Volume XII – Book III

Going Home… Going Home….

Exorcising Ghosts:
Poems on the Homelessness of the Human Condition

N.K.Tointon

2004

I dedicate this book to 

David and Marc

Two poets 
Whose critical comment
And encouragement
Have inspired me 
To try to write the better poem…
Alas, in my failure here
I, and I alone, 
Should be called to account….

Preface

	One hundred poems written over the space of one year without one sonnet or haiku in sight! 

	The over-arching theme I have chosen, or, in truth chose me, is the intuition that our natural state of being in the world is as a homeless person. Contrary to certain philosophers, like Heidegger, however much at home we may think we feel, deep down there is an even more fundamental, underlying anxiety that at any moment in time “all may not be well.” Even if we were no longer to labour under that profound delusion of a ‘permanent stability’ in the constitution of this world ‘things’ therein could still get worse… there is the ever-present possibility of disease and the fear of a painful death, we could all be swept away in a tidal wave, even more quickly the earth could open up beneath us, then golden meteors could make us their unlucky target and we could be zapped in micro-seconds, or as one of my patients keeps repeating, “the whole world could be swallowed by a super-nova.” If the world was, indeed, to be consumed in such a cosmic conflagration it would be the ultimate non-event for us. Instant death for everyone is not a ‘problem’, but, for this patient, the ‘thought’ of instant death is something to be anxious about, or, rather, symbolic of an anxiety already in place.  At other times, in much the same vein, he could also have stated, with as much conviction in his literal use of metaphor, that “the whole world is about to be swallowed by an unseen black-hole… or white-hole”… I am sure that the colour here would make little difference!

	But, perhaps, in such a recognition that things can change we might learn to be a little bit more at home in this state of homelessness and find ourselves, therein, at long last, despite the paradox, more truly at home in this world, more happily at home with this, otherwise, quite frightening sense of the Other…?

	But not all is doom and gloom! That theme is more a subtext – an edge that cuts away unseen beneath us… often partly invoked to feel and broadcast the ‘public fact’ that we should party a bit longer, with more effort, and more often… Although “life is short”, hopefully, it will not be lived in such a manner that leaves it permanently shortened?

	These poems are all experimental. I have tried to polish them, make them a voice for the Contemporary world and seek forgiveness that I have so often failed…

	In blind faith, however, I trust one or two of these poems might meet with my patient reader’s approval? With that brave thought I now must leave them, permit them to edit themselves over the course of time….
			 				      Noël Tointon, Sydney, 30.12.04.

Birth

Drifting… Forever Drifting…

You are slowly drifting back,
Drifting backwards in time,
Back to a past 
Before you were born,
Drifting back and forth,
Slowly rocking,
Listening to the beating heart,
To a heart beating
In time with your own,
Almost in time…
From moment
To moment,
Some moments 
Had in excitement,
Strange feelings 
Of anxiety
Merely simulated,
Drifting in…
And out of sleep,
More often than not  -
Dull monotonous 
Surges of life
All had by proxy,
Without an object…

Drifting… forever drifting…
Feeling now slightly squeezed,
More short on breath 
As yet un-had…
Soon time to leave,
This feeling un-thought…
Starting to drown…
In sheer panic
Find homely time 
And space undone…
Finally ripped…
And pushed apart…

Hish…

(H)owwlll…. (1)
Childhood

Time Seemed Longer Then

Time seemed longer then,
Small footsteps take more time
To pace out the same distance…

And all those distractions…

Strange birds not seen before,
Beautiful flowers in gardens
Spaced like people in a street,
All strangely 'bedded down',
Even weeds took your fancy,
Forever looking for four-leafed clover,
Dandelions held in fascination;
Will my latest wish be fulfilled..?

