Volume XII – Book V

Upon an Empty Road

Poems Exploring Identity
And Our Sense of History
In a World Between East and West

N.K.Tointon

2007

I dedicate this book to 

David and Marc…

And all those other patient souls
Who heard and commented upon 
These experimental texts…

And thank them for their many perceptive insights.

Preface

In this book of poems I explore sacred and secular themes often attempting to link East and West, past and future, experimenting between formal and informal poetical styles (sometimes with a caesura in mid-line, using alliteration, assonance, patterns of rhythm and cadential rhyme, etc.). Often my themes will find a resonance with the idea of the empty road… in an emptiness and an absence of self… in a positive nihilism…and the glimpse of freedom therein entailed?

				 		       	    Noël Tointon, Sydney, 21.9.07.

Upon an Empty Road

Part I – A Set of Secular Poems

In the following poems I explore various themes that attempt to link East and West, experimenting with poetic forms between the formal and the informal.
Upon an Empty Road

Upon a road,
An empty road…

The day is done,
One faithful friend,
My dark shadow,
Now moves away…
And then is lost
When red sun hides
On horizon
Behind grey clouds;
A thick curtain
Above a stage
With squawking gulls
Applauding loud
My performance
With a few stones
Carelessly thrown…
A lone actor…

Upon a road,
An empty road…

A simple point 
‘Tween then and now,
Nothing to know
And no one known;
Made not from ice;
A frozen form
In time and space
About to melt,
A feeble show,
A pebble thrown,
A glint of sand
In eye of man
From no-man’s land,
A sole traveler
Without abode,
Footsteps… footprints…

Upon a road,
An empty road…

A lone actor…
Whose day is done…. (1)

And Now to Bed

I am so tired, he said,
And want to find a bed…
Have you a place for me,
Some room between the sheets
Where I can rest my head,
Put down this leaden frame,
Forget this world, my name…

And my pillow then said
To me… you have been here
Too long… so now be gone…
To find a pile of grass
Bundled and wrapped in towel…
Could converse with myself
Lost in a world of dream…

I was so tired, he dreamt,
Wanted to find a room,
But settled upon the side 
Of road, no matter now
If it had views or not,
For what’s there to be seen
Between these winding sheets,
Passing for poor man’s bed,
Bundled, wrapped up well…
At day’s end now shut out
Beyond this worried realm,
Beyond this troubled sea…

I move, wake a little,
Take a deep breath… and sigh…
And scratch my unshaved beard…
With eyes now tightly shut
A thousand thoughts still dance,
Flick, flicker round a flame;
My dreams, as heavy moths,
Forget to fly and drop,
Forego this weary world, 
Stop thinking they’ve been called,
Identified by name…

Lost beyond those lands of dream,
Tossed within a dreamless bin,
Without name, between these sheets,
At one with world… without sin…. (2)

Each Day Revisited

Wake up you sleepy head,
Wake up, and stretch those limbs
However stiff and sore 
And stuck, and frozen fast
Through age and injury –
You have survived the wars
Whilst living in this world,
This battlefront of fear,
Of want… and wear and tear…

Once more upon the road,
Now head on up the hill,
And find it feels as if  
Returning to a place 
Called ‘home’ long, long ago
For time was served out here…
But know a house can soon
Entrap the soul within,
From refuge to prison;
Each day released to find
Adventures… non-events…
To then return homeward
Till the next day opens
In clockwork precision…

About myself can see
A close, familiar scene
Yet how the times have changed
That subtle face of forms
Once felt so fixed and framed
In background constancy…
Unsettling is this taste
As if a well-loved glove, 
Or preferred shoe, that’s lost…
And later found… each time
To no more perfect fit…
Yet can be worn… almost…

With eyes widely open
I stare at this landscape
Part-matched in memories
Re-etched by the cool hand
Of reality… to blink…
The rented house called mine 
Has long since disappeared…
The hedge and path have gone,
Alone the fragrant tree
On its western corner
Reminds me I once lived 
Upon this level land 
Sloping towards the sea,
This emerald field of grass 
Punctuated with a 
Few scattered chimney bricks 
Thick capped in ancient moss…

Before my mind appear
Old voices from the past…

In chit and chat, laughter
And argument, the sound 
Of tears and joyfulness…

All this I fondly hear…

Wand’ring along the road
I easily discover
Not one shop now remains;
Two old, faithful churches 
Today are weekenders;
The village hall’s a house
Of a young guy who works 
In that big distant town
Once connected by bus…
A hamlet painfully 
Reinventing itself,
Discov’ring new purpose,
Fresh sense of identity -
Uprooted history…

In the rhythm and rhyme
Of the seasons I see…

How things must change and yet
Still feel the same despite
The wear and tear of time…

Each day revisited…
Each, some and ev’ry one…. (3)

In Difference is My Soul Torn Apart

Must all time creep upon one
Incrementally… to punch 
You in the face… don’t you see
You have no home here, no home…
The new folk will blankly stare
And the old have quite forgot
Your name and your memory
Though I well trust the gossips 
Would quite soon… reconnect you 
To a past… that much remains
Unchanged, t’is same everywhere…

Which be better, or the worst,
To be outcast or not seen,
Not seen at all…just passed by…?
‘Tween this gamut we must run,
Walk or crawl… or disappear…
From first screaming gasp for air
Till that last breath unbegun
We be pilgrims till we die,
Social toads and butterflies 
On a road, an empty road…
From a birth point lost to mind
‘Til that last rickety post 
On a fence beyond repair…

“Amongst all of us gathered here
Should the least wise of us despair?
No, no,” booms the priest holding hands
With the vicar and a parson,
An unhappiest threesome seen,
Joining with black bearded rabbi
And white bearded iman waving
To an old, bald monk quite serene…

A sweet death walks amongst us…
Quite unseen… the only guide,
No more than mere metaphor,
Whose sole journey cannot cease,
Treading neither with favour
Nor disfavour to dispense
That inevitable… final… end…? (4)

Moving Onwards!

Pick up my pack and some comments
Just jotted down in a note book 
Put in the pocket on the back,
This tired poet continues to walk…
And try to hitch… without the hope
Of quicker lift… today we be
Serial murderers it seems, 
Or, God forbid, child molesters, 
As I see more overweight kids
Picked up by mums or dads in cars –
Why must we watch too much TV...!

Now find the Winter’s sun quite hot
And sickly sweat is seen to drop
From end of nose, upon my cheek
And falling on my lips the taste
Of salt revives my trudging steps…

A lift, a lift at last, and thank
This kindly stranger… who calls me
By my first name… “welcome back, but,
See you stayed not for long, I guess,
The place has changed yet much the same
No longer though ‘community’…
We all have work… in the city,
No one wants to retire it seems,
Except my self, and some others,
Who work from home or go part-time…
All kept busy… a wider world,
A weirder world of surprises…
What’s your story, what tales to tell…

As if our time could be condensed
And knitted in a simple yarn..?” 

But that we do… or try, become
Earnest narrators of a dream…
Painting pictures in strings of word –
So reasonable… yet quite absurd…. (5)

The Big City

Dropped off in town once thought by me
To be all so cosmopolitan;
An ampitheatre of houses 
Upon the greenly belted hills,
Towers with elevators to eight floors,
Thousands of people whose faces 
Ne’er seen before, a busy port too, 
A train station built with great style,
A museum, gardens with a zoo;
A peacock, a monkey or two…

But now have been to London town
Stuffed with art, stacked with concerts;
A Paris with smells of coffee 
And sweet croissants; a dry, smog-filled
Athena; a dingy Roma
And its old churches stashed creaking
With great artistic treasures stored…

So now re-see this entire town
As but a pale reflection, still,
Imbued with positive desires
To live, live well with some panache…

Can walls express ambitions planned,
Made to echo distant places,
Inspire the mind to travel far,
Break free and explore all beyond..?

We are but ten thousand mirrors
Hell-bent on pure imitation, 
Each single move like puppets pulled,
A work of art we be installed…

On unseen pedestals enthralled..!

When barriers and barricades
Are broken down, then breached and broached,
When, with open mouths, we inspire
Audacious spirits… to aspire..!

Letting small towns spread well beyond
Mere city limits set in stone,
Made concrete by their time and place,
Held fast by creed or sex or race…! (6)

To Be Espied Upon the Street

With some anxiety
Would see you standing there,
Where we first met, hopeful,
On corner as arranged,
Not knowing exactly 
What the other looked like,
Trusting our paths would cross…

Both trying to look ever so relaxed
Before the sight of unsuspecting folk,
Unwitting passersby upon the street…

The code word was ‘coffee’
Which we would take outside
Upon a seat, enquire
What made the other tick,
Discern what could be shared,
Discover common ground,
Uncover that myst’ry –
There, deep, between the eyes;
Were we in touch… to click…
Be more than just good friends..?

Both trying to look ever so relaxed
Before the sight of unsuspecting folk,
Unwitting passersby upon the street…

Before this inner fact 
Could have been acknowledged
At our table upon 
The spare chair descended, 
In desperation sent, 
A drunken prostitute
To regal us with winks
And nods, whispered asides,
In complete lack of tact,
Signaled that she was free, 
That both could have her so…
In any way we want,
For the price of one John.
This generous offer 
We both did quick decline
Continuing to divine
The crooked course of our 
First covert encounter
To converse as if friends
Who knew the other well…

Both trying to look ever so relaxed
Before the sight of unsuspecting folk,
Unwitting passersby upon the street…

We became pals, lukewarm
Mates with hidden habits,
Best well kept under wraps,
Learning the tricks of trade
Became arch spies working
On a secret mission,
Never signaled our thoughts
Too loud, the simple range
Of our careful comments
Not noting topics found 
Too complex or too strange…

Both trying to look ever so relaxed
Before the sight of unsuspecting folk,
Unwitting passersby upon the street…

But the knotted pact
Soon untied, fell apart
Before it was fastened,
And in those later years,
In passing each other
Upon the street, gave up
This pretence of knowing
The fact that once we knew
Each other; now preferred
To pass without a sign;
That our path once did cross…
Without entanglement…

Both trying to look ever so relaxed
Before the sight of unsuspecting folk,
Be unwitting passersby on the street…

‘For never having met… 
Nor likely e’re to meet…’
That each was just a nice,
Sweet and innocent bloke,
A simple soul untarred
By the comp’ny we kept…
Keeping seven degrees
Of strong separation…
“For never having met… 
Nor likely e’re to meet…”
We played this game, became…

Became mere passersby upon the street…. (7)
In the Pine Forest

In the pine forest the huts creaked
Before the sway of the wind…
A new grove, newly planted;
Almost twenty years or so…

In the start of night we met,
A Scottish gypsy
Out to seduce me with your fiddle,
Some music and song,
And a few dry drops of whisky
Sadly declined…

In this rural town
Once well shaken 
By an earthquake,
Taking refuge 
In the motor camp,
For two nights our paths
Did run parallel,
Did almost align… 

If only you would have 
Sat beside me, 
And held my hand,
Where would we be today?
No doubt… somewhere else…

Thirty-five years later
On this couch I recline
Listening to my walkman,
That same b minor concerto
All these years shunned,
Such memories too painful
To have re-met, 
Still by chance 
For once accede to fate
And listen to Dvorak;
And soon, too, perhaps,
That concerto for violin...?

