Sonnet
We are not Alone [sonnet]
As the tumbrel turned the final corner
heading south into the crowded centre
of the square, I saw there was no mourner
paying last respects, nor no lamenter.
The crowd bayed for my blood with swelling sound
as I approached the midpoint of the throng.
Even children looked upon me, spellbound;
I smiled at them (as always, lost in song).
We stopped. They cast me underneath the blade.
I felt a reassuring smile’s embrace;
and then I heard a voice: “Be not afraid”.
Just as the blade came down, I saw the face.
No matter how or into what we’re thrown,
if we are of the light, we’re not alone.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Shampoo [sonnet]
She lingered in the shower a little more,
on rising, to enjoy her new shampoo.
She had to look her best, once past the door.
She manicured her nails that morning too.
The sunlight kissed her face when in the drive;
she breathed the sweetful air into her breast.
“How glad,” she thought, “I am to be alive!”
She stepped into her brand new car, well-dressed.
Three minutes on, a smash, while turning right.
“Such beauty! What a waste!” Then certifies
she didn’t suffer — went out like a light.
So said the doctor, as he closed her eyes.
We never know what jolts this day will bring.
So live each moment as your last… and sing!
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Bloody Stain [sonnet]
Life is just a brief postponement of death
for seconds, hours, days or years to come.
Each moment is a gift — a treasured breath;
the opposite of frozen, stiff or numb.
We’re here to pass through lessons dark and light
so choices made in liberty can soar;
but not as pawns in someone else’s fight
or cattle in the slaughterhouse of war.
Yet, solemn mouths will speak of glory days
on battlefields ‘to safeguard freedom’s reign’.
But war’s a secret money-spinning craze
for power-players’ games — a bloody stain.
Our lives are not for sale to twisted men
whose presence here’s a dark carcinogen.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Mixed Metaphors, Part 1 [sonnet]
That sleeping serpent coiled around my core
was startled into pristine wakefulness,
at first by one brief glancing eye unsure
and then another which removed the guess.
Then soon the honeyed knife — whose blade’s so sharp
that one can never know has entered in
till after it has found its purposed mark —
had pierced that scaly flesh, was deep within.
But yet this time I felt it carve right through;
as if a jolly butcher with a smile
and ruddy cheeks had cleared a way to you
and there you stood before me, clear. No guile.
So now that knife must cut a bloodless trail.
The blade of love that footpath will unveil.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Metaphoric Mistletoe [sonnet]
I lost my best friend when she feigned the frost
of secrecy across our river’s flow –
all traces of our intimacy lost
with every metaphoric mistletoe.
What strange invasion made her disenthral
(uninstall, unmerge) her helpmeet status
(now I’m in an alien hiatus),
as black paint smeared her fear on every wall?
Though, if I listen to the music played
behind her silences and words and skin,
then Venus can be heard in retrograde
which wrestles with her stifled love within.
I see her clearly through her new disguise
(and also see right through her ungoodbyes).
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Keeping up Appearances [sonnet]
I wish for once that all, when straightly asked
if they are happy with their lot, would tell
the truth, not sugared lies by which they masked
the real-life factness of their living hell.
Life is Kitsch [sonnet]
Graffiti on a railway arch I wrote
said “Life is kitsch!” signed “Truant on the run”.
I was then young so please excuse the quote;
that’s how I thought when I was twenty-one.
For everywhere I looked, consumption roared
its belly-laugh of ragged pocket dreams.
I wandered then bedecked in sandwich-board
believing all hypocrisy blasphemes.
However, now that truant has become
a vagrant on the hinterland of time,
his spray-paint slogan’s still the same dictum,
though humour mollifies the paradigm.
So that’s this 3-D world’s Achilles’ Heel:
all matter’s kitsch but spirit is surreal!
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Succumbful Sonnet, Part 1
I’ve rolled with every punch — gone with the flow;
resisting blows is futile, as is prayer.
For ducking (dodging) is no way to grow;
but knowing how to fall, one’s half way there.
So down the conduit pipe I did descend;
volcano in reverse is how it seems.
It sucks me right down to the bitter end.
At least it can’t get worse (it stole my dreams).
But if I’d known I’d fall this downly far
I might have used a safety net or wire.
This stunt falls way outside my repertoire;
I’m right where I deserve to be (hellfire).
I’ve not been here before — it’s something new.
My skin is cut to shreds; I’m black and blue.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Broken Fence [sonnet]
Not wishing to be overwhelmed with love
she sits her self down on the broken fence.
She knows that all it takes is one small shove
and then the endless falling will commence.
And so, to stabilise herself, she nails
her legs on to the wood. But then, to keep
her rigid poise, her little arms she flails.
(Throughout this process she was fast asleep!)
Despite the windmill weirdness of her hands,
I dodged those flailing fists to set her free.
The nails I ripped out (blood sprays where it lands)
and smashed that fence to smithereens with glee.
The moral of the story? Don’t be fazed
when women, to defend themselves, act crazed!
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Wrestle [sonnet]
How easy it would be to string a noose
up from a tree and give that soul of mine
to charity. (Though I’m not so obtuse
as to from 3-Dimensions disentwine).
A voice has whispered long and low to make
me interrupt the flow of destiny
and wrestle me from being wide-awake
to forfeit my alignful synchrony.
But having seen the face behind the voice
(for spirits in this world aren’t only light)
I realised those words come with a choice
and warfare that’s unseen invades the night.
I wrestle every day (but not for sport);
all charlatans with stealthhood I will thwart.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 