Ironing
I love ironing. It’s the only situation in the world where you can take something that looks like shit and transform it into something wonderful in less than five minutes!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Tarnished Lotus [poem]
Once upon a time,
a Golden Lotus nestled in
this throbbing heart of mine.
But over all the years of bloom
and fruits upon the vine,
so quietly it tarnished
and lost its pristine shine.
At first I didn’t notice
or feel the subtle shift;
equivalent geographically
to continental drift,
in which the surface stays the same:
until an earthquake happens,
there are no signs of risk.
Taking Crap from No One
My top New Year’s Resolution this year was to take crap from no one. If anyone gives me crap, plays silly games with me or messes me about, I simply walk away with a smile and a “so long, have fun”. So far, I kept it. I had to use it a few times already. Only thing is I end up sitting on a mountain-top all alone and contemplating my navel. There’s always a trade-off! 
😉
Oh You! [poem]
Oh you! whose religion is repression,
whose nakedness is anger,
whose politics is leave-your-mind-behind,
while wearing an indignant expression.
Oh you! whose nationality is frontiers;
Whose perfume is regret,
whose smorgasbord is Attitude Buffet
while sitting on myriad fears.
Oh you! whose face is made of rubber,
whose hobby is despair,
whose heart is like a weathercock
in foul and windy weather.
Oh you! whose hopes are a semi-colon,
whose energy is glue,
whose philosophy is “couldn’t-care-less”
so long as it suits you.
Cyrano de Bergerac
Cyrano de Bergerac, on hearing that Molière had stolen a scene from his play, said: “My life’s work has been to prompt others and be forgotten“. Too many untalented relics of mediocrity steal the limelight – often through plagiarism and clever PR – while the real geniuses remain in the shadows until they shuffle out of the world in obscurity. Such is greatness in this illusion-loving world.
When you are not Here [poem]
When you are not here, it is true:
that nothing else could take your place
that no one else could be your face.
But there are so many other things
which serve as temporary wings
to elevate my vexéd thoughts
and ease the stilted space marked ‘naught’
which hangs before my eager eyes
like an empty well of broken sighs.
Second Best [sonnet]
Advice: always settle for second best
Do not imagine you can find your dream
Reconcile yourself to being like the rest
Always compromise, non carpe diem
Cauterise your grand imagination
Rebuke yourself each time you think of She
Know you’ll never find that soul-vibration
Content yourself to be fulfilment-free
Till I Met You [song lyric]
Till I met you
I never wanted to fulfil
a woman’s every dream
to want to find solutions to
her every whim and scheme
Till I met you
I never thought that I could be
in someone’s company
and never want to be unhooked
and never to be free
Till I met you
I never talked on telephones
for timeless hours of woo
or till the battery faded out
whichever first came through
Till I met you
I never wished that I could be
forever by a side
I never wished my lover said
“when I become your bride”
Till I met you
I never had orgasmic waves
just looking in some eyes
or barely touching fingertips
(I swear I almost died)
[I will miss those timeless rides
to the moon and back again
Dazed that everything could die
With a dread dash from my pen]
Till I met you
I never thought that time would stand
as still as silent leaves
I never had a Golden Box
upon which hung two keys
Till I met you
I never saw a smile which burned
its way into my soul
while laughingly ensuring that
I never would grow old
Till I met you
I never thought that I would bring
an idyll to an end
but Ice Queen frolic freezer types
I’ll never comprehend
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Wordless Poem [sonnet]
I have no words. Well that is how it feels.
Yet here are lines of letters on the page
which make themselves the cruel shape of a cage,
imprisoning my heart and my ideals.
I am my own worst enemy. Too true!
But someone has to take the role or else
I can no longer satisfy myself
that I have protected my soul from you.
Bad Timing [poem]
Every
where I look
bad timing.
Every
thing I hear
unrhyming.
My jet thrust out of sync,
I took some time to think
how to manipulate the clock
back to its pristine state
so that all the angel-dusted
darknesses congregate
around the temporal lobe
without rubato’s rusted
rhythm’s pleated robe.
I hung on to the minute hand
as it clicked its way
around the moonly face.
If only I could make it go
the other way —
time’s steps retraced
When I reached
half-past the hour,
my hands slipped
from the metal ticker
I slid down from
that pompous tower;
the world thought
“He’s the worse for liquor”
That’s what happens when one tries
to bend the messy tracks of time.
For every moment has its place —
a look upon the clock’s stern face.
Ten-past ten, the plainest smirk.
Midnight, please do not disturb.
Half-past three, a gallows laden.
Twenty-past eight, crucified maiden.
Bending time to fit into our needs
demeans us and our giant ego feeds.
And so I wait for synchronicity
to work its signpost magic over me.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 