Poems
Angel Chances [poem]
Here this man now sits and stands and paces
round the room while twin-scented swirling
strands make fiery dangling traces round the
edges of his tiny ever-[never]-reaching hands
The strands of which I speak are two and golden
flamed and tainted handsomely and guaranteed
to thrill and ultimately fill the yearning burn of
glistening dreams (undoing over-tightened seams)
Trigger Happy!
What triggers you so easily to throw your “bombs” around
(a metaphor which indicates the nature of your verbal blasts
& all your gauche attempts at playing the part of cold iconoclast)
and make the heartless sounds you do, reacting scornfully to
anything originating from outside your hypernarrow field of view
(instead of looking in yourself and then exploring other worlds
which live beyond the multitude of books upon your shelf),
projecting all the darksome things that you have now become
— for instance, narcissist, derivative and thiefly plagiarising
plunderman who skulks in waiting rooms on doctors’ lists,
a dour old man who’s long forgotten when he last was kissed
by pretty things, a man who never sings or bares his truly soul
but simply plays the role of “I’m-in-charge-and-don’t-get-in-my-
way-’cause-then-I’ll-start-to-play-the-games-I’ve-learned-will-
hide-my-tiny-soul-from-view” — on those who you have envied
with your hotly jealous heart; and everywhere are strewed the
now-dead petals from the summer flowers you never bloomed
and all the books you have consumed can never save you now.
There’s a Hole
“There’s a hole in your life”, said a voice in my head;
(I can hear it right now as this poem I write).
So I filled it with feathers and other things “lite”,
as I thought there would then be no hole there instead.
The Gladly Drowning Fish
I am never far from tears.
They breed in lakes behind a dam
without a breeze-swept bridge to span.
The level rises till the tarn can stand
no longer calmly meekful as a mere;
but, bursting forth on unsuspicious friends,
she washes them, absolving them of fear.
I am now an open wound.
Like a fleshsome smile which never heals.
But that is just as it should be
or how could this man truly feel —
or be with wilting waxing worlds in tune?
and if the passion pus begins to ooze,
politely serve it with a silver spoon.
Intelligence is more Sexy than Anything Else
Conversation deep and strong seduces me to where I trulymadly do belong. Start talking to me deeply about life and love and multiverses; quarks, bosons and poetry verses; meter, clouds and demiurges; the properties of silver birches; history’s lies and phoney churches; the uselessness of body-searches; energies and wavelength-surges; the wonderment of all adverseness; the river’s mouth where dream converges; black holes, nebulae, whateverisbeneaththesurface; speak with me of all these things (and infinite more) and I promise you I will be yours… 🙂 ❤
Copyright ©2017 Alan Morrison
My Recent Journey to the Sun [poem]
My recent journey to the Sun has left me
blind and crippled in my eyes;
but nothing’s wanting in my soul,
wherein a furnace lies.
Who will dare to touch that burning core
and realise that they will want
for nothing more; where nothing’s less
than what has gone before?
It must be Spring! [poem]
It must be Spring!
In reservoirs of lusty not so laissez-faire
placenta-shaped parenthesis
[whose skin I yearn to kiss],
I search incessantly for loveness in the air.
My well of sap (no more dried up)
is rising through my veins with Spring-tide-
superfluity (no more the incongruity
of wasted nakedness), while all of me
is songing-longing to be (w)hol(l)y shared
within the juicy temple of a goddess
(though [so far] she’s never there).
What ‘Madness’ have we Here? [poem]
As the sound of every cellful thing arches its wowsly way
within my molten mind, the stars stand still as if saluting
what has gone before, till twilight paints itself in patterns
predetermined by the rays [I marvel for an obscene while]
flung by the sun in front of this young poet’s doors, ablaze,
and in all craziness he bows before its wisdom with a smile.
Grace in the Dirt [poem]
Aside Posted on Updated on
Looking at an onion with the utmost wonder
in my curiositical heart is a ritual I practise
at the start of every sunrise day. It speaks to me
of many layers — most of which are hidden —
and reminds me of the way that circumstances
oftentimes unfold in ways by which we only see
the outer coating of the skin when there is
so much more within which we ignore.
Millstone [sonnet]
A millstone had been hung around my neck;
some several years it dangled slyly there.
I fooled myself it’s just a tiny speck
of dirt — ignored my state of disrepair.
The Naked Troubadour 