Walking six blocks to buy
The weekend papers
I could not read…

Always took a long time…

Such a long time…
A long time… ago…! (2)

Making The Toast

Breakfast in bed:
Making the toast
And pouring tea,
No tea-bags then,
So much butter
On this brown piece,
This one lighter,
Use less
And hold the dripping,
(meaning the participle;
However as a noun 
It's often referred to
"In the Depression").
In this house food
Is still mentally
Half-rationed by habit,
Though, in contrast,
Lots of jam on first
And honey on second,
A touch of marmite,
Or was it vegemite,
On the third and fourth?
Lots of milk,
Two sugars stirred,
A full cup please,
The other not so filled
And much stronger,
Poured last from pot,
Served on one tray,
Weekend breakfast in bed…

Finding out
That similar people 
Have different taste…. (3)

Condition… Conditioning…

When sick would sip
That fizzy lemonade… 
When sick was fed
That fizzy lemonade…

Now, it makes me sick 
The merest thought
Of drinking that bubbly stuff…
But, it made great sense…
And so cheap too… 

Why bother with pills and potions,
Or suffer injections,
Just sip the bloody 
Damn awful stuff
And if it makes you sick…

So much the better…! (4)

Tucked up in Bed

Tucked up in bed
And read a bed-time story,
“So, so what happened?”
Can't wait to find out the end
When already know
What happened
To Noddy and Biggy Ears…
They slept together…
As friends
Saying "hello"
To Policeman Plod
In their bright red car…

Tucked up in bed
With Golliwog,
My first black friend,
Falling apart at the seams
The way we all do…

Disembodied…
Disappearing… 
Reduced
Woollen thread 
By woollen thread
To one smiling face…

Without him waving
One last farewell…

Without ceremony
Dumped, no doubt
Put out that night
With the rubbish…

My first friend…. (5)

The Big Street Bully Got His Comeuppance!

The big street bully,
Only one year older,
Already at school,
Will get ‘hit’ this time
As I wait for him 
To come on home
Sitting on this pillar
Beside the gate 
With water pistol
Cocked and loaded,
Pot of water,
Between my legs
Six feet off the ground…

See him coming 
Around the corner…

Squish, just got him…

He ducks, comes forward 
And upturns my pot of water 
Now puddled between my legs…

Finding it too funny for words…

“The best laugh all day”, he said…

But got him back…

Two years later 
At the church picnic
In a race of three
Ran so hard 
And came second 
And he… last…

Showed off my prize,
A jigsaw puzzle 
Of Thai temples
Having swapped one
With picture of a jet plane
On the glossy box
With the winner…

And much preferred
By my loosing friend
Holding it empty handed,
Who that day lost more 
Than just that race….

Painfully learning
Meaning is 'tween things,
And human beings…
Objects - only tokens…

Enjoying more the picture on the lid…
Than the puzzle left within…! (6)

Once Transported In Style

Still vaguely remember the trams
And steep hillside cable-car;
The electric trolley-buses,
Their softly humming wooden poles;
Impressed by coal-fired engines
Waiting to explode, take off,
Steel dragons burnt black as soot
Hissing gray-white steam and smoke
Pointed parallel to the track;
Above, whining like bloated bees,
Those old bi-planes and new propeller jets…

Now Postmodern trains have rubber wheels
And flying buses on carpet are air-conditioned,
Swapping ocean liners for aircraft and endless terminals….

Our transit has become an inconvenience to endure,
One no longer travels in style -
For if you did your luggage would go first class
And bankrupt you before your first mile;
As once distance was so sedately measured…

But, today, democracy has declared 
All economy class is in steerage… 
And like misleading glossy holiday posters
You grit your teeth and learn to fake 
A winning smile…! (7)

Married Life

In the sand dunes
My first girl-friend and I
Built a house in the gorse 
And broom, with twigs 
And brackens for a bed
And an old bird’s nest
For a dinner bowl.