Mixed in with 
The sounds of the wind 
I let the music soar
Inside my head,
Fine mist-like tear-drops fall
Upon my cheek 
To slip on to the pillow…

If only I could have 
Sat beside you, 
And held your hand,
Where would we be today?
No doubt… somewhere else…

For all parties I grieve,
The cellist at her apogee
Sadly plucked before her time,
Her husband left to conduct
Her affairs as she faded away…
Became a mere name…

The pine grove was 
No doubt chopped down;
Newly planted, now…
Probably looks the same.
Fallen branches upon the floor,
Evidence of the cooling wind…

If only we could have 
Sat beside each other, 
And held each other’s hand,
Where would we be today?
No doubt… somewhere else…

In prayer we simply met,
An answer not accepted,
Such was our fate,
O gypsy player,
Magician of the night, 
Seize that bold bow,
Let music be
The power of love,
Play on… and dance
Upon my wrinkled brow…

Straining in the winter breeze,
The pinus radiata
Are found too young
To scrape and creak,
Orchestrate the night,
Were grown too far apart
To let murmurs tease out
A different tale to tell…

Whilst first drops of rain…
Softly fall… again…. (8)

The Brothers Grimm

On the steep street
The one seated,
And other standing 
Beside him,
Die Brueder Grimm,
Grim brothers, indeed,
White haired and
Chiseled in chin,
Fingers that point,
Made to beckon,
Once made identical:
Hans with a dark,
Black tipped nose…
Heinz, the one not puffing…
On a cigarette…
I say “hello”,
Part of the landscape
About these parts,
Both cheerfully
Greet me, smiling,
With half sentences
Finished by the other;
Their poor wives
Long since departed…
Diabetic Hans,
Overheard to say,
“Lets stay… have some coffee,
Take a butchers at the menu…
Share some banana cake
With jam and cream… 
Enjoy this Autumn sun,
I’m buggered, mate,
Its either gangrene
Or rectal cancer,
I’m catchin’ a taxi home,
Not the local bus…
Though they say
The last ride is free;
At the very end 
You’ll get a lift,
Don’t have to walk
Those last few feet…”
Going downhill
And looking back
Both seen waving 
A  cheerful goodbye
To another… 
Passing friend….” (9)
Did I Once Visit that Minor Town?

I once did visit that fair town,
When the name was mentioned,
Remembered this, but when,
Had to strap my brains,
Seriously had to think…
I know I passed through there…
But when…when… when?

Is this the sign of older age,
This loss of place,
This loss of time…
Must return to a past
Quick fading fast
Like the fine sand
In an hourglass…

Take cup of tea to hand
And muse upon this loss,
Why holiday, take time off,
If years later 
One can not recall
The lived detail 
Of your distant past…

Yes, did take that trip,
And hitched, I think,
A pleasant place,
A central lake,
With university,
Neat, nondescript shops,
Could have been anywhere,
Decided not to stay,
Was I going North, or,
Was I heading South…
Just cannot say…

Perhaps in a dream
Will remember,
Remember that day..?

But, then…
Why remember
What here was meant to be
Not, not much more… 
Than one mere name…
Just one more place to see…? (10)

Travelers 

Pilgrims we be, 
Travelers one and all,
By land or sea:
Life - one lifelong,
Lifetime pilgrimage,
Perpetual tourists 
Even if chained
To a broke backyard fence,
Within our minds
Were we not free
To walk beyond 
That village tree..?
Here in the Bay
At end of day
The tourists sit,
Lick their ice-creams,
Look out to sea
Having seen too much
Where once fisher-wives
Would mend the nets,
Stare outwards at 
The broken line
Beyond the storm-hit surf
Hopeful men-folk
Would make it home…
One, one more time…
Few fishing boats
Still cruise the bay…
And then on board
With paying catch,
Laden with actors
Acting like fishermen
Playing fisher-folk 
For just that day…
Out catching shoals,
Shadows of schools
Almost sucked dry,
Near clean away…
In shop window 
On photographs
Saw same seaside  
Between the wars,
Looking so poor,
With workers pressed…
In small cottages 
Desired so much
By holiday-makers;
All tarted up,
Painted in tasteful
Heritage colours 
When all before
Were dismal, dull,
Needed repair,
Would stand forlorn…
Today a diff’rent net
Is outward cast…
By smart waiters,
Shop girls who smile
At the sunset grinning…
Before nighttime 
Calls dancers out 
On disco floors
Swimming beneath
The sparkling lights
From the ceiling
Above… floating…
All you have come…
And all must leave…
By another road…
And who’s to know
Who may return?
Do you feel fate
Has drawn you here,
Seen it all before,
Like specs of dust
Re-stirred upwards,
To settle down once more
Upon the stony street
Or stools of wood…
Where we lick our ice-creams
Look out to sea…
Await the bus
That must take us 
To somewhere else… to find…
Another place… 
Soon felt like home?
As if the soul could flee, 
Could be returned 
Once past that spot
That marks an end,
One final passage…
And look around…
As if the erstwhile traveler
Could walk back past
That village tree…? (11)

Ten Thousand Worlds

Welcome, welcome to the real world,			(Prologue)
Roll up, roll up and be amazed,
Ten thousand realms there to be seen,
So shut your eyes and listen well!
Open those ears and hear folk speak…
Whisper and roar with laughter loud, 
Find sometimes silence, tears so sad…
Perceive the meanings of gestures;
Traced out leakages somehow meant,
Strange signs in strange worlds earthbound sent… (12a)

From the high firmament above			          (Media World of Stardom)
Some lights do fall as shooting stars,
In clutch of Earth they burn on up
Or land with jolt or fevered splash…
But the much greater comet dips
And dives to re-ascend behind
The incandescent sun, survive
For one more day in the eon,
Unlike more fleshy performers
Who from their stellar heights plummet,
When somehow they disgrace themselves,
Might speak a few ill-chosen words
Or so be seen to misbehave 
In ways well-judged to be unwise
When put before the lens of 
Camera… accidentally waiting there… 
But from the dead some souls come back,
A miracle quite surprising found,
That these great stars with feet of clay
Can soon reform themselves quick smart,
An Oscar winning performance,
Without doubt, defies gravity….
After a course of treatment here
For drugs or drink or cutting jests
‘Bout x or y in a racist vein…
The power of a well-staged act 
Of sorrow said when leaving there…. (12b)

Two overly made-up matrons 				(Art-World)	
Talking at an auction viewing:
“My dear, my dear, you never could
Afford the works of art I buy,
Why my Japanese folding screens 
Are worth two hundred thousand each…
And these just don’t compete, do they..?”
“Alas, its all so very sad
With hindsight you did not invest 
In finest Chinese porcelain…
My dear, my dear… their cost have quite 
Gone through the roof… you did acquire,
Those decorative picture panels
Well before… or… after the crash,
This I would like to know… you know…
Why even small gilded Buddhas 
Have learnt to fly, and those with marks
And of the period, big and bold,
Are still white hot, frightfully in..?
Why of late, when I admire my 
Investments it all seems to feel 
As if I have committed a sin… 
Why I’m all tingling with emotion…
Part theft… part pride… part greed… part wise…
A bizarre state of being, mmm…
Without a name, I know not why..?!” (12c)

In markets perceive pieces found				(World of Commerce)
Fitted together like jigsaws – 
Cautious buyers – careful sellers,
All involved in acts of commerce;
An intense meeting to and fro
Of minds and bodies, speeches said,
Pre-rehearsed, set, and to the point…
With just a tinge of friendliness…
Re-discovered on recognition…
“Hi, my favourite customer…
Have I the deal for you today,”
As if he cared… but truth be told
He did… mixing with business
The pleasure of a connection…
Across the void an inner voice…
Beyond the deals of bought and sold…
And that way did enjoy his job…. (12d)

A police-person’s job’s to be 			   (The World of Police and Criminals)
A crook, no more no less, but turned
Then inside out, reflected thence
More back-to-front so that by this
They then can think themselves to be
Quite the expert criminal mind.
Alas, in crossing over miss
The thin surface of this fine glass
To mirror now the very kind 
They wish to catch… to apprehend
Themselves as agents on the take,
So regrettably caught on tape
Saying: “That’s five thousand a week
And a free night for me and mate
Ev’ry Sunday when we knock off… 
At ten past ten to be precise…
Hey, I have counted these bills, find
You’ve paid one hundred too much,
Hate y’ t’ think we’re dishonest,
Fair’s fair.… w’ charge the going rate…
We’re here to look after you well,
Offer an excellent service….” (12e)

“Where is the poetry and where				         (Literary World)
Is the passion… how to publish...?”
When what the literary hack 
Had meant to say in plain English:
Was how do you get read, get known…
And make a mint… and so retire..?
“Who do you have to screw?” he said,
When truth be told ‘you screw yourself!’
Devote your time to writing well,
Find self married to the text wed…! (12f)

Pity the multiple person				       (The World of the Multiple)
For Harry is one day Barry,
Sometimes Larry, and when cheerful,
Goes over to the other side 
As maid Mary or married May…
But when he feels a little sad
Sometimes Earnest, sometimes Old Jeeves,
Or, when quite gay, goes wild as Bruce
Or Charles or Jake or Jack on speed…
So imagine the party had
When our mixed up man is drunk,
Forgets who he is moment by
Moment and in singing declares:
“I’m feeling a little queer, no!
I’m feeling a little square, oh!
I’m peeling a little pear, so!
I’m dealing a tipple here, ho!
I’m wheeling a cripple’s chair, lo!
I’m kneeling in prayerful prayer, ho!
I’m needling a sock repair, lo! –
No...! oh so hollow, hollow
Is this fickle fragile-lit glow
That blinds us to the fact below
No one is home, no inner self,
Just a frail, feeble lamp lit up
To light a name upon a shelf..!
Now where was I, and who was I?
To be someone is such hard work, 
Such a dull chore… O such a bore,
Would rather be a frightful whore…!” (12g)
“I would say I’m a gambling man,				(The World of Gambling)
On fast horses enjoy a bet,				[A flutter taken on greyhounds,]
Play poker-faced in holding cards,
Trust my good luck on them machines, 
Play dice with fate, one day two-up,
And speculate on stocks and shares…
Life is a roulette wheel we know
Must fin’lly stop, come to an end
When your number to waiting crowd 
Is called out… unexpectedly…
That sometimes others win the pot
When a long will is read out loud,
No matter then you saved too well…
So, I spend it… the rest to sell…!” (12h)

