A Thousand Words for empty [sonnet]
And if these lips should mouth a futile void
what colour would that barren closedness be?
If every clear escape route had been cloyed
would hollowness be undone by debris?
Redundant questions plague my unfilled grey
and vacuum-spattered matter with their knives;
while every desolation’s yesterday
spits in the face of countless empty lives.
Thus, if you come my way with barefaced charm
and speak to me of love and hope and dreams
such vacant ploys will not my Hole disarm
nor nullify my vast cavernal screams.
So when I gazed inside my wasteland world
a blank white flag in windless space unfurled.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Antidote [sonnet]
It seems the time has come to lay a wreath;
the spirit of adventure has declined.
The mass of souls takes shelter underneath
high walls deludely built by humankind.
Instead of striding forth without a dam[n]
embracing any challenge in our way
we choose to walk the limping hexagram
and thus reveal our lack of vertebrae.
Yet, long ago I found the antidote
to vacillation’s shrinking violet schemes:
Don’t hesitate to seize dread by the throat
and squeeze hard till you live your wildest dreams.
For only when to fear they have the key
can hesitating souls be truly free.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
I made up my Mind some Years ago
I made up my mind some years ago not to tolerate bullshit from anyone. If someone wants to be my friend or lover or any other intimate thing (i.e. they want a significant place in my life), they must be honest, honourable, loving, faithful and true (and I will to them be the same). They must be self-aware enough to be able to police themselves not to be disingenuous, manipulative, aggressive or competitive. If I detect the least whiff of treachery, lies or betrayal, they’re gone from my life. It’s that simple. No psychos. No self-centred, immature narcissists. No “entitlement” types. No bullshitters. No game-players. No gold-diggers. No deceivers, hypocrites or inveiglers. No cowards. No bullies. No screwed-up adolescents disguised as grown-ups. Life is too short and too precious for anything other than honest, harmonious, selfless, loving exchange. I would rather be alone forever than in any kind of compromised, unbalanced, pathological relationship of any kind.
Pain. A word with no anagrams
“Pain. A word with no anagrams. Indivisible. Unchangeable. Period. It begins with pain. It ends with pain — interspersed with windows casting shafts of strange-coloured light. Mindless, morphinic, mendacious illuminism. Even the end of the tunnel is just another window.”
These were the words he scribbled in his tattered notebook in the halflight, as the sun fell below the horizon.
Still [sonnet]
Reluctantly and sweetly deep within
a stark confession [w]rings me like a bell.
Defences that I’ve built are wearing thin.
I’m still in love with you with every cell.
I thought the surge would soon grow dim with time
alongside faded swells of passion shared;
like ripples on a lake which lost their prime
the further from the centre splash they erred.
The drug you are (on which I loverdosed)
had been out of my system for a while.
But now you float and haunt me like a ghost:
an ectoplasmic centripetal smile.
We never had the chance before to bloom.
Within this finite cosmos is there room?
© Alan Morrison, 2013
If I was Married to a Linden Tree [sonnet]
If I was married to a linden tree
I wouldn’t need a ring for full of those
her widening trunk would every yearly be!
I’d shelter in the leafy roof which grows.
Her branches round my waist would tightly fit;
while every type of bird would flit and sing
for me with scented blossoms albeit
soon cut for tea in cups of bark she’d bring.
Perhaps you’ll think I’ve lost my way in love
to harbour such desires. But can’t you see
to love a tree will help you reach above
and from the hold of humans make you free?
I think a tree’s the only one I’d wed —
the mystery kept alive by what’s unsaid.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Gender Bender [poem]
dangling dangerously
feet first
legs swinging pendulously
unposed
in frozen shards of
rigor mortis
metal locks resembling
subterranean aftershocks
he gave a kindly nod
toward the half hung drawn and quartered
bloody-spattered brained
gratuitously tortured
lined and pitted cliff face executioner’s
endless scrawl
On the Election of the Pope [poem]
And so we have another pope upon the throne
or papa as he’s sometimes fondly known
though I prefer to call him GODFATHER
but not because he is a father sent by God
but more because the Vatican has long been known
to be in bed with those they call The Mob!
Roller-Coaster [sonnet]
Your undulations crash against the cliff
on which I have forever stood with awe.
Beneath my feet a telling hieroglyph
engraved in rock evokes a higher law.
Then elemental foamly calms assure
me I can blend my surgesome pulsing flow
of restless blood with every drop of your
entrancing dream-enhancing power show.
For I am not inert and flaccid flesh;
but heaving deep and moved by moonly beams.
Just like the sea I weave and intermesh
and float my soul in tranquil storm extremes.
It only takes one leap to brave your brine.
The same applies to those who will brave mine.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Dark before the Dawn [song lyric]
There were no leaves on the tree
Bare branches glanced before my eyes
No flowers there that I could see
Nothing there for my surprise
There was no light from the sky
No stars were shining in the blue
No matter how much I try
Dark looms in everything I do
The Naked Troubadour 