Sonnet
Les Mots qui Rient [sonnet]
Words are what I love above all other
components of creation’s rainbow rain.
Fulfilment beckons when I am smothered
beneath the stream of alphabetic skein.
For words can dance and sing and paint the sky;
they sculpt the night and heighten solar flares.
They influence cold minds to tears and sighs
and take the hardened-hearted unawares.
Yet, I say fulfilment only “beckons”,
for there’s a darker aspect to this verse;
one on which I never would have reckoned
but which is my secreted cri de Coeur.
For though with words I make ten thousand worlds,
they laugh at me for what has not unfurled.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
If [sonnet]
A disembodied voice was in my ear
with layered tones I never did expect
to come from her. Its sound was full, sincere,
with laughter there and always star-bedecked.
To dance upon those suns in playful praise
produced in me a joy I hadn’t known
for many moons of empty mournful days —
at last, my melancholy overthrown.
But while that fluted palette fills my mind
some other, lower, thought assails my smile
(becoming with our tryst now intertwined)
which will not with desire be reconciled:
If she were not now with somebody else
I’d gladly give to her all of myself.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Missing [sonnet]
A hole exists beyond all ozone thoughts
which, I confess, did take me by surprise.
An empty iceful chasm come to naught;
I watch and gasp but won’t believe my eyes.
The more I look the larger it becomes
but not because it merely seems that way;
no optical illusion to be shunned,
no magnet pull to make me want to stay.
I thought the hole would boundlessly be deep,
chock-full of treasure trove and ancient dreams.
Instead I found it strangely incomplete;
no waterfalls or mermaids — just Snow Queens.
Although there’s beauty, vast amounts of space,
grace and passion are missing from this place.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Baggage Class [sonnet]
When frightened people run this broken world,
this broken world will not remove their fear;
for fear accumulates and, like a pearl,
in secret grows until it domineers.
When frightened people feign to be one’s friends,
that friendship will not take away their dread;
as phobic apprehension never ends
but yeastifies like sour unleavened bread.
However big your axe-to-grind becomes,
your shoulder-chip it will not hack away.
The fact remains that we cannot be chums
until you can embrace the present-day.
It’s not the baggage size which spoils the freight
but if what’s packed inside is out of date.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Flyless World [sonnet]
So, one by one they drop away like flies
without a chink of respite in between.
They fall down lightly not from starlit skies
but through electric-lady shock machines.
Bemused, I dangle, arms outstretched and bare
while silken angels hover near my throne
to watch the sorry show and then compare
their axe-free observations with their own
delightful flyless sane and loving world
where lies and disingenuousness die
where women would not feel ashamed as girls
nor reticent to flirt and mystify.
If only I could change my universe
to one where friendship’s lure was not a curse.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Only a Sparrow [sonnet]
Does familiarity breed contempt?
Comparatively so, I have to fear.
Comme d’habitude will crumble dream cement
and with a film of blindness it will smear
fool’s eyes. How easily we lose our joy
at seeing something close before our face;
our sense of wonder it will soon destroy
and sink surprise’s seedlings without trace.
Look in the tree! “It’s only a sparrow”,
intoned a weary voice who’d seen it all
a thousand times — his reverence so narrow
(although before that splendour I must fall).
Too readily we close up beauty’s door
when frequency negates our sense of awe.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Orgasm [sonnet]
When within you my inner landscape bursts
I am both giving all of me to you
and lavishly loving the way you birth
me in reverse (your cardinal virtue).
All of you. All of me. Floating and free
as through your labyrinthine temple doors
a fleshly part of me pampers your needs
while all my hearting hugeness heaves and soars.
And yet I hardly have your full depths plumbed:
Even the ecstasy deeper things masks.
Something vast and largely untouched then comes
to pass, eclipsing my post-coital gasps.
If only I could keep this fleeting bliss
in heaven wrapped up with an angel’s kiss.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Seldom what they Seem [sonnet]
Why does a Red-Backed Shrike have no red back
or Rush Hour move as slowly as a snail?
There is no tin in any tin can pack;
Danish Pastries do from Austria hail.
Peanuts are not nuts and blackboards can be
green or blue. Tear Gas is not gas in truth;
Guinea Pigs do not derive from Guinea;
Jellyfish are not really fish forsooth.
Descriptive terms can be so deceptive,
taking us off on a fantasy ride.
Always try to maintain the perspective
or fodder we’ll be for villainous guys.
In case you’re wond’ring what this sonnet means,
It says that things are seldom what they seem.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Only a Dog [sonnet]
[This little sonnet pays tribute to all those who are mistreated because they are different – especially prisoners of conscience who are tortured, abused and even killed by government agencies]
He’s only a dog, said the withered voice,
speaking intoned in a dark monologue.
[Only means onesome, uniquely a dog;
meaning (in real terms) there isn’t a choice].
The Windows to your Soul [sonnet]
If just one piece of all the sum of you
could be preserved so I could see your heart,
I know already which would be the part —
the one which for my treasure I’d accrue.
It would not be your soft neck or your thigh
(the smoothest region like a baby’s skin);
although they send my senses in a spin,
there’s something else of you for which I’d die.
Enough of all this mystery! you exclaim;
what could it be to mesmerise me so?
The answer is the windows to your soul;
to look through them has kept me whole and sane.
By now, this fact should come as no surprise:
The body part I want would be your eyes!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 