Sonnet
There is no New Year! [sonnet]
There is no such thing as the first of Jan.
It’s all a Gregorian trick, you see;
a pope fooled with time arbitrarily
and that’s how your Happy New Year began.
The human tendency to celebrate
ensures that we clutch at meaningless straws;
this day (as delusive as Santa Klaus)
with frolic and glut we adulterate.
If only the cycle of endless time
was glimpsed with the blink of an eye unproud
and solely to secrets our hearts we vowed —
those days, months and years — the old paradigm.
When we will learn to look at life askew
then every single day we’d see as New!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Unsprung Song [sonnet]
There’s something I wanted to say today
but everything in me conspires with might
making the gist of it fritter away
(my meteorite wordpuzzle fly-by-night).
It cries out, it screeches, it longs to be free.
It yearns for expression affirmatively.
It even harangues me while I’m asleep
invading my dreams — it’s more than skin-deep.
But what if I blurt out this unsprung song?
What if it will not be bound anymore —
its clamour for light I cannot ignore —
its secret sound I can no more prolong?
Those words which want so vastly to be said:
Than give them up, I’d far rather be dead.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Sanctorum [new sonnet]
I’ve bowed down at some shrines throughout my days.
With reverence through those thresholds I did glide.
All hallowed be those holy entryways;
such spaces I regard as rarefied.
Whatever vault of spirit’s blaze I pierce —
a chapel, church or vast cathedral span —
I take no unrewarded souvenirs
save only my advancement as a man.
However, not all altars are the same;
the chancel which they grace will play a part.
Not every sacred place sets me aflame.
Not all sanctorums scintillate my heart.
Of all the times I’ve been through temple doors,
the only ones I’d worship in are yours.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Stormy Calm of End [sonnet]
Condemned to live without a woman’s touch
for once too often love had been betrayed.
Perhaps the word «condemned» you think too much
because by choice that bold resolve was made.
The desert has a beauty of its own —
a boundless smooth and undulating sea;
just like the flesh which once had been enthroned
within the mind which now spurns company.
Yet, in eremic wastes there is sublime
and slakeful consolation to be found;
as pouring sand is used to portray time
with promises of soundless underground.
For only in the stormy calm of end
can we the taint of treachery transcend.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Nothing is Lovelier than Love [sonnet]
Nothing is lovelier than love, said she;
and this despite misgivings that she held.
Her heart, downed and skeltered by life’s rich scree
still nonetheless in fertile hope full dwelled.
It has to be a true song of the heart,
she said, no more willing to compromise
the pristine-coated soundness of her art —
an urge with which I wholly empathise.
Please know that it is never love which hurts
but only human foolishness applied.
To push or dam the river disconcerts;
we can’t ignore the sacred inner guide.
I earned her feathered dart’s unswerving flight
and wonder if she’ll tryst this riding knight.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Slightly Open Door [sonnet]
A thousand tonnes of tristerie rose right
into the airy heights above my form
exploding into gladnesses of light
and blew away the wasting Northwest storm.
Such was the slim rejoicing waft of air
which breathed itself aloud at freedom’s leap
for joy; while every molecule stood there
uncloyed. Relief stood hairs on end hell-deep.
How welcome was this analgesic swell
(no more those drowning wasting bursts of rain)!
For in this stumbling blundering burned-out shell
an endless loop was stopped in mid-refrain.
But let me add: Although some c(h)ords were cut
lovemusic’s door is never wholly shut.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Urban Legends [sonnet]
“It’s not good for a man to be alone”.
That’s what it says in some religious sphere.
I read those words and thought them overblown
no matter how enchanting they appear.
They say one shouldn’t lay out in the sun
although I’ve done it all my life with bliss.
They say you’re adult when you’re twenty-one;
some kids think they’ll get pregnant if they kiss!
Instead of giving credence to such tales
reality should swiftly soon be checked.
For if we follow futile vapour trails
then disappointment’s all we can expect.
If I my heart I want to pacify
it’s safer just as me, myself and I.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Acacia Marker [sonnet]
What far-dimensioned madness drives that flight?
This question forms in aspic’s driving wake.
That hand signed up as someone lilywhite;
but no one knew the signature was fake.
Amidst the fallout fantasies I strayed;
not knowing that the tail was toxin-tipped.
My back was turned — the scene was tailor-made.
For such imposture I was ill-equipped.
So now I take a marker in my hand;
Acacia is the wood that I prefer.
With this a line is etched into the sand;
thus foolsome firestorms cannot reoccur.
Such lessons never come too late to learn.
Once bitten, twice shy — next time I discern!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Dream-Filled Drawer [sonnet]
Opportunity hammers on the door
and waits in vain to see it swing ajar.
(Inside the room one scents a dream-filled drawer).
Must obsolete things stay the way they are?
That wooden entrance wouldn’t open free
for all the debris lying on the ground.
The blood poured from my bent and broken knee
and by its sanguine sourness hope was drowned.
It’s clear that there is only one small chance
to grasp a nettle by its wilting leaves —
a narrow window in the deathly dance
through which a weary body stumbly weaves.
Not satisfied to leave it all to fate
encamped upon that threshold I shall wait.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Skylark [sonnet]
O little bird! You are so frail and wan.
I caught your eye while waiting for the sun
to rise above the sea and burst upon
my withered soul. (The dance had just begun).
At last I understand your quirky flight —
the way you dart around in shadowed trees.
It’s clear you are a creature of the night;
your circumspection brings me to my knees.
Yet even though your wariness frustrates
(for never would I harm one precious wing)
my heart your siren song still captivates.
The day will come you’ll wear that missing ring.
If you would only settle in my tree
then soaring high and larksome I would be!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 