“What’s to be taught not worth its weight,			 (The World of Teaching)
But how its taught its weighted worth;
No child is a vessel to fill,
But dough to mix and knead and mould…
How I hate those political hacks
That preach a common syllabus
As if knowledge is poured through tap 
When all we need is a standard
Good hearted scholar to lead ‘em,
By example… pass the gin, old chap….” (12i)

Priest enjoyed a good confession,				(The World of Religion)
Better to live sin vicariously…
Comparing notes with fellow gown
Discovered this curious fact
When both conferred and sharing tales
Decided best directly done…
Went drinking in another town… (12j)

From secretary to housewife,					(Housewife and Mother)
And all within a working week,
The shock was not the happy twins,
But long sentence of staying home.
So, two more mothers in agreement
Left one to mind the crèche each day
While others as a happy pair
Could for two days at a time learn
To near forget their daily chores…
To sun themselves upon the beach,
And coffee take upon the strand…
With mobile ever close to reach,
With mobile ever near to hand…. (12k)

The cleaner came and later went,			(Worlds of Cleaning and Theatre)
The world of theatre better place
For constant tidiness, detail
To what was needed, some order
To be made well upon the stage…
“Reflect upon this world a light
That we as simple souls might learn
All life is led in imitation,
A play within a play lived out
That by such script we might discern
That a chaos directs this score,
And that this we should not forget:
That craft is art and art is craft,
And there can be no audience
Not cast upon the stage about…!” (12l)

“Hear ye, hear ye, within the hour						(Epilogue)
Upon the land ten thousand tales
Are told, and many, many more
Are said to self or lived on out…”
As choir, an orchestra, a crowd,
Like-minded citizens all trapped
Within a plot buried deep down
Beyond the ken of simple man…
“But worse, there’s more if it be told –
There cannot be just one straight world.”
Since we all speak, to self or not, 
Infinitudes of tongues as found
And taken up to then expound
Our passage through that wild terrain
That re-shapes each diff’rent discourse
Upon the page put or spoken
Out in what clothes it finds itself
Bedecked in… be it silent said
Or shouted out all far too loud…
“A myriad hats are worn to wear,
Each world as virtual as the next,
Without privilege, priority,
A place of work, a way to speak,
A mask to hide behind, a front
To fear might soon become undone…
Yet, even though, we stage these lives
Our friends need not despair but find
A mirror bright and transparent
To the image of ev’ry soul,
Indeed naught else there be but this
Like ghosts discerned in ghastly glass
We be those same figures that dance
As busy as an evening breeze,
As finite as a morning freeze…
We know our lines, a thousand ways
To be, behold these empty plays…!” (12m)
Don’t You Remember Those Parties?

I’m a travelin’ man, just can’t keep still,
The world’s aspinnin’, rest’s illusion…

Don’t you remember… New York parties…
An invitation, by word of mouth;
Shopping, a setting sun, a lazy day…
Wonderin’ what to wear, forget the tie, 
At doorway some steps, staircase within,
The sound of footsteps rising upwards,
The opening door, a jazz record
On the turntable, above the din
A thousand voices husky in tone
From the cigarettes… the smell of gin,
Melted cheese and beer… whisky and wine..?

Always by window – a potted palm,
Sometimes more than one, old survivors,
Getting past Winter, the lack of light,
The frosted iron work waiting outside…
Some guests in corner, a place to hide,
Filter out those cues, those sparks of sex,
All forbidden fruit, with nods and sighs,
Hinted, confirmed clues, shared eye to eye,
A wanton desire… and wanted now…
Without a shadow of suspicion
They head off slowly… across the room,
Along the passage, test bedrooms doors,
Finding one empty… left in darkness…

By the kitchen bench, a Blackman rests
Chattin’ to blond boy, in navy gear,
Friends of family, seekin’ the truth
In stereotypes, all big and dumb…
Just wonderin’ still, just which be whom..?
Shakin’ hands they laugh… sharin’ stories
Of the sea and stuff… “you want to find
A real dancin’ dive, down Harlem way,
You’ll be safe with me… there ain’t no fight 
To pick with comp’ny… ‘em friendly folk…
All too much to do… livin’ it up..?”

Wild passions sometimes get heated… hot…
Arguments galore… on this or that…
Pontificating literary types…
Think they know it all, perfect answer…
Already know well the question posed…
Which poet is in, which poet’s out…
The next best novel about to break,
Enchant the critics… usually their own…
But noted first their… need to publish…

Meet the perfect host… with canapés,
Like a churchman beside the door…
“Must speak to my guests… to ev’ry one…”
The conversation spilling outwards
In a drunken roar… a thousand streams
Thoroughly loosing themselves in din,
‘Nough cross purposes to stitch a shawl,
More endless disputes to pick apart,
With pointed finger, each threaded yarn…

There is nothing worse… than hint of death…
The merest shadow of a fresh corpse
Is enough to end the best party…
So he arrested, a heart attack
In the spare bedroom… or punched out…
Or fell, hit her head on toilet bowl…
The inconvenience… desire to leave,
With each eye witness… seeing too much,
Seeking to decamp… find next venue…
Second on the list… when… lo… behold…
There was no one dead, no cadaver…
Just a drunken sot going to sleep…
Or slippin’ on the Persian carpet…
A party pooper… no more…no less…
Now need one more drink… a shrunken mob…
Dancin’ to the syncopated beat…
Hittin’ the high note, belting the low…
Celebrating blues… a poor man’s song…
The wiles and woes of an underdog…
Successful folk here…  no one we know…

Then the cold of night… early morning…
The trip by taxi… taking the tube…
Hot cup of coffee… findin’ a bed…
Undressin’ to sounds of angry workers,
The waking squeals of children woken,
Radios blearin’… between short songs
Their endless, empty… advertisements…

I’m a travelin’ man, just can’t keep still,
The world’s aspinnin’, rest’s illusion…
Sure, remember those wild, wild parties…
Meetin’ them big cats of wealth and fame…

“And now a quick word from our sponsors:
To be successful… you’ll surely need 
To seek attention… be seen…and heard….” (13)
Don’t You Remember Those Old Fashion Political Parties?

Its all political, man, repackaged,
It’s spin and…truth’s forgotten…

Don’t you remember… old-time parties…
That next election, by word of mouth;
Meetings, soap-boxes, a busy day…
Workin’ the footpaths, wearin’ a tie, 
At doorways knocking, spreading the word,
The sound of footsteps, the turn of key,
The opening door, you smile at them,
Mention your party, sound your spiel,
Hope to be welcomed, husky in tone
From all the speeches… wasted on some…
Politely dismissed… might vote your way..?

Always the widow – a potty dame,
Sometimes more than one, old survivors,
Getting past Winter, the lack of friends,
Dying to have you come on inside…
Seated in the lounge, nowhere to hide,
Given a cup of tea, biscuit or bun,
Or, tempted with fruit… all nods and sighs,
“Augment the pension, would vote for you,”
With a wicked wink… and wink again…
With a flicker of embarrassment
I head off slowly across the room,
Along the hallway, out through front-door,
Thanking her for tea… and for her vote…

On the old park-bench, a Blackman rests
Chattin to the folk, the passersby,
Today all alone, seekin’ a friend…
No stereotype, buttonholes me…
Is wonderin’ still, why he should vote..?
Shakin’ hands we laugh… sharin’ stories
Of secret men’s-stuff… “you want to find
A real dancin’ tart, up at the Cross,
She’ll vote for youse lot… it ain’t no loss 
To pick and chose y’… youse friendly folk…
But too much to read… too much for me..?”

Arguments sometimes get heated… hot…
Sometimes best ignored… on this or that…
Them bothered under the collar-types…
Think they know it all, perfect answers…
Already know well the questions posed…
Which party is in, which party’s out…
The next best scandal about to break,
Enchant the papers… ad nauseam… 
All so righteous… in black and white…)

Meet the perfect host… with pumpkin scones,
Like painted madam beside the door…
“Must seduce my guests… to speak their mind…”
The opinions spilling, flying outwards
Like a drunken whore… a thousand thoughts
All thoroughly lost, without balance,
Echoing sound-bites, without a clue,
Walking televisions, mindless blobs
So sucked in by spin… those lies re-spun..!

There is nothing worse… than hint of loss…
The merest shadow of fading pow’r
Is enough to end the best party…
In desperation, desp’rate measures…
Pull out all the stops… and whack a punch…
Hit them where it hurts, re-live those myths…
Inconvenient pics… out of context… ,
With eye witnesses… unnamed of course,
Seeking to destroy next fine person…
Second on the list… when, if be told,
It was all phantom smoke and mirrors,
Just an escaped lie doing the rounds…
Or slip of tongue, or, a friendly leak… (+ ? Pissin’ in the wind… no more…no less…)
Insinuation… hardly a crime,
Polished performance, public puppet
Preachin’ business, belting the poor…
Practicing restraint, … the battler’s song…
More the wiles and woes of a warthog…
Political folk here…  no one we know…

Then the cold of night… nearly morning…
Still counting the vote… watching the tube…
Hot cups of coffee… forgettin’ bed…
We win or we lose…what will be said, 
Big tv’s blarin’… between segments
Their endless, empty… announcements read..?

Its all political, man, repackaged,
It’s spin and…truth’s forgotten…
Sure, remember those old-time parties…
Meetin’ them smart guys worthy of fame…

“And now a quick word from our sponsors:
To be successful… you’ll surely need 
To seek attention… be seen…and heard…
Have something to say… that’s meaningful…
Deserves it day… and… dares to be said…!” (14)

Upon an Empty Road

Part II – A Set of Religious Poems

In the following cycle I explore various themes that attempt to link East and West, experimenting with poetic forms between the formal and the informal.
An Angel (Religious Poem I)

They come in dreams… or pass unseen…

The ways of world are wonders worked,
By us or them? –  if seen, or naught?
I know not which… I know not whom?

So here… an angel with sword smote the land..?

The day be done, the temples crashed…
Some pillars tall… ressurrected…
Mere hints of past, how folk had lived…

Obviously… by more than bread alone…

And now upon the road I trudge,
With blisters to my weary feet…
A victim of sheer happenstance…

Trusting… the hairs on head be counted so…

List’ning to song birds trill the dusk…
They have a bed throughout the night,
And company too, in nested trees…

A fading shadow far ahead of me…

Have I no bed, no roof nor floor
Nor quiet warm space, one shut door,
Nor barest table placed with chair..?

