Volume XII – Book IV

Finding Your Niche…

Fitting In:
Poems on the Divide 
Between the Uniqueness  and the Non-Uniqueness 
of the Human Condition

N.K.Tointon

2005-2007

I dedicate this book to 

David and Marc…

and thank them for their many perceptive comments.

Preface

	To know your place. We are like books. But we also write own own futures… to some extent. Then luck steps in and decides if we get read or forgotten about; the latter -the eventual fate of all subjective things… Still, we must all leave some trace, even, if only the perpetuation of social customs reinforced a while longer through our traditional disposition, i.e. the mere force of habit. The problem of ‘place’ has caught my attention and is explored in a small number of poems in this latest book… it was my hope to write a few more on this theme… but other distractions took its place….

			 				           Noël Tointon, Sydney, 3.3.07.

The Jigsaw – To Find Your Niche

Must find your niche, O son,
You must set out to find your niche…

Was dad being ironic
Or just plain realistic?
Our surname no longer 
Proclaimed our ‘choice’ 
Of profession,
No longer found engraved
Upon the sweat of our forehead..!

Please meet Mr Baker and Chandler;
The friendly candlestick maker,
Mr Butcher or ‘Boucher’,
Mrs Thatcher in the hay,
We know who you are
Or… at least we once did..!

But what Mr Brown did or didn’t do
Is forever a mystery,
And how with Mr White, 
Mr Black and Mr Gray
One could discuss world history
Over a quiet coffee
I cannot say..?

And rumour has it 
Mr Hill and Mr Field
Were farming friends,
Found holding hands, 
Were seen at the country fair
Dancing a drunken reel
On the village green…

That Mr and Mrs Priest
Were suspected
Of not having wed the other…

A whole world
Was thrown into confusion…

Now we must find our niche,
As if a pre-shaped jigsaw piece,
But which puzzle, which play,
Which role should I find myself
Acting out today..?

Just trying to be authentic…

But ask “how real 
Is mere reflection..?”

Must find your niche, O son,
You must set out to find your niche…

And with reflexive groan 
That sudden moment sighed,
Could not censor
One long and hollow laugh…

In laughter… almost died…! (1)

Social Wrapping

Nothing, today, is allowed
To be what it seems…

In society there is too much wrapping…

Walking the dog after Xmas
I see this so evidently:
Brightly coloured papers,
Boxes of all shapes and sizes,
Dead pine tree tops still aromatic,
Some discarded with decorations,
Plastic ones too… along with crates
And packing foam for larger tvs;
A bonus gift no doubt given 
To family… and self…

Soon an avalanche of Xmas cards;
From kitsch to mini-works of art…

In society there is so much wrapping…

To fit in learn how to pack and pad
The appropriate gift…

That key to style 
Lies in presentation…

The gift should look like a gift,
An exchange between 
The gifter and giftee…

So learn to wrap,
To pack and pad,
Never present
A naked gift
Unless that be 
Your self, of(f) course…

In society there is not much wrapping…

Perhaps a curse 
Or thankful gift 
From the heavens:-
Your choice, alas…
Your choice..?! (2)

Myself, the Genetic Engineer

Take one ornate gloxinia bloom,
Place a wee sprig of jasmine 
Into its colourful bowl
And there you have it -
An engineered plant…
Just as you might find it one day
In a catalogue of genetic material
To be re-assembled 
By numbers…

A whole designer world
Will soon wait out there for us,  
So wonderful to behold…
Too wonderful to behold..?

There, I can seek a six foot six,
Blond-haired, intellectual son,
Or, perhaps an elegant daughter,
Perfectly shaped in care of home -
Just tick the boxes,
All mistakes cheerfully refunded..!

Alas, in this vision of the future
Would my parents have found me?

Sadly, I must think not…
Would nowt cherish the thought
That I was delivered by mail…
Chosen cheaply in some 
End of year fashionable sale...

So, with this thought in mind
Let me father my own children…

Even if they be no more to tell
Than a few strange poetic lines
Weirdly mewling… sick and pale…! (3)

My First DVD Short Feature Film

In bed the other day
Made my first DVD
Short feature film…
Before waking…

Could see myself behind 
The digital camera
Framing a sad woman,
Wrinkled, thick with make-up;
Aged by a make-up artist,
One nun who knew her trade…

Just above the frame 
Was dropped some yellow tears
Down upon her cheek,
Needlessly, I thought,
As she seemed to be
A perfect method actress…

All to the sound of a cheerful track
That went round and round
Like a merry-go-round
As if on gin… and speed…
Slightly slowing… then
Slightly picking up,
So… on and on, relentlessly,
Like this poor, sad woman…

A short feature,
An essay on falling,
The short sadness
Of human life,
A tale of loss
For this simple soul 
Would, every few paces,
Loose one more thing
Till she, herself,
Would too soon drop…

Abruptly, the music stopped,
The film had finished;
Its death - her death…
All said so symbolically…
Should win first prize,
But no short story…

Still, on awakening,
As if an echo traced,
Could hear that track
Throughout my busy day
Going onwards, forever on
As if an oval record…
As if on gin… and speed…
Making commentary
Upon my witless, stoic way…

C’est bizarre,
Ce n’est pas joli,
Mais, c’est la vie
Comme un film noir;
Et moi –  le star
N’est pas… mais oui, 
Mais non..?

Our spun life-span is sung
Like distant song
Bedded down in chorus,
Wrapped in comment
We too must sing…
Must sing along…? (4)

Sounds of the City

A thousand sights
And sounds of the city,
Lost and found,
Recycled,
Put down on paper.
A digital record,
Recited trash
Dumped into 
A mixed bag
For posterity… (5a)

A young man
In a sporty car,
The radio revved up,
Rapping his fingers
On the window’s edge…

I’m lean
And keen,
A mean
Machine,
A centre-fold,
A preaching man,
Obscenity,
You know what’s meant,
I’m heaven-sent.
I’m rough,
I’m tough,
And high on juice,
All puffed up,
Marshmallow man,
Real heavy,
I’m thick,
I’m quick,
You know what’s meant,
 I’m city rent… 

Still lost at the lights,
Hogging psychic space,
Then, thankfully, unstuck,
Now heading West… (5b)

New apartments 
Filled with yuppies
In goldfish bowls,
Along the side
The trendy pond
Emptied of fish
Has maple leaves
Floating past… (5c)

Upon the darkened street
A mobile makes it’s call:
Hello,
Yes, right,
Last night,
Y’ want the details… 
Thinking “no thanks”
Pass into a new street,
Walking the dog
Making comment
On each corner… (5d)

Under street lights
In high spirits
Two women talk,
Madly texting
At the same time,
Looking ready for the night,
And so expensive…

Waiting for a lift,
Headed for a party
Already arrived,
Horns honking,
Hey, you coming 
Yell their friends
On the other side… (5e)

An urban landscape,
Flecks of paint
Upon a concrete pond,
Rippling,
Never still,
A collage of colour,
Vivid language,
Out re-making 
A new dialect,
Never quite defined… (5f)

Bloody hell,
She’s a full-time 
Feeling groper, mate,
Boasts one lad
To the other
At their local, 
At the counter
Telling tall tales,
Spinning a yarn
More bubbles than froth,
Their voices hoarse
As they shout, shout
Above this croaking pond…
Bloody hell, mate,
She just took me,
There and then… 
The hoary details 
Gratefully lost,
Swallowed up
In sudden laughter 
From a table
Beside the bar… (5g)

	************

An old man, too ill for words,
Collecting his not yet delivered paper
Says hello in a passing sigh.
Chronic constipation 
Has left him too sore to stand,
Unable to sit;
Has taken to bed,
Nursing himself
With jugs of water,
Praying with each skeptical sip
For a longed for miracle.
Behind the door as it shuts
I hear him moaning say:
Ah, the joy of small mercies,
Those free things in life,
O earth, swallow me, eat me!
He shouts to his wife
Bumbling in the kitchen
I’m still bunged up!
While she, too embarrassed to speak,
Can hear her neighbours
Eat their Winter porridge,
In a grumbling hurry,
Already late… for work…
The morning rag
Finally found waiting for them
In its rounded slot
Upon the rusty fence
Beside the gate… (5h)

The trees have lost their leaves,
Lichens on the bark
Now find some sun,
Like two sleeping drunks 
Keeping each other company
In the small park
At the end of the street,
Their wine almost mulled
In its brown paper bag… (5i)

In the Salvo’s op shop
The golden throated voice
On the radio is forever
Warbling on from its cage:
I say, I say, I say this again,
Those foreign folk,
And you know who I mean,
Couldn’t run a chook shop,
They need help, read ‘real help’,
Lots of advice from professionals,
Real professionals,
Which reminds me…
I would like to plug…
All interspersed with 
Snippets of music,
Cultural muzak…
Like these artifacts on sale,
Nothing original,
Only recycled trivia,
Be it trash… or treasure… (5j)

Some bedraggled ferns 
On a shaded brick corner
Signal one more drought,
Only this clump now remain
To be wiped out, again,
Like last time… (5k)
The sky quickly darkens,
The traffic in the street
Starts to panic,
Wants to get home,
Put their feet up:
Through a car window,
A nice, young bloke
In his fashionable office suit 
And expensive tie
Shouts: shove it bitch,
I’ve still got fuckin’ work to do
When I get home,
Waving a mobile in his other hand;
The sleek laptop on the seat
Beside him… waiting… (5l)

	************

Cuckoos portend 
The rising sun
An hour too soon!
Beg to be shot;
Oh, if only 
I had a gun… (5m)

Its football fever
As crowds in red and white
March up the street
To the distant stadium.
Into this rabble 
Gamboling up a side-street
Two young gay guys, 
Sweetly holding hands,
Are suddenly overtaken
By the horror of their situation,
Gripping tightly
Find themselves
Refusing to let go.
Hey guys which team 
do y’ barrack for?
One burly fellow jokes.
The Swans of course
They both declaim
To cheers from all the crowd…
A raucous roar is heard:
Up the swans,
Up the swans…
You bet, they quietly said 
To each other... 
With a forgiving wink
As they safely crossed the street
To disappear from sight… (5n)

Jolly jonquils are sold in shops,
Wee lamps of burning butter bright 
That bless a truer start to year…
One month before happily found 
In Blue Mountains… with blossoms thick.
Suddenly, trousers disappear
In sea of shorts… and swimming trunks
And skin as white as icy snow
Soon deeply tanned a fleshy pink 
Under bright bulbs in solar lounge…
Now glasses dark hide shifting eyes
That measure well the bronzed talent
Left beached upon the sand below…
Sleek, stranded seals with wobbling whales
Upon a noisy surf all cast
To sing and dance in waves that come…
					and go… (5o)

	************

Parading purchases from Summer sales
Working mums in pink polyester
Amuse themselves with recent gossip 
Splashed across their latest mags…
 Doesn’t our Crowe look cute in hand-cuffs..?
 So, Mary, you do like that rough stuff, eh..?
 Lock me up with him any time, I say,
And me a decent married, woman..!
 Our Maggie’s a tramp and trollop,
Not worthy of a star like him… but what of Pitt...?
Is he in or out of circulation..? 
 I don’t know… we live our lives by proxy…
 Speak for yourself, y’ poxy tart...!
 Vicarious pleasure enjoyed without the pain..!
 Fuck philosophy, life today is hyperreal…
One long, fabulous commercial break 
Between shows on television..!
O Damn, damn, damn, forgot to buy 
Those dinners frozen on a tray..! (5p)
The hot, super-heated atmosphere
In here is thick with testosterone,
Oxcytocin, progesterone, 
Cigarette smoke, wine and beer,
The latest phrenomes, 
S(c)ent from Paris…
It time to party, party till y’ drop,
Be jolly, for now’s the season to be seen
Wearing something hot, something cool…
Brandish a swag of names,
Be seen wearing underwear
That correctly tags y’ social set…
This generation or that,
Make y’ self a commodity,
Be traded with a future,
Your stocks and bonds
Already packaged… 
Packed in plastic,
Already bought and sold…
Binned at end of year...
Before the next style 
Is racked and flogged,
Advertised, displayed,
Pronounced ‘ready to wear’..! (5q)

 So, what do you think,
Is she a virgin or a pro,
A lesbian or a vampire,
One tart out to eat y’...?
 Hey, I thinks she’s real nice…
You just don’t understand,
We want to wait, 
Don’t want to rush…
Build a life together…
 Hey, you only met her last night..!
A trial divorce already, eh..?
 Gee, you can see through me..?
Guess y’ right, didn’t seem too keen..?
 I know her, mate,
She flirted with me all night,
Had to look the other way…
Only jokin’, y’ love-sick cow,
And I know she likes y’,
She told her friend…
And over heard her…
They think y’ hot,
Should know better…
Owl..! (5r)

Take a ride on an evening ferry,
Just for the fun of it:
For wine - a packet of juice,
For bread - a spicy bun,
For company - the parade 
Of a thousand tongues,
If only they would speak 
And help me write
This silent poem..! (5s)

Today, every book is a ‘first edition’,
Duly signed on the cover
In this second hand shop…
Empty when opened,
Found as if sealed 
With kiss of death;
Screwed by high rent,
Bypassed by Net,
Not noted by novel folk
Listening to the celestial music
Of a thousand buzzing flies
With beating wings
And plaintive screams 
Passing for lovesick songs… (5t)

On the railway platform
Waiting for a delayed train
Heard friends talking:
O my God I’ve got a date,
He’s just texted me,
Brad’s his name…
He’s ok… had hoped it would be 
Ben, the Flowerpot Man,
Into designer plants…
Better say yes… make it six…
O my God, its now Ben,
Wants to go out at eight…
So what to say to Brad…
On no, its now gorgeous Ian,
Wants to meet me 
After work at ten…
Did I message Ben?
What did I say to Brad?
Should I see Ian?
A feast or a famine,
Always my fate…
Hey, my ugly sisters, 
Can I sell youse a date..?
I have the man for you,
Ben Afleck or Brad you know who,
Just joking..!
Could be serious..? (5u)

Films once had an intermission,
And the opera still has.
But why, would people go
If not to be seen?
The price of such an admission..?

