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
Unzipped [poem]
Wandering wiseless on some smooth
indecent steep and sandy dune
he wondered if those grainly rumours
could be true that he should stand
astonished, still, in front of only unly you
who’s not (viz. yet) been fully met on this
unset trajectory of pain and pleasure ride.
He waits, just as he’s done for thousands
more besides this molten lava year
(if time indeed exists outside this sphere)
as fragment bits of ideas hurtled down
through treacle air around his cadence.
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
Riding her Waves [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.
Acquaint yourself with lunar almanacs
before you surf in peril on her sea.
For on her waves there are no trails or tracks —
from hurricanes there is no guarantee!
But if you let her crests flow where they will,
and give her breakers space to turn to foam,
you will, in time, your destiny fulfil
and on her billows you will find your home.
Although it seems her waves throw you around,
surf-mastery’s the key, as I have found.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Doors Galore [sonnet]
My doors have always opened up with ease
They have no lock; with just a finger-shove
they come ajar — I never have to squeeze
my body through the gap (helped from above).
So doors galore’s the subject of this piece;
I revel in the portals of my world.
The openings I find only increase;
and often over thresholds I am hurled.
However, here’s the thing about my doors:
Whichever one I push — tall, small or wide
(and in my life there have been many scores),
there’s nothing for me on the other side.
For every time I find an open door
what lies behind is just a dozen more!
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Nail in the Wall [sonnet]
Silence is unbecoming for a dude
who claims to be a poetspeaking voice.
But sound, you see, is nought at altitude
and nothing will suffice with mere rejoice.
On walking in the room (it’s colours bland
and pastel pukey) — just one nail pierced through
plaster (spaced-out atom-smasher scabland) —
word-arranger plagiarised his own spew.
Meanwhile, some shelter from banana trees
had lent itself with generosity —
the antidote to stratospheric freeze
[my neverending curiosity].
That shard of metal stayed put in the wall
while neath those trees I honed my lovened scrawl.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Following on from my “Synchronicity Sonnet”
Following on from my “Synchronicity Sonnet” yesterday… It works the other way too, in a kind of reverse syncronicity (asynchronism). If we go chasing after (or, to use a trendy phrase, try to “manifest” in our lives) something which has no rightful destiny for us, we will suffer one disappointment after the other. Worse, we might even be given that “something” which we are chasing precisely so that it will come to nothing (or even bring us to disaster) in order that we finally get the message that we should never have pursued it in the first place. As a wise man once put it: “Often, the thing that we think is best for ourselves is worst for our souls”. Everything is about tests and lessons. Until we wise up to that essential life-fact and stop putting our egos on a pedestal we are merely chasing our own tails in a never-ending narcissistic pole-dance.
Synchronicity [sonnet]
Some moments strike which cannot be eschewed.
You sense before they come when they are due.
They soon explode with force and magnitude —
electric sequence bathed in déjà vu.
Some soul emerges who can change your life:
a lover, teacher, angel, friend or guide.
A book appears by magic at your side.
Such meetings slice into you like a knife.
Thus, I play with every precious moment
which dribbles down the parapet of time.
Every second now seems like a portent
which fashions for me some new paradigm.
When synchronicity is on your trail
you cannot put a foot wrong, fall or fail.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
It’s Come to This [poem]
And so…
it’s come to this
[breathed with a sigh]
the bubble’s burst and piss and wind
come slyming out while temperance ladies
dressed as barkers curse and swig
from prick-shaped bottles mocking me —
their bodies wattled like some pagan crone
or crazed misandrist fart unhinged
[which rasps against my whiskered chin]
an ultrasonic intrauterine device
which thin girls wear at weekend parties
thus appearing more substantially built
I am a Mirror [poem]
I am a mirror
reflecting every
whisper which you’re most
afraid of in your self —
the feathered touch of
freedom’s fickle fibres’
lusty
chime of bells
I am a looking-glass
The Naked Troubadour 