Naked I came… and naked stripped shall go…

So far stretches this coastal street,
A small town lies beyond twinkling
As if wee stars upon a sea…

An angel came all dressed in white…

Upon the back of motorbike…
And brought me to his mother’s flat…
A cheap simple pensione…

Think what you will, how pieces fall…

What some think fate, others might call
Much more than luck, a mystic plan;
A puzzle grand… a jigsaw cut…? (15)

That Mountain Far Away (Religious Poem II)

When younger would espy the high hill-tops
And climb each single mountain far away;
In planning set a time for that assault, 
Soon take a pleasure in arriving there,
Enjoy the sights, upon summit, partake
A simple meal in this repeated act,
A ritual feast, a mere offering before 
The Gods whilst celebrating the Divine 
Within that same mound under heaven here…

But, one elusive hill-top would evade 
All my attempts to reach its cone-shaped peak,
A basalt dome upon the plateau far
Distant set, seen inviting such campaign…
But my old motorbike in poor health failed 
To get me there, and an expedition 
On foot needed more Winter day-lit hours…
So one bold, bald mountain top got away…
Still calls me in nostalgic reverie…

Today, with age, have more become encased 
In this stiff, creaking walking frame propelled
By two sore feet… no longer can set out 
To conquer peaks, aspire instead to meet
Targets more lowly aimed, address success
In range proportional to that intent…
And, now, behold, have found the tops 
Of grandly pinnacled terrains
Are better seen when standing further back…

Yet, still take heart, for self, compared to him,
Next door, who dreads each adventure made
To supermarkets round the corner built,
Must find myself in robust form despite
My failing sight, my dimming ears, my plans
More earthbound sent with aches and pains
Best lost when forgot and spent by projects
Now more mundane but just as much defined
By sheer delight when had within the scope
Achieved in equal measure to their design….

As skipping fleas match wriggling worms beneath… 
So hare is equal paced with tortoise too,
Horizons met by the right cloth you cut
When humbly kept in proper terms of view…. (16)

Who Are You, Who Am I? (Religious Poem III)

Who are you, who am I, and do we ever know?
Like peeling an onion can I find the real me?
Be someone we are told, find immortality,
Become a real hero… discover your true self,
Uncover the person and recover the soul…
Find out your sacred name, proclaim your reality..!

A twinkling star at dawn, however bright it be,
Is drowned in morning light like sailors lost at sea…

Am I no more than dust, perhaps, a simple face
Walking along a street, blended in busy crowd,
Migrating ants in streams in tidal ebbs and flows,
A documented trace in anonymous archives
Barely worth mentioning in some obscured footnote…
He paid his dues, his rates… and scores of other fees…

A trick of vision seen, a mistaken shadow,
No one there, only birds in flight framed by window…

So what do you do… now, what have you done… in past…
Is that, perhaps, a clue…  a piece in puzzle placed?
So list those professions… and see what might be said,
What virtues can be named, what faults might mar your work..?
As if the inner soul could be baked like a cake..!

A lamp will light your way, highlight the aged face,
But bumped…snuffed out by wind… illuminates no place..!

As a poor teen oft walked from house to house to knock
On doors for monnies owed on last month’s newspapers;
Or worked in a dairy; then as a storeman too;
A student scrubbing rooves watching workers below
Ruled by sirens signalling ten short minutes for tea
Already made in cups waiting beside their seat…
Pouring tea leaves into ecconomy sized packets,
Heaving chests upon stacks, blending contents in vats,
Dropping half pound boxes in cartons fitted tight…
But, hey, don’t find self here, a work lost in progress…
Perhaps to be thought out, made clear… in oversight..?

A staged affair to fool a wandering public crowd,
And there actors tell lies whether played soft… or loud…

And so to continue by rote retrieved to note
Once was lighthouse keeper, polishing the brass lamp,
Watching the weather form, operating radio…
And museum curator cataloguing stone tools;
Associate professor, fancy name for teacher;
A person who picked fruit, twice in Summer seasons…
And psychiatric nurse, as master of all trades
From cutting hair to beards, harvesting potatoes…
As an antique trader, finding profit in fakes
And thin margins on books… and artist too in prints… 
Where be elusive self in this hapless parade..?

Evanescent as dew left upon frosty grass
Is my reflection too upon the shiny glass…

There’s nothing to pin down, look, look so hard, none found, 
No recipe, index… magical book of life
That lists its migrant souls, inhabitants here bound
To work in worldly moulds all fixed, predetermined,
And yet take heart that some seem headed in such way…

As all air bubbles rise to the surface to burst,
Like the words of fishes have we no more to ask…?

It’s well-known he possessed a certain gravity,
A way with figures placed, the laws of time and space;
And she too, with such grace, a certain levity
In hearing the music of the heavenly spheres…
That most think destiny already pre-ordained…

That life is more a dream, and dreams a realm more real,
And yet if souls just sleep what waker breaks this seal…? 

Embodied we must be, in tones felt here and now,
And yet it would well seem that the travelling agent
Is more luggage taken and not the handler had…
No more than mere history, the ‘what arrives’ not whom,
Just the sheer package sent from womb to urn… or tomb..!

So electric the bolt as the wild lightning flashed,
All insight as empty as a wine bottle… smashed..! 

So we be naught, annulled, nil to pin down by name,
A cypher more defined by presented absence,
A well-rested actor found missing in action,
More mysterious than traces of the Divine..?

As substantial as storms, clouds cyclonic storming…
Reduced to weak whispers, blue Summer skies… warming…. (17)

As stars, a fault of vision, a lamp,
A mock show, dew drops, or a bubble,
A dream, a lightening flash, or a cloud,
So should one view what is conditioned. 
 (Diamond Sutra; A Buddhist  Perfection of Wisdom Text)
Taking the Time to See (Religious Poem IV)

So eyes are windows, billboards of the bold,
Here strangely speaking language without sound,
Points of light self-lit, lost in depths profound,
Hinting at a life whose tale can’t be told…

His lips did not move, but he wished to talk,
A moment ago… we met as strangers…
Now perceive this thought… a desire to walk
Along the same street together in time,
Interact, and chat, share the thoughts of day,
Find common pupose in this happenstance,
Serendipitous moment of chance…

Must all our meetings be introduced, how old,
So without a thought, smiling, broach this ground,
Say I am heading to town, that way bound,
Was he going too the same way I polled..?

His lips did now move, for he wished to speak,
Divined some delight in joyful converse,
With a few questions careful asked would seek
Just where I might stand - left or right, center…
Could a laugh be shared on things political 
Knowing well we stood conspiratorial..?

With words well chosen tacit thoughts were caught,
Each idea savoured, contested… content
To let diff’rences nuance what was meant,
Discern comment’ry in agreement sought…

“We must break our bread together” I said…
Then his lips parted and spoke as he smiled…
“The moment is nigh, why not” he declared 
“When good minds that meet should banquet and dine,
Revel, reveal all, dance and delight well,
Be wed as things stand, find heaven in hell…!”

For, if truth be told, no soul’s a brick wall,
But, we oft not look… and meet without recall…! (18)

That Wisdom from the Truly Wise (Religious Poem V)

Into this cup of tea I stare to what end:-
A world of leaves swept up… settling… edifying..?
Mark well from worldly men wise words of dispute:-
Controversial statements, stirring resentment..?!
Nothing more simple seen, ready to be drunk,
Best took when timely steeped, sipped slowly from top,
Not disturbing fragments best left down below…

What wisdom from the wise can be truly heard?

That the world could be seen, prop’rly understood,
As elegantly had as our taking tea…
We can only hope for, we can only dream, 
Imbiding without fuss, without thought, so free…
Is this too much to ask, is this a problem,
Wisdom personified, without solution…
That answers be questioned, deserve to be asked..?

What wisdom from the wise can be truly seen?

In pot or cup or mug… in ritual prepared,
But then no more than this… you hand it over,
The vessel be taken… and soon we partake;
But first, through postponement, the pause measured, then… 
Sample and sip, repeat, again, slake our thirst…
And here the world be known, all so transparent
Just like the dancing chaff… sinking… becoming still…

What wisdom from the wise can be truly felt?

All idiot savants, heated recipes
For endless arguments, no peacefulness here,
I endlessly despair, widen my search, think…
Might the witty sayings of washerwomen
Make for a better bet, make a finer trade,
Or, swap the bitter wit of alcoholic..?
Is there to be no end, no resolution..?

What wisdom from the wise can we truly taste?

The water has just boiled, over green tips poured,
Allowed to stand awhile, served without ado,
Almost ready to sip, a silent moment…
Whether had with the meal or took inbetween,
Amongst those who consent, with such gathered folk,
Drinking tea is just done, unproblematic…
Such a wordless affair, all so simply seen…
That wisdom from the wise… need never be spoke…! (19)
Keeping Still (Religious Poem VI)

Remember hide and seek
As kids in broom and gorse,
Facedown in the bracken,
Heart beating loud and strong…

Just keeping still, just keeping still…

An accident on bike,
Knocked off in the traffic,
Front wheel all so twisted…
Coming to, paralysed
With fear… I might not move,
Trying to find my legs,
Wrapped up in the mangled 
Metal frame in middle
Of the intersection,
Inches from a death on
This crossroad… meeting bliss,
Passing out… coming too,
In the hospital bed,
Again, with the same thought,
With the same… fearful fright…

Just keeping still, just keeping still…

Taking tea in teahouse, 
In the midst of garden,
With friends watching spiders
Working in the corner,
With big fur-lined legs: -
Welcome to this dry land,
Where all things are not quite 
What they seem, where the seen
May not be poisonous,
But then… they might well be…

Just keeping still, just keeping still…

Past the door purple snake
Slithers past, silently, 
With swish of the gravel
The only sound to hear,
Off into the ivy,
Putting an ecstacy 
Into the merest chore
Of gardening, even
Sweeping the path becomes…
An act of mindfulness…
Just keeping still, just keeping still…

On battlefields of life
You need wits about you, 
Crooks and cads, crazies too, 
Thinking unfriendly thoughts,
Even friends are suspects,
A world with a mind
All its own, hard to see,
Discern one soul’s method
As another’s madness…
Bizarre too the Divine…
Too hard to interpret…
“Be alert, not alarmed”
They say, but, then, wonder
How to predict, compute
An accidental act
Even if found unfilled 
With  malace… or forethought..?

