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Best Poems Written by Sydney Morrison

Below are the all-time best Sydney Morrison poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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When There's Friends

when there’s friends hallucinations
dissipate when there’s friends you don’t have 
to start any revolutions when there’s friends
you get your mind off it you can walk for miles
get lost in your own city find concrete rivulets
to where the spokane stardust chalks our hands we 
leave handprints on the underpass like neolithics
and postcolonially we dance finding out that 
america cannot defeat us we leave fingerprints 
turning over our world whose beauty comes down 
in a blue rose quartz and the specters of the town 
begrudge us but we can’t mind their beady souls 
even environmental catastrophe subregisters 
when there’s friends.

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Rose Meadow

the grateful dead play
to soothe the drug-weary souls
who dance with roses on their heads
waiting for their madness to subside

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I Hear He's a Winner

massively the amazon passes under 
giant water lilies like a slow road
off this vein of the jungle a
Sateré-Mawé boy plunges his hand
into a glove made of bullet ants
to become a warrior. he will be
paralyzed and hallucinate for days.
his cousin is at the river, cutting
giant water lilies. She has never
worked a job, and never will. 
Faraway in Florida the man who
worked the job of president of 
Brazil, who has never and will
never do a warrior ceremony, 
fills his gut with factory
farmed beef, thinks himself a 
man. No concern for the Sateré-
Mawé when COVID found them, 
no concern when the chainsaws
come. “It’s a shame that the 
Brazilian cavalry hasn’t been 
as efficient as the Americans, 
who exterminated the Indians.”
(APRIL 12, 1998). Well let him
think that we are exterminated, 
so when he sees my Indian sister
in a pricey restaurant on the 30th
floor he dies of fright, her earrings 
tsentsak, psychic arrows that pierce 
his throat make him choke for he 
has seen a ghost.

I hear he's a winner Cash Prize Poetry Contest, Joe Maverick, 6/1/23

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Coffee By Yourself After a Long Trial

it's hazelnutty and hot
cream foams against glazed clay
where do you put your
anger at your past self
do you boil it away 
and let it rise like steam?

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Bug Dreamz

im gonna be a player lil bug
im gonna show them all how
you survive as a white indian
with authority and daddy issues 
i’m gonna be a rapper lil bug
they want you to be a sacred
thing, chaste and wise
but i defy them with my
thighs, i proclaim i 
will not be nunnified, 
princessified. i see myself in
pink slides with a diamond
anklet stepping on the white 
man’s asphalt to get down 
in a crowd of indians wearing
beads, my earrings drip with 
beads and i see the world is
beaded with particles I had to
claw my way back to my 
culture out of caucasian
confusion im gonna tell them 
all how you operate in capitalism 
you try your very best is what 
you do start a cooperative 
make your own sovereignty
in moneychanging life i will 
ignore the slaughterhouses
and the wars and attend my 
weekly psychedelic church 
gatherings and tend a garden 
which may inspire you to 
understand God and heaven, 
and there lil bug you can join me.

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Meditation On Sitka

alas, used to not be alaska 
but russia, yet the people remained
borders moving across them like 
the northern lights something you 
don't feel the roar of the ocean 
is nothing once at shore the numb
of the far north never reaches the 
bones of the sea lions the tlingit
language has yet not been extinguished
let us talk for a while yet in the 
sunset burning like embers and 
remember that a great blaze can 
be born from the smallest coal.

Details | Sydney Morrison Poem

Death of a Psychonaut

".... could not stop for death- he kindly topped for me-

               the carriage held just ourselves and immortality."   

                                    Quote by _ Emily Dickinson

all her life she followed the rabbit 
it was no picnic, much darkness was unfurled
and landed ships of horror on home shores
the more psychedelics she did, the more
she feared the other side in DMT she saw 
reptilians with horrible eyes, monsters
with no faces, bottomless pits, dimensions 
with no air she felt like she’d glimpsed 
hell on acid and feared it as she reached
old age. as death was washing away her
mind like waves, she was held to earth by 
jolts of fear, what nightmares could await 
her after her soul was severed? she knew 
there was no limit to the universe’s
imagination but when death carried her 
to the other side she looked around and 
saw that she was sober, and so was heaven.

5/31/23, Writing Challenge C Quotes, Constance La France

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Arachnimistakes

each one of my mistakes is 
a spider in a beautiful purse
i carry with me it’s pink as
all my mistakes have been 
so girly. the frenzies of 
youth left me with many 
regrets but my mistakes came 
from who i am those spiders 
crawled out of my heart 
the thing about spiders 
is each one can tell
a story, weave a web that 
shows the design of its soul
they weave webs of self-hate,
impulsivity, ego, coldness
but spiders don’t belong in
a bag, and so i say a prayer
and leave it in the field 
to be emptied by the stars
and i walk away.

Details | Sydney Morrison Poem

Tire Love - Driving Me Crazy

you’re driving my world on brakes
i’m basking in the frictionheat from
your tires as we make it up the 
hill to see the city laid out like
easter brunch electric guitar
streaks through the sky like 
an airplane burnt rubber and
cinnamon i watch you walk 
catastrophically the heat rising
warping the air like flames 
i see a vision of you in flames
like an angel of hell smiling
after heartbreak there is smoke
like we were just doing donuts
love is letting go as we spin 
out of control.

'Let Me Love You Baby,' 5/31/23, Robert James Liguori, Joe Bonamassa British Blues Explosion Poetry Contest

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Wounded Whisper

in america there are many mysteries 
not often mentioned by the public
there are beasts in the woods who aren’t 
animals otherworldly beings called skinwalkers
but if you don’t listen to native folklore you’d 
never know my friend was telling me a story
it was twilight and she was walking alone
through the woods and what she heard in the 
suspicious dusk was like the speech of a parrot
humanlike but so off and it said in a wounded
whisper ‘Help! Help!’ but so disgusted by the 
gravelly voice she took off running and only 
as she passed through her door did she look 
back to see two glinting eyes staring at her 
from the treeline. 

5/29/23, Wounded Whisper, Edward Ibeh