Beyond the Edge [poem]
If we never fly
beyond the edge
how will we keep
our sails in trim
[wings are here
a suited synonym]
or understand
the ins and outs
of how to swim
with graceness
when your boat
capsizes right
upon that edge
but then instead
of paddling for
our lives to keep
from falling down
into the foaming
white unknown
we need to practise
playing the role of
f r e e f a l l
b a c k w a r d s
trustingfully loud
and latchkey kids
who come and go
like ghostly priestly
will-o-wisply old
Melchizedek and
have no priceful
precedents but
riding free upon
all surf wherever
that may be and
wherethewind
shall blow our
wide and never
ending destiny.
For if those gusts
originate from
azure & abovely
noble realms
and never from
the downly deep
of othersidely
dark undeevy
dreadful drowns
then safely we
can roam upon
that stormful
raging foam
[despite the fact
we pass through
countless strands
of crippling strife]
which in our hyper
always ignorance
we unpoetically
insist on calling
[euphemistically]
LIFE
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Blindfold [poem]
Why can’t all things in heaven and on earth
be simple lucid and revealed (such as what
developed long before my birth and what will
someday soon transpire after I fall in a heap)?
How come so many mysterious things insist
on being concealed? I swear I won’t misuse
them or take advantage of the knowledge
sell them or abuse them. I promise from the
bottom of my beating heart that I will bring
there no dark thing where evil can result or
use the data to exploit the black side of occult
or ill-thought schemes or wizardry deceptive
or confounding so that others would be badly
influenced by me — becoming no more free.
Sorry, Doc [sonnet]
Sorry, Doc, but it only made me worse.
That panacea recommended strong
by you was not only a tinctured curse
but also (speaking straightly) downright wrong.
What were you thinking when you wrote that note
prescribing what you said would be my cure?
You thought you’d found the perfect antidote;
I wonder how you could be so cocksure.
So no more pink placebos for my heart.
It’s tired and worn-out, well beyond repair.
This spectred form must live a life apart.
There is no course of treatment for despair.
(No need to diagnose my burned-out soul.
Into algiatry I must enroll).
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Exile, Part II [poem]
Sliding through the tensile twisted vortex
left by tortured coils of disconnected DNA
I move with grace into the insubstantial air
with multiple crushed and creviced vertebrae.
A noosing strand of rope endecorates the wall
while shadowed hangmen rudely shelter
harmlessly, effective from today. Outside the
cloistered cosy confines of protective coated
crinoline, successive waves of hopeless jerks
convulse spasmodically my beatsome little heart.
I never cease to be amazed by my native language
I never cease to be amazed by my native language. The richness bedazzles me! I often trawl the thesaurus just for fun and coming on the synonyms for the word “fool”, I there find a real cornucopia of imagination. For your amusement, here they are: “Blockhead, fat-head, dunce, dimwit, simpleton, halfwit, idiot, cretin, imbecile, ignoramus, moron, dupe, stooge, butt, laughing-stock, clown, comic, buffoon, jester, muggins, gull, Jack-fool, jackass, lemming, mooncalf, soft, softy, Tom-noddy, tomfool, punk, gowk, mumchance, barmpot, gump, haverel, coof, dottle, eejit, cluck, dumb-cluck, yap, old cony, fon, fondling, want-wit, patch, sot, wigeon, lack-brain, bauble, capocchia, snipe, nincompoop, ass, chump, ninny, neddy, clot, dope, twit, nitwit, nit, sucker, mug, twerp, birdbrain, lamebrain, knuckle-head, silly-billy, berk, Charlie, gubbins, sap, saphead, wazzock, dum-dum, coot, goat, head-banger, bampot, lunkhead, chowderhead, putz, doofus, dill, boofhead, wally, jerk, dumbo, muppet, pillock, prat, dork, geek, plonker, git, nerd, nerk, nelly, goop, josser, nig-nog, sawney, schlemiel, turkey, cloth head, dipstick, goof, kook, tosspot, jughead, schmo, dingbat, dweeb, prick, dickhead, cake.”
Depths of Despair & the Highest Ecstasy of Joy
Is it possible to experience being in the darkest depths of despair and the highest ecstasy of joy all at the same time? I can tell you that the answer is “Yes”. It is a very strange state to be in – like feeling utterly hopeless and wildly optimistic in the same instant. Yet it isn’t destructive but somehow not only seems totally natural but also enhances creativity. It is as if everything bleak and everything bright are superimposed on each other… without a winner. Nothing is being denied or hidden. They just are what they are…
Abell 1835 IR1916
Occasionally, I wish I was a normal guy who lived a regular life. But I’ve been too far out for too long to be able to get back. Once you’ve been past Abell 1835 IR1916 nothing ever seems the same again…
What is it with You? [poem]
what is it with you?
stealing every little thing that moves!
not content to rob men of their hearts
you empty all their pockets plus their
dreams and even clean out every hotel room
of all free-standing artefacts available for
filching — anything, so long as it suits
your nobbling snaffling pilfermaking groove.
shampoo for your unconditioned hair
bars of soap and stuff for cleaning shoes
and even ashtrays disappear into your swag
that beige and bottomlessful bag
you carry on your sloping shoulder
so you always have to yank it up and over
with a careless shrug. I swear I saw a nest
of writhing rats within that stashly habitat
Unbuckle the Limits
It’s long past time to unbuckle the limits I’ve imposed on myself so as not to be too outrageous and footloose. The time has come to think, feel, say and do things which I’ve never thought, felt, said and done before. The extreme brevity of life (a gift) dictates that I must cast off all chains (even those which do not appear to be chains – of which there are many in our lives). I’ve never been into conformity or conventionality but now I’m turning it all up a few notches and more. Fear nothing. Do anything. Normalcy is madness. True friends will understand.
Loose Ends [sonnet]
If, from the start, we’d only been good friends
with me not hijacked by your whirlpool streams
we wouldn’t have to leave all these loose ends.
(Once more I learn that nothing’s what it seems).
Your vortex hit me like a speeding truck.
I knew you wanted more than I could give
(to tell the truth I wasn’t thunderstruck)
so I became a restless fugitive.
However, what blazed up was not in vain.
there are no accidents, as we both know;
and though we’re now like strangers on a train
experience provides a chance to grow.
Who knows? In other worlds our paths may cross.
Where love has been, one cannot suffer loss.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 