Volume XII - Book I

Whispering Ghosts:

From a Modern Life to a Postmodern Death….

Noël Tointon

2002

Preface

	In the first book of this twelfth volume my poems range from short haikus to lengthy poems in a free form, from a few formal works to those of a more informal, formless nature… It is my hope, among these many lines, that a few of those sequences might be able to capture the 'vision' of my reader and inspire them to reflect for a few more moments, intimate that, in this world-of-life around us, the poetical can be found even in the seemingly non-poetical… that value can be found anywhere and everywhere… can give back a sense, a meaning and a meaningfulness in the very midst of our lives and loves when the literal tenor of the postmodern world is to treat this world otherwise as bleak, or, as overly colourful in a superficial manner… as filled with desires without redemption… finding no 'life' in the metaphorical, or in the literal… perceiving its 'texture' as none other than the emptiness of an idle chatter… a mere preferencing of a point of view… In this hope of 're-vision' I give you my latest poems… experimental re-interpretations of the world… looking for that evanescent glimmer of the aesthetical… of the relational… of, dare I say it, the spiritual, and, a wealth of value delivered through the non-fearful acceptance of a 'positive nihilism'… that at the end of the day puts everything back together again… allows us to enter this world of whispering ghosts and therein to continue this conversation with the living… and the dead…?!

							          Noël Tointon, Sydney, 6.7.02.

I was once a totally modern woman,
I was once soo beautiful,
But look at me, 
Far too many winters,
Too much cabbage soup,
Even my clothes have deserted me…

I was once a totally modern woman…

The short, stout elderly Russian lady
Looked liked a babushka doll
With just as many clothes on 
Underneath her large lifeless overcoat….

Just picked up for shoplifting
In the company of two nurses 
Helping her to buy a few garments
Totally unaware that under her coat
She was wearing a whole wardrobe 
That had not been paid for…

But the camera never lies;
And she did have a well-earned reputation…

I was once a totally modern woman,
I was once soo beautiful,
But look at me…

Even my new clothes have deserted me…

What was the point, the nurses argued, 
In charging her…

Now looking a lot slimmer, 
In penance, they made her pay
For a very fashionable outfit…

Soo expensive, she grumbled…
I was once a totally modern woman…

Said with the faintest twinkling of an eye…

…and the suggestive inkling of an ironic smile…. (1)

	************
The Museum of (Post-)Modern Art
Was in full swing…

It was a hot day 
And the cool air-conditioning 
Was a welcoming relief
For the few lost souls
Wandering around within…

The first thing I noticed 
Was an irregular stain
On the tiling beneath my feet -
It was so beautiful, 
So abstract,
And so wonderful,
As if some one
Had pissed on the floor,
Accidentally,
Unnoticed, unseen…

Above it
Lifeless photographs
The size of paintings
Fluttered on the walls…

Around the corner espy
Two large plastic poodles on the floor
In black and white
With a menagerie of pubs
In fleshy pink
Looking like a pile
Of warm turds…

An empty white room beckoned,
Floor slightly raised.
Was this an exhibit?
Noticed a blind alcove to the side,
And there just out of sight
From the entrance
Stood a row
Of narrow plastic pillars
Looking like anaemic mushrooms
With school boy caps…

You were suppose to take your shoes off…
Said the young, good-looking attendant
Sitting beside the vacant entrance…

Hurrying on to the next 'exhibit'…

A row of headphones on the wall,
Small televisions showing 
The same red flower
While birds whistled
About the room,
Other rooms 
In pitch darkness
With repeated images,
Repeating ad nauseam…

Didn't realise 
I was suppose to use the headphones 
Dangling in a row…

The sign also said
There was obscene language…

At last something I might understand
As I left by the lift…. (2)

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

His head was shaved,
His eyebrow sported 
A piece of metal
As did his nose
And his two ears,
His black clothes looked
Gothic and menacing…

Leaving the door open for me
After he went through…

Hey, I am not that old,
Am I, I thought to myself..?

You are welcome 
He said with his eyes…

Today, 
Don't trust the advertising…

Or the packaging…. (3)

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

I am a poet, 
A published poet,
Said the poetess,
Took a poem
And made it a book,
An opening 
Without closure,
At the charity book launch
Signed my name
On the inside cover:

…To Cheryl
And Jason…. (4)

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

Go by ferry to Balmain,
Visit the second hand bookshops 
And spot the antiques…

Alas, ten years too late….

Now, you would go there 
Only for a coffee,
A bite,
Or a Dress…

Or merely to be seen 
being seen…

Alas…. (5)

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

Buddhas, Buddhas everywhere,
From the walls beaming down…

Buddhas, Buddhas here and there,
In the crowd looking profound…

Mere images, mere images,
Faces in cases inside and out…

Monks as exhibits, robes folded;
Spectators listening…

Catalogues in hand, photos aping
Aged sculptures looking tired…

Buddhas, Buddhas appearing;
Spectral actors in a play…

Budhhas, Buddhas everywhere
In a hall of mirrors… reflecting…. (6)

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

Tonight the smokers 
Cannot compete 
With the bush-fires 
…though they might have 
Caused a few..!

Malboro man,
Is still alive,
Only his body
Was cremated 
Some time ago…

At the base of the stairs
In the open mouth 
Of the fire-doorway
The smokers 
Cannot compete 
With the bushfires…

But come back 
Tomorrow…

Or some time
Next week…! (7)

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

Dog owners learn
To speak to each other…

Why don't they 
just wear a badge
That says… Available..?

At least the dogs ‘sniff’
…and say “hello”…. (8)

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

The native folk
Looked so appealing 
In a riot of colour…

Sophisticated souls
In shades of grey….
Looked so passé…. (9)

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

Theology student 
Reading a text on God 
Quite forgot who s/he was…. (10)

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

Before Xmas
The department store
Sold so much scent
You could not smell
What they had for sale…

And that week
The chemist next door
Did a good trade too…! (11)

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

Along the tracks at Central
Saw drifting and homeless
The blue cigarette smoke
From the week’s bushfires
As if out celebrating 
An echo from the past
Almost forgotten
From the good old days...