In the atrium, thick with chorus,
I hear the question posed:
Is life more tragedy than comedy?
Voices quaint and antique
Mix with trendy accents
Rich with sitcom syntax,
Above the drone flit higher tones
Punctuated by booming basses…
And hollow laughter… echoing…

Alas, the moment conversation gets serious
The end’s announced in urgent clamoring;
Spectators returning to sit and watch 
Themselves by proxy… having paid to stay…

A thousand intervals in dreaming sleep
Before that final falling curtain call…
And to the sounds of your ovations made
From darkness just an empty stage is played… (5v)

You forget the Winter chills 
And moan and groan
Beside your hot Latin lover
Hogging all the bed;
Where sex is a sweaty affair
Just thinkin' of it…
For once you pray it doesn’t rain
For ten bloody minutes…
A tension headache
With flashy lightning 
All show and words,
Leaving a pregnant promise…
Without deliverance..! (5w)

 So what are you goin’ to do dis arvo?
 Go treat myself in Bondi Junction,
Go shoppin’ in air-conditioned splendour
In their super-centre…
 You must be jokin’ mate,
Don’t you mean watch the cricket
On telly in the pub next door..?
 Nope, have do some shoppin’…
Get it home delivered first
And then I’m allowed
To quench my thirst…
 Right on, see you at one..! (5x)

A slow, dying sun…
And the fun has just begun…
Lit smoke smouldering… (5y)

…but a city never dies,
Might lose a beat or two,
Slow to a rumbling murmur.
Take a walk on the rough side
And you will find it’s still alive,
Not missing the passing trick…
Ride to a bright-lit café
Where the strip still sips 
Weak tea or strong coffee
At two… at four…
With working breakfasts all day long…
Or, Oxford Street
Out bathing itself
In washing machine music:
Stomp, stomp, stamp, stamp, dancing eight/eight…
But hey, let y’ hair go
Y’ bald-headed eagle…
Pommie bastard..?
Hear a thousand tongues
And twisted accents
Hover upon the heavy air,
A churning, hissing caldron 
Of linguistic lust…
This city  - “the winner…”
A spinner of dreams,
A leveler of luck,
Yet a divider… 
In terms of wealth…
Still, it has a life of its own,
Just one, big… koala bear 
Out to embrace you,
If you care to stay…
Eat shoots and leaves
In the right restaurant 
That matches y’ purse… wallet,
So… mate, cobber, digger… 
Put your head down
On a pillow of feathers
Or one stuffed with flock or foam,
Drive the kangaroo of fortune
As princess or clown,
As pauper or postmodern man… 
Ride its tail, fly in its pouch…
Sail past… by jockey
That knows this town,
Find souls who want to know 
That true blue you,
Know whom you should sleep with
And when to stay awake,
When to take a diplomatic holiday,
Avoid the smiling fake:
That shimmering image
That skims the surface of the night…
Out there hiding in its hollows
There is a world of substance,
A realm of inner light…. 
Find the villages in this small town
And you will find
Things might just be… alright..?! (5z)

	************

Terrorism from the Terraces

Some time ago unknown
Began this blight,
And then New York,
Yesterday it was London,
On the underground -
Where next, when next?
What next.?!

I catch a train 
To the North Shore;
Find one seat left,
Beside young guy
With straight black hair,
And olive complexion
With large back-back
Upon the floor, 
To the side of him.
He looks composed,
No signs of stress…
Or imminent 
Deconstruction?
But how do you tell
When if so deluded 
They think it no sin
To self explode
In hapless crowd?

Moments later
On seat make self
More comfortable,
And gently nudge 
That big backpack
A few inches
Away from my leg…

It floats across the floor 
Like an empty balloon;
Must contain no more 
Than change of clothes,
Perhaps overalls,
A few things for the wash..? (6a)

A bloody sun 
Sets darkened scene:
On busy street
To siren sounds;
Am wondering if 
The trains still run,
Would bus be safe?
Might streets be clogged,
No tracks delayed?

For once am pleased
To simply see 
An accident -
Pedestrian, 
Thankfully, fine;
Recovered now…

"It’s just not cricket,
Can’t they wave a green flag,
Chant God is great
And count to one hundred…" (6b)

So they want a caliphate,
From Baghdad to Morocco;
Like the ancient one.
But empires are won by sword
And lost by penned dissension…
If they don’t agree now
On its true dimensions
What hope have they
Of winning it 
On a piece of paper..?

So they want a caliphate,
From Baghdad to Morocco;
In itself that’s no problem…
The Europeans have 
Their Common Market,
The Americans 
Their United States, 
And NAFTA…

So they want a caliphate,
From Baghdad to Morocco;
A modern state,
Prosperous and economic,
A beacon from the past,
And that, alas, can only be
Democratic..!

Not something worth
Blowing yourself up?
Or, maybe that’s the case,
Even fought for?
From Baghdad to Morocco 
A postmodern Caliphate
Connected by Internet,
Decided by ballot…
Not by bombs, and, 
Not by bullets…
Voted for… not vetoed..! (6c)

Terrorism from the terraces -
A thousand neighbours party,
Heard arguing, fighting,
Just playing loud music,
Out imagining they make 
The perfect DJ.
It’s late at night, 
Indeed, it’s morning,
If only I had a bomb
To shut this noisy suburb up..! 
Gratefully, others think the same
And curse the wayward few…
The heated Summer air 
Soon quickly cooling… (6f)

The corner store is run by an Iraqi,
The cleanest place in town,
Everything is priced, 
Potted plants outside,
Seen smoking at the door…
If only the hot-headed-men
In this hardworking world
Would just quietly… disappear…. (6e)

I worry that the Police might think
I am a terrorist
Because they think I am a terrorist.
But I’m not a terrorist
Because I know 
I’m not a terrorist,
Still, I am terrified
That they might think I am
Because they may think I think 
Thoughts like a terrorist.
If someone thinks 
Someone is a terrorist
They should let the Police know.
Therefore, I think I should 
Hand myself in first.
I even believe my girlfriend 
Is an undercover Policewoman
Ready to hand me in…
Because they think I think thoughts
Like a terrorist might think…
And think your thoughts
That I might just be…
My shoulder bag
Is not a bomb!
I am truly terrified…
Just please don’t shoot me
When I try to flee…! (6f)

	************

From Grassy Knoll

Within a dream
From grassy knoll
I’m looking down 
Upon a town.
Salty breezes 
Delight the air
With subtle smells 
Of sea and sand…

There tall, with friend,
My neighbours’s son,
Thin in figure, 
With tussock hair,
So sprite like grass
On distant dunes.
No easy lad,
No mobile, none;
Disdains the box,
Has email friends,
Knows how to search
And when to chat
Beyond the screen,
Without a room.
Prefers to mix 
And match a day
In real time won. 
Walks past arcades
With modern games
That strip the cash
From small pockets.
Prefers good books,
Often classic,
Or factual tomes,
Before the bells 
On vasity tower
Sound midnight sleep.
Whilst good at tests
Prefers to pass
Spare time with friend,
His best of mates…

Leave distractions
Behind for mugs
Who blindly chase
A virtual world,
Those things less real…

Enjoy sunsets;
Detect comets
In the pre-dawn;
Beneath the sky
One inky night
Your wonder share;
In heated noon
Together watch
The glassy sea
From tops of cliff…

Within a dream
From grassy knoll
I’m looking down 
Upon a town,
Re-live my youth,
As if today….

Variations,
Nothing changes –
Only a world
Just rearranged…! (7)

A Well-Weathered Landscape

The weather's playing games:
Rain only hinted at,
A sun for hide and seek,
With willful winds that gust…
Most unexpectedly…

No showers for six weeks
Yet still these waterfalls
With a rush rumble down 
The sharp sandstone sides 
Of those Katoomba cliffs;
Deep, dark, impressive drops
Painted in with white ink,
Squirted, liquid icing
Splashed across a canvas
Of dry, crusty rock-sponge
Layered like pastries piled
One upon another…

Lichened boulders the size
Of houses thick with moss
Have fallen like grey cubes
Of sugar flicked by gods
From table tops above,
Make the Leura Forest
An eerie, sacred place - 
A site for pilgrimage…

Sounds of lyre birds are seen
Scratching through brittle leaves;
Whilst orchestral notes
Are sung from distant tops
Of trees in foliage veiled… 

Trekking is thirsty work
And trust a secret spring
Will fill my hands out-cupped
With taste of sweet water…
Re-find this faithful stream -
Pure silver, pencil-thin,
Falling through roof of niche… 
To sink within same rock…
Inset so close to steps 
That meet those Three Sisters…
Yet not to be noticed, 
Drunk by mere sight see-ers…

Alas, now find my knees
Are stiff and sore from age,
And take the chance my walk
Once more returns myself
To bright-lit world above…

Now ravaged by sheer time,
A well-weathered landscape
That I be, that I am,
And hope kind fate is true 
To name before this rock,
This speck of gathered dust,
In turn, be set adrift…
Must stumble, tumble down…? (8)

A Cycle of Seven Songs

How Bright I Find Your Two Eyes

Twinkle, twinkle little stars
How bright I find your two eyes
Seen from afar…

Twinkling, twinkling, diamond cuts,
Unspoken caught thoughts too shy
To part those lips…

Sparkle, sparkle O mirror
To my shaken soul swift struck
By your seen glance…

Winking, winking rays of light,
Spear me, spare me not this chance
To know your name…

Twinkle, twinkle little stars,
How I wonder who we are
To keenly drink
From this overflowing glass…
So deeply drunk..?! (9a)

O Love

O Love you play me for the fool
In this skilful card game called life…

O Love you pluck me like a lute
In this sad serenade of fate…

O Love you pull me in by reel
As if a fish upon your rod…

O Love you ply your hunting trade,
Have me caught in your unseen net…

O Love impale me if you wish,
But you must… must catch me first…

Ha, ha… 						

O Love be impaled if you must,
But must you…must you catch me first.?!

Ahh…! (9b)					(‘anguished resignation’)

O Charm Me With Your Wit

O charm me with your wit,
O lover, lover boy,
Tonight I am here to be laid
Like a coffin in your tomb.
You did say drop in,
Little did I know 
You meant just that…

O wise me with your wit,
O lover, lover boy,
Tonight I am here to be flayed.
You did say drop by,
Little did I know
You meant just that… just that…

O kiss me with your lips,
O lover, lover boy,
Tonight I am here to be played
Like shapes chasing shadows.
You did say come by,
Little did I know 
You meant what you said…

Wanted me to stay…! (9c)

We lie… And Wait

Here before the other 
We lie… and wait 
For death to come again;
One long, last kiss is had
Before sly sleep must steal
Across this spider-like toy
All tangled and entwined 
With four legs and four arms…
Just me… and my boy…

For so it seems to self,
Short-sighted as I am,
This lofty lad can’t count
And I cannot subtract…

Here before the other 
We lie… and wait 
For drifting time to part;
One last, long kiss is had,
Find morning sun has left
Its bed with hearty laugh
Singing faint songs of love,
With birds and sighs of wind…
With parting promise made…

       *

Here before the mobile
I lie… and wait
For an overseas call 
To sound softly upon 
My pillow half asleep…

One message later found…
“I miss you, and kiss you 
Goodnight… its midday here
No longer can we sleep
Together the same hour;
Have passed all my exams,
Can call me doctor now..!”

And before his pillow
I lie… and wait 
For death to come at last;
Transcend that final kiss
Before distant time seals
My longing thoughts from him…
With our cell-phones in hand,
We bid a fond good-bye…
“I still miss you” we say…
Know naught else need be said…. (9d)

I Must Thank God

(For him, and me,)
By passing chance,
By secret glance,
I must thank God
For distraction, 
His creation,
A simple smile,
Without denial,
Finding pleasure
And the leisure,
To well enjoy
These works of man…. (9e)

Thinking I Still Miss You

Lonely, Oh so lonely,
Deep in depths of the night,
In darkness with a heart
Beating like breakers rolled
On beach bleached white with grief,
Faded, froth hollowed foam,
Sinking, downward lapping,
On shore, between the tide,
No more, this way or that,
On pause, feel emptiness…

Downstairs, the answer phone 
Rings out faintly four times,
Manly and masterful
A familiar voice unwinds…
“Miss you, I miss you still,
My lovers gone to work
Am all alone in bed
With flu, am better now,
Love to chat and catch up…”

Singing sweet songs of life,
Lovers are never lost,
The chambers of the heart
Are oceans of delight,
Waves are murmuring still,
Rough whipped up in breezes
Of thought in profound play.
Desire that desires not
Knows neither life nor love,
Knows no goal nor God,
Idol none, nor angel,
Meets no soul, no soul, none…

And there death has no edge
For life’s to be well sung,
With fond, fond absences;
Love is without measure,
Never a filled pleasure,
Only a sorrow hung
Upside down, turned around,
Suspended on a ledge…
A simple hollow found,
Out walking side by side,
Singing whilst hand in hand,
A single, sighing band…
Promising no more than -
“I miss you” for a pledge…. (9f)

A Meditation

O Lord…

Upon his lovely face
I have meditated,
Well do I know those cracks
And wrinkled crevasses,
Each transient pimple,
Each faulted flaw gladly 
Had, he’s no gilded bronze,
Nor graceful marbled statue
Stuck dumb upon a stand.
Such tells me loud this boy’s
No god or devil cast
But somewhere in between,
A creation made for sport,
And in my loving you 
Now see thy golden face
In all mankind displayed.
His lips, his eyes, his nose…
His smile, his sigh, his laugh…
And in them too see me
Now forever happy 
To meditate… upon thee…

Amen…. (9g)

	************

Lost Souls

If with wings we would them fly,
As creatures to some party,
Well we may know where and when
Just never the reason why..!

