Why am I Here? [poem]
why am I here?
(not ‘here’ as in this place
or in the subatomic space I take
around the world
but in the manner I’ve been hurled
into a bag of whirly proton flesh
conserved in one by beadly bones
a graphic user interface
a standalonely database
which holds more gap than substance
a seethru sheer incumbent airhead
misread crossbred flayed and naysaid
someday brain-dead deathbed monstrance)
Through the Laughing Glass [poem]
When was the last time that you laughed?
I said this as I gripped her shoulders —
arms like lightning rods —
a flashing grounded earthing
mass of spark-conduction
low destruction
preproduction
epic mirthing squads.
Hard to Find [sonnet]
Why should it be so hard to find a True
Romantic on this jingly-jangly sphere?
(Jingly for the money-rattling bijoux
and jangly for the empty heart veneer).
Chivalry and knighthood now ‘outmoded’;
alliteration, rhyme – form! – ‘out of date’.
Concepts of the troubadour exploded;
the patronage of arts they abrogate.
But hope is not extinguished as a whole;
for hard to find does not mean cannot be.
There’s still a crowd of kin who keep their soul
from fashion, trend-dictated poetry.
I know I speak for many in this song.
Our time to shine will come. It won’t be long.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
More or Less [poem]
the morer that I know
the more I realise
I do not know
though
better still to say
the morer that I know
the more I see just
how much more is
through the door
for bigsmall me
to grow
Some Thoughts on Sponsorship
Crystal creatures [sonnet]
When cataclysmic years slowed down those long
and bubblyboiling aeon times ago;
life-forms (way beyond our square and oblong
fenced-in dumbed-down minds) then began to grow.
When mined from deep within the fertile ground –
ancient civilisations, knowing well
their worth – their magick powers did abound
which modern worldlings still deny and quell.
However, we who vainly think we are
the pinnacle of creaturishness made
upon this lush and lissom earth so far
delude ourselves. Soon all will have decayed.
Then when the new world people take control
the life-forms scorned today will play their role.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Menstrual Sonnet, Part 1
I love it when a woman, monthly, bleeds.
There is a fullness and fecundity
which breathes from every pore and then proceeds
to bathe me with her moist profundity.
Menstruation’s nature’s streaming cadence
cascading through her body’s temple space.
Righteous men will welcome this – her fragrance –
as proof of wombful cyclic hypergrace.
But yet, to this phenomenon I’ve found
a stigma is attached. It’s called “The Curse”.
Schoolboys speak of “jam rags” in the playground
while female attributes are shamed, or worse.
Is blood taboo, like feeding from the breast
in public? Woman’s depth once more suppressed.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
On the Stairs [song lyrics]
Here I stand with my feet on the ground
Working out when to go
up the stairway which seems heaven-bound.
(Doubting). How do we know?
Looking up all those stairs to the sky
Silhouettes fill my view.
They’re the ones who’ve received my goodbye;
one of them has been you.
Enjoy the ride [poem]
sometimes I think that everything’s an emptiful distraction
[{(whether words or flesh or artefacts invented by the human race
or smiles or laughter even poetry and music’s comely face!
and most especially entertainment’s ambush-wraith
when spiced with life’s apparent inbuilt lack of faith
in what we mostly cannot willnot mustnot ever see)}]
waylaying us whichever zesty restless way we turn
from what we truly ought to see and flow and know (and learn)
some jewelery hidden in the dirty snowy clothes of time
a throne or elemental shrine in ether’s cloudy wine
a spinning leafy ricochet around a rose [uncrime]
a strangeness underneath this world’s assembly line
a priceless dreamer’s vision of a skybound vine
which, if one should intrepidly nontepidly and honely climb
will culminate in joyful mouthy cries of…
[pause here]
thoughts and words which never can be understood
save only by the one who bravely would ascend
the beanstalk bends of don’t-know-which-way-home
who shares a joke inside his newly gene-changed soul
acknowledging the role of everything material
deflecting unconnecting (though we think it’s just protecting)
us from fallingrising no disguising centri-fugal-petal
spinning stationary wisdom-bringing endbeginning
updown hymning inescapeful blackhole swimming
ardently against the tide
enjoy the ride
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Goodbye August [poem]
Goodbye, August!
I bless you for your late endeavour.
You started out believing you’re
the crown of Summer;
but, however much you try,
your destiny provides
the entry to the scent of Autumn.
The Naked Troubadour 