Just keeping still, just keeping still…

Trying to go to sleep,
Just too much coffee had,
Conversations in head
Still continuing, said…
Trying ever so hard
To relax, mind abuzz,
Still, rising sun will not 
Wait, already wide dawn
Is waking up the room,
Breaching the pulled curtains;
Roll over one more time…
Must soon quit, must resign,
Get myself up… in time…

Just keeping still, just keeping still…

But soon the hour has come
For sun to sink once more,
Letting time take its course,
Its wayward way, knowing
This planetary sphere
Makes only one circuit,
Just one revolution,
Once, in a change of state…
Knocking twice on each door…
More felt than heard… with gasp…

Just keeping still…  keeping still…. (20)
A Holy Sonnet (Religious Poem VII)

A holy sonnet hear beneath breath hushed
As if dictated by some angel blessed…
Whose divine name on Earth has long been lost
But whose imprint is left deep down to touch
Upon the soil of sovereign soul soft-brushed
By sparks of life self-lit by light professed
In their sweet smiles upon the face embossed…

And yet to fade away through suff’rings crushed…

So, in full tidal breath… we err… and human be,
Upon this rush of air the voice can rise to speak,
And beneath it deep down the soul we seem to see
Allowing the agent to move, be moved, move free…
And to this nameless name… we need to ask of whom
It nominates by right… whom denominated
Since it appears to move, animate in spirit
Each diff’rent psychic host… and make each person lord
Within their own domain, this trunk, four limbs and head…
Lets us trundle along this road from birth to death…
Permits a life whose smile might conquer still one’s pain;
Such stamp declares our fate, a single two-stringed cord 
That weaves the good and bad with sacred and profane…

But one despairs that godly metaphor
Be nought, mere words, be less than hiss of air,
That scripture writ from faith one could ignore,
But doubt is said to be divine, declare
Such fine domain to be that other shore,
And ours alone… one spirit free to soar…!

So, further in comment, this point is made, to err
Indeed makes us human and be divine through doubt,
That such reflexive act might set us free to be
The way the world might stand, and how in ‘holding hands’
One realm be met profound as that there found for us…
That there can be, in truth, no other shore beyond
But this land soaked in blood, this world we touch and see
With eyes no longer made on Earth but heaven sent…
Forever free to roam, to soar, find unity
In eternal life bled… though a well-lived present…! 

O the humanity… of this burnt world on fire…
And our salvation had… in working through desire…! (21)

This Nightmare World (Religious Poem VIII)

I wake… to hear cold steps on stone..?

They come for me, they come for me…

What urgency door swings open,
So harsh the words in orders barked…

Get up, get out..! Get up, get out...!

For interview am marched again…
Have lost the count and know not day,
Nor reason why they question me;
Refuse to sign, confess to sins
Too bizarre, what have I to say…
Try not to scream, but scream I must…
When p’wer’s switched on,  electrodes used,
Left shaken like a butterfly…
Rubber trunchons blind pummel me
And fear… to fall from summer’s sky…

Pass out once more, pass out… once more…

In half a mind find bliss, sheer peace…
And meet relief from aching pains…
On rock bottom wet floor in cell
With water woke and made to drown,
No rest for me nor sleep to have…

You bastard speak… you bastard speak..!

Gasping for air no time to think;
No breath to have, no voice to sound;
With heart to burst, my head spun out;
Without a hope I stupid croak…

Enjoy your work..? Enjoy your work..?

A pointed gun clicks, clicked away…
And loaded now… infront of me…
With sheet to sign… with hand shaky…
Relent… the page bare seen… unread…
Then dumped upon a sickbay bed…

Get up and go… get up… and go..!

…and set on side of road, be found…
A wounded soul yet wounds not seen…
In nightmare world… from dreams… I flee…! (22)
Blasphemy (Religious Poem IX)

Know my faith is breaking down,
Can the faithless person curse 
That image Divine..?

In the dark of night
Cannot find my sleep,
Bitter and fragmented lie awake,
Feel forsaken, left for dead,
One tired corpse that still can speak…

Go, begone, and exit make;
God and godly made
Both in image played by man,
Just reflections in the glass,
Sheer charade and mere façade,
Actors on a stage
Fabricated in the mind…

All about there is decay,
Antique temples falling down,
Rituals in lip service,
Pointless arguments 
As to who is out and who is in…

Know our faith is breaking up,
Could the faithless peoples curse 
That Divine mirage..?

Deep, so deep… anxiety,
Stranded like a dog
Popped in box or bag,
Locked in cage of darkness black,
Left without retreat…

Great, so great the pain…
Painfully perplexed…
Left to lick our wounds
Like sick cats distracted by…
Worldly trivia…

Know such faith is breaking, lost,
Find the faithless soul should curse 
That Divine mistake..?

Deaf and dumb the idol lies,
Without hands it cannot sign,
With no words, no one command
Could design this world of sighs…! (23)
Belief (Religious Poem X)

Belief is where
You make your stand
But ends
In disbelief
If you cannot cross
To that other land…

He ever thought it safe to just say “yes”
And agree with the latest presentation….
 
So we tricked him to sign a pledge to save 
And give ten thousand… but he gave his word
And did just that… O ye of little faith…
For not by bread and bread alone we walk
Upon the surface of the Earth… to add
And multiply… so seek and find what might
Be meant between the lines of text oft taught…

It be a puzzle piece… rich in thoughtful
Possibility… as empty as the breeze
Heard singing softly in the native trees…
Eucalypts… fragrant with essential oil…

Mistrust compounded things… without such hope
Be hopeful, pleased in pleasant discov’ry…

But not deceived… delusive is illusion,
Substantial as the shadows that rough flee
Across thy mountainous face… recesses
Of soul… uncaught by words, not matched by thoughts
Far too complex to put upon flat page…

Behold the choir… a woven world, held fast
Before the streams of thought… like melting ice,
Icebergs… more depth than lofty tenement…

And so with heat… all sure belief will fail…
Yet would tell us where we once stood… now drown…
Unless a boat be had… be found to hand…
When it be known there be no other land…

Put not your trust in finite things,
Question all faith and all belief,
Be open to revelation;
In that mirror with dusted glass…
In all absence desire relief,
Beyond wise words define heaven
In each saved blade-like stem of grass…! (24)

Beatitude (Religious Poem XI)

Please take to heart my words,
My friend, to you I say:
The only saints round here
Are living saints, unseen,
Quietly working away…

Discount the dead, they weave
No more nor work, their toil
Is done and soon forgot,
Though thousand tales be told
Their legacy’s but soil…

Into the forest walk,
Only dead twigs shall speak
Under the feet when trod,
Autumnal leaves may sigh,
Only the living can seek…

That truth… before we die;
And this, mark well be said,
That goodly souls can feel
All such sufferings sad;
Know folk that need be fed…

Are meant to be with clothes,
That need to surely find
A home and hourly pay,
A life fulfilled through friends…
And happiness of mind…

And introduced to love…
Whatever be its form;
Meting out just respect,
In same measure returned…
Whilst some take stage by storm…

To find so soon their voice,
The crowd their turn must wait,
Through service stand and serve,
Forever guided be
By fair hand of debate…

And might insightful see,
My friend, these words I say:
The only saints round here
Are living saints, unseen,
Quietly working away… (25)

Bliss (Religious Poem XII)

Back out again upon an empty road,
Without a care, almost careless, carefree,
Not burdened with a pack, with lunch and tea
In simple sack… for from the past he strode
To future state he strides in blissful mode…
A fraction of the whole in harmony…
Somewhere ‘tween here and now, all out to sea…
To float along just as the cosmos flowed…

As if a maid 
Who milked the cows,
Took ten thousand men
Whilst watchful wives
Were left unknowing…

And, with a laugh, he said,
“The Lord is everywhere,
Already to hand…”

A cute gardener
With a winter tan
Did weed the wantom woman’s
Strawberry patch,
Out of season…

And, with a laugh, he said,
“The Lord is everywhere,
Already to hand…”

“How I love to be adored,
Worshipped with wine…
Or cup of tea…
So break the bread…
Lie close to me…”

And, with a laugh, he said,
“The Lord is everywhere,
Already to hand…”

She did dance upon the lawn
With a twinkle in her eye,
A fairy princess
As delicate as the dew
Upon a new-born doe…

And, with a laugh, he said,
“The Lord is everywhere,
Already to hand…”
In cold of night
He threw himself
Before me here,
Wanted me to stay…
But said, “you are
Already mine”
And soft kissed him
On his beardless chin…

And, with a laugh, he said,
“The Lord is everywhere,
Already to hand…”

Our partnership
To date, sadly,
Has fallen apart;
Be here the glue,
We both want you,
With new-found passion…
To be as free 
To come and go
As wind-whipped waves
On lake below…

And, with a laugh, he said,
“The Lord is everywhere,
Already to hand…”

“Mother, father, sister and brother too,
Uncle and Aunt, the priest, teacher and taught…
All souls embraced without divisive view,
As if in web of world we here be caught..?”

“Forget thy self, be neither glad nor sad,
Walk on beyond this land of dreams,” he said,
“There is no sleep, there is no waking had,
Just empty streets left pointing straight ahead…”

What sweet ecstasy be this freedom now
Knowing that we be naught, no more than name,
A dot of dust on landscape, without shame,
A point of view, embodied, filled with power,
Untouched by death, delight in Thy Design…
That we be gods, in one domain… Divine…! (26)

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

Upon an Empty Road

Part III – Travelling

Travelling 

For sure the world is the best school,
But as a kid went east… and south…
And north… and westward over seas…
And under their breath heard them say:
 
He was a travelling man, a travelling man…

Don’t make your friends too hard and fast,
Don’t be too sad mateship don’t last,
On the long road of life there be
Them twists and turns… and heard them sigh:

My friend’s a travelling man, a travelling man…

Then love did spring, ambush his soul…
Well-matched upon this tennis court…
For now the ball was on his patch,
Commitment needs some roots to grow…

To flee as travelling man, a travelling man…

Heartbroken too and headed home…
The last more lengthy address had…
For there I was to be called up,
Fight someone else’s dirty war…

Why me a travelling man, a travelling man..?

So hid away, ignored the call,
Stayed lying low with peaceful folk,
Then crossed that line upon the sand
That said I was no fighting lad…

No rest for travelling man, a travelling man…

Did change my name, ‘came someone else,
Took papers new and fresh, but knew
Deceptive tags no diff’rence made,
Would continue upon my way…

Remain a travelling man, a travelling man…

But life is one long, vacant road,
A grand highway to hell and back,
A tough struggle to stay or go,
And wanted here the time to grow…

But they just said he was… a travelling man…. (27)
Travelling? 