…under street-lamps playful moths,
Above the pavement, practise
Repeated flight manoeuvres
With the suicidal bulb,
No bare flames to address them,
Make them wise with painful stings,
Redirect this waste of time…

Waltzing particles of dust,
Bright-lit motes of flashing spite,
Wandering this way or that,
Lost souls of the day and night…

…a Friday evening now turns
Into a Saturday wake -
A long, hung-over morning;
Charon’s boat at the crossing
Almost needed to ferry
The living-dead in safety
Across waking Oxford Street…

Dancing bodies oiled with lust,
Dimmed wicks of light laughter loud,
Flickering steps at random,
Sleep-walkers with vision soured…

…throughout Sunday afternoon
Café crowds sip their lattes,
Discuss the dismal weather,
Take the temperature found
In that week of Politics,
Re-assess who’s in, who’s out,
Dissect the state of marriage…

Broken as a fallen cup,
Happiness cannot be drunk…
Without some real direction
We return from whence we slunk…

…to the table drifted by
A mad-man burning with hate
Ready to explode… blasting
His hurtful, headless torso
Out into that blinking mob
Now too deaf to speak out, rough
Curse this monster to his face..!

All of us be shattered souls,
Must witness our dreams expire,
Without knowing reason why
We dance as spectres of desire…. (10)

Twelve Songs on the Theme of Loss and Absence
 
Would today’s rain
Wash away our tears,
A child was born
But what was given 
Was quick kidnapped 
By the cold hand 
Of uncaring death…

Like a fallen egg
His thin shell broke,
Without first cry
He had no home
Upon this damp earth,
His last breath sounded
Without a sigh… (11a)

Grey skies, three days drizzle,
Hardly relenting,
Wind-bashed rain drops, 
A softly drumming, play
Upon the roofing tin;
The grass - a sodden hell.
Through the window
My poor heart yearns 
For the deeper blue light 
Of a heated summer,
And the sweeter smell 
Of fresh-cut hay…. (11b)

In the city steeped with traffic
No point going to bed yet,
Living on a main road sounds 
Like an angry beach in times of flood…
Must imagine instead the warm surge
Of some tropical surf… ah…! (11c)

Such a good-looking boy,
Someone who read the book,
A light read filled with heavy angst
For those souls trapped in life…

Such a good-looking youth,
Fine in features hinting 
A subtle tan, himself, 
In genre, quite a mystery…

Such a good-looking man,
Perhaps soon passing thirty,
And we asked him, over coffee,
What work, what trade he had..?

“Just pots and pans” he said,
“Its rhyming slang, and so, 
Good folks, what worried Turk 
Has you well-clothed and fed…?” (11d)

I could not sleep,
And now the living cuckoo clock
Keeps me awake
Without disturbing
My sleeping lover,
Alas…. (11e)

In the sunset I dream of day,
In the dawn I yearn for darkness,
In Winter long for days of sun,
In Summer pine for icy winds;
Am I happy, never content?
Thankfully, time changes all things…! (11f)

I am too young to die just yet,
I’m only sixty-six,
As a pensioner just begun,
Without work have all the time
To think of what to do, do next.
But just what, what’s to do?
Am missing it, my name
Upon the office door,
That sense of purpose,
Although your efforts 
Made little difference,
Flirting with fellow staff,
Dreaming of an affair…
When now I’m out to lunch…
Every bloody day of the year…! (11g)

An extra thousand dollars in the bank would be nice,
Take that trip back to the motherland…
An extra ten thousand would be even greater,
Refit that tired old bathroom…
Gee, a spare one hundred thousand
Would make for a wonderful start, a new direction…
Thankfully, however, I cut my cloth
In accordance with my accounts…
Have enough to buy a shroud,
Rent a room in someone else’s tomb…! (11h)

No need a gambler be,
Life’s already a lottery,
Your friend’s made a million
Yet mother’s got cancer of the womb,
At ninety-two she now has
Not much longer to live…. (11i)

“You annoy me” he said,
“Need to find someone better bred”
Wagging his finger in her face,
“I deserve a finer woman to dance
Beside my grave…” “so what’s keeping you”
Said she… and together they madly laughed,
Content to keep what precious little they had…. (11j)

Walking upon the sand, kicking rubbish;
He was there yesterday… but now he’s gone,
My last lover has finally left me…
Upon this beach the tide has yet to turn,
O would that fate could treat ourselves the same…? (11k)

For there’s a time to sleep
And there’s a time to die,
Even the dripping of a rusty tap
Must find a day to dry…
Drip, drip, drip… drop…. (11l)

	************

Our Mythology

So, mate, who or what inspires you?
Do mythological characters
Beckon, talk to you,
Bounce along your horizon…
Have you transfixed, transfused,
Cop a new persona,
Transplant that longed for make-over..?

He was tight with his money,
Just a short black, no cake,
And a pot of tea for his honey…

And by Dickens they could call him 
Scrooge McDuck…
Working hard to save and pay off
That second block of flats..!

Walking hither and thither,
Touring markets once a month
This big time collector,
Never finding the perfect bargain…

So obsessive, so self-possessed,
Our Sisyphus rolling stones 
Up that proverbial mountain,
Whilst a mound of deep debt
Has him fall backwards
Into the glen…

With a hey and a ho,
This social butterfly
Forever smiles
Even in the midst of grief…

Such a monarch before all men,
Wouldn’t the Lord of Lords weep too
When woes of fickle world 
Crashed down upon him one by one,
Tested this modern Job..?

He tried his hand at everything,
The very, very image of a Renaissance man,
With a finger in every pot,
The very, very pretence of someone
Quite divine…

A new language every month,
Not one fluidly spoken,
Only able to give directions
To the tourists on the bus 
Who preferred to speak back to him
In a perfected English tongue…

Here’s to Earth and here’s to Heaven,
And here’s hoping to understand
Ten thousand things in between…

Such an illusion is this dream… 
‘Twas a scholar who didn’t notice
With his head bowed before a book
That the band went past
Playing his favourite song…

…a tale told by an idiot,
Threaded with myths
Too numerous,
Too confused to count,
Best laughed at,
As if you could be Adonis,
Superman, Jesus Christ
And Buddha all rolled into one…

So… with sense of humour
Turn these figures into comedy,
Laugh and listen, be ready 
To hear your favourite band 
When, proudly, it goes past..!

E’very moment taken to heart… 
Only finding what’s found to hand…! (12)

Twelve Songs on the Themes of Excess and Success

(Titles not to be Announced, 
The Voices Alternating between Male and Female Respectively)

(An Unsuccessful Businessman)

I planned a loss
For purposes of tax
And that company boss
Struck oil so to speak,
Made me more rich,
On a stock market bubble,
And I chose to fail.
Nothing I do is right
For the price collapsed
After I sold out
And gave the Tax Office
Millions more from the sale..? (13a)

(The Professional)

Once when I laughed it hurt,
Now it hurts when I laugh…
All the way to the bank…

Once so many customers, 
Was blessed with good looks,
A flexible attitude
And the gift of the gab…
Switching abundance
For a realm of quality,
Finding pots of gold
In artful refinement,
Giving satisfaction,
Taking deep pleasure 
In the task well-done…

Once when I laughed it hurt,
Now it hurts when I laugh…
All the way to the bank… (13b)

(The Film Producer)

I made a film
About gangsters,
Too successful by far,
Was told to sell 
The rights before
‘I broke my leg’,
‘Had a ghastly 
Accident’, and…
You knew what’s meant,
Finding the real
Imitating…
This artful craft… (13c)

(That Bitch Who Won Lotto)

God must love that bitch
Who won lotto,
A right, royal pain,
And thankfully 
She went up-market,
To find, annoy
A new set of friends,
Who welcomed her…

God must love that bitch
Who won lotto,
And, thankfully, 
I have to say, 
She did us all
A great favour
For we’re now richer
In her sad loss… (13d)

(The Unstoppable Novelist)

He wrote and could not stop,
This unstoppable novelist,
First the book would be,
Then with worked-out sequel,
Becoming a grand trilogy, 
And thence a veritable saga…
When the market for such
Moved on, alas,  
So fickle is this fashion 
For more finite things…
Yet, death would resurrect
His project… left… unfinished… 
Yet felt… almost… complete… (13e)

(The Farmer’s Wife Had ‘Twins’)

Either feast or famine…
And visited by the friendly vet,
Her husband out of town
At the Spring-time Show,
Mary O’Reilly,
The farmer’s wife, had twins,
Indeed, two sets of two,
This wintry night would fall…
Wee bleating lambs 
As white as snow…
And… wherever 
She went the vet
Was sure to follow… (13f)

(A Collection of Records)

A good collection
Of old records,
Full fifty feet
This beast would stretch,
Gathering dust
On antique shelves,
Sagging with weight
Like the monster,
Loch Ness, no less…
Unheard, unseen
In the darkness…
Quietly turning… (13g)

(Sipping One Gin after Another)

Sipping one gin 
After another,
With heavy breath
And horsy laughter,
The Maitre D’ 
Would introduce 
The bright, young stud
To married ladies  
…just to see…
If hot blood still runs
In icy veins
When tempted with 
A stiff snifter… 
To pick one up..?
A quick entrée 
Or late supper…
Served on fresh sheets
Of white linen..?
Or, just a bowl
Of sweet cherries;
Discreet nibbles…
Slowly hovering 
Between full lips
A bright lip-stick red…
Silently shaping
Magical words… like ‘…’ (13h)

(The Would-Be Priest)

He prayed every day
Until his life became
One long prayer…

But the church would not
Let him enter…

“So gentle, so camp… so gay…”

That mother church would fear
He would prey… on boys…

But he forgave them…

“Forgive my sins 
And forgive those 
Who sin against me,
They know not who they are
Nor who I be,
For in thy Kingdom
We are all children
Breaking bread 
And being fed…
By thy hand… alone… 
Amen…” (13i)

(So Successful Was She in Life…)

So successful 
Was she in life…
The perfect student 
In kindergarten,
All A’s in school,
A double major,
Then a doctorate
Without bother…
To then become…
A mere gardener..!
Content to weed 
And timely water,
Prune awkward branches…
…and mindless sweep
A simple path… (13j)

(The Name Dropper Extraordinaire)

This guy could not breathe 
Without dropping some name or other…

And got invited to all the better parties…

“I was with so-and-so on his yacht…
And did dine with Lady Martha…
That great star Brad did share some tips
With me over wine…
Got out of General Motors
And invested in Toyota…”

And between the cognoscenti 
All our eyebrows would 
Twitch this way and that…
Trying ever so hard 
To muffle one more laugh
Behind his back…
Our unpaid, stand-up comic
So unaware that 
His one claim to fame
Was the simple fact…
He was always 
So true to form… (13k) 

(The Virgin)

All my life I led in chastity,
Remained a virgin for the Lord…

Until I lost my faith…

Fell in love with Phil
Whose gentle wit and wiles
Did pierce my sides
And rent this curtain
From side to side
And left me quaking
And bride… in all but name…

“I love my Phil
And Phil loves me…”

And Phil did love his filly…
Until… one plus one
Alas, made three…. (13)

	************

The Botanical Gardens on Mt Tomah

Through the patchy mist loomed
Strangely familiar thorny-edged flax trees
With telephone pole-like stems
Stacked with sapphire flowers -
But discover giant bromeliads from
The climes of Southern Chile…
Specimens of high-altitude flora
Abound upon ‘islands’ traced out
Between the curves and loops of paths…
Instantly recognize the manuka bush…
Planted in a grove… scraggly in shape,
Twisted in limb, thick and hairy,
Peeling back a paper-thin bark for skin…
A sighing twinge, empty and eerie,
No bell-like song-birds here are heard…
More absences… than pure presence…
Mere tokens from a ‘foreign’ landscape;
Felt in a wave of detached belonging:
Recall the sharp, fragrant, steel-blue smoke 
Of scout-camps, the damp smell of its fire-wood,
And floury feel of the straighter branches 
Used as walking sticks and posts…
In a draught from the past re-taste
Its honey in those few sweet gentle drops
Used to flavour strong cups of jasmine tea…
As if just had… a thousand miles away…. (14)
Shopping in the Workers’ Paradise

Post Boxing Day madness,
Shopping till you drop,
Hunting for bargains
In the workers’ paradise…

Try the mall in Bondi Junction,
Take the escalator to ecstasy,
Observe those happy faces,
All smiles and laughter…. (15) 

Is There No Poetry..?

Is there no poetry in a dull, gray sky, 
No black and white reality, no real colour..?
All limp and lifeless, damp landscapes of mind
Bereft of fragile hope, forlorn, filled with vivid absence…

Oh, its starts, simple enough, with a flicker…
Or flash of white lightening; a bang or whimper,
A single spark made on contact that, somehow,
Feeds a feeble flame, twins two candles in a darkened room…

Anon, a fierce bush-fire is fast roaring along,
Such heat bare contained between four hills; 
Inspired to wander, picnic on the grass;
Hands softly held beneath the shadows of an untouched screen…

Remember, remember that first kiss in November…
The next month a blurred memory quite forgot,
Although that park seat still a sacred place
Where we did watch the silent neon night… and spoke… alone…

But, sadly, what is made is made to come undone:
A knitted jersey; with two sleeves needing soon
A patch upon the elbow placed, the waist fraying…
Threads unwound, faded, then, no more fit to wear, cast away…

Still, there is a story in this dull, gray sky here -
Steel sharp mirror to my once forsaken soul;
One cheerless fact… I no longer mourn,
No longer be an empty chalice filled with bitter song…. (16)

Such Style

On the cover of a home and lifestyle magazine,
A furnished room to die for… or so it seemed:
An André-Charles Boulle desk
With perfect ormolu faces above the legs,
Not placed straight against the wall
And perhaps not much change 
From twenty thousand.
Upon its top a lamp with figures
About an ornate architectural plinth
Swept up, overcast by a can of beige fabric
With token lace trim above its lower lip
Looking slightly disheveled. 
Illuminated by same beacon a small oil picture,
Probably a still-life… reflecting beneath it
A cup of tea, with saucer, left resting upon a book...

