Sonnet
Riding her Waves [sonnet]
A woman’s like a wave you have to ride.
She ebbs and flows — receives you on her swell;
expects you to discern her crimson tide;
to know her stormly undulations well.
Acquaint yourself with lunar almanacs
before you surf in peril on her sea.
For on her waves there are no trails or tracks —
from hurricanes there is no guarantee!
But if you let her crests flow where they will,
and give her breakers space to turn to foam,
you will, in time, your destiny fulfil
and on her billows you will find your home.
Although it seems her waves throw you around,
surf-mastery’s the key, as I have found.
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
Doors Galore [sonnet]
My doors have always opened up with ease
They have no lock; with just a finger-shove
they come ajar — I never have to squeeze
my body through the gap (helped from above).
So doors galore’s the subject of this piece;
I revel in the portals of my world.
The openings I find only increase;
and often over thresholds I am hurled.
However, here’s the thing about my doors:
Whichever one I push — tall, small or wide
(and in my life there have been many scores),
there’s nothing for me on the other side.
For every time I find an open door
what lies behind is just a dozen more!
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
Nail in the Wall [sonnet]
Silence is unbecoming for a dude
who claims to be a poetspeaking voice.
But sound, you see, is nought at altitude
and nothing will suffice with mere rejoice.
On walking in the room (it’s colours bland
and pastel pukey) — just one nail pierced through
plaster (spaced-out atom-smasher scabland) —
word-arranger plagiarised his own spew.
Meanwhile, some shelter from banana trees
had lent itself with generosity —
the antidote to stratospheric freeze
[my neverending curiosity].
That shard of metal stayed put in the wall
while neath those trees I honed my lovened scrawl.
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
Synchronicity [sonnet]
Some moments strike which cannot be eschewed.
You sense before they come when they are due.
They soon explode with force and magnitude —
electric sequence bathed in déjà vu.
Some soul emerges who can change your life:
a lover, teacher, angel, friend or guide.
A book appears by magic at your side.
Such meetings slice into you like a knife.
Thus, I play with every precious moment
which dribbles down the parapet of time.
Every second now seems like a portent
which fashions for me some new paradigm.
When synchronicity is on your trail
you cannot put a foot wrong, fall or fail.
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
Storm Watch [sonnet]
A wind blows through this bedlam world today.
When I was young, I saw its sunken eyes —
a sprogly youth dumbfounded with surprise.
He knew its source, thus was not led astray.
Since then, though ruffled, swept in disarray,
that lad has grown some whiskers on his chin.
The wind became a gale (his discipline)
and put some backbone in his vertebrae.
However, winds will change when time has come
and history ripens for its denouement.
I bide with gladness that phenomenon
when every evil must to good succumb.
That hurricane I sense is coming soon:
All cowardice and cant it will impugn.
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
A Sooning Sonnet
Acceleration’s what is needed now;
so cells can reach the tunnel’s end in time.
While standing on a worn and broken bough
all hope dissolved of finding dreams which rhyme.
Thus, noticeably washed up in disguise
the unshelled crab wept salt tears made of sea.
The only home he’d known streamed from his eyes;
his pulsing heart stopped imperceptibly.
If only you could glimpse what he had seen:
that nothing’s what it seems or where it dwells.
The lie which speaks to fools of evergreen
is anaesthetic for our fare-thee-wells.
(Waiting around to die is all we do.
The only part which changes is the view).
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
Another Nightingale Sonnet
To pen some words on Nightingales seems crude.
It’s all been done before, or so I’m told.
The ultimate romantic poet’s food;
pastiche regurgitated, oversold.
The male birds sing at night from just one tree
while females move around and listen in
to each guy’s voice in turn, thereby to see
which one their fluttering little heart will win.
But yet you’d think his plumage would be green
or red — exotic colourful display.
Instead he’s drab brown; barely can be seen.
A cool seducer of the night, I say!
To put that song in such a modest bird
was genius — the best I’ve ever heard.
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
Scenes of Conscience [sonnet]
Her life swept through the air across the room
like glassy sand grains on a windswept beach
burying me up to my neck in gloom —
though salty tears were still within my reach.
The wheelchair by her side spoke to me most.
A single gloved hand dangled lifelessly.
Her hair was short — her face white as a ghost.
She stared up at the ceiling wonderingly.
I noticed then her sore and blistered hand
(the one which wasn’t hidden in a glove).
Such scenes as this our consciences demand;
a silent prayer I fired to realms above:
Forgive me if from time to time I whine:
so many folks have far worse lives than mine.
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
Sonnet for a Wounded Rose
When first I met that frightened little mite
she’d barely look me squarely in the eye.
A suit of armour fit her body tight,
so cupid’s arrows she could nullify.
You see, a microscopic spear was thrown
which caught that rosy flower off her guard.
It pierced the tender spot where love is grown
so confidence and poise were badly scarred.
But yet, in spite of all the damage done
her beauty has increased a thousandfold.
A healing process in her had begun,
transcending any spearful stranglehold.
For often, wounds which seem to us austere
are given to us so we persevere.
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
Free-Range Fantasy [sonnet]
I’m wondering if some change in DNA
(the only explanation I can find)
has spawned so many flaky chicks today
by which most roosters now feel undermined.
It’s getting hard to find a stable cluck
in any modern trendy free-range brood.
Plus many don’t make love but only fuck —
off-putting poultry full of attitude.
But yet, I have this little fantasy
(which friends have said is futile and absurd)
that somewhere there’s a clutch (not KFC!)
wherein one finds a true Arcadian bird.
I scratch the earth — not just to find some grains
but chickens without flakes stuffed in their brains.
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 