Poems
Your Beauty [poem]
Your beauty does not lie in the dubious gift
of symmetricalish facial features
for such faux perfection would not fit
your many-sided multi-facet
overarching wealth of assets
random drawn by their creator’s
palette-painted teaching
2 2 1 [poem]
Two broken eggshells
(inside skin holding parts together)
met along the alleyway
of love’s long dream —
Their yolks shot through with yellow
though anything but mellow was the ride
Two cracked-up nutshells
(not completely shattered into shards)
collided in the ethermist
of scarred entrails
unveiling untold treasure
which struggles for the measure of its stride
Platonic Play [poem]
“Sometimes I think you have one rule for me
and another rule for you — wanting to be free”.
So said your husband, a shake in his voice;
[He loved her with hugeness — he hadn’t a choice].
You do what you want however much it hurts;
your sting camouflaged in the folds of your skirts.
You live for the moment (your moment that is)
and with such a lifestyle you find nothing amiss.
For the ‘moments’ of others are not your concern;
empathy’s closeness you don’t want to learn.
Little Puppy Dog [poem]
He’s like a little puppy on his first extended walk:
Rushing up to every face
without defences held in place.
So much wanting just to give;
loves the moment — loves to live.
Won’t object to being stroked;
pulled so hard he nearly choked.
Strides through bullshit everywhere;
little puppy doesn’t care —
he just bounces round with glee
exasperates his family.
Sees the whole world as his friends
lives and loves as life intends
doesn’t mind who he offends.
“Tut-tut”, they say, with features stern.
“That little puppy needs to learn
to simmer down and play it cool.
Let’s put him through some fancy school
where he can gain some adult skills
grow some horns, cut down on thrills”.
At that, he breaks the leash — bursts free.
That little puppy dog…
is me.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Beneath the Lid [poem]
The whole world smugly screamly sits
on a keening bed of fears
belied by shrieks of laughter
as comfort thoughts of everafter
trickle through our beards.
Knowing well we’re only dreaming
microseconds from disaster
we strategize to sanitise
the lacework trail of our fragile lives
(and woe betide intruding eyes).
Eyes Down [poem]
They averted their gaze when they looked into mine;
I know that look — I’ve seen it many times.
I saw the children dwelling in their hearts
cowed defeated — couldn’t even start
to stare into the eyes of those who stood
before their sallow frozen features.
You Were… [poem]
You were a light
a singing rock of shineness
in my darknesses
your thereness (like your skin)
was always soft and velveteen
you never goodbyed on a whim
or skimmed the surface
in a swim of unseasoned sanctuaries
You were a dream
an ever hand of kindness
through my starknesses
your shareness (like your form)
was only ever selfless done
you never once became a thorn
although you could be
(if you felt there was a threat) a little prick
Seen [poem]
Delicate jadedly gentle I whispered through the reeds
pointedly gathered in your flaccid-fading fulcrum.
I grasped the sprightly flower of your soul’s
fast unblooming fullness in a dream
of neverending treasure
while pleasurepain’s
reverie overstays
its unwelcome
& rendering
seldomly
seen
randomly
flandering
fumblesome
subplutonic haze
with drive-crazy rain’s
manic made-to-measure
harrowing lack of self-esteem
you brace your self in pigeonholes
while harbouring thoughts of kingdom come.
Hopelessly hazyhelpless I hide me in your leaves
© 2011, Alan Morrison
From where I Stand [poem]
“Pride comes before a fall” (so they say).
I guess that’s just another way of saying
“The bigger they are the harder they fall”.
But that has never been how things unfold…
as I recall
When I survey the picture of this world
(acrylic, oils, aquarelles or drawn)
I see no sign of falls or tumbles down.
Jack never breaks his tarnished little crown…
as I have found
The kings of spite survive and gloat deceit.
Their conscience seared and full of bile
while truly great ones flounder with their dreams
and will not sing in choirs of rage unclean…
as I have seen
If only for one frozen second we could see
that freedom is a word for slavery
and knowledge is a masquerade we learn
then live in darkest ignorance like worms…
as I discern
The only way I keep me from despair
is through the thought that nature has a way
of dredging out the river of the damned
which stains these groaning Lands. That is my hope…
from where I stand
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Autumn Gravestones [poem]
whispering sheaves of grass
hang gracefully over plains
of delicate earthen dirt
and I long
shimmering weaves of glass
shine forcefully under waves
of predicate heathen hurt
in my song
slithering grieves en masse
slide remorselessly at graves
of semicut seething spurt
ness so strong
shivering leaves alas
wake patiently outside frames
over deadweight breeding births
which go wrong
quivering breathe impasse
breaks vacantly into flames
while sensate wuthering works
won’t belong
withering wreathes amassed
make abundantly their vein
when heartrate shuddering jerks
cue the gong
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 