Such style, such panache, so sensitive…

Huge double doors opened back, 
Not completely pushed against the wall,
The glass panel framing a tall oblong fabric,
With one more awkward chair pushed out in front…
Two steps downward takes one to the foyer,
Beside the stairs a pedestal thick with fabric
Flowing to the floor topped with an urn 
Filled with red, blue and white flowers…
Just waiting to be toppled, before too long…
Another entrance to one more reception room,
Bare back of couch just seen inside the arched doorway…

Such style, such panache, so sensitive…

Within the main salon, chairs, from different periods,
Disposed without conversation…
To the side of one, facing the steps, in the middle,
A small wine table with glass of white
Accompanied by a large teacup and teapot seated on napkin;
Obviously drunk straight and black…

Such style, such panache, so sensitive…

Plain carpets, plain curtains the same in shade,
Wall-paper without pattern in a pale pastel tone,
A medley of contrasting cushions in various tints
And floral swirls, placed as if at random… 
So like the scattered chairs… such shame, a room 
I would not want to be found dead within..!

	Beware the wise and expert seer
Who points to style as if veneer,
	Be found those balanced depths more deep
	For what you sow alone shall reap…! (17)

An Inner Landscape as Seen from the Blue Mountain’s Train

Through the mist a big hoouse above the glen,
Looking Scottish in the dull and dismal air
Until a burst of sunlight lit the eucalypts…
Metaphorically… unlike a bolt of recent thunder… (a)

He loved his shed,
Quite the handyman,
Pottering around
With things to fix…
Having forgotten till today 
That the roof leaked
Like a rusty sieve… (b)

A lone walker
Trudging home,
A world of work
Upon his shoulders,
Doing overtime
Without the pay… (c) 

In the valley below
Unseen, but seen by me,
Lurks a waterfall;
Frequented by fairies… (d)

In the woods today…
Despite the pouring rain
The picnic spot
Is well-attended
By parked cars…
Watched by an old man
Through the window
Of an empty train;
Eating sandwiches,
With crumbs upon 
His thin, white beard… (e)

How drab the house
Without some trees,
Fortunately 
The birds came to the rescue
With native seedling… (f)

Power pylons holding hands,
Heading to the city below,
Keeping us connected
In fragmented times…
Taking the wildness
Out of the wilderness;
Sadly, looking like weeds
In a garden of Eden… (g)

The motorway widening
Has made the train-line beside
Look like a worm, 
A silver thread 
Stitching together
Scar tissue… (h)

The little shops look busy
With rows of cars swishing past… (i)

The old tree beside the church
Is now no more, fallen down,
Sawn into a thousand pieces…
Waiting for cremation… (j)

Two lone grave-stones,
Remain beside the track,
Only disturbed
By the passing of trains… (k)

The moon-flowers
Drink the misty air,
A splash of yellow
Upon the burnt brown 
Of toasted ferns…
It was very hot this year;
Now, only a faded memory…. (l) (18)

Good Old Arthur and Martha

Our Arthur and Martha,
For you’ve got t’ lov’ ‘em,
Are like peas in a pod,
An odd couple by fate
Forever poppin’ up 
On same couch… or settee;
Plonkin’ themselves a down,
All heavin’, not leavin’ 
Room for change to jingle,
Jangle in pockets free…

Now, Arthur, in posing,
Well thinks himself to be
A raconteur… but truth
Be told he tells no more
Than simple, twisted tales 
Of his own biography:
Just dredged up drivel spiced
With tragic doggerel, 
And you’ve got to love ‘im,
He thinks its “comedy”…

And, Martha, sad to say,
Now no more inspired writes
Not old-fashioned poetry,
A rhythm-ist…  no less,
Quite Eighteenth Century,
With stilted lilt transferred
To page on page in form
One thought a short story,
O you’ll have to lov’ ‘er,
Sermons would be preferred…

O Arthur, O Arthur,
Like a river runnin’,
A paper stream, sight unseen,
Be well complemented
On such a lazy flood..!
But, let us ask, we pray,
Why not leave more perfect
Such droppin’s on paper,
Wiped clean, without the slack,
God knows, we’d lov’ that day..?

Although like beer and wine,
Mark well, our dreary choir,
An echoing chorus,
Knows how to sing a song -
The same, old, bitter dirge
With venom laced and sprayed,
A huffed and puffed up froth, 
A master piece of stance,
So you’ll have to love ‘em,
The way this act is played…

Now Matha was a farmer,
Once a squire of the land,
Employed a thousand youths
To till ‘er barren soil,
By sweated virtue spent, 
Sweet drop by drop, has now
No more no ink to spill,
Just a colourless gall;
An acid tongue to assault 
Some poor, more fertile flower…

But you’ve got t’ lov’ ‘er,
Too proud to be pensioned off,
She pays her dues, in part,
Two coins of realm, tokens,
Sounded with the usual clunk…
But quick to dispense thoughts
Quite free, quite off the cuff,
Off the page, scoring goals
More playing the person,
A text-less trail of sorts… 

And Arthur, mere shadow,
Double misogynist,
Ever intoning “wife”
Has not the wit to woo,
While Martha should shove off 
To bed, with Arthur too;
Now, that would truly be 
A cosmic, karmic turn;
But you’ve got to love em,
Sad, old dogs never learn…! (19)

Embodied and Cloaked In Ill-Fitted Vestments

Eaten by insects -
The spine of a Sanskrit book…
Once more… like palm leaves….

The text is thought out,
Discovered in writing,
Embodied and cloaked
In ill-fitted vestments.
As icebergs riding the waves,
Frozen in time on white pages,
Something more opaque
Than perfectly transparent.

Poet lost her voice,
Hoarsely croaking like a frog
On a lily pad….

And mean what you say,
Repeat yourself in case
You are not overheard;
Re-iterate your penny’s worth.
Shout and scream, or, 
Suddenly whisper in the hope
People might think
They’re missing something!

The witch only rhymed,
Bursts of rhythm in her verse…
Was burnt at the stake….

Did you not hear her scream,
This bag-lady upon the street,
Looking like Queen Elizabeth the First
Arrayed in plastic bags?
All spliced together 
Like a coarse web of lace;
Complaining how dear things were
With four thousand dollars about her waist…

There’s art to swearing,
Being over emphatic…
And tricky like Dick….

Master and abuse the local speech,
Declare one thing - do otherwise,
Take no prisoners, torture the rest,
Refuse to be collateral damage.
O how wise the white-haired politician,
Liberal with their Grecian Gray;
Appearances mean everything,
“Appear politically correct” I say…

By Sunday the fish
Out back smelt awful… yet fresh
Customers were caught….

Such is the power 
Of frequent advertising,
Taking a text to be 
What it ought to seem.
But don’t be fooled,
By dissimulated similitude…
Not all promises be equal borne,
Most contracts… we shrink from…

Without sigh or smile
The lawyer would lose his case…
With cheque in the mail….

As if a parody of his own cartoon,
Looking more one-eyed than ever,
He strode upon the stage,
Still looking out of place.
“Will you widen your terms
O reference?” he was asked.
“Not bloody likely!” I heard him
Whisper to his Foreign Minister…

Grains of truth are lost
As if from a broken sack
When tales be re-told….

Just a simple craftsperson with a pen,
Spinning text for the local paper,
He noted what need be said
And left unstated what he truly thought.
Then he sighed, “don’t be too perfect,
The poetic thought is embodied in text
Like the creatures on this Earth,
All deformed and misshapen in some small way…”

A poem without rhyme,
Without rhythm… cannot be…
And you should know that..!? (20)

A Lover’s Refrain

O beloved I know your name,
But know you should never know mine… 		(iambic stress on ‘never’)

O beloved I have seen thee
But know you should never see me…

From the shadows have stepped,
Into the light cast by him,
Perfect in form, to hear thee speak…

Such golden tones with silver flourishes,
Rich seams of ore well-stacked with gems, 
In perfect form have heard thee speak…

O beloved I know your name,
But know you should never know mine…

O beloved I have seen thee
But know you should never see me…

With routine ways of world so busy paced,
Untouched by wiles of lustful folk,
We have seen thee, have seen thee work…

O Angel pregnant with wisdom’s wit,
Art thou to be pricked not by life’s desire,
For have seen thee, have seen thee in thy work..?

O beloved I know your name,
But know you should never know mine…

O beloved I have seen thee
But know you should never see me…

…and, thinking, gratefully opine 
My soon swift death cannot be thine…. (21)

Gilded Amber… Fire, Furnace Red: A Cycle of Songs on the Theme of Love

It now be Autumn 
Once more, again…
It now be Autumn,
But, sadly, for me
Can only mean
Those slow sunset years…
Before the Winter beckons…

Fragile leaves are left
Gilded amber…
Fragile leaves are left
Fire, furnace red…
Branches heave and sigh
In roaring winds…
Before the Winter beckons…

Struggling to hang on,
My heart’s aflame…
Struggling to sing on,
Though bedraggled
My mind is half-filled 
With plaintive song…
Before the Winter beckons…. (22a)

Today, the air is stilled
And poised with richer breath,
A stretching of time,
A full numinous moment
Adrift between the tides,
Neither coming in… 
Nor going out…

He looks at me -
I look at him,
Together see
Inside the same,
A deep longing
To pass, surpass,
Transcend an end
Too often lost…
In short, mindless 
Re-pe-ti-tion…

Today, the air is stilled
And poised with richer breath,
A stretching of time,
A full numinous moment
Adrift between the tides,
Neither coming in… 
Nor going out…

In limbo land
We know but cannot speak
Between the ebb and flow
Of banal chatter
Bantered back and forth
Between our separate friends…. (22b)

You touched me upon the wrist
To pass be by…
Saying farewell to all the others
Not looking me in the eye
As if to me
You did not want to say
“Goodbye….” (22c)

Now know thy name is sacred,
Not to be said by human lips…
In leaves I hear your surname
Whispered from every tree,
From scattered birds hear them call,
From time to time,
Poetic lines evoking your dear person…
By their sweet proxy speak
What am too scared to think
That you and I might soon be wed
In thought to walk whilst hand in hand,
Find delight upon this grassy bed…
This weary world,
This tiresome sink, 
This noisy cauldron,
Graveyard of woe, 
Sinking sand,
As if each earthbound soul 
Is wound and bound
In coffins filled with lead…
Until in Love be kissed,
Found blest in arms
Of the beloved…. (22c)

See thee with friend
Upon the street,
You speak my name,
We greet and pass
With mournful looks
We see retreat
A courage to declare
“No more leave me,
No more leave…
Just be with me…  and stay….” (22d)

Such time of year
Reminds me well
That I grow old…
That he is found
A straight sapling
Of the cool Spring
Still gilded with 
A youthfulness
So much admired…. (22e)
 
How could a simple love
Find love in copies made 
To look just like itself
I have to ask?

But could a simple love
Find life in his lover
If they too different be 
And have to ask
Why him, why me...?

What mad bow has Cupid
That shoots us both
With the same swift arrow…? (22f)

This time I see thee first,
Touch thee on the shoulder,
With speech prepared
Leave my number…
And hope to hear from him
Before anon… 
Dreading a time long spent
In hopeful wait…
But… he soon called me… 
From around the corner…
“Hey there,” he said, 
Whilst I said “hi.”
“You know I want to wait…
You know I want to date…
Don’t care what might happen…
And what might not…
Just seek your company…
Enjoy the night…
Be sick for work…
Just cancel tomorrow…
Have no preconceived notion…
Just want to be with you
If you might feel the same way too…”

Almost struck with silence… sigh…
Then voicing my thoughts will say
“Let’s climb a secret hill 
And watch the world below…
Enjoy an Indian summer
In the new moonlight of the night,
Picnic upon the grass,
Drink from the same wineglass,
Break bread and chat,
Synchronize that inner clock,
Enter an eternal flow….” (22g)

We met beneath a tree,
A golden oak with crusty bark
Its leaves aflame
With deep passion…
Upon this busy street 
Now carved in time
We met as lovers might…
Unseen by passersby 
We passed as ‘friends’
But the world we saw 
Was that which passed between 
Unseen… unseen
By all others…
All else that passed 
With hurried, hapless feet
Upon that busy street…. (22h)

Good intentions 
Were soon found scrapped,
And rightly so,
The ways of world 
Can neither be 
Named nor numbered…
Why catalogue 
Each falling leaf
With their few degrees 
Of freedom felt…
In the goodness
Of time well-spent
They fall this way 
Or that… floating 
Into oblivion
Upon the wings
Forever wrapped
As an eternal  ‘now’;
One lifelong yawn;
From the tiredness,
In deepest dreams 
Of sleep’s embrace,
Finding new life
Now face to face…. (22i)

Seize the moment,
Let the instant take you afresh;
Do not be seized,
Frozen by the second,
The self is not much more 
Than illusion…

Only a mirror cracked 
From side to side,
Shattered, let’s us see
What we really be…
Bits and pieces
Just put together…

The emptiness
Of a puff of wind,
A breath from nowhere
Going nowhere else…
So ride the breeze,
Be astonished… 

Ego is but an illusion…
A piece of theatre,
A play within a play…
Part romance, part tragedy,
Verging on comedy…
Rounded shadows upon a screen,
An entire world to explore…
Each scene by scene…. (22j)

Whilst fantastic leaves
Have long fallen now
Know we two lovers
Still two lovers be…

Such skeletal trees
Stand so naked here
Creaking with the wind,
Shivering in rain…
 
But glad is he who sees
That heart hath no age,
Has no earthly pulse
Despite our feet of clay…

In ecstasy cry,
Cry out… “rejoice,
Let our love belong,
Come home in song…”

Each micro moment -
A chorus entwined…
Singing to the same tune, 
From the same psalm…

Happy is he who sighs,
Cries out… “O beloved,
Beloved lover be he
Who forever stays with me…

O faithful shadow seen,
O golden aura green
Turning fiery red
In the forge of time…

Whilst fantastic leaves
Have long fallen now
Know we two lovers
Still two lovers be…”

As two lovers be…. (22k)

An epilogue I cannot speak
But such be understood…

Despite my death,
And yours too, all too soon,
Dear friend know fate 
Has us conjoined
As everlasting facts
Writ well upon that book
Whose leaves cannot be turned…

So fare thee well,
And find myself 
Between these songs
Like footsteps traced
On evening sand;
Across this page
Thy shadow known
Will now be mine…

In such fine shade reside…
Take heart… resign…! (22l)

	************

An Earthbound Angel

For a few long drawn-out seconds
You were an angel
Who tried to take flight…
From the sickening edge 
Of  the infamous Gap…
But one special wave 
Would stop your fall
And have you land upon the sea…
Have an old fisherman 
Make you his catch to haul by hand,
Despair you still might want to drown
Amid the frothing foam…
And here today you be,
Walking upon the streets,
Forever clown, chameleon,
Echoing a thousand voices…
One sad, unseen, heroic man…! (23)
Am I an Addict?