Married life was simple then -
I was to take her name,
She was to have our twins
And all was marital bliss…
Until her parents shifted
And I, not yet able to write,
Nor she to me… 
In letters could not
Us keep in touch…
Learnt instead the sadness
Of separation…

Today the great sand dunes 
Behind the swings,
Rampant and wild,
Have been flattened,
And planted out in grass…
Have only left behind 
Blurred memories,
Wrinkles smoothed out
Between…
Those folds of time… (8)

Once We Listened to the Radio

Once we listened to the radio,
Then a piece of furniture as tall as me,
All of us, all the family,
To “The Life of Dexter” et al -
Another family whose squabbles
Comically mirrored our own…

Here, at last, a real window on to family life
Since the neighbours on the right
Long lost their son 
Through possible suicide 
And the neighbours on the left
Gave up talking to our dumb, speechless mum,
While lace curtains, and such, elsewhere,
Did the rest…

Once we listened to the radio, altogether,
After dinner like every other family…
For so it seemed that's what families did…
For so it seems that’s what families do…? (9)

The Corner Store

The smell of cheddar
And half-vienna unsliced,
Old-fashioned shelves 
Stretching from floor to ceiling
Like seen in pictures 
Of the wild-west,
Behind the counter
Just the basics of life 
And a few luxuries:
Sliced ham; sweets; comics;
Small, inexpensive cakes
And icecream in a cone, 
Or in a rectangular block
If you could get it home 
In time…
Remembered errands
To the corner store
Barely able 
To check the change…
Stranded like pickles 
In a forgotten jar
Swift sealed with kiss of death
When folks soon bought a fridge,
Went to supermarket
In the family car…. (10)

A Millionaire for all of Sixty Seconds

A careless bank teller typed into my bank-book
The running balance of the bank's worth that day -

One million, one hundred and forty-two thousand dollars 
And a few forgotten cents…

If in your prayers you desire something badly
Make sure you get to keep it, or…
At least don't say anything…? (11)

Now an Adult

Now an adult at thirteen!
So full fare for pictures!
But don’t go to vote till twenty-one
Or enroll as one soldier boy
Until your eighteenth anniversary!
And “no pub, no beer” for you
Even though drink they say
“Will put hair on your chest.”

So scary, eh..?

But not “stunt your growth like cigarettes..!”

A real laugh all the tales those adults told 
When full-time drunks 
Will walk and waddle permanently
With three big, bouncing boobs for breasts
And have headaches every day
And gossip like fishwives mending nets…

Even more scary..!

Makes all them pretty party drugs 
Appear no more than mere child’s play…. (12)

Too Guilty To Be Each Other’s Friend

As if seen reflected back from a mirror
One cute blond boy and one white haired kid
Separately sought me out…

The first, the short sports hero who could run,
And, second, of peaceful mien, good at Drama -
Both understood what planet I came from;
All of us lost for words, yet, nothing left unsaid…

Inner life’s a dumb mime between fleeting shadows
As transparent as jelly fish without a spine..?! (13)

Was I a Slave?

Was I a slave then?
In the school holidays
For two years picking fruit
For three and six and hour,
That’s thirty-five cents to you…

Up and down hot desert trees;
First peaches before Xmas,
And endless cherries…
Then nectarines… and apricots
So sweet those ones too ripe to pick…

Walking beside the river each evening
Too fast and dangerous to swim,
Climbing each craggy hill on days off
And in my first week in dreams 
Worn out through work by day
Would pick by night more bloody fruit 
This time - a free slave left unpaid…! (14)

Remembrance Of Times Past

Vivid flashbacks
Of memories from the past…

Pine for that cooking almost lost -
Tripe and onions, macaroni cheese English style,
Lambs fry and acrid smoke of burnt bacon,
Spotted dick made with real suet…

Happily my sister carries on that tradition…

Two thousand miles away…

Alas… with rhubarb pie 
And gooseberry tart,
The smell of fresh scones 
With homemade apricot jam 
Thickly smothered 
With whipped cream
Vanilla flavoured…

And the sweet cinnamon fragrance 
Of those after-dinner buns…

Like that discovered in a cottage 
On a side-road off the highway
Through The Mountains…

But, still, not quite home…
A memory…
That cannot be recovered…
Only imitated…

A gift re-presented
Without the wrapping…. (15)

The End of School Prom

The end of school prom:
What did you wear?
Who did you partner with?

