles the careless soul into
a perfect rigmarole of drudgery.
Bag Man No More! [poem]
I used to be the kind of guy
who said to lovely ladies
Yes, my dear, I’ll carry your bag
(the implication being:
size no object
any weight will do)
stick it on my broadly back
anything for you.
Epiphany [poem]
I thought
I couldn’t
so I didn’t
but I can &
so I should
Then they
told me
should’s a
bad word
too oblique
to change
a hair
enthroned
upon the
head of
Samson
should and he
are so
contraire
The key
to me
was bent
and hidden
I myself
misunderstood
But something
snapped
within
my middle
(surrealistic
glancing
riddle)
clearest
sound I
ever heard
Now I’m
wrestling
past my
doubtful
thoughts
which all
my dreams
forbid
I thought
I couldn’t
so I didn’t
but I can
& so
I did
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Like it was our Last [poem]
Time goes by so quickly voices say at 30
something years of age without a trace of
irony — their smooth taut faces creased
with temporary deathless shiny depilated
still so far undessicated flesh. Selfful image
grossly moonly fabricated while infatuated
quasi-animated still unwaiting for the end
The Party is Over [poem]
Imprisoned thoughts dribble down my face
while forming patterns damply drowning
like the long-awaited swollenness of
babyfaceless not so darling gentle
crowning from the queen of hearts
Coachwork [poem]
Is there anyone left upon this global
outreach screwed-up new age dive
who isn’t called a “coach” — someone you pay
to orchestrate your life, your mind to probe?
(And all because you had a bad hair day!)
It seems to be the job of choice for those
who — having gone to a workshop or two —
decide that they are fit to run the lives
of those who are confused and misconstrue
just how a human being here survives.
The Flowery Mangled Hand [poem]
a petalled hand stretched out a tidy finger
[though it was amputated at the time]
its bloody stump a stinging mass of fine
flamingo-pinking sinking loudly down
I’d love to shake that flowery mangled hand
so we could feignly stand in temporary
lanterned circumstances’ sandless strand
consanguinity enhances young romance’s
downward dancing faintless fadely frowned
Medicine Mouth [poem]
It washed right through my many-coated
crude defensive multi-moated
barrier-reefs of weathered ways
so carefully built in recent days of
darkness. Your mouth a waterfall
of wonder struck my stupid wall
like thunder and, to cut the story short,
I, defeated by your beam, arose
through empty spaces springing
over frozen traces; ice blaspheming
all the writhing awesomeness of love
with pseudo-caution seeming from above.
The Naked Troubadour 