Entered the first carriage
And meet the reeking presence
Of a vehicle that had been
As if to hell and back,
Returning through remembrance
To a time from the past
Not yet forgotten
From the bad old days...

For an hour travel to Penrith
And through the windows
Perceive a fast unravelling shroud
Cloaking, choking a blurred landscape -
One long scroll of houses and trees
Lithographed in white ink
Losing colour, streaked
In sunlight too weak to paint back 
The complexion of the bush 
Beyond the colour of ash...

Locked in this time capsule
See where the flames licked
The lampposts, jumped the track,
Burnt black the naked bark,
Undressed an undergrowth
Bathed in eerie washes of smoke
As if freshly exhaled 
By hiding bands of dragons 
Not yet ready to show themselves 
In mortal combat...

Through the thickest fumes we pass
Just able to breath,
Not knowing, unable to divine 
From whence these recent vapours came,
Not seeing where they went, nor caring,
Only fearful they weren’t sent
From around the next bend
On this corner or that...

...and then the heavy fog was lifted,
In sweet sunlight, in purest air,
Could look for miles across the park
To long ridges highlighted 
With white shadows
Stretched across valleys filled
Like lakes with wrinkled waves...

...and not one flame to see 
Nor proxy glow enhaloed...

Such a relief to breathe at last clean air!
To see the surface of the earth
In the tinted tones of normality,
To leave behind a ghostly pallour
That hints at death
And the shattered coffins
Of houses that once stood so proudly...

By four o'clock choking smog 
Came swirling back
Propelled by different Breezes 
Too guilty to be shamed
By fancy names recalled.
Surrounded, village folk 
Once more grew mindful,
Unable to re-trace
The foul passage of a breath
That smelt like some 
Poorly operated crematorium...

Tourism had died a second death
As if Xmas day 
Had been extended for a week,
Intrepid souls like the fingers on a hand
Stood out as strangers
Letting locals recognise their neighbours
In a more friendly light.
The florist had flowers
As if delivered that morning
Being sprayed with a mist of water
While the baker had his wares
Still waiting in the window
Like the furniture further down the street
Unlooked at, untouched, 
Except by a brightly polished sun,
While decorations lent a comic air...

This year main-street 
‘Had gone to town’
Outdoing even the Catholic shop
With jolly old men in white
Singing carols and pagan delights
Of angels and elves,
Of mangers and menageries,
Hinting subliminally without finesse
That the festive spirit is spent
Giving one more shopping gift
Purchased on extra credit...

But tinsel and fairy lights
Were forgotten in a rush 
To return home to make a stand
After being told to leave 
With a small valise just in case
You really should have fled
Already packed with food and shirts,
And simple drink, a few dollars,
Passports, other papers,
And photo-albums taking up
Too, too much space...

So hot and dry belts the gusting buster
And now the dragons come out to play,
Frolicking along the horizon 
Not too far away...

A vivid crimson more red 
Than the sinking sun
Now gone to bed,
More brightly lit 
Than one dim, ruddy moon
Sailing up through a sea of mist.
Voices, voices everywhere,
Muttering, muffled, sounding excited,
Out-shouted in a crackling roar...

The plum trees are next,
With fruit blood red
Exploding like crackers
Upon a fiery cake.
Bird calls squawking,
Laughing kookaburras
Stopped in mid-track,
Sounding desperate 
From a further tree,
Snakes and lizards,
Mad dogs and cats fleeing 
On down one frantic avenue...

“It's the New Year” 
Shouts a fireman
To his new found mate,
Who signals back “Oh, yeah”
And continues to hose
The same burning tree
With a new found resolution.
“And we are going to miss the fireworks.’’
“Ha, ha” says his friend
Moving on to the next backyard
Now just alight,
Saving the singed washing on the line
And all the houses in that street...

But these dragons never go away
Hiding in nooks and crannies,
In the minds of the mentally sick,
In the smooth hands of teenage boys
Whose desires burn far too bright
To make much sense 
Of actions undertaken 
In the heat of the moment...

…until they too know what it’s like
To be surrounded by an angry monster
That likes to sup on property and flesh
Served up from an oven white hot,
A burnt offering fit only for Gods...
 
...so judge not too harshly
Simple souls who have 
No real imagination, 
No feel for consequences
That might spark a different course...

Confronted with
This heartless beast,
With a mind more fickle 
Than the wheezing 
Of a tempest breeze,
Who would not repent,
Seek to escape 
This pain felt hell..?

...but no tight-lipped heretic 
Need confess this obvious fact
That ye shall fear
Fingers aflame with fatal fire
Regardless of who ye be -
A dancing native
Smeared in mud, 
A modern man 
Seeking enlightenment,
A postmodern woman
Trading on the margins
Of a destiny too ironic,
Too tragic to laugh about,
Even someone more...
Contemporary... of a design
Not yet quite talked upon
As a topic in reflection...

...fingers aflame with fatal fire
That ye shall fear...
Regardless...

Regardless of who ye be..!

...from peasant to prime minister,
From pauper to patrician 
Fire cuts us down 
To the same insignificant size,
Without fear or favour,
Without a flicker of remorse...

