Sonnet
The Sign on my Door [sonnet]
When all the earth moves under Cupid’s bow
convulsively creating waves which chime
with cataclysmic cadences of flow
(in spite of visions loomingly sublime) —
When riotous eruptions shake the core
of every quaking atom’s dance of love
and aftershocks resound against my door
(the threshold to the threatening skies above) —
Then I (who swore to halt all hurricanes
and keep all raging fires in control)
in my unyielding tower can remain
or let the deluge thunder through my soul.
The tremors round my being do reverb;
the sign hung on my door says “Please Disturb!”
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Cold Water Brigade [sonnet]
Some people see it as a vital job
to put out fires which burn in people’s chests.
They use their winding water hose to rob
you of your ardour felt. They are obsessed.
They spread their darkness using many ways —
(beware they love to make you doubt your dreams)
do anything to try to quench the blaze.
There is no end to all their deadly schemes.
How vigilant do lovers have to be
to spot this army coming from behind!
Equipped with gossip, venom, jealousy,
their aim: That all your flames be undermined.
I’ve seen it all before; it’s déjà vu;
I thwart their every strategy. Will you?
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Pearly Gates [sonnet]
“There comes a point when words have all been used
and nothing is the space that’s left to rhyme;
when even every thought is self-abuse” —
That’s what he pondered as he stood in line.
He wasn’t waiting at the pearly gates
(though how he wished the game would reach an end);
he floundered at the point where truth conflates
with mortal coils which never comprehend.
“If only I could make the grade”, he thought;
but beauty’s endless virtue cast him down.
His walk was wanton, wild and danger-fraught —
reluctantly became his battleground.
When silver bullet wounds have worn him thin
his steps to leave this planet can begin.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
We [sonnet]
We became we when stars fell into place
before we was a twinkle in our eyes.
You bared your soul at mine in uppercase
and now by we my me is mesmerised.
If my me and your you turn into we
an alchemy of souls will have transpired;
for the we that we are now could not be
unless our you-and-I-ness had expired.
And so to every lover on the earth:
the time to quell our egos has arrived;
for in this way we consecrate rebirth
and only purest love can then survive.
Without the we that we have now become
I would be like a flower with no sun.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Moment [sonnet]
Of all the trembling moments in my life
(that sequence streak of microsecond sprawl)
of every ticking minute (minus strife)
this one I cherish far above them all.
For looking back on fleeting lifespan’s flight
consecutiveness makes its arrow known;
and always serendipity excites
when by your fingers I am overthrown.
You did not realise it at the time
(or possibly you knew — you simply smiled)
but all my former moments turned to rhyme
when by that healing touch I was beguiled.
Your hand placed on my shoulder when we met
became the moment I will not forget.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
A Perfect Fit [sonnet]
I eased my probing hand inside your glove;
it slid within and melted into place.
(Did angels send you to me from above?)
Your body floated over mine with grace.
“Right here, right now!” I fevered in your ear
as meteors made an arc across our sky;
and when you thought: “A token, please, my dear”,
I placed my endless arm around your thigh.
Astonished by the face before my eyes—
struck dumb by those kaleidoscopic tones—
it swathed me with a sense of sane surprise
much more than any face that I have known.
Are you the puzzle-piece for which I pined?
Have you for such a space been predesigned?
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Ocean’s Edge [sonnet]
Standing on the edge of an ocean shore
on the sand shimmer surface of the swell;
my arms thrown out wide to the water’s roar,
I listened for the tolling of the bell.
Strange screeching birds were circling overhead;
“Into the water, if you dare!” they cry.
It felt as if my life hung on a thread;
“What if it’s cold or too rough?”, I reply.
Then a wind like a hammer hit my back
and the birds screamed above me even more
as I entered the torrent with a crack
and was driven very far from the shore.
With a gasp I then awoke from my dream
awash with the thoughts of what could have been.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Inevitable [sonnet]
I stand before the Sun — she waits for me
with splendid orchid sighs upon the breeze.
I bow before the Moon — she cries to me
with orchestrated whys and mysteries.
Inevitable emblems of our tryst
are haunting my perception of the path
which stretches out before the lips I kissed
in vague galactic visions’ aftermath.
So then the Sun and Moon before my eyes
did blend their molten rays around your face;
I felt my inhibitions vaporise
but did not want to box you in a space.
I have no expectations, so I said;
(a lie) while portions of my cheeks turned red.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Furrow on my Brow [sonnet]
There was a furrow stationed on my brow
which disappears when thoughts of you prevail.
Your silences have made me want the now
on which my heart will gladly be impaled.
The honeyed words which drip from your sweet tongue
are like a salve to soothe my withered soul —
a featherbed to mute the smoking gun
so often poised to shoot out of control.
There’s just one cloying quandary in the groove:
How can I know my fantasies are sure
and not just wishful thinking platitudes
but crazy concrete facts which will endure.
That troubled chasm fronting on my head
has filled itself with raw desire instead.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Quivering Quill [sonnet]
Each time I write I hear a voice opine:
“Take not one grain of salt from what you say,
nor cover it with saccharine or wine.
This is no time for bards to hide away.”
The urgency which underscores that word
instils the verveful sinews of my verse —
to every highest mountain I am stirred;
all doubts of my ambitions are dispersed.
But yet the ruddy feathers of my quill
are quivering with fateful finitude
in case my soaring strophes should be distilled
and not reflect the wishes of the Muse.
For if my words should seek a valley’s lee,
to compromise I will have bent my knee.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 