So, so much choice –
The two piece suit or three piece,
A tux or silk waist-coat Grand-Dad wore,
A simple shirt and polyester tie…
And who to ask – Mary or Rose,
Beth or Elizabeth, Helen, Anne… or… Ben?

Just so much choice!

So we both opted out 
As I was later to discover…. (16)

The Cemetery

The cemetery kept 
Killing the sandhills,
Gobbling them up,
Sacrificing them
Until regulations decreed
Dead bodies could not
Be disposed of 
“Too close to the living…”
‘Visiting’ one grandmother known
And the other only met… in stone…! (17)

Leaving Home

Street Kids

New Year's Eve:
Three teenage boys drinking 
On the edge of the gutter;
Worn T-shirts climbing their backs
Exposing thick, nameless elastic bands
On their cheap multi-coloured underpants
Chosen by their mums -
Obviously these street-wise lads
Have yet to leave home… (18)

My First Real Pay Packet

Remember my first real pay packet -
Thirty-two dollars and blew the lot on a watch
Which worked well for twenty years,
Religiously re-wound each day -
Had me trained like clockwork..!

Who, today, would work two weeks 
To buy just a watch? 
How times have changed…! (19)

With Faithful Friend

So cold the South		
Where seasons stretch,
Are harshly shrunk:
A Summer’s light
Slowly faded 
By ten to ten
But Winter’s knife
Will halve the hour
To tad past five.
Remember well
My ritual path
That leads homeward
All soaked and numb
Within the black 
Wind swept up rain
To find in bed
An icy warmth
Wriggling my toes
In woollen socks
With faithful friend –
My library book… 
All overlooked
By the TV
Which accompanies
Our evening meal…. (20)

I Studied Long Hours at Uni

O how I studied long hours at Uni,
Studying maths and physics, 
Chemistry and geology
But forever reading other books 
Around that corner – 
Counting Buddhist dharmas,
Researching a Hindu universe
Po(u)ring over books on art
And transcendentally grounded in Kant
And other esoterica…

What a disaster, what a laugh,
"Be your own man" they said,
And would think in the bath
I should get a real job
And with my money saved
Come back another day…. (21)

From One Lunatic Asylum to Another

Did time and became a psych nurse,
From one lunatic asylum
To another,
Sleeping in the Nurses’ quarters…

Then, one blessed escape to a cottage
Above the cliffs to watch the ships
Sail past that distant beacon
Where once I had worked three months
As relieving lighthouse keeper…

Picking mushrooms and plums,
Apples and wild gooseberries,
Mixing exotic drinks with herbs,
Finished with nursing and studies,
Meditating on the mysteries
Of a none too subtle universe, 
Contemplating travel…

…from one lunatic asylum
To another…

Of course, this is no reflection 
On your fine, august presence…
For I only joke… tease you… 
With autobiographical faction..! 

A license to print poems
With a jesting life of their own…!
Turning artful fiction into awful fact 
And fact into a living work of art…

Here escaping an author and meeting
The stuck, helpless, red pen of Dr Stanza…. (22)

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

Out Into the World

Setting Sail for the ‘New World’

On the sixth day… 
Of the sixth month…
Set sail for the New World
Trading a long white cloud
For a wide pall 
Of sweet bush-fire smoke,
The canvass of my hope,
A destiny of dreams
Left behind in nightmares
Of flickering opportunities… 
Still unopened, 
Part dissolved,
Lost in swirling mist…!

…so wrong to just 
“Seize the moment…”
Forever too late, but…
“Let the moment seize you…”
And wonder well in 
All possible worlds
Where else one might be…
Now… if at all.?!