...in a cosmic universe
That suffers no pleasure
In some poor fragment’s 
Apparent distress…. (12)

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

Even the homeless,
Cold and hungry, have mobiles…
Expensive habits…! (13)

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

The sign on the bus said Circular Quay…

It was a hot and humid evening
And the queue was broad and long…

On board, felt folk represented 
A head-on collision in custom,
Fault-lines between different cultures,
A front-line in multi-cultural misunderstanding…

You could see patrons hoped 
The homeless person would not take his seat
Beside them… with good reason…

Once woman were patronised -
Now men patronise themselves… by default…

Still the older lady expected
The young oriental male to stand up for her…

But he took his seat first:
"First in - first served" he thinks…

And I had a really bad hair-day at the office…

And she was so pushy
With that handbag of hers…

A cute lad with tie half-mast,
Dishevelled black hair with tips gold tinted, 
Thin, elegant chain around his neck,
Has only just started working…

Very keen to impress…

I think the old lady fancies him,
Would like him to stand up for her…
Like some gallant, masculine movie star from the 40's…

The cinema is only another simulation 
Of the world socially travelling along with us…

Like a bus trip - a stitched up series of starts and stops…

With a definite ending… or so it seams…

That movie I saw last night
At one point lost the plot.
The main character saying
"I suppose you don't believe me…"

How insightful can a text get..?

And that violent character kept apologising!
"Excuse me… Bang… Sorry..!"

"Next stop Town Hall followed by Wynyard…"

Without a doubt the over-friendly bus-driver
Fancies he has a voice for opera…
Might make a fine tenor..? or castrato..!

Even a bus can 'go off the rails'…
Hopefully he doesn't get too carried away
With his running commentary…

"So you're on holiday?" he asks
A young woman with a backpack…

What would be the point, I think,
When you come back 
To the same place
From whence you started..?

…And then need another holiday
To recover from the first…

An advertisement on a passing bus
Suggested 'you fly away'…

But where? …when it equally comes to you…
All desires embracing their objects
If only in virtual reality…

In an affair of hit or miss…

Would you do it again?
Could you do it again?
Should you even try?
When every shift is 
An exercise in nostalgia… sigh…

Snippets of conversation,
Commented upon by silent thought…

A world of overlapping fantasies,
Or, overlapping worlds 
Threatening to spill,
Flood out over the floor,
Seep out onto the street,
Cascade across the city…
To disappear down 
Some ten thousand cracks…

Take an exit through
Back-doors and drains…
Back to the soil… or the sky…

Separation of the four elements…

Or five… if we're unlucky enough
To find no final release…

A mobile phone misquotes 
another piece of classical music…

More overheard conversation…

"How did it go last night,
Really… oh… what was it like..?"

"Circular Quay - Last stop…
All off please… Have a nice day…"

A journey made together
Despite the minimal company,
Or, others might say,
"In its over-abundant supply..!"

Always an existential surplus
If you know where to look…
Listen and feel…
Forget oneself…

…forgetting oneself…

Thankfully…! (14)

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

This wailing cat
Could have woken the dead
As shrouded sleepers
Did stir in bed…

Tried to get back to sleep,
But, in an in-between-land,
In a state of reverie,
Whilst daydreaming
Found myself taking
Afternoon tea with a friend;
Talking about mother
Now interred ten years…

Then, over the edge of my cup,
I saw her seated between us
Looking very sad,
Not happy to be ignored,
As if left behind in the past…

…I leant over,
And touched her on the arm,
Felt the tepid skin move
Firmly upon the bone…

…mildly mortified, 
Realise those who are dead,
And those who are dying too, 
Would not like to be thought
As if no longer with us…

They say…

She has a lovely smile
And such a lovely laugh…

…and stubborn secrets…

I daresay…

That ne'er passed her lips…

…and sad, sad thoughts
Not yet shared with folks
Who now know well
Hers depths… of silence…

…would have enjoyed her wake
In a reception room,
Filled with friends, 
Too small to take in those
She too would have to invite…

…beloved mother,
How oft' mentioned,
Her husband (my father),
Those that loved her well,
To us unknown 
Or known by name,
From near and far…

…among us mere mortals
There are they who revel
In recollections of the virtual,
And, those who prefer
Small crumbs of ecstacy
That hopefully pepper
What time of ours is left to pass;
Spice our routines of life
That, in themselves,
Would be the sure death of us…

Best to know a diet
As yet unprepared
Than partake a banquet
Already written down, 
Dictated on one menu
Old and worn-out,
Fingered by other hands…

The moving curtain
About the window 
Is giving shape 
To the passing breeze,
As if saying farewell…

The present air is fleet
With the flickering of dust
Meeting peeping rays
Of future light
Falling e'er so softly
Upon my pillow…

…and passing into sleep
Find this poem writing itself
Upon the wrinkled pages
Of my furrowed brow…

…pale lines of remembrance
Recall to mind the hour
When time dissolves
The before and after,
The here and there
And all the divisions 
Of the rainbow,
In sweet suspense profound
Mixing dawn with dusk,
High noon with deeper night,
Throwing out flaming pearls 
Of wisdom, love…

…and insight…

…that deft defy all measure
Proscribed in limits 
Of a worldly text
Framed beneath a cover
That no longer opens to speak,
Buried in a plot,
Entitled in leaden gilt,
To be held fast with clasps,
And, in a literal sense,
Left leather bound…. (15)

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

In the river 
of the street
The noise of traffic 
never ceased…

I often saw 
The same old woman 
Sweeping leaves
Under the crooked fence
On to the path,
One leaf at a time;
Her garden now 
One gnarled tree,
Thin and stunted,
Racked with rot,
Not much longer
For this world…

Surrounded by
Some mangy daisies
Just resisting 
An Autumn drought…

Upon the windowsill
Two hardy orchids stood,
Many moons ago planted
By her husband now dead,
Looking pale, 
Each one with a single, 
wrinkled bloom…

Then a month later
Noticed the tree 
Had died, fallen over.
Desiccated and yellow
The shrivelled orchids 
Matched the brittle daisies
In a wreath where
The roots of the plane tree 
Had been buried…

The naked terrace 
Signalled it was ‘for sale’,
And had quickly ‘sold’,
Awaiting rebirth
From an empty garden
Already looking exotic
With a caravan 
Of furniture and fabric,
And ferns and frangipanis
Just delivered…

