More Blessed to Give than to Receive
The Noble Work of Generosity
WHY ARE WE HERE IN THIS DIMENSION, on this planet Earth, at this point in space, time and history? One may never be able to answer that question satisfactorily enough, in verbal terms, so long as we are limited in our thoughts and ideation by the boundary of words (even though that boundary can be stretched the more we reach it). But we can say that we are all involved — whether we know it or not — in an increasingly expanding growth of understanding in mind and heart which takes us further into the unknown (thereby revealing its knownness) and deeper into the twilight zone of consciousness, beyond any perceived limitations. This is the evolution of the soul — joyfully harrowing, vitally necessary and deliciously inevitable.
I will not wear a Poppy [poem]
I will not wear a poppy on that celebrated day;
though many others then will feel obliged,
as if by some strange law, to wear that flower
commemorating war. Each year it is revived.
Then one who claims to be offended by the
lack of paper flower pinned upon my clothes
and thinks that all should be like him or her
will be red-faced and full of rage and sternly say:
“How could you scorn the freedoms won by
those who fought so you could see another day?”
Then will I swift reply: What freedoms do you mean?
The “freedom” to be overseen in every little way
and spied on by your disingenuously “democratic”,
pederast-permitting, plastic, gymnastic government?
The “freedom” to live every day enslaved by
drudgeful work, extorted mortgages and rents
and subsequently have no unspent time to play?
To what freedoms could you possibly refer?
The “freedom” to inscribe your X upon a form,
when several years have passed since last you
X’ed that form before (to no avail, of course)
and take part in another manufactured war they
call “election-time”? (You think this is the norm?)
Social Media Friendship: A Contradiction in Terms
“Congratulations, Alan! You’ve reached 2000 friends today!”, Fakebook announced to me. Teehee! [Excuse me while I chuckle]. This bizarre landmark has forced me to meditate on what the meaning is of friendship in this strangesome day and age. So, first, I will write a little piece about this, then, at the conclusion, I will share three poems I have written on the subject of friendship in a “Facets of Friendship” series, entitled “Friendship Lite” (about superficial friendship), “Fairweather Friends” (a sonnet about those friends who only stick around when the going is good or when they can gain something from it) and “True Friends” (about those few friends in life who can truly be called Friends, who will be there for you, whatever the weather, and on whom you can rely unconditionally. But first, social media friendship…
Please click on either the PDF or WORD DOC links here below to read the article:
PDF: Social Media Friends – A Contradiction in Terms
DOC: Social-Media-Friends-A-Contradiction-in-Terms
© Alan Morrison, 2017
Architect and Arsonist [poem]
Indulging in this new-found pastime
causes an infernal end to many
now no longer worthful stories —
generates incendiary glory —
casting them into a memory-hole
forgettery (or better still déchèterie).
For here I speak of bridges being burned.
“Do not look back!” intoned the voice,
as slowly round I turned my head
but stopped myself instead from
staring at the fiery flameful scene
behind, beyond the chasm of my past,
which now no longer must be brought to
mind, for fire to the rear means ice ahead
which will be melted into something
called the present — an imaginary trick
inside your head which comes up fast
and just as quickly melts into the past.
“If you Want to Hang Around with me” (LIVING-ROOM VIDEO #28)
Here’s a new “living-room” video of a song I just wrote. It’s about how easy it is to be a true friend of mine. Feel free to share! With love from me to you… 
The lyrics are below:
Jupiter in Scorpio [poem]
on this strangely serene and glistering night
of distant echo sounds and noises nothingness
shuts tight its sleepless eyes and opens a door
to somewhere way beyond what fathermother
taught us lives behind its lantern-coloured
lintels or the splinters of its shiny self unhinged
restored clean-beamed and damascened
then gold from heaven’s alchemy was poured
(for such alluring doors can never be ignored)
The Miracle you’ve longed to see [poem]
Even though our (G.U.Inter)faces (more or less)
portray the same allotted format every day
[despite the fact that most of what we think
we are is nothing more than empty space,
yet doesn’t fall apart into another face!],
a large amount of secret changes happen there
(what we can call the realful cellsome underplay).
But let’s not put ourselves in stark denial,
hiding from the looking-glass’s awkward truth.
The telling time is coming all-too soon when,
looking in that hostile mirror at our eyes,
we’ll not escape that transformation comes
and instantaneously realise (with laughter,
dread or resignation, sighs, or shock, deflation)
that time {in all its retro raw unglory} f l I e s.
A Flag is just a Rag [poem]
Phonetically speaking…
it’s not too far to go from flag to rag.
But also in reality; for flags are rags
indeed, and only used to generate
the seed for war in this poor world’s
conditioned young, whose heroes true
and few and sane go every day unsung.
For rags is all these emblems are —
just signals from a dying age
upon a piece of colo(u)red cloth
about the way that countries
plunder one another’s goods,
behaving like no human being ever should.
Parading them in front of mindless armies
marching to their wasted deaths, just so
the ones who sent them reap their gold
disguising their exuberance behind
a mask of fulsome grieving so the parents
of the ones they sent unto their deaths
won’t lose their comfort (falsely bought)
from thinking that they didn’t die in vain.
(They did — but if those mums and dads
would understand that stark and icy fact
they could not tolerate the thought of such
futility & hopelessness in their parental pain).
Since when was Music an “Industry”? [poem]
Since when was music an “industry”?
Yes — oil, steel or pharmaceutery,
ship-building, hotels, textiles or military.
But music, as the food of love,
(the source of which is from above)
is not a money-grubbing tool
to line the dirty inside pockets
of those greedy 10%ing fools.
Music as an “industry” is so uncool!
The very term “to have a hit”
[or should I put an “s” in front of
that to make it what it really is?]
means dollar signs in greedy eyes
& ego-boosting of attention-whores
who masquerade as singers, artists,
f(art)ing out their billboard lies
while screwing influential folks who’ll
open all their once-were-bolted doors.
If you want to hang around with me [song lyrics]
If you want to hang around with me,
don’t take yourself so seriously.
Hang loose to what you think you own
and don’t regard this earth as home.
If you want to hang around with me,
Ensure your mind is honed and free.
Then be prepared to dance and sing
and don’t be triggered by a thing!
The Naked Troubadour 