Bad Timing [poem]
where I look
thing I hear
My jet thrust out of sync,
I took some time to think
how to manipulate the clock
back to its pristine state
so that all the angel-dusted
around the temporal lobe
without rubato’s rusted
rhythm’s pleated robe.
I hung on to the minute hand
as it clicked its way
around the moonly face.
If only I could make it go
the other way —
time’s steps retraced
When I reached
half-past the hour,
my hands slipped
from the metal ticker
I slid down from
that pompous tower;
the world thought
“He’s the worse for liquor”
That’s what happens when one tries
to bend the messy tracks of time.
For every moment has its place —
a look upon the clock’s stern face.
Ten-past ten, the plainest smirk.
Midnight, please do not disturb.
Half-past three, a gallows laden.
Twenty-past eight, crucified maiden.
Bending time to fit into our needs
demeans us and our giant ego feeds.
And so I wait for synchronicity
to work its signpost magic over me.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Ragged Crow [poem]
tree branch fingers
reach out to
the naked sky
with bent witchy
they poke the wings
of the ragged crow
as slowly he floats
the lake which
feeds the ground
frees the trees
find the dawn
bathes the fingers
there is no
Note to Self [poem]
Note to Self:
“Stop showering her with love”.
She’ll feel she’s smothered –
covered by my glove.
Note to Self:
“Stop being so profuse”.
She’ll wish I’d never
said “forever” –
neck trapped in a noose.
My cries went in vain
between the first time that we met…
[and went insane with
Some Thing which others would call love
but for which you and I could find no name]
That meeting (and the life we shared)
was long ago when Some Thing flared –
intensity (no passion spared);
we bravely burned.
I loved your flood
then drank your blood.
We breathed each other’s breath.
We drank each other’s spit.
(We said “It’s more than until death…”)
When you were ill I cleaned your shit –
I swear to you I gladly would have eaten it
and in an eye’s blithesome blink
laid down my life for yours.
Through tragedy and tortured days
We never lost our lovers’ tryst.
We swore that in the twisted trail of time
our mouths would in the future kiss.
What patience we would have to bear
before our hands would once more
feel the softness of each other’s hair.
Our bodies then dissolved in dust
and memories shared became encrusted
by the desert sands of time.
But Some Thing never went away,
for sparks of love will not decay
across the sifting centuries of time.
For you I searched through endless days –
my golden box of love wide open and ABLAZE.
Life after life I went from place to place:
“Have you seen this girl?” But never a trace.
I slithered with wonder into my present life
and straightaway embarked upon my quest.
I went astray in many cold lost lands;
no other woman ever passed the test.
Wandering like a troubadour,
trying on clothes for size;
but none of them was shaped like you
and none of them had your eyes.
Every good thing tasted
in all my many lives
was but a dress rehearsal
for the precious time
when you and I
would be entwined
in the very moment I had lost all hope
we through the airwaves gently spoke.
A primal spark prodded us – spurring us knowingly
That we should acknowledge our history flowingly.
So now you are here!
And I look wide-eyed at the stars and moon
and all the elements of life which play that magic tune
of mystery and mellifluousness, riddle and rhyme
infusing us with awe through lifetrail tracks of time.
We are a torch of an eternal flame –
the Somethingness which others would call love
but for which you and I can find no name.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
thought dream [poem]
if this life
(as some say)
is simply an
then it is a
Have you ever felt the icecold
gales of aloneness?
I do not mean
lone lee ness
which is something altogether
and even desirable
Each time you phone me
in a drunken state
I want to throw up in my face
so I can feel the self-disgust
which you must feel
to want to risk all trust
Cupid’s Illusion [poem]
I’m such an easypushover magnet man
that any lovelyloving girl
could wrap me round her little finger
in a whirl
and there I would stick
while she rapidly shakes her hand
to get me to uncurl.
They know the game
and who can blame them?
It’s called Natural Selection
Survival of the Fittest
(There is no protection).
We are all simply following
blind instinct calls;
jungle activity even enthrals
unhairy apes (but inside their walls).
The Hanged Man [poem]
Hanging from a height –
your rope a way of keeping me at bay,
rather than a noose
(although it might as well be one!) –
I drop right out of sight
[although I think that I was never
In your sights
for anything more than fantasy,
Some token of exigency,
a convenience food
with which to ease
your pristine nights]
with you in your bed,
me in mine,
while you commit
your champagne crimes.
Love Addict [poem]
He stood at the foot of the mountain
with his hands in his pockets
and his heart in his head.
Looking at the summit
He questioningly said:
I wonder if I am totally in love
with love instead
of being in love with you?
This is a problem,
and immediately fell to the floor
and desperately sighed.
(For she was no more alive
in his blinkered eyes).
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