Still, I will miss
Her bewitching smile -
An oasis of peace -
Long fought for,
Through age perfected
On this noisy river 
Of a busy street
Where the passage of traffic
Never ceased…. (16)

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

Pointed steeples once haunted the skyline
Now faithless people live in the high air
In twisted boxes piled like bland milkcrates
Watching the spectacle of the vista -
Watching others block the lost horizon;
No choice in colour, white is so passé;
Remember your compass because you pay
So much more for fresh air, sun and water…

That homeless souls will have in abundance
Like the fountains trickling in the foyer
Set in concrete made marble in mood light
With other artworks mixing messages…

You pay for what you get chasing bubbles -
Floating worlds wrapped in a clash of symbols …. (17)

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

I am just a slot in your filofax,
An extended two hour segment in time
In your appointments book beside the phone,
A name scribbled on a piece of paper;
On reflection ask “what future is there?”
…when next year I will be, perhaps,
Only a window of opportunity
On your fashionable palmtop -
‘After lunch and before afternoon tea’,
Or, merely upgraded to ‘a late supper’…

You run your life like a business
Yet invest not in those company shares,
You operate from an attic without a view
And leave no open space for living -
Just an image in a succession of faces
…a productive stream of busy-ness
Entangled in a diary of engagements
Doubly-booked since your forsaken presence
Ne’er attends these occasional meetings
Any more than would your fleeting shadow…. (18)

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

O supermarkets of cacophony
While the mood music outpaces itself,
Above a choir of pneumatic drills,
They want you to hurry
Yet place obstacles in all the aisles,
Think you might linger like perfume
And make another purchase
Going round and round
Those stretched-out escalators…

And in the mall each boutique
Must thump out the latest in dance,
The mindless beatings of tribal trance,
Endless discos on designer speed,
All competing to catch your ear,
An arena of musical feasting,
A precious space filled with seats
In the hope we might chomp our way 
Through one more obscene burger…

Please, please give me back the sound
Of a busy, busy main street,
No more shall I complain about
The sweet, sweet smell of petrol,
Or the honking, honking of motors,
And long, long to savour the tidal to and fro
Of the surf-like surging of the traffic…
And the soft sound of human voices
Happy to speak without shouting…! (19)

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

I feel neglected like a library of books
On shelves collecting a patina of dust;
Why write these tomes, why compose one more poem
When the world will pulp this paper avalanche
And your work has more chance of being consumed 
By the wriggly nibbling of a hungry worm..?

I feel neglected like a library of books
On shelves collecting a patina of dust;
Yet take heart for each book is an open tomb,
Every page an invitation to befriend
The author as if in the flesh, face to face, 
As if arisen within this very room…!

Still feel neglected like a library of books
On shelves collecting a patina of dust
And in despair wonder who my reader 
Might be, but then, suddenly, must take heart
For if these sad words now be read line by line
Must rejoice that you, O Reader, must be mine..?! (20)

	************
Have a hat for each day of the week 
And a different tie for the next ten years,
An Imelda Marcos collection of shoes,
And a secondhand wardrobe of striped shirts
To match a serious spectrum 
Of subtle moods… but, alas, no suit,
Neither three piece nor two,
To bestride the business world,
But, could cloak myself in a mighty frown,
For a minute or two, at least,
If could stop myself from laughing 
At the thought of being dressed
Like a tragic, downtown executive clown
Manipulating his salaried figure ‘cross
The dangerous confines of a ledger
Between a private profit… and public loss..! 

So, methinks, a suit does not suit me,
And no suit suits me better,
But if it suits me to have no suit
Then suit me out in something fitter
Than that once lent to me by birth,
For it suits me not to look such a sight,
And it must suit you to see me
not so suited out for no suit should be
left wrinkled, kept unpressed, but,
please, please don’t lend me yours
for I am sure your outfitted suit 
is far beyond its due-by date 
to suit this suit and out suit 
this suit in timeless style
already enjoyed on this estate…. (21)

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

Sadly, downcast,
The ‘SALE’ flag
Was forever flying…

The corner shop
Were purveyors
Of fine fashion,
Each designer garment,
Racked and ranked 
In row on row,
Labelled and signed
Many times…

In bold warfare
With the rest of 
The rag-trade
The premises
Were painted
A techno green,
Big bright billboards 
In an electric orange
With cute italics
Cast in vivid, inky purple…

Alas, sales were flagging…

Sadly, downcast,
The ‘SALE’ flag
Was forever flying…

…and now the shop itself
Was ‘FOR SALE’
With a large notice
On proud review
To that effect
In tasteful pink…

…and hint of blue…. (22)

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

 Damp day in Autumn.
 One more Blue Mountains bush fire!..?
  Smoky plumes of mist…. (23)

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

Footprints on my pillow,
Footsteps across my chest,
In the middle of the night
I feel your heavy boots
On me are walking…

Thump, thump… 
Thump, thump…
Thump, thump…

…and find it funny that all I hear
Is the dull sound of my own heart,
And laugh that songs
Have a life of their own,
Find new words, new tunes to sing
Old thoughts that have been said before…

…thoughts that have all been said before…

Footprints on my pillow,
Footsteps across my chest,
In the middle of the night
I feel your heavy boots
On me are walking…

…and find it quite kinky 
To entertain such a thought
And with a heavy sigh
Re-breathe, relive the freshness 
Of the night finding vivid dreams
Have a life of their own…

Footprints on my pillow,
Footsteps across my chest,
In the middle of the night
I feel your heavy boots
On me are walking…. (24)

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

The dishevelled homeless fellow
Leans over the ornate sandstone railing
And with an almighty heave
Vomits on to the box hedge beneath…

A few feet away fashion conscious folk
Sip their lattes and flat whites,
Sample breakfasts of bacon and eggs
Or a diet of skimpy croissants and ham….