On waking that first thought,
Not yet the time to rise,
Yet stagger out of bed…

It’s packed in jar or foil,
Kept hidden in the fridge,
Pour out the mystic powder,
Measured with greatest care,
The needed water added,
Not a spilt drop to spare…

Already feeling faint,
Turn on the wireless set,
Letting the toaster heat
The air with smells of yeast…

And now to deep imbibe
That morning hit, to live 
For this I lick my lips,
And sip my coffee black;
Its froth aromatic blown
With bubbles bitter-sweet… 
In essence, if boiled down,
Such an addictive treat…. (24)

Today I Met the Bard

Today I met a famous bard,
Heard him chant hypnotic verse,
Had us laugh out bloody loud
And inward weep with grief… 
Death never far away, black dogs
Snapping beyond the next burnt stump,
Once a fun-figure of derision, 
Now feted as a living treasure…

Each perfect line was metered well,
Each verse with balance true
With well-chosen words in place, 
From many points of view
That played out scene a passage be 
Through landscapes where 
You too might once have been…
Urban, witty, urbane, 
Or, just impelled upon 
A pastoral spree…

He, with hearty, rustic smile, signed 
His latest book… five years on
From last… and did request
What secret ploy he used
When sleeping, silent muses
Seemed to have run on out…?

“With wild gnashing of teeth, 
A full weird wailing free,
A bold bashing of head 
With fingers bitten back
You just must wait your turn,
See out your time… suspended now…
Upon a leash that takes
You nowhere fast…
Just keep the faith…”

“Aye, we’ve all been out there,”
I say to him and self…
Know it well, know that fear
‘One be no more with pen’,
But, you’ll get there, get there…
And echo the same mantra shared…

    Methinks should watch the world
With ears kept keen, 
Seek strange and shapely spaces
Found in between,
And, like a rusted key
In creaky lock, 
With handle turned, attuned,
You push and knock
In hope next door just might…
Entrance thee soon…! (25)

A Gypsy Band

Did hear a distant gypsy band,
A dreamy sound, haunting, ever
So melancholy, drifting 
Closer, so close along a path 
Beside the white water river…

Then saw a dozen men walk forth
This way, between tall gum tree stands,
All athletes, agile in gait,
Each handsome one a different clone…
In tight trousers, with short moustache, 
Black hair, wearing dark brown leather,
Sporting silver ringlets in ears,
Each smiling one with winking looks
In turn would try to serenade 
Myself with fiddle and fine voice
As if I could, in truth, chose one
When all these souls seemed so perfect,
Together made such sweet music…

And then awoke to sadly know
My radio-alarm was set on low…. (26)

I Have No Time for Puny Puns

I have no time for puny puns,
A slip of thyme say I, say aye,
And, no, must mean in wisdom's court
A sentence without conviction….

I have no time for puny puns,
A sickness of the mind… say aye…
In-authentic maid… dis-honest wit
In marriage makes a trysted twit…

I have no time for puny puns,
A semantic dribble, say I,
Drops of madness, tears of sadness,
In-sanity works for no one nun….

I rest my case, with greatest care,
A can of worms, mixed metaphor,
Linguistic feet, dancing on air,
Liked daft angels on pints of beer… 

The moor entertaining, say aye,
On naked tongues soon found disrobed,
A slip appears, a Freudian fare,
The pun takes form and runs awry…. (27)

A Literal Lament

In ground, the mining companies sell holes,
Empty vacancies, trade mounds for cash,
Ingrained tendencies, labour the machines…

Executives work with pen and keyboard,
Charting their stocks and bonds,
Producing nothing more than bland reports…

Where is the poetry in this united effort,
When workers toil, for a meager pittance,
And only the hacks find profit in pros(e)…. (28)

A Sonnet Song

With hesitant breath held, a sonnet song
He sang to her, the first few notes were shy
But soon did find their tone in tuneful try,
A manly voice, with chest and arms so strong,
He bellowed forth grave words that do belong
To poems of love, sweet pronouncements that sigh,
And boast undying life, and lustful ply
An opera of feeling all quite, quite wrong…

You see the tune he chose was tragic set,
Should not be lent to be un chant d'amour,
The wise well know keen fondness would abet 
A twisted tale, a comic course, ignore
A smoother path, but, still, no troth should let 
The voice declaim a painful death in store…

'Less dearer vows drown thee in deeper debt…! (29)

Precious Gems

Winking across the void 
Virtual jewels on paper,
Sparkling in imaginary space
Between the poet and reader:
Texts orchestrated with sound,
Set out like a film score;
Crafted instructions;
Invoking perfumes,
Sighing odours and aromas;
Colours too many to catalogue;
An assortment of actors,
Personae poured as if in bronze
Yet cast with faults and flaws;
All on display, 
As works of art,
Like common prostitutes,
Or hired like slaves,
Be bought and sold,
Declared to be
Designed and signed 
By hand of God,
Or so am told…(30a)

Steet-smart sailor with red poms-poms
Wanders past, whistling…

Are you feeling jaded?
Time to holiday?
But where I ask?
Try to imagine 
The South of a dry France,
Or, a Mediterranean beach 
And its haze-swept shore,
A thyme flavoured honey
From above the cliffs;
Or, sweet amber distilled
From fields regaled in roses,
Dull clinks of large glasses 
Held up to celebrate 
A famous red;
Or, that dry sweat 
Upon a farmer’s brow
Whilst taking a late evening meal,
Eating thick slices of fresh bread
Pasted with olives and anchovies,
A mature cheese, a crust
Re-wiped in olive oil… (30b)

Drums are sounded, and cymbals too,
A weird wailing of alpine horns… with chanting…

Turquoise stones are platted 
Into her matted hair,
Glistening with yak butter oil.
The monks are dancing,
Hoping to scare away all evil.
Masked devils appear
Like the grim faced police 
Stationed at the gateway door;
Holstered guns highlighting 
Their already incongruous air. 
Only the toddling youngster,
Barely able to stand,
Falls over in fright;
Its parents and friends all laughing:
“Magic takes its time,” they say,
“But don’t make the mistake 
To think it’s too far away…” (30c)

With his silver iPod in hand
He looked as if he were in trance…

With intense emerald eyes 
He instinctively told me 
What was needed to be known
Without the movement of lips
Other than to kiss me,
And in his hands 
I was firmly moulded,
Set like putty
That fixes window frames.
He let me enter,
Led me to a darkened room
Within his father’s temple.
Holding hands we sacrificed 
And sought from each other
What belongs to the Gods.
First we pour milk 
Upon the upright stone,
Intoning a mantra,
With lamps alight,
Rotating seven times 
About this mound,
Wet and glistening with
The liquids of our libation… (30d)

The crack of rugged thunder designates a storm,
The hurried sound of voices running for cover…

Displayed, the scholar’s table 
Was decked with items
Chosen by a connoisseur:
The crackled mei-ping filled 
With pale-pink blossom;
A scroll, part unfurled,
Doubly weighted down
With pieces made identical 
In a jadeite flushed 
With purple flashes 
Tinged with apple green.
Through the ornate door 
A courtyard garden beckoned,
The pool - deep and mysterious,
Swimming with gilded fish.
Beneath the stunted pines
The bedraggled gardenias
Undressed to the surreal rustle 
Of the swaying bamboo
Imitating the downward strike 
Of the wet, cold rain on rocks
Splashing a shiny ink 
Over eroded limestone… (30e)

Two French clocks now same struck 
That midday hour, echoing…

The salon was furnished 
With such refined taste
That now the furnishings alone
Could have bought that palace 
Ten times over, and more.
Polished with an orange smell
Fabulous bureaus and commodes 
Stood augmented with
Gilded picture-frames filled 
With Monets and Renoirs, 
Claude Lorrains, Bouchers 
And other luminaries;
Chinese Ching monochromes 
Reflected upon 
Pieces of Sung porcelain;
Celestial blue and white 
Stand their ground beside 
The Meissen and Serves
Imitating amethyst 
And painted ivory;
Beneath cabinets of English silver 
Thirsty tourists look mocked 
With their dull, tired faces
Engraved in grey pewter;
Seated they remain 
Quietly complaining, 
With humble, crumbly 
Devonshire scones with cream, 
Holding on to thick, white cups 
Of milky tea…

A long Yankee Doodle band marches loudly past,
Along the street of mansions built from old cotton…

From the spacious sidewalks
Black and white faces
Under sapphire skies
Greet each other,
Like mad minstrels, 
Across the avenue.
How things have changed
Yet stay the same.
The dark-skinned mayor
Overcame the storm,
Gave them a fine speech,
Thanked them one and all,
Saying he was sad to go,
Still shaking hands 
As his blond-haired driver, 
Blue uniformed,
Opened, and sought to shut
The posh car-door,
Then placed his hat 
Upon his crown,
A happy chap,
Resigned to drive, 
Move on ahead… (30f)

Was that the sound of prayer
Beyond the Grecian shrine..?

A time-weathered sun,
Polished as peridot,
Bakes the stone pillars;
Grey piles of re-assembled rock,
Betwixt the poppies and lavender,
All cordoned off
From prospective pilgrims;
The pagans here would soon 
Quick cut that cord and seek
To re-connect with past
Not yet lost, still
Embedded in the names 
And endless rituals 
Of the sacred week… (30g)

A gondolier sings perfect opera 
To the patrons going to the theatre…

Like a stage-set,
The evening sun
Is drenched in blood,
Soon to be drowned 
In the Grand Canal.
A few, stray backpackers 
Sidle past on cobbled streets.
Inside, the sweet-scented guests 
Are already seated,
But not yet quite settled.
A late guest tries to enter,
Eyeing the youth on the door
With a hopeful plea for pity,
With tickets in hand 
And a noted token of affection,
Being allowed now to enter
With his younger lady wife 
In fine evening dress.
Why must the orchestra 
Be so slow to tune?
Because the first act 
Has yet to show,
Finally, putting her pearls on,
Wishing for the diamonds 
Of the prima donnas
Sprinkled like stars
In the circled stalls above.
The audience now clapping
The limping conductor 
Who is fervently hoping 
That second rate hack
Is ready to begin,
Attack that tragic start… (30h)

Squeaking violins, squawking flutes
Serenade bus-loads of grey-haired travellers…

The jasmine works 
Its pure enchantment, 
Remaking the night air;
This suburb is quiet,
Whilst nightshift workers
Walk the streets to work;
Another denizen of the dark
Flashes the rock crystal 
Of her false teeth 
In a coy, sexy grin;
Tanned souls in leather
Skirt the sidewalk 
To just sightsee;
Chuckling that patrons
Could waste such good money;
They think they deserve 
To dine on finer fare… (30i)

A piano with great skill is played,
Student singer entering a moment late…

Soon, soon, the city 
Will hopefully retire;
The pub-band plays 
One last thumping tune,
Belted out beneath the ruby light
With one minute left to spare;
Throats hoarse from cigarettes 
Finish on a hearty chord
And a last round of cheer.
Some folks have already left,
Venturing forth towards 
Still busy thoroughfares
Along Oxford Street 
Or stationed at the Cross,
In queues on George and Pitt;
Like proverbial goats and sheep… (30j)

An old clock near the stairs has struck that mid-night hour,
And then from town the same is heard to strike once more…

A topaz moonlit sky
Lights the parkland path,
An owl has honed 
Its dull-toned call,
Whilst shadows hide 
Odd pairs of lovers 
Lingering between 
The antiseptic pines
Beside the ample river.
A distant tug in harbour,
Upon the tide,
Then toots its horn,
One more ocean liner 
Has left the port
Leaving what sadness, 
What happiness behind..? (30k)

A lone rocket hits the sky and bursts…
To fall and fade as if it had but never been…

For such is life -
What waxes – wanes,
Each crafted work
Then sees an end,
Spent like sticks of incense,
Exhausted as the dreams
Of sleeping mourners.
With unseen, bloodstone tears,
In coffin laid,
The corpse sees naught;
Its half-shut eyes 
A twinkling seem
In candle-light…. (30l)

	************
How Much is that Woman in the Window?

Wandering down the hill,
Facing the rough, red light
Of a dying sunset;
My old dog walking with limp,
As if, by proxy, 
How I feel myself…

Notice a recently
Renovated terrace;
No longer Victorian,
Nor yet Art Deco,
Almost Austrian
Secessionist, Art Nouveau..?

The balcony is curved,
And the balustrades too,
A rounded shield
Beneath the pointed roof,
And elegant steps 
Swept up guide you
To the front door…

Perfectly framed against 
An upstairs’ window,
Fresh from a shower,
In a long yellow robe,
Stands an upright woman 
Combing and brushing
Her long, admired tresses,
Facing a length-wise mirror,
I must suppose,
Upon the western wall…

In the warmer light 
Of a golden globe,
Against the pink wallpaper,
She is bejeweled
By the stained glass…

Like a famous painting -
Not quite impressionist,
She expresses herself
In her artful style -
Neither classical nor 
Eclectic postmodern…

Almost an icon:
She - the goddess,
Side on, not wanting 
To see you… nor speak…

A sudden, swift curtain
Is moved across 
This gilded space..! 

I mentally protest -
I was only looking at 
The architecture..!

This house brought back
From years of neglect;
Even if still a shell
Divided up… 
And rented out…!

[So a short story has been told,
A simple tale has here been sold…
But who could say just who is what?
Four ways the sequence could unfold….] (31)

Today the Book…

Today the book 
Has neither start nor perfect end,
Forever a work in progress,
A project for some committee
Designing an elephant…
In pink or white…
Who cares as long as it sells
And no one sues,
Seeks a sequel,
Hits the movie news, or,
Plays hide and seek
With the being
Of a promising author…. (32)

Shoot, Shoot…

In the cold cells 
On a dark Winter’s morning,
Woken up at four-thirty,
Have to be in court by ten,
The last day of the trial.

