That Sacred Day [sonnet]
When in those haunted corridors you hide
wherein you try to make another plane
the quest for truth can glibly be denied
and only fantasy and guile then reign.
You cast around to hear approving sounds
while compliments are lavished on your name
and fawning strains from courtiers abound —
just slivers from your broken mirror’s frame.
But, darling, let me whisper in your ear:
You need not confirmation’s bogus show;
for all the love to fast remove your fear
is right here in this starstruck Romeo.
I wait with patience till that sacred day
when all pretence dissolves and fades away.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Arcadian Streams [sonnet]
Will waterfalls of swell soon give me rest?
Or must I ever sink in lakes and streams
which run like blood that never coalesced
and flow from my red eyes’ Arcadian streams.
A swimmer’s arms I had — or so I thought —
until that deadly current washed my flesh;
and all my loving energies did thwart
when I was in its siren weeds enmeshed.
If only reaching hands would pull me clear
I’d fling myself up to those arms with fire.
We’d then be hurled into the stratosphere
evaporating seas with strong desire.
Although I yearn to drown in salty deeps
a dim and glimly hope from Lethe me keeps.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Law of Burdens [poem]
Every burden not picked up
at this stage on the road
if picked up later down the track
becomes a heavier load.
That’s a basic rule of life
which many do ignore;
and I myself have walked away
from weighty loads galore.
Tornness [sonnet]
Being apart is what tears us apart
and torn apart we spill ourselves to earth.
Kicking below on the ground broken hearts;
forgotten is the price that true love’s worth.
As ripped and shredded clothing flew around
disguises then emerged among the rags;
while masquerades which camouflage rebound
and in our hands were posies and white flags.
But even though that desolation reigned
for such brief time as our fool flesh allowed
continuance was never foreordained —
to tear us more we quickly disavowed.
If we will now abandon all our fears
the tornness of our love will heal through tears.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Outsider [sonnet]
Some people are destined to be alone.
Like it or not they wander through the earth
as flotsam at sea — kings without a throne.
Naked they stay as on their day of birth.
Preordained as pilgrims of the planet;
gathering wisdom from wounds which won’t heal.
Writing their runes on great slabs of granite;
secrets of heart to the world they reveal.
Yet even though they walk a rough-hewn road
and have no shelter from life’s raging storms
a dignity of sorts will be bestowed
to comfort them to live outside all norms.
On mountaintops (despite their scene remote)
they keep their equilibrium afloat.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
I Never Loved Like this Before [poem]
I never loved like this before.
Never been
first
a shooting star
and then
a globule on the floor.
Feelings all mixed up
and blackened and
wrapped around
barbed wire and
flattened and trampled
and strung out and
stretched into break point
with bounteous ardour
(but yet I confess that
I can’t live without her)
When you Said [poem]
When you said “I’m yours” I
never knew that, crouching on
all fours, I’d have to beg to know
the truth behind that clause
When you said you’re mine I
never saw, as one more in
your line, I’d soon receive
the lie which broke my spine
I am a Shadow [sonnet]
I am a shadow of my former self
dark
dangling
silhouetted
by a light
which screams
I love you
(I only sought to help)
but in the end
you faded
out
of
sight
My Poems
my poems chart my waters blue and green
blue for bruised and beaten – green for naive
in verse i point the way to where i’ve been
i wear my skipbeat heart upon my sleeve
© 2011, Alan Morrison
When Ladyes Lie [sonnet]
Those twisted words they fit not in your mouth
(those lips which I have kissed a thousand times).
It matters not if winds blow from the south —
when ladyes lie then nothing truly rhymes.
I held your hand and led you through the dark
and showed you vista visions wildly real.
We touched a vast divine and piercing spark
though something else that beauty did conceal.
For truth was trampled tritely in the dirt
as silver cords between us snapped in two.
I see its traces on my bloodstained shirt
and wonder what I’ll do with me and you.
I sit here in this strange grey morning light.
Could that, too, be, in truth, the dead of night?
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 