For sure the world is the best school,
But as a kid went east… and south…
And north… and westward over seas…
And in my thought can hear self say:

I’m back where I was… in a flash…

Seem to have gone back there in time,
Still here… yet there… in instant play …
In the swift blink of absent eye…
A passenger without passport…

In broad daylight, can steel elsewhere…

Find myself sped… to the future…
On other side of busy street…
Imagine speaking to strangers…
Meeting past friends… alive… and dead…

Now embodied… disembodied…

What is this power that can dissect
A vagrant time… make a museum
Within my mind… animate scenes
Mixed in with signs wringling in line…

Must mock the trav’ller on foot sped…

Suspect no soul at home lives here,
All sight and sound – a woven yarn,
A tapestry, magic carpet…
A dancing mirror catching light…

Shaken by mass of hands outspread…

A collated calculation…
Computed through these points of view….
Like loaf of bread remade to rise…
Put back upon the emptied plate…

O traveller… could you exist..?

What prison could this body make
When we pass through as if in air?
This place of rest is brought to bed,
Still stirs in dream… awakes in sleep…

And knows not when… to laugh… or weep…? (28)
“To Travel or Not to Travel?” Is this a Sensible Question?

To decide to travel,
Or, in a sharp contrast, 
To remain homeward bound,
Is a choice not able
To be made, for in truth,
We creatures be not still…

You might move to the door,
You might not there go through,
Still shift you your center
Be it there, or few steps
Through that space… and beyond
With return… or without,
Your voyage now defined…

But know well we cannot
Stay on here, keeping stuck,
Without our passing on.
So could we travel thus
If such an adventure’s
Forced on us mere mortals..?

So, in thought’s reflection,
The question is “how much?”
Would not the prisoner too
A trav’ller be between
Four stone walls… even if
Placed in stocks, tied to stake,
Mocked by all passersby,
In shifting weight, looking
Around them, wanting flight
And freedom… a pilgrim
Still despite such constraint..?

O, surprise… that exits
As the same entrances 
Cannot be… forever 
A new path, diff’rent door, 
Fresh movement, change of plan, 
An older person be;
In hindsight – end of day…
Just moving, moving on…
Till time ends this staged play
With curtains drawn… and rent
From side to side, left spent…

En action… sans acteur…
Sans action… sans auteur…. (29)
Homeward Bound?

Is our life such that we be homeward bound,
Or, is it true that there be no return,
And, equally, no final arrival..?

Remember whittling rough boats in willow
On unswum banks of a savage river
And posting bets with self as to which lot
Would cross an invisible finishing line…
Although all craft thrown out at the same time 
Upon same flow would still take diff’rent paths:
Some caught in long eddies would race upstream
And in a spin repeat the same old route 
Before, perhaps, heading on, whilst others 
Would become ensnared ‘tween branches half-sunk
Or cast in shoals, diverted to the swamps
To choke between the stems of endless reeds…
Or just speed on before the eye of mind…
Swerve out to sea, be caught by currents strange…
That beach flotsam on fine white sand… or black
Magnetic gravels growling in the tide…
Or roughly ground away by grating cliffs, 
Or groggy with a sodden wood slow sink
Beneath the waves… to be buried in mud,
Decorated with ornate barnacles, 
Or fade away in small posted fragments…

Remember working on a childhood swing…
Out… and further out… to the very limit…
Then to let it lose all its momentum, 
By itself… backwards… forwards… impatient
That its final breath be too slow in coming…

Remember being told that channeled waters 
Of all the world’s rivers return as rain, 
Might wash again the face of peaks, course through 
Dry desert cracks on to saltpans, dissolve 
Through limestone, drip from underground ceilings,
Fall hard as hail… as snow or sleet… alight 
As thinest mist upon my hairless face…

Should I despair that to traipse this wild world 
We must move on…without arrival home…
Nor reach a last late goal sought predefined…?
 
From hissing cauldrom of lived life 
Is ladled to each thing its day 
And there we find delight and strife
Joint measured out in its own way…. (30)
We Just Repeat Ourselves?

The unbalanced dishevelled drunk 
Roared out at the intersection:

All youse are losers, bigtime fools,
You make the same old bloody trips,
The same old journey, quote y’ selves;
From here to there, again, again…
Adventure none, no one, not one,
Just one voyage in all youse mugs,
The same old road, repeat y’selves,
Vomit y’ lives away, arseholes,
As boring as train timetables..!

But passersby stepped around him,
Tried not to see, tried not to hear
This lone, prophetic, noisy soul…
He would no mirror be for folks
To discover this simple truth –
Perhaps we be no more than ploughs
To turn and churn exact same groove,
To wind our ways between the banks
Of one well-charted waterway,
Straight autobahn to nowhere else,
Left unable to change ourselves,
On a nauseous path to play
Mere parts of actors made to say
What has been said how oft before
And left to ape their entrance last
With future steps no more than same…
Forever and ever… amen…

So look at me… oi, look at me..!
Youse all be drifters… on to doom 
And then beyond… need change y’ ways…
So be like me… and take y’ stand,
Off somewhere else… surprise y’selves…
And take right now real holidays,
Take a real break... be someone else..!

Wondered to myself could that be?
Just same creatures of habits old,
Pure puppets pulled by scripted rote
Set in concrete, fixed in stone…
Already ‘bove our tombs to note:
Here walks a dead person whose fate 
Is scribled down upon a score
That states their path through life be trod
As one poor tale… forever more…. (31)
Fate

I am no god, no devil divine,
Can only be one place at a time,
Where we are is… where we wish to be…
And where others effect their design…

Would love to see a moonlit Taj Mahal,
Minerets above Hagia Sophia,
The gilded dome upon the Temple Rock,
The meditative caves of Ajanta,
Would love to climb the mound of Uluru
And the ten thousand steps of Li Shan,
Or view the Bodhi tree of Bodhi Gaya,
Meet the morning sun on Machu Picchu,
Drink tea in gardens of ancient Suzhou…

But here I am upon my leather chair
Sipping coffee, reading a travel tome…
Oblivious to everywhere else,
Happy to be… find contentment at home… 

Put down my cup and sigh… when overseas
What am I meant to see… what sites to list…
What towns should one pass through… perhaps visit?
And then should things once seen be seen again?
What tokens might be found, to souvenir
Memories past… but then why now be there 
When could be there… what keeps me here held fast?
Commitments taken up… or well-imposed…
For either way our blinkered steps are traipsed…
Like trams on tracks desires will shape and form
What’s to be seen and what is not to see…
As simple as this fact… no point to think
One could be somewhere else… imprisoned here
Is today’s fate in the sheer here and now…
So be content in this evident state 
The jailor be yourself through habit held
And not another force… someother p’wer..!

I am no god, no devil divine,
Can only be one place at a time,
Where we are is… where we wish to be…
And where others effect their design…

But not by self and self alone we be,
For through one emergent compact untied
Is unravelled the lines of our lived life…
So, in the end the writ contract is sealed 
‘Tween you and them… as Fate would have revealed…! (32)
Just a Backseat Boy

The long, wet heat of the summer 
Has now started, is passing by – 
Convertible with three young blokes:
From soft pink tint to dark brown tan;
In tight tshirts, sunnies on head;
I catch the eye of backseat guy,
Meet a soulmate… in a wide grin,
Nervous smile of… recognition:

Just a backseat boy, 
Always a backseat guy…

His mate upfront with his best friend…
Laughing, joking… and listening 
To the soft call of beach and waves,
The raw wildness of the seaside…
Lost in traffic on Oxford Street,
This Saturday, nearing lunchtime,
As working folk seek out the sand
And some the surf to swim and ride…

Once a backseat boy, 
Always a backseat guy…

How could I own a car like this,
I once would think, even wish it, 
Without envy, just not my thing,
Happy to go, get invited,
Just see the world from the backseat?
It’s nice to be somebody else,
Let my hair down, feel the fast breeze
And the hard stare of eyes that meet…

A backseat boy, a backseat guy…
That is the role in life I know…

Yet have no wish to want to change
For here’s my choice, my way to watch,
No more to seek a place within
This floating world… that world on show…
And here, I sigh, know well the cost…
High status is relentless sought,
Better a place to be assigned 
Within the stream of life we know…

A passenger, a backseat boy, 
Happy to die… a backseat guy…. (33)

I Had a Vision, a Dream, Insight Unseen

No day be ordinary, never the same,
Look ever more closely, and be surprised…
Marvel at the detail, see the finegrain;
Fingerprints of the real, stamped ‘reality’…

I had a vision, a dream, insight unseen…

That the long path hither cannot be viewed,
Our two eyes stand out-front, on sides of nose:
We just cannot perceive what hides behind…
The recent past has fled, as distant sped
As an ancient aon, like milk left spilt
Upon a field of wheat is scattered, lost…
So too that fate unsheathed, the blade has cut…
The harvest already caught, and bundled so…

I had a vision, a dream, insight unseen…

That the long road ahead cannot be straight,
Cannot be onward walked, without first trod
To left… and then to right… a balance found
If that be truly sought by measurement…
The gift of equal time is final found
Through sure navigation, righting the lean,
Making up for the drift, sighting the goal
As if a target hit, the center took,
Assaulted from the side, left corrected…

I had a vision, a dream, insight unseen…

That no more one could lunge to left or right,
Nor find straight passage to fore or aft,
If we’re to walk or run no matter how
We still arrive in form where we’d begun…
A mysterious thing… is this… a fact…
That we no more arrive… no more depart
For frame of self is fixed… itself a lie…
Cannot travellers be… ne’er live nor die…

I had a vision, a dream, insight unseen…

That only tales are told… such stories spun…
And the short strings of life, frail fibres drawn, 
Be a thick carpet pile… interwoven,
No more than this… a dream… a spectre clad;
Not once a soul between the twisted threads…
A suit upon a stage… mere puppet mask…
In madness… glad, in pain… then painted sad…? (34)
Heading Home

Through fine mist, with drooping yellow petals,
Optimistic moonflowers stare at the sun,
Bedraggled… looking like me… trudging home…

Can gladly there discard all these wet clothes,
And dry my hair, or, take a long warm shower…
Sit in my favourite chair… sip black coffee…

But not there yet… more minutes of wet rain
Falling under trees that shelter the path…
Shaken by softest breeze in rush of drops…

Fragrant is the air… unique feelings rise
Like the Summer’s steam lifting from the street,
Chilled… refusing still to be icy cold…

Heading home has a warm welcome to it…
To be savoured… long and hard… in deep breaths…
Enjoyed in that very event itself…

Remember from school taking the ramp,
As shortest route up the hill to our house,
And there… discharging weighted spears of grass…

Or cycling to and from my flat each day 
On that straight road… ever meeting headwinds…
Then up short gravel path… to turn the key…

As weary worker changed… from bus to train…
To uni in evenings… and back again…
De-stressing in a long hot bath… then bed…

And now a new home is re-newed each time…
Even after two decades… a pleasure
Is still had in shutting the battered door…

And when I leave by ever open gate 
Cherish that fleeting second looking back…
In life’s constant lott’ry… our time is spent…

Happy to have a home… its time to leave…
Content to have a place… to rest my feet…
A private space to find… refine myself…

And when I leave by ever open gate 
Cherish this fleeting second looking back…
Find a final goodbye best left… unsaid…. (35)

Time?

