Alice Anne Gordon
Biography of Alice Anne Gordon
Alice Anne Gordon Poems
Summer song summer long summer sounds of summer throng
Leaves deepen to orange ember as twilight comes, sky drifts to smother the day, swaddling memories in soft pink clouds.
The Holy Whore Of Babylon
The Holy Whore of Babylon cries. Her plea, invection cast as lies. Prejudice awaits her toil, Propaganda spates her foil,
Blanket Of Ignorance
Blanket of ignorance start to unfold. Blindness has led me bold yet naïve, to this strange place where life is a woven web of lace.
A Reply... Men & Thir Habits (Scots)
Och Men! Ye canny live way thum Ye canny live without thum
Behind The Veil
Who is behind the veil, behind the veil? Who sees what others only think they feel?
Fear Of Gods, Fear Of Death
Epicurus states our responsibility. In all my meekness and volatility, irresolute am I to appear. But for him it was crystal clear
The Cupboard Under The Stairs
Dark devours the hurt, cradled under coats in the cusp of safety, far from prying ears a tear,
A To Zen
Always be an avid admirer of art Always blaspheme the blasted bigot Always count the calm caresses Always debate the damning defect of duty
In Pursuit Of Perfection
You can pray for perfection, But you’ll never find it. And it’s not because God’s not there. You can search for it,
Are dreams merely shadows of a self that is unknown? That break the body, mind and soul to energies unflown.
Dance With Me...
Dance with me, just once more. Dance with me and feel my heart beat. Hold me, make me safe, protect me from the music That staggers from beat to beat.
Masks slip, faces seen reveals a little of what's been. Keys fit, gates swing melodies of old sing.
I can hardly see you for all the tubes and monitors they’ve attached you to my little one. You look so frail and poorly. Oh how I wish I could hold you – but I can’t. Just hang in there, be strong for Daddy.
Pity The Woman
Sorrow and Pity the woman’s plight
From Blake’s image’ry, a lost fight.
Sorrow, for pity’s sake,
is wasted energies; unmake.
Change, round-turn; woman.
Pity the unfelt love of smite.
Lo, behold thee that might
become woman, free’d from lake,