Equinox [poem]
as summer dies so beauty fully
with that sigh (sforzandolike)
and autumn’s golden smirk
falls silently as homeless leaves
drift rocking side to side and down
to earthen featherbedly endofride
i smile through tears which mingle
with the lightsome lazy mist of dawn
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
Charging a Fee
I’m Dangerous [poem]
“I want you so!” said she
“Not in those clothes”, said me
“What DO you mean?” said she
“It’s your smoke-screen”, said me
“That’s what I wear”, said she
“Your cover-up”, said me
“From prying eyes”, said she
“That’s your disguise”, said me
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
Where I belong [poem]
like a fish out of water
my mouth becomes a gasping hoop
through which ideas
leaply excrement themselves
to silky foamful shores
and I, like many fools before,
have found my manhood lured
into a labyrinth of curdled prose
The Estate Agent’s Brochure [poem]
Today I visited the Estate Agent’s office
to discuss my holdings on this alien earth.
I needed an evaluation done so
I thought she would be just the right buffoon
to tell me exactly what I’m worth.
(Holdings is a funny word, for,
as any half-sane genius has heard it sung
in what must be the best song of all time:
“There’s nothing you can hold for very long”).
No truer word was ever spoke
though if I’d penned that line
it would have said (this is no joke):
“There’s nothing you can ever hold at all”.
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
The Ballad of Little Nate [poem]
When Nathan D. was just a little boy
his parents tried out every ploy they could
to stop him touching fires and stoves.
But everywhere he went, his little hands
would reach out roving for some burns.
They thought he’d never learn to do
what’s right (as right was, in their view).
Forever putting hands on red hot things
(desiring as they did to keep their son
on tightly tied-up apron strings)
they soon assumed he was a special
psychiatric case and would, if things
continued as they were, bring on the family
ignominy and neighbourhood disgrace.
One day, young Nate had looked them frankly
in the eyes and asked them straightly why
they thought they had the right to censor
what he does in life. They said that it’s
“because we are your parents and
your parents know what’s best for you.”
“You don’t at all”, said little Nate, as they,
astonished, heard their own son say to them:
“I’ve put you to the test. The day has come
for full disclosure of the rest of what I’ve tried
to say for years, but hadn’t had the go-ahead.”
“Never once”, the little boy went blithely on,
“have you directly asked me why I love to
suffer burns and other kinds of bitter pains.
You just assume it’s a mistake or wrong —
as if I’m likened to you as a broken song —
though lately you’ve begun to think I’m mad or
something’s programmed badly in my brain.”
The Naked Troubadour 