Bag Man No More! [poem]
I used to be the kind of guy
who said to lovely ladies
Yes, my dear, I’ll carry your bag
(the implication being:
size no object
any weight will do)
stick it on my broadly back
anything for you.
Epiphany [poem]
I thought
I couldn’t
so I didn’t
but I can &
so I should
Then they
told me
should’s a
bad word
too oblique
to change
a hair
enthroned
upon the
head of
Samson
should and he
are so
contraire
The key
to me
was bent
and hidden
I myself
misunderstood
But something
snapped
within
my middle
(surrealistic
glancing
riddle)
clearest
sound I
ever heard
Now I’m
wrestling
past my
doubtful
thoughts
which all
my dreams
forbid
I thought
I couldn’t
so I didn’t
but I can
& so
I did
© 2012, Alan Morrison
There is no Wasted Time [sonnet]
There can be no such thing as wasted time.
For every foolish error gives a chance
to learn; and every misstep in our dance
is just a misdemeanour not a crime.
To see things as they truly should be seen
(viz. to know that nothing’s ever squandered
wherever our hearts and hands have wandered)
will render every moment evergreen.
Thus, nothing in this life can be misspent —
no consequence can ever atrophy.
The seconds of the clock are alchemy:
Each tick a chance for us to reinvent.
When we can understand why lessons come
then “wasted time” will not be burdensome.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Like it was our Last [poem]
Time goes by so quickly voices say at 30
something years of age without a trace of
irony — their smooth taut faces creased
with temporary deathless shiny depilated
still so far undessicated flesh. Selfful image
grossly moonly fabricated while infatuated
quasi-animated still unwaiting for the end
Was it ever Love? [sonnet]
[For Viva]
When what we think is love does turn its face
towards a nightmare shadowed from the sun;
then tenderness and joy it will displace
with laughing masklike fury’s smoking gun.
For love is not the same as naked lust
(although it sings with mimic tuneful sighs).
The first one gives — the other’s base is thrust;
but power to heal will never brutalize.
How can it slake your soul when fists hail down?
(But yet some strange attraction draws you in).
You’re both his puppet and his random clown
unless you cauterize him from within.
When dust has cleared revealing light above
the question thunders: “Was it ever love?”
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Party is Over [poem]
Imprisoned thoughts dribble down my face
while forming patterns damply drowning
like the long-awaited swollenness of
babyfaceless not so darling gentle
crowning from the queen of hearts
Not Easy going through the Wilderness of this World
It’s not easy going through the wilderness of this world when one is chock-full of expressive passion. Either it is completely misunderstood, greeted with cringing embarrassment, ridiculed or aggressively rejected. Fortunately, far from negating it, this merely makes the passion stronger, deeper, surer and even more poignant…
Learning so Much
Learning so much. So much to learn. Every day brings dozens of lessons. The old saying “When the pupil is ready, the teacher will come” is soo true. And that teacher can come in many forms: A book, some person one ‘bumps’ into (even for just a minute), a piece of music, a poem, one’s uncanny life process, a painting, a dream or even an actual teacher! Sometimes we have to look for the lessons. If we want them, we’ll get them.
The Dark in your Heart [sonnet]
You thought me conquered by your silken limbs
and for a while you had me by the throat.
Into my head a thousand acronyms
like ‘false love of a trespasser’ did float.
Bedazzled by your frontlights on my road;
transfixed by mouthish muscularity;
your mountains gripped my membership payload
and drained my horn of masculinity.
And yet you wonder whitely with dismay
how come I through your pantomime did see?
Why not seduced by your sweet cabaret —
your presentation done so adroitly?
Despite your aptitude to hypnotise
I saw dark in your heart without my eyes.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
War of the Words [sonnet]
The scout returned and broke the wretched news:
The citadel of dreams was breached by those
whose cold prosaic manner misconstrues
the warm Arcadian heart which overflows.
They stormed the walls with ordinary ink
(for that was all they wielded in their quills).
They thought into that city they could slink
with rubber stamps gained from diploma mills.
Yet, though the walls had crumpled from their weight
(for they were legion, marching in a line)
that city they would never arrogate
nor could they its true dwellers undermine.
Espousing shallow intellect in verse
is in this world a sickness and a curse!
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 