The Plan Unveiled [sonnet]
When I survey the patterns of my life
the jewels displayed there force me to confess
that through the difficulties and all strife
some hidden influence negates distress.
Perchance celestial keepers guard my days —
angelic wardens working winsomely —
my heart intention with them interplays:
All yearning is to them a litany.
But yet in darker moments I can doubt
that seraphim take interest in my span;
then from the blue a gem comes sparkling out
and serendipity unveils the plan.
Thus, even though some paths are incomplete,
somehow I always land upon my feet.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Lonely Princess [sonnet]
She sits upon her distant homeless throne:
That lonely princess tearing up her eyes.
At first one does not hear her heart of stone,
nor feel her constant floodfill wall of lies.
When closely looking one could see there lay
those marks upon her soul in engram print.
The sharp discerning mind can know that they
do of some hidden hauntful memories hint.
Yet, even though men’s foolish hearts may flow
towards this hurt and whirlwind loveless Miss;
her pokerfaced dissembling — head to toe —
will soon deter seduction by her kiss.
Thus, every lie, deception, angry rail
becomes an unintended coffin nail.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Broken Beauty [sonnet]
When dragon footprints stride across the sun
intention’s wallet — empty — opens wide.
I tried to count the virtues one by one;
such diligence could not be justified.
For when the emptiness of mouthing ploys
reveal their dull derisive jeering taunts
I feel the frosty cold dark counterpoise
to all entreaties (then the shortfall haunts).
But all such grim considerations pale
to insignificance’s scanty sky
while spoors of fire-breathing monsters scale
to realms which even love won’t mollify.
There’s no more baffling quandary that I know
than heights which have no coital afterglow.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
There is no New Year! [sonnet]
There is no such thing as the first of Jan.
It’s all a Gregorian trick, you see;
a pope fooled with time arbitrarily
and that’s how your Happy New Year began.
The human tendency to celebrate
ensures that we clutch at meaningless straws;
this day (as delusive as Santa Klaus)
with frolic and glut we adulterate.
If only the cycle of endless time
was glimpsed with the blink of an eye unproud
and solely to secrets our hearts we vowed —
those days, months and years — the old paradigm.
When we will learn to look at life askew
then every single day we’d see as New!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Further [song lyrics]
Cleaning out the air
dirt was everywhere
now the deed was done
I can see the sun
Bathing in its light
no more need to fight
finally some rest
was it all a test
Through one eighty days
(I was) living in a haze
couldn’t see the ground
never heard the sound
of my pumping heart
going stop and start
if it didn’t end
I would never mend
I went further than ever before
Didn’t even have a map
Found within me some space unexplored
Couldn’t find my own way back
Something has to change
need to rearrange
every broken fence
so it all makes sense
Every now and then
must remake again
taking off the gloves
leaving only love
[If you’d only be my dream
You would never have to scheme]
So where are you now
Growing up somehow?
have you learned to see
not just you but me
When your chains have gone
and you sing our song
I will know that we
can truly be
I went further than ever before
Didn’t even have a map
Found within me some space unexplored
Couldn’t find my own way back
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Your Beauty [poem]
Your beauty does not lie in the dubious gift
of symmetricalish facial features
for such faux perfection would not fit
your many-sided multi-facet
overarching wealth of assets
random drawn by their creator’s
palette-painted teaching
Above the Fray [song lyric]
Pick me up and dust me down
Find a way to wipe that frown
Off the face of Father Sun
Shining down on everyone
Why do clouds obscure the view?
Why the air ’tween me and you?
Why the tear ’tween I and me?
Why’s the news not poetry?
Unsprung Song [sonnet]
There’s something I wanted to say today
but everything in me conspires with might
making the gist of it fritter away
(my meteorite wordpuzzle fly-by-night).
It cries out, it screeches, it longs to be free.
It yearns for expression affirmatively.
It even harangues me while I’m asleep
invading my dreams — it’s more than skin-deep.
But what if I blurt out this unsprung song?
What if it will not be bound anymore —
its clamour for light I cannot ignore —
its secret sound I can no more prolong?
Those words which want so vastly to be said:
Than give them up, I’d far rather be dead.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Sanctorum [new sonnet]
I’ve bowed down at some shrines throughout my days.
With reverence through those thresholds I did glide.
All hallowed be those holy entryways;
such spaces I regard as rarefied.
Whatever vault of spirit’s blaze I pierce —
a chapel, church or vast cathedral span —
I take no unrewarded souvenirs
save only my advancement as a man.
However, not all altars are the same;
the chancel which they grace will play a part.
Not every sacred place sets me aflame.
Not all sanctorums scintillate my heart.
Of all the times I’ve been through temple doors,
the only ones I’d worship in are yours.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 