This was once a public space,
Remember sitting here to write a poem
Before heading off to work
Into the lost hours of a still night…

The dishevelled homeless fellow
Again leans over the ornate sandstone railing
And with an almighty heave
Vomits on to the box hedge beneath…

…reclaiming this public space…! (25)

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

Each semiotic feature read ‘masculine man’,
But, alas, put together when he did dance 
Upon the street the picture said ‘effeminate fairy’.
No black beard and mo pronounced him ‘butch’,
Nor blue jeans nor leather jacket nor white T-shirt, 
An unseen tattoo would have been quite wasted,
And piercings incidental, almost ornamental,
Mere icing upon one very happy fruitcake…

Into his mobile he was conversing, laughing,
And with his one free hand the air was conducted
As if the Russian Ballet had come to town;
So enraptured in conversation he became himself.
Imagine our poor soul trying to pass as some ‘sportsman’
He would have been bowled “out” before you could say “boo”…

…and in reflection upon his natural condition
Saw no woman moving beneath those puppet strings,
Nor some hairy hyperspaced out he-male in drag
But a mixture where macho exaggerated the fem
Which, in turn, softened the deposit left in balance 
To arrive at a living sculpture sweetly moulded 
With such graceful perfection that sadness would see
This mis-outfitted soul pass for one less perfected…. (26)

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

Under a rainbow coloured umbrella,
Taking a coffee on Oxford Street,
A country vicar was conversing 
With his city cousin quite upset 
By the sordidness of the passing scene…

That bloke on his T-shirt 
Advertises demon drink,
That wolf with his shirt off
Has an Alsatian without a leash,
And that teased out blond 
With blackened tips, short skirt,
Looks like she is selling herself 
As she walks the street 
With her crowd of kids 
Carrying bags of shopping,
And those two drunken ladies
Would out-screech a choir
Of banshees on heat,
And those two thin blokes 
Holding hands, madly in love,
Seemed to have forgotten 
Their twin poodle boys 
Are still trying to screw 
That equally horny 
Pomeranian…

…if God were to judge this 
Fragmented portion 
Of his wonderful creation
Would he know it as his own..?

Relax old chap, old chum,
As he held his hand,
Beneath this umbrella 
There is room enough
For everyone under the sun,
And gives a simple coffee 
Taken on the street 
Quite a flavour 
Don’t you think..? 

…and for our ministry 
Quite a challenge…! (27)

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

His buffed up body was a body beautiful,
Perfected through long hours each night, but, alas,
His face was chiselled with a cold determination
That undermined the overall effect…

Yes, I was jealous, did admire his waist-line,
Those shoulders and firm, ample breasts,
Knew that this eternal student wore blinkers
From the neck down while his were turned around
And worn the other way, so all together, in theory,
(At least) we should make a perfect pair of friends…

…and laugh …so get me to the church on time…

…if human chemistry was ever to be that simple..!

In thought I have travelled the four corners of my mind,
Yet find a real beauty only in friendship well-defined
         /well-divined…! (28)

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

    The fraying tips of leaves are turning brown -
A dismal time of year when hope grows thin,
But take a better cheer from emerald moss
Resurrected on damper trees embossed.
With loss there’s gain, with death there’s life again -
But ever sad reflect “it’s no more mine”,
Yet share in glad delight though soon be lost
Than take pleasure alone suffered at cost.
    The fact that I no more exist embrace -
A fleeting leaf just sailing empty space
Beneath pale beds of mist while rays of sun
Awake a breathless morning winter dead…
    Yet joy, such joy, each kissed second to face
Finds a joyous passing bare keeping pace…. (29)

(The previous sonnet can be read with a following alternative final couplet as an erotic answer to the questions implied by the body of the poem.)

    Such joy, such joy, we touched, kissed face to face,
Find a joyous passing bare keeping pace…. (29a)
    From sleep entwined we did kiss face to face,
Found a joyous passing bare keeping pace…. (29b)
    Such joy as we touched then kissed face to face,
Find a joyous passing bare keeping pace…. (29c) 
    Such joy in joyful kissing face to face
Finds a joyous passing bare keeping pace…. (29d)

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

The Catholic archbishop had to speak
“Man is not complete without woman”
…and wondered at what he knew… or… 
Did not know…? (30)

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

Do you like spaghetti?
Would you like to spend each day
Unravelling it,
Trying to tie it back together..?

One can of worms 
Leads to another…

Keeps me busy, 
Each reflection barely digested,
A gastronomic philosopher
Growing fat on thought,
Looking a little thin
On the ground…

Licking his lips 
With a smile
Whilst walking in a circle
With a frown…

Tying knots
In strings of words 
Served…

…on a paper plate…. (31)

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

Whose in charge?!
Who to charge..?!
Who has the right to rule..?

A deaf Prime Minister
In a sea of lies,
Compassion… thrown overboard..?
A Pope… that rumour has it
Cannot wipe his own bottom,
Does the washing with one hand..?

But I am too unkind,
Forgive me… for things
“Are best left undone…”

Like the old fellow
With the shattered zip
Who promised the Police
He would have it fixed
And who used… a safety pin…? (32)

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

The poet is like…

…the producer of a film,
And the director,
The main star too
As well their lead,
A cast of odd characters,
An architect that sets the scene,
The cameraperson,
The controller of sound,
A musician and composer, 
The scriptwriter,
An editor and critic
And suffering spectator
All rolled into one…

…with no friend called Oscar…

Today, what person finds pleasure
In a one-person-circus..?

