I think I see now how the story goes
each time you’re faced with danger in a man.
For danger in your love scenarios
means giving from your heart more than you can.
The time I saw the writing on the wall –
the golden clue to everything you touch –
was when you said these words (you might recall):
“Your company I will enjoy too much”.
I’m not normal, she said. I didn’t care:
For there can no such thing as normal be.
Against such a notion we must beware;
allow me to explain (please bear with me).
Normality’s a state of mind we make
in order to provide ourselves with ground
[reality is also just as fake]
to walk upon so we’ll be context-bound.
I lie in bed and scan the jet-black sky
For light which I can make my lone way by.
The billion stars which strew the galaxy
(Although so lightful that together they
Could send a blinding flash around my feet)
Are but pinpricks giving off rays too weak
To illuminate my stumbling weary
Fumbling bleary-eyed grudging undersleep.
With heaps of darkened ashes stretched behind,
[Like dusty shrouds with traces (twisted time)
Of shameful things as well as the sublime
Of all the kindly deeds (and not so kind)]
The fading moments take their deathly toll;
While scythe-like shadows hover round the bell
The last remaining shudder sounds the knell.
(See the coffin decked in bright burnished gold).
Appearing like the dawning of a day,
She slowly made her light shine in my soul.
Exploding like the sun’s horizon play,
While diamond facet glistening glows unfold.
Now mesmerised by all the shades I see
Or feel inside; and torn apart by grey
And empty prisms swathed in filigree,
My golden splash of glare becomes dismay.
When moonly tides turn waters into foam,
I feel my full desires begin to drown.
My passion waxed and waned (no more to roam);
All light delights and gleams you now confound.
The maiden of illusion fades once more
While I am all washed up on distant shores
© 2010, Alan Morrison
There is something more than love which makes mere love seem plain. Here is a sonnet from my heart which will these things explain…
This is not love; it is some other thing
More wonderful and more than twice as wide.
Compared to this, love is the underling
And any shrill complaints unjustified.
My love she has a way of drawing things
From me like a fisherman pulls his fish
From the icy waters (sirens will sing).
Then to be served up on a golden dish.
Her delicate fingers circle the reel;
Winding the bait through the length of the line.
Turning and ratcheting all that I feel;
Sending it hurtling through air (serpentine).