Sonnet
The Spear of Self-Reflection [new double-sonnet]
If we, when small, have suffered crippling shocks,
which mean that in our terror we could drown,
demonic fetters bind our minds with locks
and dark satanic mills which grind us down. Read the rest of this entry »
The Parable of the Lime Tree (true story)
SITTING HERE ON MY TERRACE in the ardent sunshine, I was going to write about the alchemical effect of music on the soul as strains of a Handel Concerto Grosso drifted through the living-room entrance. But as I began to type, I noticed a heart-stopping, long-awaited sight just a metre from where I was sitting: My little citrus Lime Tree had suddenly acquired a leaf-shoot bump, as I realised on closer inspection; followed later by more similar bumps all over it, along with a number of flower-buds bursting out with Read the rest of this entry »
“My Welcome Weakness” [new sonnet]
There is a welcome weakness in my soul
which plagues me from some water’s lonely edge.
It drives between my heart and me a wedge
and makes my story incompletely whole.
To see me in my life, you’d never know Read the rest of this entry »
Sonnet to Some Missing Words
When words don’t bubble up through cracks with ease,
an empty shadow hangs above my cell.
Its barless windows, doors that have no keys,
imprison me when letters say “Farewell”. Read the rest of this entry »
Life-Star, part 1 [sonnet]
When you sit highest in the Summer sky,
and all that can be zenithed shimmers there;
I think of all your powers which underlie
this fallen corner of creation’s lair.
Read the rest of this entry »
The Waves we Make [sonnet]
The waves we make will flow to worlds unseen
if fostered in a heart which will not cling
to what it sings, nor be a dark machine
for Grub Street marketing (a one-night fling). Read the rest of this entry »
A Strictly 3-D Craze
When boundless love cannot be full expressed
through hands and words and gestures of the heart —
when skin and soul aren’t there to be caressed —
a vacuum grows, and life is lived apart.
To question why one should be in this state,
enrobed in flesh and orphaned without source,
will yield some startling answers arrowed straight
between your eyes to hit you with full force.
Exploding loveness then goes absolute
in longingful magnetic mindly ways.
For skin is always just a substitute —
a second-best and strictly 3-D craze.
Such yearning fosters grief and loss in some.
But on my knees to God with tears I come.
© Alan Morrison, 2018
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