Sonnet
The Souls of Dogs [Sonnet for Leo, who died August 19th 2016]
“But do dogs have souls?” he speculated.
“How many angels will fit on a pin?”
I replied; and hoped it demonstrated
how gauche, absurd, his inference had been.
They wear hearts on their tails; no thought is hid
from view — unlike the way that humans do
suppress their feelings, lie and keep the lid
held firmly down and not reveal what’s true.
Logical Fallacy [sonnet]
When rationality has walked the plank
(a sailor with no sea-legs to her name)
and walked it voluntarily [then sank]
the dark of night draws closer, I exclaim.
Doors Unlimited [sonnet]
If everything we think and do and say
was not designed to fight against the core
of who we are (we baulk in every way
our soul’s intent) we’d stumble through a door.
My Endless Time-Machine [sonnet]
By beauty do not let yourself be fooled.
I mean the outward sort (not from within),
upon which many foolish men have drooled;
for glamour’s not the way love should begin.
Even demons make themselves seem charming
and will impersonate a shiny coat
to their advantage (so, then, disarming).
For over human weaknesses they gloat.
Thus now whenever beauty comes my way
in human form, I smile and check my heart.
My X-ray vision then comes into play
to pierce through skin into a deeper part.
When beauty comes from somewhere that’s unseen,
then love flows in my endless time-machine.
© Alan Morrison, 2016
The Waves of a Woman [sonnet]
A woman’s like a wave you have to ride.
She ebbs and flows — receives you on her swell;
expects you to discern her crimson tide —
to know her stormly undulations well.
Choose your Crazy [sonnet]
Two kinds of crazy live here in the main:
“A” doesn’t fit (square peg in a round hole);
Whereas “B” thinks s/he’s normal, straight and sane.
B “belongs”; A has fire in the soul.
At home on the earth in its 3-D form,
all the Bs think it’s cute to be anchored
in flesh — enmeshed in a straitjacket norm,
with their spirits enslaved, quelled and conquered.
Västra Skogen [sonnet]
The trees which one time clothed your naked frieze
were where the essence of me played my hide-
and-seek from mythologic entities
and where, when gazing at the stars, I cried.
I’ve walked your hillpine corridors before
by rays sent from your almost-midnight sun.
From Nothing Forest, too, I walked the shore
of iced-up waters, hunting with my son.
Treasures in my Attic [sonnet +1]
There are treasures in my attic which, if known
would lead to my arrest and then detention
for the crime of spitting diamonds out alone
and in the dark (a quirk of this dimension).
I’m Pregnant [sonnet]
The two lines came up on the test-strip’s face;
there was no avoiding what it stated.
I’m pregnant! Now there is no hiding place;
Proof that with the Muse I’m conjugated.
Beyond the Margin [sonnet]
Sometimes we have to walk outside, alone,
in darkness, while the light remains unreached
in temporary blindness (source unknown),
with all our thin defences soundly breached.
The Naked Troubadour 