A court jester without a crown
Looking into a mirror trying to hear
An image of self
In the visible sound
Of an audience,
Distilling truth
In the midst of silence,
Inspired by poetry
Between the lines
Delivered by an actor
Not quite themself
Whose autograph
Is an ornate signature
Just signed… by voice…! (33)

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

The perfect poem
Once poured into words
Has lost its innocence…

Yet, if by tricks of trade,
Can leave artifice behind,
Along with icy language,
Can still recover
Its virginity…

Lost and found
In some virtual cyber space
The true poem lies about its age…

…being… becoming… ageless…! (34)

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

We have real choice when we shop –
Tweedledee and Tweedledum:
Or Coles and Woolworths to be precise,
And fifty corner stores all selling
The same few marked up items…

Woe betide some fancy product
That does not sell more than 
A few thousand units –
“Off with its head”
I can hear the accountants scream…

"Oh, I would like to buy an egg…"
Would be a request met 
With a derisive peel of laughter.
"We package our generic lines here, Miss…
And you buy six or twelve or none at all…

Boxes and cans, bags and packets
All laid out in rows 
Waiting for the March Hare
To find… decipher all the labels - 
Plain and advertized…

Yet, you would be as mad as a hatter 
To snap up the 'specials'
Without hunting for the marked price tag,
Ever allusive… that gave better value…

"I'm late, I'm late" said the sly bureaucrat
Monotonously chanting the latest mantra,
"I smell, I smell… I smell a rat…
If I am not mistaken",
Grinning like a Cheshire… Cheese…

Methinks its time to find groceries
Through the computer,
Have them delivered to the door,
"This is what I want to buy, please
Haddocks’ eyes, yes, by the score…"

…and Vogel's complete range of breads,
And that fancy blue cheese in oil
They smartly dropped on its head
And other wonderful things catalogued
In your comprehensive looking glass…

Two Humpty Dumpties sitting on a wall,
Winking and nodding to each other, I dare say,
Oblivious to the day… they too will fall…! (35)

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

Beneath golden trees
Scattered sheets of newspaper
Foreshadow the Fall…

A poem simply transforms
The common everyday texts 
Of our lives into something
Precious… insightful… beautiful..?

Or, otherwise, as here,
Translates transcendental thoughts
On to mundane paper
Stripped back to the bare essential..?

Transforms or translates…
Or bets both ways…
To re-see the world afresh…

The street sweeper puts
The brittle leaves and rubbish
Into the same bin….

Alas, what was gold
Turns to dust,
Only echoed
In repeated traces…

As poetic images -
Fragile reflections,
Whispering ghosts
Talking to each other
In a room
Without walls…

Bare, skeletal trees
Project against the grey sky
The veins of a leaf…

Like immortal inscriptions 
On a grave stone,
Buried and left for dead,
Some poets seek eternal life
By proxy…

But are never heard
So they babble in books,
And scorn the works of others
Taken to be…
The flavour of the month…

With bitter tongue
More sharp than pen,
Honed by practice,
Make better critics
If they forgot to rhyme…
Drank those sweet measures 
In a bar, in a dark corner
Nowhere near…
The public counter…

Conversing with friends -
This is poetry,
Pure and sublime,
Living life in the rhythms
Of its own time…

A youthful choir…
Enchanted leaves chattering
In the singing breeze…. (36)

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

Texts have no power…
Only people..!

Don't remember travelling
Up and down the Mountains
By train… walking home…

Rapt in a wonderful novel,
Ideas sparkling, sparking
Brand new ways of thinking…

Found spoken time then had 
A life beyond its own,
An in between folded inside out…

People have no power…
Only texts…! (37)

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

I liked the shape of his face,
Seemed a thoughtful fellow,
A thinker too - from the title 
Of his carried book… someone 
To engage in conversation…

Saw him passing on the street,
From time to time,
Wondered when I might say "hello",
Thought perhaps a simple smile
Would present that day…

He smiled in return… as a friend…
Laden down with baggage
With plane ticket in hand
About to take a waiting taxi…
And never saw him again…

So the moral of the story is -
Plan nothing and nothing 
Is left undone… do nothing
And there is nothing to do…
With a little help… hopefully…

Pure spontaneity… 
Best gifted from the Gods…
Always accepting a little extra help…
Perhaps not so divine… 
As well…. (38)

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

More poems than people,
More pictures than 
The walls of all our houses,
More works of art than ants,
Or so it seems, 
Yet wonder why large parts 
Of our faceless world are left
So gray and shabby,
So sad and soulless
Where ornament and artifice
Conceal an exploitative guile
And gilt only sweetens
The duplicity of such stealth
That gives with one hand 
To take twice as much 
With some other…

Yet, despite this fact 
Must truly believe 
We are born 
In the virtual image of God:
Each person as Creator,
Who, through timely practice,
Will avoid confrontation 
With their own untimely death…

Each person too as Re-Creator,
Busy expending energy
Re-shaping resistant matter
With an unchained fearfulness
Forever lurking behind their back,
Working through one temporal dimension
Lost in mindless rituals
And endless distractions
Sometimes with art,
Sometimes without,
More often than not 
Left artless, 
Without a heart…

So, with much crafted beauty
Hoarded by few,
Emulated by many,
Why is most of the planet
Sculptured with inept ugliness
When we now live in a wider world 
Where the person can produce
A thousand times as much 
As one barely paid worker 
Could one hundred long years ago
In that unfortunate era
Whose length was cut short 
In the reality of shadows 
Left weary by the toll
Of tribal wars..?

But, I ask not for a redistribution, 
Unless you wish to give me
Your finest Sung china,
When all about us
A multitude of artists
Seek to labour for our delight
And yet must suffer 
An endless recognition
That knows them not 
Nor sees their work
Nor feels our need to possess
Their vision of a universe
Re-crystallized...!