Under the midday sun 
Two professors clamber 
On a small rowing boat 
With their student in tow…

Is it now timely to ask what is time?
Is this dimension linear or cyclic?
See how the boat sails… we go out… come back,
What progress is this? With reason and rhyme,
The world works to plan – a rhthym, design…
Call me old fashioned, and classical too,
Still, a myst’ry lurks beneath ebb and flow…
Can we picture it on a simple line..?

The young student with pole
Punts the craft ‘gainst the tide,
Straight his long golden hair
Parts beneath his boater…

Aye, a witch you look… face on… with your broom,
All toil and trouble… signifying nothing…
Watch the water boil, trace a curve and coil
‘Round the well-thrust oar, feel the crafted zoom,
Speed on, forward press, with lapping sound sing…
Reward the labour spent in worldly toil…

With punted swerve the boat is turned around…

Then the young lad spoke… relative no more…
To appreciate the same need to see
It’s form outlined there, here from where it stands…
Even our good Lord see’s not how they saw…
From heaven or earth, tis the other shore…
Our eyes seize the world, not their fish-bowl shape…
So, too, mere matter itself be inert…
This fact of life now can’st no more ignore…

The boat took on some speed,
Such argument took heat,
Translated, in deed,
To a much faster beat…

I see thee with pole, said the one from bow,
And I see our course said the one from aft…
I seize the moment said the looming lad…
All compounded things endure and flower…
Intersect and cross ten thousand craft,
On parallel rails, in comment’ries had…
This ship of fools sails on…
Soon reaching the boatshed…
And, there, upon the grass…
In naked discussion
Equations are worked on,
Rules of transformation…
In a dialectic…
Inside… and inside out,
Miracles of word-play,
Mathematical displays,
Collisions of concepts…
Open systems of thought
That bend the straight… and bent…
See time transmute to space,
And space to purest light
And light with sweet intent
Seduce a world on fire,
And fan the flames… or check
Such heaven-sent desire..!

For in the world of blind…
Ten thousand ways are found
To trace out the profound…
In words Truth need not find…. (36)

Going Somewhere

Recall the crack of dawn before the start of school,
With willpower still asleep will wake and wash and dress,
The starry sky looks good, a bright comet to seek…
So with some toast and milk, a hurried breakfast had,
In soft’ning dark of dawn head down the seaward street,
Through cemet’ry, and dunes, then cross the dewy grass
To headland gray and grave before the bathing sun 
Will rise to kill the night… in fullest hope behold
This cosmic sight strung-out… across the eastern sky…

Have found am not alone, dark figures silhouette
Against the drift of sea where thin pencil of cloud
Is drawn along the line of the horizon clad…
And, there, above this veil the object of my search
Is pointed out with tail, and commented upon,
Admired, compared, greeted… with hushed astonishment…

In half an hour day breaks, the curtain is drawn back,
Upon this stage will rise a naked sun soon wrapped
In thinest vestment rinsed… and thence to re-ascend,
Snuff out that weaker sight, upstage this stellar guest
Athough still know, in truth, it hovers there, unmoved,
Till to the morrow dawn it will have arked some more
About this solar mass that seems adrip, awash 
With golden flesh too bright to watch in flood-lit light…

I was young then, with dreams, with ideas big and bold,
Would feel the world unfold, be caught in webs of thought,
That science could unwind the one long thread that told
The how and why it signed the way it would uncoil,
That not one mystery in nature’s lengthy book
Could not be watched, witnessed and writ this second time…
That we be gods divine, could too ascend the sky
And see beyond our time, reach out across all space,
Be magic hands with wands, transcend our humble place…
Re-find ourselves as souls returned to earth untouched
By sight of dreaded age… disease… untimely death…

All comets come again, their return near assured;
In the same flesh, more fine… until like sand in glass,
With each distant, crazed swing, its time will too soon pass,
All worn away or lost… its end all but ignored…. (37)

Going Nowhere

Before the eye of mind re-see my seaside home,
Back there ten years ago…  and found not much had changed…

A sun is sinking fast behind the built-up hill,
On the sandy soil a few more highrise flats 
In flash concrete and glass re-mix remembered sight,
On Esplanade remain a few Art Deco shops,
As poor imposters clad with awkward extras propped,
Ungainly, still displayed in big-sized icecream ads…
Can now still taste that treat… in cone, soft, chocolat dipped…
The highlight of the day, our Sunday trip to beach…

Big brass band in bandstand no longer comes to play,
The coffee now is strong and dark in different ways
But tea drinkers contend no more with real tea-leaves…
What gains are made in hand replace those dropped and lost;
Imperceptible to sight, mourned by those returned…
Slight touches to canvass all still so much the same…

Same seaweed, salt and smell, same sounds of laughter heard,
The world-wide fashions change along with length of hair
But if one were to blink all time is swiftly shed;
Still find the paint has peeled, iron work on swings with rust,
The park still square with grass, the dogs still run carefree,
New planted pots with flowers, the distant roar of sea,
All here as if on edge, a beach remade each year,
The whitest sand swept out by wildest winter storms
And swished right back on in in Summer’s fits and starts…

Might take a seat to sit and watch the spilling waves,
Hear the fall of footsteps between the flow of cars…
Or pass surfers defying the night, not dark till ten;
Folks walk this way and that, towards the hill and cliffs,
Or, ‘long the path, through dunes, in narrow coastal strip;
There courting couples stroll, round bend two friends hold hands,
Not far behind fast trots a quizzical fellow, 
Fast moving on in years, with eyesight strained as if 
‘Were threading a needle’… think “has he seen me here?”
“And do I know this soul, short-sighted, short in breath..?”

Despite the heat of day recall the chill of night
To wake in death of dream to find myself had fled
From nowhere to now here, a false traveller sped;
As if the world were but cheap tricks of sound and light…. (38)

Upon an Empty Road

Part IV – Missing Home/Homeward Bound

As I Awake

As I awake I find you 
No more beside me…
As I awake I find today
Your absence 
‘Pon my pillow…

My journeys take me far from home,
My place is no more there,
And cruel time too is far from blame,
My heart now lingers here…

The morning sun has come too soon, 
My sheets are damp with sweat,
The room’s awash with brilliant sheen,
And breakfast smells beset…

A foreign world absorbs me now,
Strange signs are left unread,
Odd things with new-found sense endow,
So, so much left unsaid…

Is one to soon forget one’s home,
Forget the gods of hearth,
Be taken in within this realm,
Forget one’s town of birth..?

Oh… and be caught by sight of him
Who looks at me with love,
And who tells me… wants me to stay…
Remain like stars above…

But need to move and journey on,
My heart would like to stay,
Know well one must return, go on,
No more be led astray…

So cold the night when left alone,
Watch well the clouds adrift,
They come and go… and meet and match,
About the moon they lift…

I fall asleep and find you 
No more beside me…
But when I fly in dream can say
Your presence 
Still delights me… (39)

With Luggage and Baggage Laden Down

I wander ‘long the street with pack upon my back,
Am lightly laden here, just bare essentials had,
I be no mule, donkey, am just a lad at heart,
Although each step tells you I be much older now.
Relish each passing scene, and inward secret smile
When younger men must pass, these souls all weighted down 
Like merchants, street vendors, myself as free as rain
With feet to fall at will on road or beach or hill.

With luggage and baggage laden down, must walk on…

But still upon my back in life one takes unseen
The wrappings had through time, such forces fair and strange,
Could spend a long few years to strip and toss such weight,
Such psychic lead, dead-loss, remove such habits had…
In rage no more should be a jealous person seen,
As open lover too no more with envy lean…

With luggage and baggage laden must, must walk on…

With lightness in my step propelled by sweet intent
I walk upon the Earth a ghost of who I was,
With brightness in my grin I reap a thousand signs
Of life and love, of hope to see two dozen suns…
My faithful shadow now lengthens along the road,
In song I sing of loss and gains be had in less,
To birds and sighing leaves in Autumn trees confess…
I bear the load, undressed, undressed I bare the load…

With luggage and baggage less laden, walk, walk on…

Resign, resign your fate, your fate you must resign,
So mindful still that you be ever blest, in bliss,
Forget all rituals… and routines homeward bound,
Know well that missing home is our sheer lot in luck;
It’s not for us to think and reason why we strive
But take pure heart with thanks that we can be alive…

With luggage and baggage now put down, walk, walk on…! (40)

The Tourist

Just who is this image in mirror seen?
A traveller, trav’lling man… ‘tween here and there,
En route, just passing though, no local seer,
A taster of the sights, partake no scene…

Just who is this person who says “hello”?
A friendly voyager… from overseas,
A foreign butterfly upon the breeze,
A poor master of this hard tongue to know…

So who is this same soul who wanders by?
Is he perhaps a migrant wand’rer too?
A vacant shade left doomed to ever view
The world of life… just born to live and die…

With sad despair, I hear myself to say:
For sure, we all be trav’lling folks today…

Just who is this tourist with posted card?
A writer of some random thoughts put down
Upon the back of sunlit shot of town
When day be bitter cold by blizzard marred…

Just who is this diner of heated snacks?
A sampler of the region’s food… with tea
In pots the size of pails poured out for free…
Along with others in half-heated shacks…

So who is friend and who is foe when calls
Of nature are heard ever loud and clear,
A leveller of diff’rence far and near,
From earth to earth, from sea to sea… in stalls..?

Without despair, I hear myself to say:
For sure, we all be trav’lling folks today…

Like Autumn leaves upon the torrid wind,
Along the creeks and rivers fine folk pour,
On bus or train or plane, from sea to shore,
A human tide kneaded like bread entwined…

Without a doubt, I hear myself to say:
Alas, we all be trav’lling folks today…. (41)

Once Upon A Time

A cock crows in distant village,
Who hasn’t been over there..?