While waiting
Allowed to watch 
The big football match on telly,
The big match decider
For the Socceroos…

Shoot, shoot, shoot the mother fucker…

Yell the assembled inmates…
All waiting to go to court…
In a moment of unity 
We forgot who were lags or screws,
Just aussies…

But to no avail,
We finally lost in the penalty…
Just as me and my mate did
When I told him to…

Shoot, shoot, shoot the mother fucker…

Now wish we hadn’t… 
Wish we both felt at home
In this wasteland 
Between the city and the sand, 
Didn’t feel the need to score,
Have to keep robbing a store…

Knowing we shot the fucker
Swinging the baseball bat;
Thankfully, though, we missed…
And he would leave the score nil - all…
Only losing afterwards…
On fingerprints…. (33)

The Book Group

“O gawd it was awful, 
Men all suited and booted,
Smart women looking wasted
In those expensive tags;
Self in jeans and jacket…
Having to discus chick-lit 
Ad nauseam….” (34)

Waltzing Matilda

Come, come dance with me,
Let us cross the floor,
Steer a straighter course
To skim like wee boats
Beneath a blue sky;
Our cheeky sails filled
And our heads held high…

After ten long years
The house on the hill 
Is having a ball,
Upstairs and downstairs;
Rows of wall-flowers
Once frozen in trance
Awash with faces
Warming in the thaw;
The best – game to dance…

Come, come walk with me,
Let us cross the creek,
In refrain recall
‘Waltzing Matilda’
Out stealing a place
In this ship of state
Beyond strains of race…

We’re boat people all
On this continent,
Out sailing content,
Navigating squalls,
Harboring a trust
In each working mate
To do the right thing;
All migrating souls
Seek a better fate…

Come, come fly with me,
Let us pass that space
Gliding like great gulls,
With our outstretched wings,
Crossing stormy seas,
Let our plaintive cries
Sound above the breeze…! (35)

Into the Infinite Recesses of My Own Mind…

It’s a miracle, a marvel 
This potential of the mind,
Remembering the trivia,
The fading of unpleasant thoughts,
Reliving those few triumphs
That make you feel human…

I know I visited that small lake
In the hollow of the hills 
I see from the train each week,
But with whom and when..?

As if dredging the bottom 
Of that shadowy lily-pond
I find, time and time again, 
I have only muddied the waters…. (36)

Do Prostitutes Still Walk the Streets?

Hey, young lady, 
I would not stand myself
Still upon that spot, 
Busy with mobile in one hand
And cigarette in the other,
Sporting a very short mini skirt,
Fresh from office work
And Friday night party,
People might think
You have assets for sale
In this age of venture capitalism 
And global marketing…
So your boyfriend 
Is coming to pick you up,
I overhear you say,
To a friendly client on the phone…
In a sporty automobile
Or limousine I wonder..?
Be aware the Police 
Have been busy cleaning
The footpaths of recent;
And complaining eyes 
Find it to hard to know
Who’s who this dark hour…
But, then, who’s not for sale today,
I, with worry, wonder?
What congressman or senator
Does not have a sign out to say
“Influence For Sale”,
And a reputation to support
Along with hefty bills to pay 
For manufacture of opinion?
Why, even the PM,
With discreet nods and winks
And pregnant handshakes,
Knows he awaits a dozen seats 
On a dozen boards
Across the nation… and the globe;
More if they had the gall
To think they could be photographed
Everywhere at the same time…
How times have changed:
Blue collar workers have faded away,
No more those in white shirt and tie,
We be all professionals now
With a title and a job description
And a numbered bank account,
Ciphers in an economy
That grinds you down,
Still puts you in your place,
Brands you as a commodity
Slotted into some faceless hierarchy
Ruled by a two-faced nomenklatura 
Shifting chairs and always acting
As if in some musical farce -
Half-comedy, half-tragedy…
As for self am contented now,
I walk to work and walk on home
In ten minutes flat passing 
Though Taylor Square to see
Only more gentle 
Pickpockets and thieves…
Or more simple souls 
Happy to sell themselves… 
For free…. (37)

Desert Wasteland or Land of Milk and Honey?

Australians, are ye of two minds: -
Desert wasteland or 
Land of milk and honey..?

   So, we must all speak English!
   Why not some aboriginal tongue,
   Or a wordless language
   Based upon compassionate action..?

See how the earth can dry beneath your feet,
Be cracked and dusty as the creeping dunes
Never too far away…

   Forever meeting strangers upon the street,
   Invited to dine with friends of friends,
   An inner world of serendipity
   Awaits you one and all…

Its ‘bush’ or ‘sand’?
Do we not know 
The nature of our land?
The rains can come or go,
An ancient world still remains…
Just know the sunburnt soil 
Is but a heartbeat
From over-powering 
The rule of wasteful ways!

   How one sweet second can change 
   The course of one’s life…
   You spoke of ideas and dreams
   But your eyes met mine 
   In distilled drops of love
   And cried aloud for the peace
  Of that blessed rest…. (38)
Six Satires to (En)Lighten the Woes of the World

(The President and/or one stand-up comic comes on to the stage…)

Damn those evil tourists,
I say kill those tourists,
Lock ‘em up in Guantanamo Bay,
We have no truck with tourism,
My administration will eliminate
This tourist threat…

Excuse me, Mr President, the text
Should read ‘terrorist’ and not ‘tourist’…

Damn that spell-checker..!
Now, how many of youse were listening, eh..?
Thought that would git you alistenin’…
We love our tourists,
Americans have a lot to see…
And you aint seen nothing yet…!! (39b)

Although I speak with a drawl,
I’m not really from round these parts…
Must have suffered a hit on the head…
That makes me a practical person,
A man of the people... 

For I’m a jolly good person say I,
For I’m a jolly good person, 
I’ve been hit on the head
And left for dead
So kiss your scruples good-bye..!

Although I speak with a drawl,
I’m not really from round these parts…
A poor man of the soil,
Speaking though a silver spoon they say…

For I’m a jolly good person say I,
For I’m a jolly good person, 
I’ve been hit on the head
And left for dead
So kiss your soldiers good-bye…! (39a)

How I admire your lovely country,
It’s a great privilege to be here…
America thanks you for participating 
In the war on drugs… drugs are bad,
Not good for our youth…
Much stronger than in my day…
They’re ready to rip you apart,
Sell your soul into slavery…

Mr President is it true that you promised
To bomb this country back to the Stone Age
If we did not participate in your war on drugs..?

Youse all are fine people,
I could not imagine that we could 
Contemplate that type of barbaric act,
Its all an exaggeration… 
A slight exaggeration… 
However, if you harbored terrorists
That would be a different situation…! (39c)

9/11 and Iraq are intimately connected.
There’s more al-Qaida there than ever…
And that is good enough for me…

	But, Mr President, didn’t your decision
To go to war in Iraq cause this problem?

Hell no! Terrorists are everywhere,
They could be in this Press Room right now,
As I speak… but I can assure you 
We have un-armed those ones…
But, hey, some tongues and pens 
Can be mighty sharp…! (39d)

We’ve been proposing new ways 
Of dealing with this problem;
We’ve been prolifigating new solutions;
And proliferating new techniques;
Proclamations have been tailor-made 
To impact properly on this situation;
Right now new laws are being promulgated
To bring… dem-o-cra-cy… to the poor
Suffering people of… Iran…. (39e)

Do you want this program or not?
Do I need to spell out why…?

Mr President, is that program
The program with bi-partisan support
To make sure the trend for childhood obesity 
Is stopped and reversed…?

Hell no! It’s a need for rendition
And appropriate interrogation techniques,
And immunity for our experts in this field…
Just in case a tin-pot dictator decides
To harass the good work of Americans 
All around the world …
Do you or do you not want to be safe 
In this insane world,
Sleep better in your bed
Knowing terrorist can be interrogated
In a manner appropriate
To their evil ways and means?

As my grand pappy use to say:
If y’ not for us in the way we stand
You are ag’in us from the way y’ sound,
And them be wise words
From a wise old man…

So, are y’ with me or agin’ me,
Will y’ hold my hand 
And dance my way,
Are you out to stay 
The course or run awry,
Too shy to fight the good fight,
Too dumb to stand up
And yell out what’s right…
Too dumb to stand up
And be counted,
And shout that Right is right.!! 

Them be wise words I say,
Ain’t no monkey struck dumb
When I sees evil done
Bring em on… make my day..!

Thank you… and may God bless youse all,
Remember in November… to vote…
Help America to stand proud and tall…! (39f)

(Exit one President and/or stand-up comic to the sound of clapping, hissing and boos).

Lament (Upon the sight of photos posted of soldiers killed in Iraq)

How sad, so sad to see all those fine soldiers dead,
So sorrowful to know, so harrowing to find
One more, long row revealed of snap-shot death enshrined 
From trace of happier times, proud men, and women, sped,
For each a few seconds, held fast one smiling head,
A life once pressed with hope, their fate so freely signed
To be but fragile pawns upon a stage designed
By powerful men who have, again, this monster fed…

No one is now deceived they died and bled on sands
Not worth their sacrifice, their short time wasted so,
A monument to fools who think all wars are won
On maps made paper thin and shaped by shaking hands
When worlds are gained and lost by souls who deeply know
We are but thoughts that think… mere shades beneath the sun…. (40)

Whilst Listening to Wagner

Whilst listening to an old recording played
Upon the radio in fm, stereo wasted what with the soft hiss
Of the record grove, in monotone, the gramophone
Rising and falling bathed in a sea of pure white noise
I hear the interminable strains of Wagner 
Eternally climbing up and sinking down,
As is the wave-like signature of that composer.
How long ago was this recording made..?
Perhaps in Winter, when in a quieter moment hear
A simple, single cough penetrating the momentary calm
Before the next gathering storm of strings and soprano
Battling it out against the elements and other motifs?
Who might have dared to subtract from such sacred music?
In reverie wonder if it were a German production, 
Set down in the Second World War, or before, in some 
Grand gala performance for purposes of propaganda; 
Perhaps, in front of that messianic figure of Hitler, 
Himself, no less, seated in some comfortable box
Almost upon the stage and taking in the limelight?
Would he have dared to clear his throat in such a public space? 
The music quietens down, temporarily, and would you know it 
As the tension is relaxed, is allowed to abate, 
Another hollow cough like the last is heard,
Followed by a chorus of others in this trough
From whom we can but speculate…. (41)
Tremours from the Future Perfect

His First Job

First job as salesperson
For the World Tube Company:
Some tubes as thin as straw,
Some tubes as thick as pipes
Laid down beneath the ground;
Once seen each cylinder
Will then just seem the same
Despite in plastic made
Or shiny metals cold
To touch and fingerprint…
All with intent designed,
In sizes made to sit
As coils or set in lines
To further man’s desires,
Invite decipherment,
To fathom through our wit…
How shapes might sculpt our fate
And mould our flesh to fit…

His job as salesperson…
On interview was told
To treat clients to tea
Or coffee paid by firm
At random spots in town
And take new orders there;
Receive in suitcases,
Sealed shut, requirements found
For the next batch to send,
All the specifications
And samples to reverse
Machine within the plans…
Was led to think contained…
The Chinese, so polite,
Did discuss the weather;
The Japanese took delight
In talk of faster cars;
Whilst the Koreans
Admired his Italian suit
And fancy French footwear,
Wanted to buy the same
Right then and there, exchanged
For fresh, crisp Yankee bills;
Whilst Russians would prefer
To drink in pub next-door,
Out-drink each other too;
Whereas Arabs would smoke
Over short blacks and wink
And joke among themselves 
When girls would pass with skirts 
And dresses deemed too short
For their old-fashioned world…
And so the trade did fare
Until three months were passed
And, enjoying his job,
Was told his services
Were now no more needed
Since bosses on the Board
Had amalgamated
Accounts with Production
And World Delivery…
Aided by the virtual hand
Of instant Internet…
Espying in side room,
Being interviewed there,
A smart, young Aussie bloke
Same dressed the way he was…

First job as salesperson
For the World Tube Company:
Some tubes as thin as straw,
Some tubes as thick as pipes
Laid down beneath the ground;
Once seen each cylinder
Will then just seem the same
Despite in plastic made
Or shiny metals cold
To touch and fingerprint…
All with intent designed,
In sizes made to sit
As coils or set in lines
To further man’s desires,
Invite decipherment,
To fathom through our wit…
How shapes might sculpt our fate
And mould our flesh to fit…

With blood to drink and drain,
To boil and bubble so,
With cauldron hissing pain
In furnace all aglow,
A madness quite insane,
A wounded, worldly woe,
A dying rumbling slain… 
To find a final death 
Arrives far, far… too slow…! (42a)

His Second Job

In a sweet froth 
Of inspiration,
Knowing he liked 
His coffee strong,
Our boy became 
A barista…
And ‘cause his style
Was so admired 
He found some folks 
Would want to take 
Him home to drink
Their festive brew… 
Which got him fired…! (42b)

His Third Job

Trained to keep books,
He then would be taught
To be bag-man
To a bunch of crooks,
And working next
Behind the counter
Of a café
Decided to quit
When he was fired,
Finding a job
In a blue collar
Factory shed
Suddenly shifted
To Chinatown
Just past Hong Kong…
So, now collects
The dole, finding work
On his next book,
An Aussie novel
With rights now worth
A cool million bucks…!

