Attitude [poem]
The other day you asked me what I meant
when (distinctly feeling somewhat spent)
I said that we could never be as one
because — to put it bluntly —
you have some thing running through your soul
right across the longtitude and latitude
(the breadth of our derisory domain)
which flies into the fleeting fading face of me:
your Attitude, to coin its proper name
The Cuckoo’s Strut [poem]
Loneliness increases exponentially
according to the vastness of the crowd
which is surrounding me.
A cast of thousands
sends me underground
while being with a carefully chosen few
still means that I just graciously withdrew
to lick my wounds
(which were extensive
notwithstanding
it may seem like nought to you
but my threshold for withstanding
seepage not appropriate to
[as it may well be judged by you]
the social situation’s light demands
is lower than my friends can understand).
Seldom what they Seem [sonnet]
Why does a Red-Backed Shrike have no red back
or Rush Hour move as slowly as a snail?
There is no tin in any tin can pack;
Danish Pastries do from Austria hail.
Peanuts are not nuts and blackboards can be
green or blue. Tear Gas is not gas in truth;
Guinea Pigs do not derive from Guinea;
Jellyfish are not really fish forsooth.
Descriptive terms can be so deceptive,
taking us off on a fantasy ride.
Always try to maintain the perspective
or fodder we’ll be for villainous guys.
In case you’re wond’ring what this sonnet means,
It says that things are seldom what they seem.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Escape Artist [poem]
squeeeeeeezing my way
down this slimy tube no
doubt about it it needs
no lube happening so
fast voices I hear two
of them I’ve heard
before the rest I
do not know I
figured that
the way to
be was
just go
with
the
Snow in May [poem]
Snow
in May!
In the fullness of the day!
I could forgive
a violent vigorous squall
or a wind which bent all
the slowly budding trees;
but a frostful freeze
in May?
I See no Ship! [poem]
You can lead a steed to water
but you cannot make it drink —
a testament to nonconformist beasts!
How strange it is that
(horses notwithstanding)
you can steer a human being
to the hugest pile of bullshit
and
regardless of the stench
the whole decaying heap
whatever the expense
will be by her devoured
Losing it [poem]
the Point which one can reach
when there is little left for which to live
is like a repulsive magnet
pulling you upanddown
in the costume of a clown
while policemen narrow their dragnet
It is a mindless moth and a candle
a superglued door handle
like heavily salted apple pie
the cigarette pack which says you’ll die
like throwing up and making love
at the same time
as you lose the key
to the postbox of your destiny
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Captive Phoenix [poem]
Do it how it’s always been done!
(that is, if you want to get along).
Never rock that stationary boat!
(that is, if you want to stay afloat).
[Stage direction: Pause…
while we wait for the strains
of a grovelling applause]
Fuck the rules, I say.
They aren’t really rules anyway.
Some fossilised turds
carve their ossified words
into pseudo-granite structures
which —
at any conjuncture
of history’s golden chain —
t h e y
decide should be
the
only
umbrella
in the rain.
Y?
Y do they ensure that?
& (more to the point)
Y do we accept it?
First questionanswer
is they covet control;
they know so well how
to harness a soul
(undo its uniqueness)
and blandify its goals.
Exploiting weakness
they carve out our roles
and render our works
into meaningless ‘wholes’.
Second questionanswer
is that we love to roll
over for them
like submissive little puppies
(artworld yuppies)
lying on our backs
while they stroke
our little egos
with their
platitude placebos.
It’s nothing new this
curbing of runaway minds
which threaten the grasp
of the wilfullly blind.
It’s all so smooth
and smartly designed
to ensure that the phoenix
which soars in the heavens
unfettered and free
will fail to reach home
where it harbours the key
to the fiery breath
of the treasureful depth
of the soaring blue sea.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Only a Dog [sonnet]
[This little sonnet pays tribute to all those who are mistreated because they are different – especially prisoners of conscience who are tortured, abused and even killed by government agencies]
He’s only a dog, said the withered voice,
speaking intoned in a dark monologue.
[Only means onesome, uniquely a dog;
meaning (in real terms) there isn’t a choice].
People often ask me
People often ask if my poems are about an actual person – especially if they have a love theme. They can be, but not always. Sometimes the words are a form of idealisation: I would love to be able to pin them on someone… but I can’t right now. Sometimes they are “words-in-waiting”, like a cloak waiting to be draped over some seemly shoulders, so I can finally say “This is to whom those words have always belonged”.
The Naked Troubadour 