Sonnet
Hard to Find [sonnet]
Why should it be so hard to find a True
Romantic on this jingly-jangly sphere?
(Jingly for the money-rattling bijoux
and jangly for the empty heart veneer).
Chivalry and knighthood now ‘outmoded’;
alliteration, rhyme – form! – ‘out of date’.
Concepts of the troubadour exploded;
the patronage of arts they abrogate.
But hope is not extinguished as a whole;
for hard to find does not mean cannot be.
There’s still a crowd of kin who keep their soul
from fashion, trend-dictated poetry.
I know I speak for many in this song.
Our time to shine will come. It won’t be long.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Crystal creatures [sonnet]
When cataclysmic years slowed down those long
and bubblyboiling aeon times ago;
life-forms (way beyond our square and oblong
fenced-in dumbed-down minds) then began to grow.
When mined from deep within the fertile ground –
ancient civilisations, knowing well
their worth – their magick powers did abound
which modern worldlings still deny and quell.
However, we who vainly think we are
the pinnacle of creaturishness made
upon this lush and lissom earth so far
delude ourselves. Soon all will have decayed.
Then when the new world people take control
the life-forms scorned today will play their role.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Menstrual Sonnet, Part 1
I love it when a woman, monthly, bleeds.
There is a fullness and fecundity
which breathes from every pore and then proceeds
to bathe me with her moist profundity.
Menstruation’s nature’s streaming cadence
cascading through her body’s temple space.
Righteous men will welcome this – her fragrance –
as proof of wombful cyclic hypergrace.
But yet, to this phenomenon I’ve found
a stigma is attached. It’s called “The Curse”.
Schoolboys speak of “jam rags” in the playground
while female attributes are shamed, or worse.
Is blood taboo, like feeding from the breast
in public? Woman’s depth once more suppressed.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Your Green and Yellow Hats [sonnet]
The hat you wear is green, perched on your head —
a beacon there for all the world to see.
You could have worn a yellow one instead;
both hats would show your colours glaringly.
Unchained Threnody [sonnet]
Free from you at last. Where once your sandals
fit my feet in random patterned fever;
now I walk the street without love handles,
dangling in extremes — an ex-believer.
Puffballs [sonnet]
Please give me one sincere and from the heart
admirer who has honour flowing deep
(dreams huge) – whose praise does not intrude, depart
or flatter sycophantly (talk is cheap).
For that is worth one thousand hangers-on
who never last for long and come in lights
and with a bang – next moment they are gone:
those fickle fulsome fawning harassites.
Yet only on the fingers of one hand
can loyal steadfast friends be counted clear.
So few and far are those who understand;
who with you in your dark will persevere.
When two-faced fleeting puffballs effervesce
I covet constancy and faithfulness.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
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The Lighthous & The Brine [sonnet]
If I was a lighthouse and you the sea
(evaporation’s salt reveals you are)
I’d warn the vessels on your waves to flee
and head for port — ignoring every star.
You stir up storms (though tempest is the word
[+ {yo}u and {o}us]) I’d use to style your tide.
On your bed, ugly life-forms darkly stirred;
the wrecks you dashed to bits have multiplied.
For when I trawl your lure (unfathomed deep)
there is no anchor — barely can one swim.
There was a time when in your brine I’d leap
but now across your surface I will skim.
So pound my rocks with all your typhoon force.
I’ll shine my lights; let nature take its course.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Sonnet for a Sacred Cow
I rail at the sky, the sun, stars and moon
but no answer comes from the canopy
of endless empty airless nothing hewn
from vestiges of astrotherapy.
You sent me thingless to this barren ball.
(I am thingless still to this present day)
Of why I’m here I have no clue at all;
and everywhere… the rancour of decay.
It seems to me so vain to leave someone
revolving in a door with no respite –
a turning whirling carousel undone;
a never-changing waterfall of plight.
I’m not afraid to slay a sacred cow:
I’ll wrestle with You; choose your weapon now!
© Alan Morrison, 2013
A Thousand Words for empty [sonnet]
And if these lips should mouth a futile void
what colour would that barren closedness be?
If every clear escape route had been cloyed
would hollowness be undone by debris?
Redundant questions plague my unfilled grey
and vacuum-spattered matter with their knives;
while every desolation’s yesterday
spits in the face of countless empty lives.
Thus, if you come my way with barefaced charm
and speak to me of love and hope and dreams
such vacant ploys will not my Hole disarm
nor nullify my vast cavernal screams.
So when I gazed inside my wasteland world
a blank white flag in windless space unfurled.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Antidote [sonnet]
It seems the time has come to lay a wreath;
the spirit of adventure has declined.
The mass of souls takes shelter underneath
high walls deludely built by humankind.
Instead of striding forth without a dam[n]
embracing any challenge in our way
we choose to walk the limping hexagram
and thus reveal our lack of vertebrae.
Yet, long ago I found the antidote
to vacillation’s shrinking violet schemes:
Don’t hesitate to seize dread by the throat
and squeeze hard till you live your wildest dreams.
For only when to fear they have the key
can hesitating souls be truly free.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Naked Troubadour 