A busy boy,
Such a busy boy,
Finding fortune
On every corner – 

His encounters
Traced out upon 
The printed page,
His story-lines
All very much
The latest rage…! (42c)

Her First and Last Job

She worked quite hard,
As secretary
For forty years,
Good at her job.
Although with face
Fixed and frozen 
In stern Sixties
Yet would master
Ornate long-hand
In copper-plate;
Make rapid pace
In a short-hand;
Type up from tape
The dictaphone;
Word processors
Managed with ease;
With computers
Found facility;
Staff relationships
Navigated
So skillfully…
 
So when she heard
She was to be 
Soon fired under
New labor laws,
Made redundant,
Without title,
She deleted
All access codes
Quite by accident,
All by mistake,
On her last day
At five o’clock
When signing off…
Savoring well
Her sudden rise
In infamy…
All company files
Now locked in worlds
Of cyber space…
With nods and winks
And grinning smiles…! (42d)

Postmodern Work

“People no longer produce – 
They only consume…”

Root-bound in myth,
No more can one
Be productive…
Yet, hid from view
A few souls toil…
Upon a train; 
On a tractor;
Computer console;
Late into night,
Before the dawn
A cleaner sweeps;
A cook prepares
A fast food meal…
And thus today,
So postmodern,
Most work is done
In virtual space,
No longer fun,
A faster race,
Filling out forms,
Signing pages
Of endless texts,
Initialing 
Mean documents
That state our job
Has no meaning
Beyond itself…
So tick the box
And computerize
This paper trail,
Inventory
This meta-field
Tabulating 
The requisite 
Documents filed,
And hyper-text
Their virtual trace…!

Mean documents
That state our job
Has no meaning
Beyond itself…

Sad texts that chart,
Survey our part
Within this churn,
A straight jacket,
A mindless death
Without return…

Circulating,
Circling the flame
Cycling the blame,
Tethered to tomes,
Now impotent, 
Tortmented speechless,
Tied up in tape,
Left terrorized,
Tortured by texts
And rendered tame…

Mean documents
That state our life
Has no meaning…
Beyond itself…! (42e)

Cyber Law

A conference on cyber crime
Has found the Law
Decidedly lacking,
So out of touch...!

I once knew a clever man
Who lived to game,
Earned a million cyber dollars
And bought a horse,
But, then, upon its virtual back,
Upon his stead,
Shouted out, to hell with this
Medieval realm,
I want to work away at something
Much more modern..!

So, changing games did convert
Cyber dollars
Into real cash with which to spend
And buy a jet
And an idyllic island set in tropic clime,
A massive fort
He set about to build and live within…
But not content
He worked and toiled away 
To earn more points
To found a mighty city 
Soon rented out,
Making squillions along the way,
Kept on account,
Longing for a palace one mile high
And one mile square
All built in golden jade,
And furnished well
By great artistic minds…
With diamond doors,
And digital pictures upon all the walls
By famous names,
Their works soon transferred to coffee table books
In the real world.
Sculptures ten stories high,
He commissioned
Carpets decked in three dimensional flowers
With orchestras
In each reception room
Playing music
Specially composed suite by suite…

He soon became
The grandest monarch of his cyber world,
Well-visited 
By avatars from many realms
And glad was he
To see the goodness of his creation all about…

Until one day
A hacker cracked his account
And stole his stash,
Snatched the essence of his world,
Those cyber bills,
So, before long, his world stood still
Frozen in debts
Without the cash to lubricate all forms of commerce
And intercourse…
As had by its good burghers there ensconced…

So set was he
On making cyber money compounded
He quite forgot
To take some real cash in hand to weather
That rainy day…

With sadness sought a legal brief
To catch that crook
And had his day in court
And won his case
Got him locked away
…for one long day…

A house of rock
Should not be built
Upon the sand,
Nor brokered be
A mansion grand
In cyber land…
Castles of air
Soon disappear,
Yet, still, we be
But bubbles too -
Empty and free…! (42f)
Still Quite Active…

Two elderly woman sitting on the bus together:

“I hate going to town now, all’s so busy…”

“But, dear, it’s lunch-time…”

“Loved those scones, 
Confess I gorged on them…”

“They do make a nice morning tea…”

“Had three of them… and put two in my bag,
No need to cook tea tonight I reckon… 
I’ll have some soup as well…”

“And to think I felt guilty putting one in my bag…”

“Have you seen Albert, does he still jog...?”

“No, not recently, and he no longer jogs…
Still, still keeps active, though, he keeps active…”

“He used to swim at Bondi, given that up too?”

“Yes, I think so, I’m sure he no longer swims…
Still keeps active, though, he keeps active…”

“Does he still shop at the Junction?”

“Oh, good gracious no, Mildred,
I heard he had a slight stroke, I believe, but…
Keeps active, though, he keeps active…”

“Still looking after his garden? 
His roses were the best,
Weren’t they Peggy… 
And his tomatoes were divine..?”

“Has a schoolboy to pull the weeds, 
Clip the edges and cut the grass…
Though, he keeps active… or so I’m told…”

“What on earth does he do then..?”

“Has a younger woman 
To do the housework once a week…
Keeps active running the show I guess…”

“Sounds like he needs a unit or nursing home…”

“Thank goodness we still
Can catch the bus…
Would miss them scones..!”

“But the company could be better…”

“We’re all a bunch of hens 
Chasing a few odd roosters
Who no longer attend, 
All too busy, I guess, 
Keeping active in their gardens…
Scratching around…!” (43)

The Smell of Sweat, Tears and Ashes…

With the smell of fried fish from the fishshop,
The smell of smoke, burnt smoke… of fire…

Noises upon the street, a town-crier,
The sounds of alarm,
People shouting…
“Hey, the house next-door’s on fire,
Is there anyone there, anyone home?
There’s a car parked in the yard…
Hope no one’s home?
Fire now leaping from the floor
And up the walls
Out through the ground-floor 
Dining room window…
Starting to burn
The gum tree upon the street…

The smell of smoke
And eucalyptus leaves…

Black fumes are coming through the eaves
And same from next terrace too,
The back-gate is busted open
By the local transvestite,
In stilettos with here hair bright red,
Finds the grille on backdoor locked
But backdoor can be opened…
Out rushes one mad dog
Circling up this street… 
And now that thoroughfare,
Caught by a neighbour 
And placed in their backyard…
The mute dog distraught…
Thankfully, without one hair burnt…

The smell of fire and cigarette smoke
As a hundred folk congregate to sightsee…

Now upstairs is burning brightly,
The tin roof leaking 
A thousand plumes
Of black feathered fingers…
Sounds of sirens,
Seeming to take forever…
Cordons of police
And firemen assembling hoses…
Seeming to take forever…
Jets of water… 
Finally taking their toll…
The owners then arriving,
The wife seated on the pavement opposite
In tears, the husband
Happy to find the dog intact…
Who had been left to watch 
The old television set…

From the balcony the sweet scent of gardenias
And that distinctive odour of an incinerated home…

Months from now, signed off on some legal tome
Formulated Downtown, this house 
Will find itself renovated once more,
Re-born from its burnt-out shell,
With a wide screen television upon the wall
And a dog asleep with… one eye open…

No longer sensing sweat, tears and ashes…
Only the smell of all things new and fresh…! (45)

Poems Composed Upon the Street

Working Out

Grey skies adorn
A dull week-day morning…
An elderly man, 
In sombre attire,
Slowly turns the pages 
Of the Times Literary Supplement 
And sips his coffee…
Happy he has retired 
From academia…

Passing him upon the street,
Each five minutes or so, 
Is a young, unemployed female
Doing her exercises for the day;
Earnest, vigorous, intent…
In a blood red T-shirt 
Two sizes two small,
With water melon breasts
Threatening to decamp
From their flimsy tent…
Fall upon the pavement…
As she puts her hands 
High above her head
To exercise her arms,
Decrease the lipids left beneath
Her thin line of toned flesh,
Replace it with something… 
More muscular…

She appears once more,
He turns the unfinished page
Whilst trying not to be seen 
Watching this inspiration 
For the day…thinking… 
How the weather seems 
To be warming…
Becoming more humid and hot…
That… Sumer is icumen… 
That Summer is coming in…
To the muted sounds 
Of distant thunder…. (46a)

A White Xmas

Swaying upon a thin native tree
Eight sulphur crested cockatoos
Are cracking seeds between their beaks,
Gorging upon this moving, mobile feast…
When I approach, along the street,
They seem barely concerned,
Happy to munch away…
Like decorations upon a Xmas tree,
Aussie style, in shades of white…
Looking quite… quite… Postmodern…. (46b)

He Clip-Clopped Along the Footpath

A thin chappie was flip-flopping
In his thongs along the pavement.
From behind one could see
His straight, jet black hair
Bouncing with each step
Upon the olive skin of his neck
Encircled by a T-shirt
Loosely overflowing his blue jeans –
No doubt made in some oriental clime…

At the traffic lights we met,
His smile meeting mine –
A cheerful Caucasian fellow,
Who cursed out loud 
Today’s choice in footwear…

“They are driving me bananas…
Were perfect for the beach though…”

I laughed at his misfortune, thinking…
So much for racial profiling…! (46c)

Sleeping Out

The one time of the year 
When non-homeless folk sleep 
With the homeless…
On New Year’s day…
After the fireworks,
When the fiery kick 
Of too much alcohol 
Has lost its sway,
Has lost its punch 
And like a boxer,
Down for the count, 
Misses the first red light 
Of the yawning dawn…
O drunken reveler 
You celebrated too much,
How the bright light of the sun
Now leaves you longing for…
A darkened room…! (46d)

Voices, Voices Everywhere

When they tell me to talk,
I raise my mobile phone;
When they tell me to shout,
I seem to be cursing the caller;
When I am happy, 
I sing to my walkman;
When sad I switch to my i-Pod,
With batteries yet to be recharged,
And nod my weary head,
Looking all glum and blank
As if a tv not yet turned on…. (46e)

Something New Can Always Be Seen

I have walked this way almost everyday…

A young boy bounces a basket ball,
Throws it high into the air…

Espy a dated inscription on a terrace
Never seen before… 

He throws me a pass…
It is caught and returned…

With a new pair of eyes
Something old can always be re-seen…. (46f)

And Late at Night I Seem to be in Flight

The dismal rain has dampened the pavement,
Have inky coloured it a sticky black
And there upon its dim lit street-light sheen 
A few unseasonal leaves like stars are seen…
To give to one the fleeting impression,
Hurrying home before the next shower,
That I’m to glide across the breadth of space,
Above this galaxy and its furtive life 
At home upon this floating world below…

Tonight, tonight in flight will take delight,
Like a wild witch with broom to zoom, to zoom
Across the sky with dull laughter smothered,
Then take downhill pavement with muted steps;
A demented denizen of the night
At home upon this floating world below…

A shifting shape within this fleeting show…. (46g)

Composed Upon the Pavement

With party pants about his ankles,
Beside a trickle of urine in a pool
Upon the dusty street,
Seated on the curve of the kerb
With his wee wind-shriveled willie 
Perfectly poised… in sleep…
A parking bus filled with workers
Tries to avoid this sleeping elf,
Whilst pedestrians, with quiet laughter,
Mock this dreaming clown
Now happily at peace with the world, at one…
Until, that is, on awakening…
Realizing the gravity of his situation,
Finds himself their highlight of the day –
One sad, sad figure of fun….
Not knowing where to look…
He bolts like a rabbit on speed…
(And from the frown upon his face
I do perceive his pressing need…
To pass water once more
In a less public place…). (46h)

Visual Poems upon the Footpath

Fast poems striding the street,
Iambic meter to the kilometer,
Slow poems going to the shop,
Conveniently just around the corner,
Disabled poems in triple time,
Struck out by a walking stick,
Or purring smoothly in a line
Traced out by the electric hum
Of a wheelchair in motion.

Poems, poems everywhere,
Everywhere the sound of verse,
Poems, poems everywhere
As a bag-snatcher takes her purse…

Stop thief, stop thief, catch that man..!

Tackled to the ground by a jogger,
His long arms wrapped around his feet,
Then secured by another…

So ends one more poem…
As ten thousand more hit the street…. (46i)

Audible Poems upon the Pavement

Hear the strains of conversation,
Discern the language,
The meaning of the speech,
Do you need a translator 
To catch the inner soul 
Of these plays upon the street?
Better than television
And their mindless commercials…
People in coffee shops 
Know how to watch a world go past…
Just turn the volume up,
Tune in to a cosmos on fire,
Breath in that heady mix of desire;
Hear the passion of the voices
As they greet one another…. (46j)

Discarded Poems upon the Roadside

Little wrappers, old newspapers,
Cartons and boxes, 
Bits of bedraggled junk mail,
Important letters from the government, 
Bright red fliers portending
One more Summer’s sale,
Glossy magazines looking shiny 
In the early evening rain,
Bottles and cans with those in plastic,
Packaging for Flat-screens
Watched by overweight tvs
Side by side with fridges looking tragic,
Heaped up with worn-out mattresses,
Microwaves and broken dishes,
A stack of encyclopaedias still ignored –
Once expensive publications,
All a shattered mirror of civilization…
A thousand memories stored
On side of road, all forsaken,
Waiting till morning to be taken
By the garbage collectors…
Unless saved by watchful gleaners,
Retrievers of discarded poems
Tossed out upon the street…. (46k)

Waiting for the Bus

It was a slightly warmer day for Winter,
And having parked the car in the garage,
When asked to do some more shopping, 
Decided he would take the bus…

A store could be found a few blocks away,
But smokes are cheaper in the supermarket,
Only a few sections beyond the bus-stop
Sited just past the house…

On to the seat he sat without a word,
Instead, with one long sigh… vacated
By two small school-boys reminded just that week 
To look-out for mothers, the sick and elderly…

The two school lads were giggling,
An old lady was a fiddling with her bag
While a young bloke in smart suit 
Read a book upon the fence when the bus came in…

All were eager to find a spot to sit
Except the old man still seated
With vacant expression on his face
Who seemed content to just stare beyond…

Composed upon the street he sat,
In brown trousers and old jacket,
Wearing a felt hat not quite symmetric,
Seemingly without a care…

As the bus moved away… out from the curb… 
The driver spoke on his wireless set:
Route 4 to Base, one soul’s been left behind,
Left waiting for the boat… on number nine…. (46l)

What to Wear, or, What Should be Worn?

With touch of anguish may you ponder well
What hat today upon your head be worn,
Indeed, what choice garments should so adorn
Your simple frame with what message to tell;
A blank canvas we naked be until
With cloth we colour our conceptions born
Exiled beyond a line that we have drawn,
A front that signs what we intend to sell.
But, dumb statues in store windows we stand
For we are told what persona is held,
What fitted mask is made for us to be
And in a chorus bade to chant and meld
Where forced moves dance in false made harmony…
‘Till we decide the brand of our own band!

