ALAN MORRISON

 

Beyond All Human Law

 

Yes, it is so true, I look as if I keep it all together.

But if you only knew the real truth, you’d sense

that I am dangling at the frayed end of my tether.

There’s nothing left to keep it rigid — all as one.

The knots and hinges all have slipped undone!

And yet, so strangely, that is not a bind in any way,

but frees me from a life of gainless crime (for crime

is really merely when we miss the mark which brings

us back unto the sunlit Source which shaped us into

who we are & set us on our loneful lifetime course).

 

Unloosed from knots and hinges does not mean

that I become undone, unhinged, devoid of fun.

For, au contraire, instead of spending all my time

maintaining knots and oiling hinges — forever

wondering if they will or will not hold — I now am

(w)hol(l)y free to be both (k)notless and no longer

doomed 2 swing upon an axis never made by me

(though I was still complicit in its artless banditry).

 

I assumed that I must therefore say goodbye to life;

but I was only parting company with all my s[k]ins

and many other things which no more have a place

upon the path I’m treading now as nest-egg nothing

whispers soft to bits of me across a small divide

& everything inside me falls apart, remakes itself

into some (w)hol(l)y newsome thing I’ve never seen

or heard before, as now I’ve moved so far beyond

a life that’s governed by some just-for-fleshly laws.

 

For human laws are only made to govern those who,

through their disconnection with the Source of all,

rely on situation ethics (aka just make it up how you’ll

respond to moral quandaries, based on satisfying

ego’s urges, psychopathic surges and desires), only

will behave with righteousness if forced to do so by

authority, and only ever give priority to goodness,

love and selflessness if forced to do so under penalty

of monetary sanctions (fines), [ignoring all the ways

we were not made for this] or even death, if one is

tempted to undo the life of someone else through lack

of self-control, or satisfying want instead of vital need,

or envy, jealousy, revenge, hostility or plain old greed.

 

All that rotten old charade is fiercely overturned when

knots and hinges making us subordinate to human law

are ditched, undone, forsaken, cast aside and burned.

4 there R laws beyond all human laws, as I have found,

which do not [cannot] really have the name of “laws”;

reason being they originate outside this icy 3-D curve

and it is not so much they ‘govern’ us but that we fall

in tune with them quite naturally as soon as knots and

hinges have dissolved into the dust, as they deserve.

 

So now my axes (plural of the axis of a hinge, and not

a blade to chop up wood or whack off chickens’ heads)

are no more trapped, confined in rote predictability,

tied up in complex (k)nots of nothingness which only

serve to undermine compatibility with that which any

soul with half a heart with powerful conviction WEDS.

I speak once more here of that Source which glorily

transcends our (k)notty ropes and squeaky hinges &

which welcomes their denouement gleefully; for all

that Source desires to do is see us free, providing

pointers on the way, if we will dedicate ourselves &

enter through the gate that Source holds open, then

beyond all vestiges of every human law we’ll play.

 

Either what I’ve written here above will seem like

so much nonsense or like golden coloured blood

which, when it fills your veins, brings in a flood of

atavistic images which represent your journey out

of human-structured systems into paths beyond all

laws and stars (which only served to aggravate your

many scars) and if that’s true then have you realised

you don’t belong upon this globe of brokenness and

breakdowns [for the earth is just a coterie for clowns

to under learn exactly what it means to be alive].

 

Thus, you must desire to thrive,

then grasp the gearstick hard…

no more merely automatic transmission

or always needing others’ permission

no more merely seeking acquisition

and never escaping the foetal position

no more always eschewing erudition

and trading truth for supposition

or jilting Spirit’s great commission

while denying the need for retuition

wilfully ignoring your own decomposition.

 

To go beyond all human law means that the very

sparkofyou will never fade, for once that frayed

end of your tether snaps then, unafraid, the great

unravelling unwraps that latent ‘you’ which Source

has allocated to be radiantly revealed… on cue.

 

Nowhere Else To Go

(sonnet)

 

For countless desert years I searched in vain

and made my bed unconsciously in stone.

I never could my loneliness explain

and all my garden gates were overgrown.

 

In caves I sought my solace like a thief

who plunders from the far side of the sun;

I flirted with the fires of disbelief

avoiding love’s debris (that smoking gun).

 

Thus every time I thought I’d settled down —

(uncomfortable couches were my home

and troglodytic parlours proved my frown) —

I disillusioned was with where I roamed.

 

My foolish bolt hole choices all fell through

because I’d nowhere else to go but You.

