2 2 1 [poem]
Two broken eggshells
(inside skin holding parts together)
met along the alleyway
of love’s long dream —
Their yolks shot through with yellow
though anything but mellow was the ride
Two cracked-up nutshells
(not completely shattered into shards)
collided in the ethermist
of scarred entrails
unveiling untold treasure
which struggles for the measure of its stride
Platonic Play [poem]
“Sometimes I think you have one rule for me
and another rule for you — wanting to be free”.
So said your husband, a shake in his voice;
[He loved her with hugeness — he hadn’t a choice].
You do what you want however much it hurts;
your sting camouflaged in the folds of your skirts.
You live for the moment (your moment that is)
and with such a lifestyle you find nothing amiss.
For the ‘moments’ of others are not your concern;
empathy’s closeness you don’t want to learn.
The Stormy Calm of End [sonnet]
Condemned to live without a woman’s touch
for once too often love had been betrayed.
Perhaps the word «condemned» you think too much
because by choice that bold resolve was made.
The desert has a beauty of its own —
a boundless smooth and undulating sea;
just like the flesh which once had been enthroned
within the mind which now spurns company.
Yet, in eremic wastes there is sublime
and slakeful consolation to be found;
as pouring sand is used to portray time
with promises of soundless underground.
For only in the stormy calm of end
can we the taint of treachery transcend.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
When people discover that I haven’t drunk any alcohol
When people discover that I haven’t drunk any alcohol for more than 40 years I get some very interesting reactions. A popular one is “You don’t drink?!!? How boring!” They mean it must be boring for me because I don’t drink and that it’s also boring for them because they want everyone to be like they are. Another reaction is “Oh, are you a recovering alcoholic then?” For the record, I am neither bored nor am I a recovering alcoholic. I don’t drink 1) Because it only takes a thimbleful to make me silly (as I discovered when I was a teenager); 2) Because I am already high enough on life, love, music, wordness & nature to need any artificial stimulants; 3) I like to have a clear head and enough incisive focus to leave no stone unturned; 4) I’ve never liked to follow the crowd. So… I hope that explains everything! 🙂
Little Puppy Dog [poem]
He’s like a little puppy on his first extended walk:
Rushing up to every face
without defences held in place.
So much wanting just to give;
loves the moment — loves to live.
Won’t object to being stroked;
pulled so hard he nearly choked.
Strides through bullshit everywhere;
little puppy doesn’t care —
he just bounces round with glee
exasperates his family.
Sees the whole world as his friends
lives and loves as life intends
doesn’t mind who he offends.
“Tut-tut”, they say, with features stern.
“That little puppy needs to learn
to simmer down and play it cool.
Let’s put him through some fancy school
where he can gain some adult skills
grow some horns, cut down on thrills”.
At that, he breaks the leash — bursts free.
That little puppy dog…
is me.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Nothing is Lovelier than Love [sonnet]
Nothing is lovelier than love, said she;
and this despite misgivings that she held.
Her heart, downed and skeltered by life’s rich scree
still nonetheless in fertile hope full dwelled.
It has to be a true song of the heart,
she said, no more willing to compromise
the pristine-coated soundness of her art —
an urge with which I wholly empathise.
Please know that it is never love which hurts
but only human foolishness applied.
To push or dam the river disconcerts;
we can’t ignore the sacred inner guide.
I earned her feathered dart’s unswerving flight
and wonder if she’ll tryst this riding knight.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Beneath the Lid [poem]
The whole world smugly screamly sits
on a keening bed of fears
belied by shrieks of laughter
as comfort thoughts of everafter
trickle through our beards.
Knowing well we’re only dreaming
microseconds from disaster
we strategize to sanitise
the lacework trail of our fragile lives
(and woe betide intruding eyes).
Eyes Down [poem]
They averted their gaze when they looked into mine;
I know that look — I’ve seen it many times.
I saw the children dwelling in their hearts
cowed defeated — couldn’t even start
to stare into the eyes of those who stood
before their sallow frozen features.
The Slightly Open Door [sonnet]
A thousand tonnes of tristerie rose right
into the airy heights above my form
exploding into gladnesses of light
and blew away the wasting Northwest storm.
Such was the slim rejoicing waft of air
which breathed itself aloud at freedom’s leap
for joy; while every molecule stood there
uncloyed. Relief stood hairs on end hell-deep.
How welcome was this analgesic swell
(no more those drowning wasting bursts of rain)!
For in this stumbling blundering burned-out shell
an endless loop was stopped in mid-refrain.
But let me add: Although some c(h)ords were cut
lovemusic’s door is never wholly shut.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Urban Legends [sonnet]
“It’s not good for a man to be alone”.
That’s what it says in some religious sphere.
I read those words and thought them overblown
no matter how enchanting they appear.
They say one shouldn’t lay out in the sun
although I’ve done it all my life with bliss.
They say you’re adult when you’re twenty-one;
some kids think they’ll get pregnant if they kiss!
Instead of giving credence to such tales
reality should swiftly soon be checked.
For if we follow futile vapour trails
then disappointment’s all we can expect.
If I my heart I want to pacify
it’s safer just as me, myself and I.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 