You Were… [poem]
You were a light
a singing rock of shineness
in my darknesses
your thereness (like your skin)
was always soft and velveteen
you never goodbyed on a whim
or skimmed the surface
in a swim of unseasoned sanctuaries
You were a dream
an ever hand of kindness
through my starknesses
your shareness (like your form)
was only ever selfless done
you never once became a thorn
although you could be
(if you felt there was a threat) a little prick
Seen [poem]
Delicate jadedly gentle I whispered through the reeds
pointedly gathered in your flaccid-fading fulcrum.
I grasped the sprightly flower of your soul’s
fast unblooming fullness in a dream
of neverending treasure
while pleasurepain’s
reverie overstays
its unwelcome
& rendering
seldomly
seen
randomly
flandering
fumblesome
subplutonic haze
with drive-crazy rain’s
manic made-to-measure
harrowing lack of self-esteem
you brace your self in pigeonholes
while harbouring thoughts of kingdom come.
Hopelessly hazyhelpless I hide me in your leaves
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Acacia Marker [sonnet]
What far-dimensioned madness drives that flight?
This question forms in aspic’s driving wake.
That hand signed up as someone lilywhite;
but no one knew the signature was fake.
Amidst the fallout fantasies I strayed;
not knowing that the tail was toxin-tipped.
My back was turned — the scene was tailor-made.
For such imposture I was ill-equipped.
So now I take a marker in my hand;
Acacia is the wood that I prefer.
With this a line is etched into the sand;
thus foolsome firestorms cannot reoccur.
Such lessons never come too late to learn.
Once bitten, twice shy — next time I discern!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
From where I Stand [poem]
“Pride comes before a fall” (so they say).
I guess that’s just another way of saying
“The bigger they are the harder they fall”.
But that has never been how things unfold…
as I recall
When I survey the picture of this world
(acrylic, oils, aquarelles or drawn)
I see no sign of falls or tumbles down.
Jack never breaks his tarnished little crown…
as I have found
The kings of spite survive and gloat deceit.
Their conscience seared and full of bile
while truly great ones flounder with their dreams
and will not sing in choirs of rage unclean…
as I have seen
If only for one frozen second we could see
that freedom is a word for slavery
and knowledge is a masquerade we learn
then live in darkest ignorance like worms…
as I discern
The only way I keep me from despair
is through the thought that nature has a way
of dredging out the river of the damned
which stains these groaning Lands. That is my hope…
from where I stand
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Dream-Filled Drawer [sonnet]
Opportunity hammers on the door
and waits in vain to see it swing ajar.
(Inside the room one scents a dream-filled drawer).
Must obsolete things stay the way they are?
That wooden entrance wouldn’t open free
for all the debris lying on the ground.
The blood poured from my bent and broken knee
and by its sanguine sourness hope was drowned.
It’s clear that there is only one small chance
to grasp a nettle by its wilting leaves —
a narrow window in the deathly dance
through which a weary body stumbly weaves.
Not satisfied to leave it all to fate
encamped upon that threshold I shall wait.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Autumn Gravestones [poem]
whispering sheaves of grass
hang gracefully over plains
of delicate earthen dirt
and I long
shimmering weaves of glass
shine forcefully under waves
of predicate heathen hurt
in my song
slithering grieves en masse
slide remorselessly at graves
of semicut seething spurt
ness so strong
shivering leaves alas
wake patiently outside frames
over deadweight breeding births
which go wrong
quivering breathe impasse
breaks vacantly into flames
while sensate wuthering works
won’t belong
withering wreathes amassed
make abundantly their vein
when heartrate shuddering jerks
cue the gong
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Skylark [sonnet]
O little bird! You are so frail and wan.
I caught your eye while waiting for the sun
to rise above the sea and burst upon
my withered soul. (The dance had just begun).
At last I understand your quirky flight —
the way you dart around in shadowed trees.
It’s clear you are a creature of the night;
your circumspection brings me to my knees.
Yet even though your wariness frustrates
(for never would I harm one precious wing)
my heart your siren song still captivates.
The day will come you’ll wear that missing ring.
If you would only settle in my tree
then soaring high and larksome I would be!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Tricorne [poem]
I wear a three-cornered hat.
Not by choice
for on my head it has been thrust
like a prickly crown of thorns;
never before has such a cap
by my sore head been worn.
But on my skull sits
this stereotype
a swashbuckling symbol
of piratonic fantasy
of 1700s military
colonial or pilgrim mode
take your pick
as you wander down the road
in that strange triangulation
into which I softly strode.
Quietly Wonderful [poem]
You are quietly wonderful;
I tell you so you know.
You have no need of accolades
praising fake parades with fanfares
blazing on a stage with prizes
given or a coach by well-groomed
horses driven
Each Poem is like a Snapshot of One Part of Reality
Each poem is like a snapshot of one part of reality. It is the truth but it is not the whole truth. It is like one facet of a diamond which, when it twinkles in the light, does not represent the entire gem. Therefore, any poem does not tell the whole story; it tells the part of the story which is the strongest and most relevant at the time. If one waits patiently, another part will come in another poem; and then a picture is formed – a picture which is always in formation. The poem is part of the eternal dance…
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 