Sonnet
A Sonnet for Sophie
As Autumn’s golden leaf-fall wake began
some two unveiling grieveful years ago;
the wind which blew devised a counterplan
and overturned your summer’s afterglow.
Just when you least expected such a call
(for until then your garden gaily grew)
a pale-faced cloaked intruder climbed the wall
and axed the tree which filled your field of view.
Revenge is Never Sweet [sonnet]
The taking of revenge implies a lack
of faith in natures wonderway to make
a person’s own wrongdoing bounce right back
upon them so they pay for their mistake.
The Return of the Knights [sonnet]
How hard it is to be a knight today!
Damsels never now confess to feeling
they’ve fallen in distress or disarray
(building up defences for concealing).
The concept of his chivalry they deem
to be anachronistic foolery.
Such men, it seems, are judged to be extreme
and not respected for their bravery.
But though these knights have largely been mothballed
as ignorance extinguishes the light;
the time will come when they will be recalled
to stand alongside angels in the fight.
For when this world has slithered into black
the ones who see will cry: “The knights are back!”
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Unhooked [sonnet]
It’s well-known how a fish’s mouth gets hooked
while scavenging for food in ways down deep.
A barb or two (a piece of metal crook’d);
the bait a morsel made of something cheap.
One does not have to be a wriggling fish;
it’s said that even humans can get caught.
To be reeled in is not what they would wish:
Conceding all and ending up with naught!
But this is not as hopeless as it seems
and does not make me yet forsake the depths.
There still remains a landscape in my dreams
wherein my feet descend down watery steps.
Despite the fact those barbs then did prevail
though I was drowned I lived to tell the tale.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Auto-Flagellatio [sonnet]
There’s nothing for it: blows must rain me down;
the things that now befall me I deserve.
Remove my feather-bed and eiderdown.
From fists of iron I’ll no longer swerve.
Such punishment completes the process well
while whiplash ripples on my back were blown.
My body now is flung to Jezebel
like meat before a tigers teeth is thrown.
Yet all is not in darkness blindly dressed;
for ecstasy still makes its brightness bloom
and in my secret chamber luminesced
transcending light to form a waiting room.
These lashes are a stage along the way
while Eros makes a pact with agape.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Sorry, Doc [sonnet]
Sorry, Doc, but it only made me worse.
That panacea recommended strong
by you was not only a tinctured curse
but also (speaking straightly) downright wrong.
What were you thinking when you wrote that note
prescribing what you said would be my cure?
You thought you’d found the perfect antidote;
I wonder how you could be so cocksure.
So no more pink placebos for my heart.
It’s tired and worn-out, well beyond repair.
This spectred form must live a life apart.
There is no course of treatment for despair.
(No need to diagnose my burned-out soul.
Into algiatry I must enroll).
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Loose Ends [sonnet]
If, from the start, we’d only been good friends
with me not hijacked by your whirlpool streams
we wouldn’t have to leave all these loose ends.
(Once more I learn that nothing’s what it seems).
Your vortex hit me like a speeding truck.
I knew you wanted more than I could give
(to tell the truth I wasn’t thunderstruck)
so I became a restless fugitive.
However, what blazed up was not in vain.
there are no accidents, as we both know;
and though we’re now like strangers on a train
experience provides a chance to grow.
Who knows? In other worlds our paths may cross.
Where love has been, one cannot suffer loss.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Summit Mist [sonnet]
Somehow you got your heat into my flow
and tinkered with the workings of my heart;
I thought I’d hurled you from me long ago
but every tactic used you did outsmart.
It’s like I chose the highest mountain top
to climb although ascent means certain death;
such scaling heights as yours (each side a drop)
enthrall me — I can hardly draw a breath.
But yet your body gives me confidence
and — like no other flesh has ever done —
you baste me in your moistful hole intense
and melt the avalanching midnight sun.
While on your summit all I see is mist
through which no other mountain can exist.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Summit Tryst [poem]
When you looked me in the eye and stared into my soul
for several minutes long (or so it seemed while timeness
passed us by) as you lay upon that cold but lively heap of rock
[it was, you said, the highest point of ground around — a fact
which spoke to me of huge and heavenly angel ultrasound]
I saw a thing I’ve never seen in anyone before:
It was a wholly open door behind which hid a hesitant but
lovely hand whose fingers pressed upon the wood, readied
so to slam, as if expecting footsteps lest some uninvited man
should through presumption take that stretchly stride to
realms beyond your mind and taste the drenched and
deeply dreamfeast that you truly muchly are.
The heart of me was spinning round so fast that even
I was sharp astounded when I richly moonly scented
perfumes from the air which flowed from way beyond the
entrance to that door. The beauty of that summit tryst is
knowing wide and downly that there could be so much more.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Virgin Flow [sonnet]
It was on a mountain as I recall
the first time on mine your silken skin flowed.
You had to do it then or not at all
(that’s what you said as you veered off the road).
Then we bumped through the darkness with greedy
desire. I was hard; you were wet inside.
“Please don’t think that I’m being too needy”
were your lyrics as you opened up wide.
But our needs were reciprocal, darling;
just as our moves seemed so choreographed.
My heart you were hornily abducting;
and I will never forget how you laughed!
Those hours when my head lay on your thigh
convinced me I would never say goodbye.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 