And far beyond… we walk the streets,
Travel by car, forget the bus
Or faster train… for aeroplane…

Reduce a world to pixels shot
Though hand-held lenses digital…

The world is naught much more than camp,
One vast amusement park on heat,
With rides and swings and roundabouts
A tad more sophisticated…

A world all marred and mired in muck,
With brilliant billboards end to end,
Re-writ in neon light as if
To say one must delight in me,
Be bought or sold, be taken in…

As hale and hearty party folk
Some souls must speed… and thump and bump
Their way out through a dizzy world
That knows no rest, that knows no peace…

Tonight… I have a single room,
And shut the door with juice and cheese,
A piece of bread… and for desert
The finest mango ever seen…
All topped… with darkest chocolate…

A sweet croissant for breakfast hold,
Already found a coffee shop
To finally wake myself up…

When distant cock must surely crow…! (42)

String Theory

Upon first sight new knot is tied…

Sometimes when name is mentioned well,
Or when first heard on telephone,
Perhaps it’s through a letter sent…

And so are friends and lovers met…

All joined as if by fine held thread,
The woven world as if carpet,
Gossamer thin, and yet naught else –
For we shall be through whom we see,
A mirrored glass reflecting all…

Like grains of sand in holding hands
A beach is formed, with waves around…

But then in time some strings are frayed,
Unpicked and pulled awry, or cut…
Else left like vines to wither ‘way 
Without their lot weekly watered,
Or shot with weeds that equal strip
What once did grow, now grows apart…

Enjoy the game before its fades…

Yet hand that gives can take away…
That last left card in busy pack,
That ultimate unraveller,
Why joker death himself no less;
Themselves the butt of such humour…

For who could laugh, be laughed about..?

There is no knave, no doer named,
Not one can die, no death proclaim,
No one who came, and none who left,
No one who mourns, not one to mourn;
Mere puppets played with on a stage
With master not nor watching crowd…
All’s unbegun… ain’t then undone…
Like magic made, a mys’tery trick,
And so we all… be strung along…

As hollow as an empty house 
Or knock upon an open door;
Take heart, be glad… no less, no more…. (43)

From Acorn To Oak

The scene is set,
The same elsewhere,
Need it be named,
Placed in time..?

Hush, baby, hush…

Rocking, rocking;
In a lullaby softly singing
Mother takes her child,
Gently gets it back to sleep…

Was I once so small,
So helpless cast,
Wrapped like a parcel
Well after 
It was delivered..?

One, two, three…
And off to sea;
Four, five, six,
House of bricks,
Seven, eight…
Shut the gate,
Nine and ten;
Catch the hen…

From acorn to oak,
The wee one
Is fed,
And watered,
And washed
And led
To the schoolyard,
For near two decades,
Give or take the nature 
Of happenstance…

And then we all fall down…

So, what happens
In between –
Is that scene the same
Everywhere..?

Eenie, meanie, my knee… moe,
Touch the finger by the toe,
If you laugh… let it go…. (44)
Climbing Tai Shan (begin at p. 68 and read up page)
	
	Beneath the stranger-ways of Higher Lore…. (45)
		From weird, wonderful, bustling world below…					             By merest mortals like my humbled self
			In foil and fated to be eat no more 
			      Replaced by one unwrapped moon-cake encased
				A treasured gift received in gratefulness,
			The cup quite moist… from mist that was no more…
				    In part, retrieved from some old, old-time grave…
				 Still glossy in its glaze, degraded though,
				Jian no less, and from the Sung, deep black,
				  And found on edge of bench an ancient pot,
				Did I true meet this mountain man or not..?
			      A moment later woke with gentle jolt… 
				And sleepy fell through world of dreams and such…
					Within the hour or so… just wait… and rest…
				A welcome taste… was told the cloud would part
			  The liquor was quite hot, and strong and light,
			With outstretched arm with one filled palm-held bowl…
				A Taoist monk leaned forth through portal light				From darkened corner, black and silken robed,
					A crackled voice in Chinese said to me
				      “Would foreign man so like to drink some tea”
		 			    Without a thought will seat myself with sigh…
Through at last to Way of Heaven,	 And enter in to find a rough hewn pew;
     Move		 Still	           Behold a small retreat with open door…
     Arch		 More 	       A swirling world thick wrapped in eerie fog,
     Tall 		 Steps	 …And now to wander ‘long the top to view
 …Then  …..………	 Seen… 
          And sweat…
            Clenched teeth,
         With smiles
        Ourselves,
        Upon
      Reflect 
    That must
   At speeds
  Here climb
We all 
 This way…
    Have been 
      They too 
         The rest -
       And all
    And wise
  Rulers
Pow’rful
   Through pow’r;
  Inscribed
Voices        
       On cliffs,
           Verses
              Chinese
                 Rock cut
                  At last…”
               Today,
             Here, now,
              I am 
            “Because
              “Why climb..?”
       And think
Look up
  Hist’ry…
In much
    And soaked
  Sacred,
     On slopes,
        Steep steps
            Thousand
              Than Six
       With more
          Mt. Tai -
In book -        
By child -
         As seen
        	Image
Of pine…
   Mostly
     With trees,
        Inlaid
      Landscape
     Barren
The rock,
  Across
	That flit
      Dark shades
    With swift
   Quite hot 
 Beats down
A sun
Though cloud…
	………….………
     		       On way to top of one Tai Shan,
 Between	 Travels,
   Pass		   Took
   Will		   With
   Arch		   Next
...Bold ………   Step…
……Behold…
The Sighted Owl

Brash tones and shades
Of our today
We cannot see,
Cannot be seen…

So all must wait
Till sight is had
To see our fate…

The peeling paint,
And rusty steel,
Such dismal signs
Of known decay
Alert us all
To this true fact..!

The hooting owl
With mournful sound
Reveals the loss
Of light at dusk
And yet the dawn
Be far off still…

The temple falls
Or is repaired,
And nature calls
The sighted owl
To note what’s feared
Beyond the walls…

In growing old
We find we fail,
Reveal what’s not
Or might have been;
A fact of life,
Programmed to fall…

But as they say:

Get use to it
And learn to flap
What wings you have,
Be that sharp owl
That can perceive
The gray on gray,
And not just sight 
The black and white…! (46)

Imitating The Art Of Photography

One great museum for breakfast, 
A famous noodle house for lunch,
And a long walk down through these trees
Admiring worlds within these worlds,
The greening of the spring maples,
Reclining on the well-kept grass…
Afternoon tea with cakes in park
That would remind me of the ones
My parents brought back home from town…

So call me an old fashioned guy…

My coffee had and juice long drunk
Restart my rambles to the shore,
A setting sun is speeded up
With cloud and mist, and banks of fog…
A golden bridge is seen no more
And hope this grey curtain could fall…
Then two towers appear to cross
The bay; first one… then distant mate…
Permitting me to imagine
Those drooping chains that span the tide:
As if just snapped in pictured pic
In tones of gray and sepia…
Without the rays of sun to wash
This scene in more modern hues,
All digital… like the rainbow…
With icy blue for heated sky –
And yet prefer… the much more bland…

So call me an old fashioned guy…

It is as if the masterful
Maker of a perfect suspense
Were to shout out an echoed “Cut!”
Or, gangsters die with tarry blood
Like old-time films I much prefer…
Although confess on DVD
With other bits and pieces show…

Still, call me an old fashioned guy…
For miles its shows…I know, I know…. (47)

Big Ben… Big Ben…

Big Ben… Big Ben… is heard again…
Was standing here just once before…
A long, long time ago… long gone…

The clock’s about to strike six…

Grand shops have shut and here I stare…
Marvel at peal of bells so shrill
And full that toll… that sound so clear…

Once heard each night before the news,
Upon ninth hour, around the world,
On wireless set with crackled voice…

This is the BBC… and here is the news…

Much water’s flown under the Bridge
That widely spans the Embankments…

One singing Heath with choir of boys;
Old Wilson’s laugh with pipe in hand
Fav’ring makers of pjyamas;
And icy rods of steel that smile,
Weaving her teas and crossing eyes
In looks that kill… or more or less;
Then Major knocked and mocked from side
Till busy Blair reset the scene;
And now one Brown with r’s and airs,
A Scotsman now the top of town…

But ‘B’ cannot leave things alone…

This is the BBC… and here is the news…

To the sound of a disco beat…
Without the solemn peal of bells…
And fear such time is too precious
To well treat with proper respect..?

And now to see a bigger Ben…
Y’ cannae hear but in the mind…
From blustering Atlantic gales
So beseeched with a banshee breath…
A giant washed in purest rain…

This is the BBC… and here are…
Weather warnings for the Highlands…

When dour Scotland will slip the knot
What clock will strike that Midnight Hour...?

Or might they choose a cannon’s shot
With pointed charge to South no doubt..?
A thrifty thought, a bonnie sight,
A treasured thrill ’neath kilt and all...!

This is the BBC… and here is the news…

A change of name… no doubt, no doubt…
For fickle things ne’er stay the same…
Or, then, perhaps “they do, they do…”? (48) 

Nothing For Free, Nothing Is Free

Discovered Sunday morning in the rain
That for cathedral service entrance free
And so entered into Canterbury,
Upon last psalm a tour did entertain,
Clockwise did walk side-wall with glass membrane
Between stone-trees on rising ramp to empty
Flat shrine on floor with candle lit to see
Where saintly Becket was so dreadful slain.
Today could we conceive of such an act, 
A sign of things to come, it’s all so sad,
For in a later reign the glass was smashed
And total war is too a pointless fact;
So how to count the cost of mayhem mad,
That fine, illumined books be also trashed..?

Nothing for free, nothing is free, they say,
For ev’ry action has a cost to pay…

So did arrive at York on Sunday planned,
And wore my latest silken op-shop tie,
But naked felt without my pack, and shy,
Yet, still, would simulate this churchward band.
Inside would find a pew with view to hand,
Admire the choir and organ loft, espy
The priestly altar and the pulpit high
But far enough to watch this pageant grand.
Endured a service held far, far too long –
Sermon berating a declining throng;
So did he know his flock had entered free,
Debate whether to put in plate ten-p…
Or not… and no more pass for faithful brother;
Losing with one hand what we gain with other..?

Nothing for free, nothing is free, they say,
For ev’ry action has a cost to pay…. (49)

An Ode To My Leather Chair

So could I now be missing home,
Or, forever cast, homeward bound,
I do not know, I do not know..?

I have now gone around the world
To one more time upon thee sit;
My book put down, my coffee drunk
To think and ponder for awhile
Was it worth it… to separate..?
Or were you there upon my back
Where ev’r I found myself to go?

Did eat my lunch, well out of sight,
On garden seat in old Suzhou
List’ning to birds make nests in trees,
There left ignored by watchful guard…

And in San Francisco held hands
With a blind man upon a pew
Wanting to know in questions plied
What my country just might look like…

Or in London town at the zoo
Would find the bench a better view
To watch my fellow man appear
No different from apes installed…
Both scratching themselves, kid you not, 
Exactly at very same time…

But, might I say, I sit down here 
A diff’rent soul, no more with thoughts
The same, with novel memories,
New ways to see the same old world,
At home in an expanded show…

For sure you did travel with me,
Remember well first day in France
Once more, I take delight in thee…
Seated upon a stool to eat 
The tourist fare in menu plied…

Then, fine café, pure art deco, 
In migrant part of Flemish land,
Took dark confection with my tea…

So need I now be missing home,
Or, forever cast, homeward bound,
I do not know, I do not know…?