Sonnet
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
Mission Statement [sonnet]
Thus, deeper through the undergrowth I flow;
for soon the time will come to disappear.
When kissed beneath the cosmic mistletoe,
it shows it’s time to leave this biosphere.
Winging It! [sonnet]
We think that all that’s us should be “in place” —
all neatly stored in boxes on a shelf;
until the day arrives you’re face-to-face
with all the secret layers of your self.
Why? [sonnet]
Why should existences exist at all?
Why should eternity not now apply
to physicality [I know… the Fall].
Why is there even need for questions why?
There is no Autumn [sonnet]
There is no Autumn in my fertile heart,
where nothing falls but must ascend like heat.
My greensome coloured leaves do not depart
from twigs and branches. Summer’s not complete.
No frost can come my way to freeze the dew.
The crops sown in my fields no harvest need.
For melancholy moments now are few
and flowers in my soul won’t “go to seed”.
Centrifuge [sonnet]
The structure of the Universe dissolves
and I am riddled (w)ho(l)ly through with joy.
It took me by surprise; what it involves
is not what it had seemed. It’s all a ploy!
Silent Sonnet [sonnet]
Each time I try to write some wordage now,
I realise I’ve written it before.
I think the fertile ground I can replough,
until I realise that there’s no more.
Romance is Dead (& Gone) [sonnet]
Romance is dead. Therefore, long live true love!
When all worth saying has been said, I raise
my hat and bow my head, remove the glove
which romance uses well to mask love’s blaze.
Romance, I now pronounce you dead and gone.
You once amused me with your froth and dreams
when I was young and hung my hat upon
a plethora of June-Moon-Spoonly schemes.
Live Dangerously! [sonnet]
Live dangerously! and grasp that nettle
by the leaves — the rose by its spiky thorns
(ignoring the allure of each petal) —
then grab the bullock by its gory horns.
Be sure you never quickly turn away
when darkness rears its ugly little head.
Walk naked straight into the maelstrom fray
regardless if it leaves you there for dead.
The Naked Troubadour 