Sonnet
Perspective [sonnet]
The sun slipped lithely down to bed last night,
red-faced, apologetic. For the day
was shorter than the one before by quite
some time in nature’s daily cabaret.
Now Autumn makes its haste and Winter creeps
toward us unrepentantly. It’s just
the gateway to another Spring, which sleeps
when Summer comes. (In passing time I trust).
The Empty Shirt [sonnet]
A shirt blows in the wind; its sleeves on fire;
the outstretched arms are crucified with steel.
Around the collar, circles of barbed wire
bring light which safety’s comfort can’t reveal.
I left that empty shirt behind like scales
of useless skin which wasted clean away.
A secret whisper then with zeal impales
itself on all that’s left of me today.
There comes a point you realise you’re you
and no one else; you’re wholly on your own —
just you and all your cells, which slyly grew
& now you’ve found you’re more than flesh & bone.
Each day I’m getting closer to the source
Now that the shirt has gone, I feel its force.
© Alan Morrison, 2015
For Love of Truth [sonnet]
That which is false is merely truth disguised
by fear — aversion to both light and love.
For truth is love’s own twin, the two despised
from deep within a frozen-fisted glove.
“There is no truth”, says one deluded soul.
“There’s only what each one thinks to be right”.
This vain philosophy they now extol
and in that shallow notion they delight.
Teardrop Trundle [sonnet]
A drop of liquid formed a rivulet
upon my shaved and barren thirsty cheek.
That pilgrimage is like an amulet
of moistureful and downsome dribblespeak.
I drank it all and drowned in salty fire
through which I saw the open velvet thighs
of what’s to come: A freak perched on high-wire.
A dream for countless fakes to vaporise.
Philophobia [sonnet]
Fear of falling in love is now the weft
and woof of life within this broken world.
Responsible for frozenness and theft
of hearts, on which its bitter gall is hurled.
The Missing Jewel [sonnet]
Some years ago a stone fell from my ring
(and all because there was no setting there).
It somehow balanced on the goldsome thing
all by itself, until the ring was bare.
<!–more Continue reading…->And so I’d lost the stone (it seemed back then).
But even though it disappeared from view
I knew it would be found (though just not when).
The whole event was swathed in déjà vu.
It may seem strange (it came as no surprise)
when some years later, by the frozen food,
that missing gemstone danced before my eyes —
exquisite in its sparkling pulchritude!
I fastened it with ardour on the band.
Its light then filled the void upon my hand.
© Alan Morrison, 2015
Clouds 1 + 2 = 9 [sonnet]
For longer than my longing can recall,
an unformed cloud has floated in my sky.
Condensed from rain out of a waterfall,
it posed an answer (puzzle) in a why.
I struggled hard to understand its form
and asked why it was by itself up there.
“I am a mirror hung here to inform
you of your fate. No more need you despair”.
In your House, part 1 [sonnet]
I stood before your winsome house today
(I swear it had a face which seemed to smile).
The architecture took my breath away;
I lingered and admired it for a while.
The garden, though immaculate, was bare;
it seemed as if some vandal had passed through.
For only in one corner flowers were there:
Geraniums, but in the colour blue.
A Single Thread [sonnet]
So many years since perfume graced my nose;
I’ve now forgotten how to bathe in skin.
No fecund business in that garden grows;
no longer would I know where to begin.
Rust [sonnet]
Although I clearly feel how breath decays,
bright sparkles in my soul stave off the rust.
Yet while my bladelike mind is all ablaze
my ageing body crumbles down to dust.
Compare me to a sinking drowning b[u]oy
whose fingers grasp at air and light above.
The only comfort he can now enjoy
is his unwaned ability to love.
But though the clock ticks greyly into dusk
and episodic curtains will be drawn
this heap of cells is more than just a husk
for still in every moment I’m reborn!
The paradox I live defies belief;
my heart bursts to the full (though time’s a thief).
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 