With helpless tears 
That would wash my ink
I beseech thee O Reader
To see beyond my thin pale lines
To feel the need to buy
A work of art upon the morrow,
Adopt an artist, 
Proposition a poet,
Be manager to a musician,
Commission such commerce
That would re-invaginate mother earth
With meaning and value.
Help us to find 
A re-newed meaningfulness,
Before our inevitable demise,
In these living works of art
That defy physical death,
Give life to treasured hope
That one can proudly say 
“This great one did exist,
And did exist well”, and,
“That our existence was better lived”
In the happiness knowing
Such an artistic spirit 
Did walk and work
And by our giving hand
Their songs of praise
Could sing across the global stage 
From rooftop to rooftop
In a deathless distillation of love
Whose unwritten message
Must celebrate the fact
That ‘our’ noble craftsperson 
Did sacrifice self
For the love of another.
Always, always a sacrifice 
For the love of an other
Who, beyond us,
Gives us back our freedom to be
As we give back to them
Their succession to a crown
That lets them rule
Their dominion of artistry,
Their realm - their ministry…

…an expanding, 
All encompassing empire
That re-creates… 
Our humanity…! (39)   [This prose poem is both a lament and an exhortation, N.]

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

On the street
Found an Alfa Romeo,
Left neglected,
Bright pillar box red,
One door open, 
As if ready to drive…

A gift from God…

A voice in my head said:
“Take me… 
Take me for a spin…”

So… I took it,
Went for a test drive 
With my brand new car…

Then placed it in my bag…

To give to a child,
Some other child…

One day…. (40)

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

In most libraries of the world, 
Great and small, now on display,
Around the corner from the canons
Of a gilt-edged Shakespeare…
The poems of Pope and Donne…
Novels of Austen, Patrick White…
Those tomes of Proust and Joyce…
Between Mills and Boon and real romance
And rows and rows of predictable pulp…
Books for coffee tables, and,
Mathematical treatises in astrophysics…

One can behold my complete works..!

…view each individual page, text by text,
Face the lengthy footnotes lost in fine print…

…as laid out on a computer screen
Caught on the wide web of the internet…

Every tasteless fragment can here be read -
Even this bitter morsel can be seen…

Gulp…! (41)

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

Finding philosophy in the agora….

You must be joking to think
That people might muse 
On the way to market,
On its edges, perhaps,
Looking down upon a scene
Where ant-like creatures
Do ten thousand things
Yet simple desires alone drive them
To perform but one,
Everything bought and sold
In an economy of preference…

At the entrances to these halls of trade
The smokers stand to deep inhale
Their last cigarette for the next half hour
While the less socially aware
Walk right on in… sucking in
The fresh dusty perfumed air 
Fragrant with flowers and vegetables,
Beauty products, a thousand fabrics,
Those secretive stall holders 
Preserving 'old rights'
As thin mushroom clouds, 
Stranded in dark corners, fade away 
Into the haze to be re-woven
In one dull toxic blanket
Choking the poor asthmatic
Who thought that they might be able 
To rush on in… and quickly exit…

Could the Salvo with his plastic bin
Still think we are made in the image of God?
A hangover here - half asleep there,
In a hurry a weedy soul stays in top gear,
Madame in first struggles with her purse,
A young blade thinks himself so cool
With a mere swish of water about the face,
Despair… despair written on one drunk torso,
Mothers and daughters looking like bag-ladies,
Whole families looking adrift getting lost,
With wandering lovers forgetting 
To find the way out through this crowd 
Having a bad hair day…
Whilst a cross-looking crook 
Finds everyone just too poor 
To worthwhile pick-pocket…

…a folk already fleeced by fake silk ties,
Designer labels, scented delights 
From New York, Paris, Milan…
Well crafted with poetic licence 
Delivered via Hong Kong 
Or Mainland China, Indonesia, India… 
A nearby suburb on a nearby hill … 
Or just around the corner…

An entire world finds itself encapsulated
Between these arched brick walls
Like an ancient Roman arena
Replete with wild animals 
Replicated as wooden toys… by proxy…
Well handcarved in Africa 
No doubt by some machine
So much so that you might wonder
If, in its darkened recesses,
Real lions, rabid wolves could wander
These crowded passage ways
That criss-cross this inner city emporium
Like mapped out streets upon a rugby field
With scrums at each intersection;
Thankful that humans are eating
Or have already eaten… 
Only look like… cannibals…

There, grinning on strained faces,
The meaning of life -
That puzzled look that says “there is none!”
From sheer pain to mere blissfulness
The human condition is stained
A vivid red writ large in blood
And sweat, and toil… out chasing spectres;
Keeping happy in scoring a goal,
Watching others doing the same,
Or listening to those who might have been there…
When the whole world is a mirror
Reflecting an empty self
Sometimes filled with amazement,
Finally abandoned by a body
Then less useful than a trestle 
Of fish piled high… slowly decaying…

Finding philosophy in the agora
If we know how to look for it,
Letting it first find us, 
Meet us in a space
More personal than impersonal,
Shaking us by the hand,
Gripping us by the throat,
Taking pleasure in our deceptions,
Finding insight through reflection -
One mirror to another…
Echoing in a chamber
That defines our worldly home
When in truth we have none..!

Ghosts shuffling through corridors,
Going through the motions
Of bumping into each other,
Only an illusion… played like a game
Where the players have forgotten 
That they are only players, actors…
Upon a phantom stage…
So… sometimes they apologize
When there need be none..?