 

I Will Not Bow Before Mere Flesh

 

One day, when I am asked to pledge allegiance to

another human being who is just like me, with flesh

and blood (even if he or she should claim themselves

to be a god), I will not do it. I’m going on the record now

[I swear by my right hand] to say these words so there

can be no vain confusing thoughts on where I stand.

 

I will not kiss his feet or hers, even though I may be

tortured by their underlings for years. I will not break

or be a fawning subject gifting them with wetless tears;

I could never give my worship to a woman or a man.

Even though they may do tricks which normally

no other can, I will not give obeisance to their form.

 

For that which should be worshipped never forces

subjects here to bow and scrape to follow every fiat

it would make. For reverence comes from freedom’s

heart spontaneously and that which rightly incites

awe has no need for compulsion’s whip or any

other facet of dictatorship to open Heaven’s Door.

 

Strands of brute control hang down from highness

manufactured with a gun and threats to everyone

and all their marionettes cavort chaotically imagining

they’re free in regulation overalls provided by the state

out of the ‘kindness’ of their legislative farts designed to

gas the mind and stench all wisdom from their hearts.

 

From long before I learned to walk and talk, I cut

the strings they made for me to wear — the ones

which pull me forward to prostrate myself before

some earthly snare in human shape — the types who

drape themselves in finery made to impress the hordes.

while secretly removing metaphorically their swords.

 

Thus, I’ll swear allegiance to no puppeteer of human kin.

I judge not people by their ornaments, regalia or robe

but who they are within and what they do to further Light

& love upon this strange but beautifully-fashioned globe.

The humble, honourable and oppressed I’ll gladly serve,

for those who aren’t do not my reverence deserve.

 

Despite these words, I’ll still to every soul entrust my love,

as duties such as those are obligated of us from the One above.

But that’s a far cry from the homage and obeisance which

the puffed-up apparatchiks of the state require. The man

called “Winston” never truly “loved Big Brother” — merely

idolized a non-existent effigy to fill the hole left by his mother.

 

And here we touch upon the crux of all unbalanced ways

that human beings, in their ignorance, relate to one another.

To bow and scrape before a woman, child, or man, displays

the sign of some dysfunction in the soul — the setting up

at some time early in one’s childhood of a dam so that one

can only play a role, instead of flowing growly as a whole.

 

The Rose Forever Sought

(sonnet)

 

“Have you seen my Rose?” said I, with strangled

vocal chords — my pleadingness distorted

by the criss-cross patterned veil which dangled

down around my face, my vision thwarted.

 

Why give me eyes and voice then hide my Rose

behind a shrouded whisperful disguise

I never asked to wear? But no one knows

and none can tell me where my Flower lies.

 

I threw myself in tatters to the ground,

full unaware who I was talking to.

At which a voice then trespassed with a sound

from heaven through my head to give a clue:

 

“The Rose you seek can only be enjoyed

when by distractions you’re no more decoyed.”

 

Dear Mr. Universe

 

Dear Mr. Universe, are You now mocking me

by thrusting forth a form before my failing eyes

that You already knew would mesmerise me as

the long envisioned countenance to galvanise

my dormant seeds reluctantly to spring to life

and turn from dark to light the course which

they had taken for perhaps 1000 years before

(or maybe You are testing out my readiness)

[I’ve watched with in-ter-est the sparkling trail]

but yet would now sprout leaves to no avail?

 

Dear Mr. Universe, I might have thought the timing

here is out... but I know better than to waddle

down that twisted road of wavering and doubt

within (I dream of when at night I shed my skin

like butterflies and snakes) [that’s all it takes to

change the present self to what was manifested

long ago before the Fall into disgrace, dis-grace.

We (so ignorant of life) think death is such

a tragedy (for ego is as ego does) then dress in

black & wear our sackcloth, ashes (metaphors)

when cause of death is merely changing trains,

exchanging craziness 4 other spheres more sane.

 

Dear Mr. Universe, forgive me for I just digressed

with talk of deathly things when I should rather

nightingalely sing to You of how that Form You

passed with brevity before my darkening eyes

to tease me (seeing whether I be wise enough

to gaze upon its splendour with my soul instead

of just my heart) has an aura made of untold cries

which never will be told (about how bright You are)

and where Your secret guides (which no one sees).

 

I mouthed Your sacred lair and wonder every day

If I can venture there; for where such sacred hides

is where I soonish long to lay [& so I say this prayer].

 

All poems © Copyright, Alan Morrison, 2022

 

ALAN MORRISON