As cultured pearls upon a braided string
Reclaim your voice, hold hands, take heart and sing…. (47)

Exchanges (of…)

A Prayer to St. Francis

From the dark clouds above
A shaft of sunlight hits me
Whilst waking through the Cross,
Even the pigeons want
To perch upon myself;
Am I blest or cursed?
No doubt will shortly find out…. (48a)

Still Admired?

An old admirer walks past unseen
Hiding behind a pair of dark glasses
Thinking he was not observed.
A real nice guy,
Twenty years younger than me,
With heart of gold,
Alas, with lips forever speaking…
And once would think
Had met my match…. (48b)

A Marriage Made Not in Heaven

The ancient man from the pet-shop 
Was walking six dogs on tangled leashes
Through the grounds of the corner church
When could be seen a frisky, local stud
Had already caught their welcome scent,
Bounding along beyond his master…
With his chain left alone in hand…
Could almost hear the church bells chime…. (48c)

No Longer Naked Can Some Stand

Once upon a time 
If all neighbours naked be
Were to walk around;
Freed of jewelry,
Bereft of tattoos,
Silent as a speechless night…
No way could we discern
Their place in ‘society’…

But, today, there be 
Those many few
Who upon the catwalk 
Of the mean street
Must now disport 
A designer body…
Plus one hundred other 
Augmentations…
Implants, stiff botoxed grins,
Dyed hair and well-tanned skins…
To let you know
That they might think 
They well stand out…
Out-standing shown…
To strut upon this stage
To think themselves one day
To be more famous known…

Winning a pathos in their wake
When one more wasted day, 
Unseen, has sadly flown…. (48d)

Its All Just Street Theatre

A modern day Liberace
Wore Versace,
But the big, bland Tshirt
Hid the label on his jeans
So who’s to know 
How much he spent,
What category
He plays in ‘society’?

Which is all quite a laugh
Since his thin bottom is Vinnies
And his loose top is Salvos
And those poor shoes –
Pure tarjay… 								(Target)
Which fools all else
Except… 
The cognoscenti….

And who are they
If all they know
Is how to spend, spend, spend…
And not to save, save, save…
And don’t know where to shop 
To savour that blood-lust
Of the fine bargain found..?

It’s all street theatre, 
And not much more,
Mirrors before mirrors,
Images echoing each other,
Illusions of full choice…
One designer world 
On fire, aflame…
Forged upon desire…
And shame, shame, shame…

With everyone trying to be
Just someone else you see…
You see… you see
Upon this worldly stage of fame…
Fortune… and misery…

A sartorial clotheshorse, 
In robes – a ghostly actor,
One tag upon another,
A material shape 
Upon the street,
A fabricated artiste
Walking as an unpaid billboard
Upon two human feet…
On all too human feet…

Thankfully…! (48e)

Smiling Photos

Face up and spilt
On bitumen
Where the cyclist
Was shot and took
By speeding car…

And left exposed
Beneath the glare
Of midday sun…

From fragile bag
On back of bike
In ruffled breeze,
Before sirens 
Start soon to sound,
The pictures can 
Be seen and heard 
To scrape the street…

An afterbirth,
Feeble and frail,
Re-enacted
Past each event…

And then again…

Like in the wind
A waterfall
Reforms through spray,
Dribbles and bleeds
In soulless trails,
Harvested in
The sand beside
The pool below…

What’s done…is done… 
Left writ beneath 
The faceless smile 
Of distant sun…. (48f)

A Second Life

Imagine your embarrassment 
Wandering into the appropriate shop…

“How may I help you?”

“I would like to buy… a… penis…”

Being an American establishment
I am sure they are all 
Measured out in inches…

“You do realize that lengthier ones 
Will cost you more…”

And wondering whether 
I could buy more than one ask:
“Can you buy more than one,
If so would it be cheaper 
To buy two six inch ones than
One longer than six inches...?”

“Then having negotiated 
All these possibilities I ask:
“Guess I had better buy
Some cyber condoms too –
Don’t want to catch 
Any of those virtual diseases…
Or, for that matter, 
Sire progeny I cannot afford…”

It wouldn’t look good 
Being sued for neglect…
Guess the legal bills 
Would end up in the real world…
Which is already too complicated;
Have no need to add absurdity 
To the drama of my life
Within this wonderful world 
Of natural perplexity..!”

Or is our nature… or this world…
Just too perverse, too rich for words…? (48g)

Possession

A lunatic 
Took over the burnt out shell
Of the house on the corner
And made it his own…
Throwing out rubbish 
On to the street
Along with piles of bottles
In the early hours of the morning
As one is wont to do…

So Bob, the non-indigenous hobbit,
Lost his habitat to the Bobbies on the beat…. (48h)

‘Mere Seeing’ and ‘Being Seen’

Just a picture 
Behind a disheveled glass
In an old beat-up frame,
Not given a second look…

But, fortunately,
Wandered past again
To discover…
A famous aboriginal print…

Could we but see 
The living treasure 
In each other…! (48i)

Walking Just the Dog

When I walk the dog
People stop me 
To ask after his pedigree,
But they never stop…
To talk to me…
Perhaps I should walk
With just a leash in hand…
But then would be 
Just as invisible…
As the monkey 
On other end
Begging for tips
In a hot pink negligee…. (48j)

And Not a Drop to Drink…

When it tries to rain…
We will applaud the thunder;
Deaf to our dumb tears…. (48k)
They Went off to Dance

In the long disco queue they met,
The one bumping into other…
Apologizing, they soon found
A connection that went beyond
A simple beat and mad rhythm 
And in the heat of the moment
Took a short break in a café 
Happy to have met, quite content
To rave to sounds of hot desires,
Share files on their i-Pods, letting
Fingers and feet tap out the night
In pleasures heaven sent singing…
No getting there… that is the fun,
Just sailing on… oh like the sun…
Yeah, yeah… yeah, yeah…!  (48l)

Still on the Farm

The farmer came to town…
Thinking them mad city folk 
Were so many sheep…
(And when back home thought the sheep were people)…. (48m)

Sex Costs but Love Pays

The Indian guy charmed his Aussie friend
Until he said, and I am sure it suffered
In the translation, losing its poetry,
“I hope you are not going to be too stingy….” (48n)

The Old Clock

Old clock half struck twelve,
It needs it’s weekly re-wind,
Oh… to be rewound…! (48o)

Heavenly Bodies

When did you last see a setting sun, old man?
When did you first see a rising moon, young boy?

A comet bright could land upon your head 
And still you might not see how sky and Earth
Are mixed in wild delights of worldly fun…

When did you first see a rising sun, young man?
When did you last see a setting moon, old boy?

Have you not found the comet fired above,
Across the heavens wide it sails as sign,
As some omen, if souls like ye see naught…!

From the swirling stuff of stars we have been made,
As this dust we hurl ourselves in idle play,
Ne’er the prince nor pauper, in between displayed,
Wisdom wise and fool we orbit… day by day…. (48p)

Proud Smokers Standing About

With an anonymous look
You take one more lengthy puff,
Standing about to talk… or stare
At no-one, nothing in particular…

Stationed here, feeling like a leper,
Without the need for ringing bell,
As if heresy were stamped 
Upon your forehead.. so, yes… I fear…

I smoke… need I note one more sign…
That man has descended from an ape…?
Still, salvation takes many forms –
From abstinence… to glass of wine…. (48q)

O Doctor Know Thyself!

Almost a casualty in Casualty;
After a few years of hard work
The young doctor was worn to the quick,
His inner flame burning low
And in a temper a flickering 
Puff of smoke spluttered
Across his angelic face…

For he had had enough, “I resign…”
He said, “Have found a nightshift job
As security guard in a small warehouse
As secure as Fort Knox,
But poorly paid…”

On hearing the news, his wife left him…
The divorce quickly settled,
As she, no share in his Hecs debts did want…

“Saw me as a piece of plastic,
A cash-cow to be milked,
Her account rubber stamped by me…
She would have divorced one day,
Had me working half my life
To keep this ungrateful princess
Ever happy for the rest…”

And happy was our bachelor,
Doing rounds once an hour,
Sleeping off and on with his dog
Faithfully working beside him…

When the divorce came through
He resigned once more,
Celebrated with a few good friends…
“Have a job offer in private practice,” 
He said with a grin and smile,
“With a class-mate… and his father,
In Double Bay… as partners…
All this decided months ago… 
A change in career there be…
And a change in lifestyle
At a slower pace… looking good…
And feeling free…!” (48r)

Ding…

The best investment 
I’ve ever made –
A shop counter bell
For two dollars,
Fits the pocket so well…
So when I go shopping
And need service
Out on the counter it goes…

Ding…

Or when I am in a coffee shop
And need to re-order…

Ding…

All requests said with a wink
And a wicked grin,
Instructions “not to hurry…
Too much…”

Ding… (48s)

He in Suit and Tie

On the way to work
Each day we would pass,
He in suit and tie, 
Neither having met…

Often at the lights
We would cross… then nod…
Till that day did smile,
And some months later
We would simply speak
A few short, quick words:
“Must be late today,”
“Hope the weather holds…”

And then would see him
No more, not once more
Did he ever show…

At that crossing, though,
Still smile… inwardly
Say “hello”, expect…
To see him again…
Re-see his nervous grin,
The man who is no more…
Chuckle at the thought
This thought cannot ignore…. (48t)

Graffiti Artist

My tag is now 
Entabulated
On some computer,
If I change it
My friends won’t know
Its me they see…

And how I hate
Amateur painters
With wall-matching paint
Wiping me out
Before the day
Has signed away…
 
So now with can
Will paint the way
I feel… each day –
A different man…! (48u)

Spam

Who do they think 
This soul could be…
Ever wanting
Breast enlargements;
A continual
Tablet supply 
In Viagra,
And vitamins;
Or job at home;
Respond to some
Nigerian con,
Or young Russian;
Take a broker’s tip;
Buy a degree,
Pay the mortgage
Some other way;
Seek my company
For afternoon tea at four,
On the following Friday…? (48v)

The Old Italian Woman

An old woman in black
Once sat beside the door 
To her small terrace…

Not like the old days,
She used to complain:
People have phones
And mobiles,
That thing called email…
They no longer 
Pass by to chat,
Reminisce about 
This and that…

The chair remains though…
Her son didn’t
Have the heart 
To throw it out 
After she died last week…
When they tossed 
All her other effects 
On to the street… relics… 
From a poorer past…. (48w)

Waiting

He was always ready 
For that important call,
Mobile left in hand,
Like a pack of cigarettes.
But it never came;
Just the usual calls
From his few friends, 
From his mum too…
Still, you never know…
Then, one day,
He left it beside the bed
And all that day 
Didn’t know what to do?
Almost took up smoking again…
Thankfully, for him,
And for us as well,
He had his i-Pod…
Surely the next revolution
Will be in non-hand held devices
Like a hot cup of strong coffee
Spiced with good conversation…. (48x)

Being There

There is nothing like being there.
You can watch the cricket on cable
But still in their many thousands 
The spectators will stream here
Under a burning sun or by the light
Of a hundred street lamps…
But you had to laugh at Jack
When what’s-his-name of yore
Made his one hundredth century
Or what ever it was he did
Since our alert friend fell asleep 
One good hour before…
Seeing that famous moment
In the next day’s tabloid 
Read on the train to work,
Splashed over seven pages…
“I was there,” he said, “I was there…
Mate, you could feel the excitement…!” (48y)

For We Are Gods, For We All Are Gods!

Walking the refurbished Oxford Street,
Inhaling odours and aromas 
Of one hundred fine restaurants…
Today, all of us can be ‘divine’…
Can afford to partake of such cheer,
At least find something that’s not too dear…
In the burnt offerings take delight…
On the pavement… or upon a seat…? (48z)

*******************

Bad News

The netsuke of a dragon
Was most beautiful
But was discerned to be
An absolute fake.
So the Japanese collector 
Had carved upon it 
The characters
“Bad news”…

But all compounded things 
Have their season,
A rhythm all their own,
And the ivory iceberg 
Of our personal history
Must melt away… 
To leave behind 
The mere surface 
Of a distant sea…
Distilled within each drop…

Soon this dumb beastie
Would soar in fame,
A ‘signed piece’ looking good, 
Re-citing recent sales,
Gathering a growing provenance
Though not quite reaching back
To the late eighteenth century…
When the name was translated
People would ask 
“Who was this carver
Who signed with such 
A comic non de plume?

Then a philologist decreed
This particular character “news”
Did not mean “repute” 
As we might know it today…
And hence the piece 
Was no more than an ‘imposition 
Upon the freedom of the market…’
To drop in value
As if a crate loose-filled 
With ten thousand rare eggs…

However, as fate revolves,
As if the Gods connived,
This famous reptile
Re-clawed its way,
Re-made its name
Through scholarly ascription
As the modern work 
Of a gifted master,
Which, upon his exhibition,
Was again much sought after…

No longer treated 
As a mere fake…
Each time it was put to sale,
In the furious fires of high finance, 
It created for dealers
And clients alike
Considerable strife,
A certain indigestion,
Much nervousness…
And sheer heartache…! (49)

You Shall Know Them by Their Libraries 

One book is one book, 
Two books is a pair of books,
But three is soon a library..!

And where you put a book
Among the rest is characteristic
Of who you be…

O, so you just left it lying there,
One upon the other, 
In ‘order of acquisition’…

Waiting to be drunk
Like a cellar 
Filled with fine wine…

Gathering dust,
Those top edges
Need to be swept…

And covers need to be opened
And pages spread 
Before the mould glues its pictures shut…

Moved around, re-classified, 
Re-titled, put somewhere else…
Even thrown out...

Each tome will find its place,
Whether by default or design: -
Top shelf, box or bin…

We, too, are treated likes books;
Found a niche in some archive…
And forgotten about...

But, still, without three of us
There could be no library…
Ne’er high nor low society…

A long time writ,
Packaged, assigned a place…

We wait… and sit…! (50)

*******************

(The Human Soul Has Two Faces or One Face that Can Only Look One-Way?)

Seated, killing time..?
Hour later - same coffee cup…
What profit in this?/
No thoughtful drop lost..!? (51)