Animated corpses 
With as much substance
As a mushroom liquefying 
Under the sweating heat
Of a humid Summer’s sun…

A dialogue between spectator
And spectacle… a miracle…
Transmuting the mundane…
Finding divinity in infinity…
Meaning through repetition
Not perfectly reflected,
Finding mystery in the agora…
The market place of the soul…
A body in circulation,
Meeting heavenly spheres
In a universe of transaction
Devoid of vendor, buyer,
Objects bought and sold…
Condemned to shop…
Trading fantasies… 
On a floor that is littered 
With such debris -
Mere fragments discarded 
From a living Whole…

…the purpose of our existence
Misrepresented when overseen
As bits and pieces 
Left lying around 
Some metaphorical butcher's shop…

Take heart, gird thy loins,
Battle throughout the day,
Be taken peaceful prisoner…
Subvert the law of the jungle –
Read one simple sign, 
One imperative that says…“Meet…!” 
…and in this and in this alone 
Consume… and be consumed…! (42)

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

The Ball Girl…

Watching girl with balls…
Waiting, wanting to become…
That fellow in shorts…. (43)

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

In the Blue Mountains
The only burnt trees now seen
Were foreign maples…. (44)

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

Seen feeling at home,
Homeless man in his alcove,
Just singing softly…. (45) 

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

A sandstone railing,
Some old balustrades repaired;
Look nice on first glance…. (46)

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

Penises, penises everywhere
And not a vagina seen;
Big ones, thin ones, high in the air
Above the city skyline 
of swinging Sydney –
Still a few cranes out dancing…

Penises, penises everywhere;
Big ones with knobs, 
Some all covered in shiny glass…

Only a few black holes 
In the corporate ground,
Damp filled with water-weed, 
And a few swimming ducks…

Spinsters waiting 
To be built upon,
For men to leave their mark
With huge erections 
In tumescent concrete
That pierce the city air…

Poke another hole 
In the ozone layer….

(With my apologies
to South Park, 
and Coleridge….) (47)

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

"Hi, I 'm here to tell you about Jesus"
Said the nice young guy 
With short, shiny blond hair,
Speaking to the semi-homeless fellow -
Both sitting on a sunny seat in the park 
Where the older man had been
Dodging the shadows of tall buildings…
An earthbound spiderman rescuing the day
Before returning, a bearded Cinderella,
To his half-star hostel… in the evening…

"Christ", said this middle aged fellow,
"What I don't know about him – 
Gave up on religion, though,
A long time ago, but, hey,
What do you really believe in...?"

Not often I have company, 
He thought to himself,
And this guy seems harmless enough…
Who else will sit here and talk to me…
Besides this choir of competing voices…
Crazy dialogues that place me
Between the angels and the devils,
Between the ecstasy of heaven
And the tragedy of the deep…
But, this latter world seems to be
More my blessed lot in life,
My cross to bear…

“Why me… why me…
Why then choose me…
When I’ve been crucified
Once before… and ever since.?!

…enough to drive a sane god crazy…!” 

[…giving the young fellow
quite a fright…!] (48)

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

In this world there is only…

The look of the other…
The voice…
The laugh…
That elusive feel…

The love of the other
Forever fleeting, seed-like…
But, however much 
I stare into his eyes
I only see, in all honesty,
A re-vision of myself -
Some re-arrangement,
A variation and fugue,
A fantasy in f…
An introduction, 
Some passage work,
A conclusion… a coda
With instructions to repeat
Ad nauseam….

In this world there is only…

The look of the look…
The voice of the voice…
The laugh of the laugh…
That elusive feeling…
Of some thing ‘other’…

A sight that seems to be
But love of self…
And "how" I ask 
"Can love be love of self..?"
Must there be two of me,
Or, God forbid, more, many more…

A duet… more than two instruments…
An orchestra… imitating…
Playing like shadows
Re-tracing the outlines of each other
In an absent mirror…
Polyphony dancing as a couple,
In a line dance,
In a cosmic square…
Across the universe…
Around and round…
Embraced… waiting 
For the opportunity,
Once more, again…
To change partners…

To stare into each other's eyes…
To hold hands…
Laugh like lovers…
And kiss… 

That sweet kiss
That promises a new world…
One more re-creation
Of space and time 
Without a beginning…
Without an end…

…then, that aching absence
When dreams are seen as dreams,
When cold reality remains
A cold reality…
The dark, wet winter 
That each of us must fear…

But, now, I no longer despair…
My Love… how could I know 
Such solitude… 
Isolation… 
Desolation…
If I did not already feel ‘at home’..?
How could loss be felt
If not, first, mine to loose…
As a part of self…
That essence
Which cannot completely disappear?

Could we ever be left alone..?

Be both present... and absent?

Take heart… O Love…
We are but half-way there,
One World of fate… 
Out perfecting one life of prayer…

The other forever looking…
The voice forever speaking…
The laugh ever laughing…
That elusive feel of the other
Chasing another…
Longing to stare 
Into each other's eyes…
To hold hands…
Embrace like lovers…
And kiss… 
Discover the other 
As no more there…

Worlds in collision…
Blackholes in rotation…
Like warm bath-water
Emptying from the basin
As we both lie there - I and Me…
As if… re-born as One.?! 

Mere otherness,
Sheer otherness
Stripped bare
In the nakedness 
Of nudity…
Unclothed,
Unmasked…
An emptiness
Completely drained…
Without (being) fashion(ed)…
Without name nor number…
In this World 
Perceived as One,
Each wedded self
Pronounced “a/part”…! (49)   [And told to “cleave”…!]

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

That's progress for you -
Tear down one building 
To rebuild the same
But bigger…
More grandiose…
With more faux marble…
All glitz and glamour…
Elegant lines
Upon a soulless chart…
Mere style…
Without substance…

O tinsel town…
Art thou but a floating world
No different from a dream...
If pricked… will bleed…
Or… disappear..?

Half our luck…!

All ghosts leave a shadow,
Like an oil slick out to sea,
For nothing is lost…
Every whisper in the trees…
Every gaudy leaf…
Every puff of smoke… 
Every billowing fold
In the blackest thunder cloud…
Is echoed… echoing…
An echo… 
     out listening… 
                 to self that…
         comes and goes…!

Nothing more… 
And nothing less… 
An emptiness…
Resonant with verse…
Overflowing in conversation…
Infinitely folded over…
Found moving…
Whirled… 
Alive…
Like the waves
In the washing tide…
Mere bubbles…
Full of sound and fury…
And foam…
Signifying nothing…
No(-)thing… not one thing…
Like the sound of the surf
In the cavern
Of a seashell
To the ear held…
With one hand clapped…! (50)

	^******^******^