Too painful, perhaps,
To contemplate…
I suspect, alas…
All so easy to allow 
One’s life to become 
As rigged as timetables
Set in thickest concrete…
Till that long, dull train 
No more will appear
At this old station…

So bravely disembark… 
Anew…and leave 
Uprooted behind 
Your worn-out tracks
In pursuit of new trails
Hot possessed by 
The welcome descent
Of a divine madness… 
As… The Chosen One…

Silently laughing out loud… 

“For well we know…
That when we travel
Baggage will follow
Where ever we go…!”  (23)

That First Time on Oxford Street

Some gay epicentre…

Nine pm and not a gay soul in sight…

Then hear the thump, thump, thump…
Of the upstair discos…

Gay on the right -
Straight on the left…

You could have fooled me…

Now…

Gay people everywhere
For so it seems…? 
All out enjoying themselves,
Only a few tramps 
Not in designer gear,
Revellers in long queues,
Tables on the pavement,
A strange assortment of folk
Rapt in conversation
Discreetly watching
The moving feast…

In all shapes and sizes,
A city that has moved 
Beyond labels…

For so it seems…? (24)

Who Are These Visitors From the Past?

Hasn't seen his folks 
For twenty years
And, yet, he still curses them
Everyday…
In his own house…

It would seem 
He must truly love them
To have not yet left home…! (25)

An Eighth Plague

For some such news,
Often writ, is
Academic,
This tale retold  
In black and white;
Heard in one long,
Hushed whispering…
That friends of friends
Were now dead or 
Dying like flies
In an eighth plague…
And wondered why
One distant friend
No longer put 
A cherished name
To pale paper,
His best wishes 
And future plans,
Already sealed…. ( 26)

Take Pity on the Poor, Urban Poet

Take pity on the poor, urban poet
Finding deep inspiration 
In a harsh city landscape
Of concrete, rough bricks and painted fibro;
Scattered cubes cast about
By some dishevelled giant,
A granulated carcinoma, 
A pustulant boil about to burst
Like a pitted porridge
Spreading scar tissue along the way,
Black veins all stretched and clogged
Carrying garish coagulated corpuscles 
In daily tidal flows
Feeding the nodal junctures
Of towering glass-cased tumours
Looking smooth and bruised…

From the Mountains I look down
Upon this cancerous growth,
This creeping, grey-matted fungus
Carpeting the incontinent, 
Non-contented plains below;
Laughed at by the kookaburras,
Squawking currawongs
In a chorus of gleeful mirth
Communicating pure passion
Through a symphony of motivic whistles 
And long, strung out sighs;
So sublime the forest orchestrated 
With these musical blue gums
Ornamented with the sounds 
Of swaying winds
And the chit-chat between 
Such feathered friends…

But, blind Nature is a blank canvas,
An empty vista until personified;
Without real conflict and resolution -
The stuff of human drama,
A play with neither cast nor audience,
A mere stage waiting until
That poet with mental pen or brush
Infuses a foreign life to such 
A flat perspective…

Now, no longer do I take pity
Upon an urban poet:-
Masterful commentator,
Majestic critic,
Mystic animator,
Magical manipulator of the language…

Without a human home
No poem could be formed
Upon the vacant pages
Of this unopened tome…. (27)         

The Art Gallery

The Art Gallery is a house of culture,
Forever celebrating an opening,
Giving occasion for people to be on display,
Taking delight in seeing each other, 
Or, rather, in being seen ‘being seen’
Framed upon this human stage,
Each painted persona placed
Within the rags and branded shapes
Of a self-appointed 
Socio-economic bracket….

Peasant or poor man,
Priest or trendy pervert,
Professional body builder or worker,
Connoisseur or short-sighted critic,
Rich bitch or benefactor…

Thankfully, all never naked…

Like a ruben(s)esque piece of meat,
Without the cosmetic colour…

In daring one darting soul 
Would soon dissolve 
That classic allusion
Wrapped behind the thick blanket 
Of advertising…! (28)

Home Is Where the Heart Is!

Home is where the heart is,
Longing for the beloved…
And settling for second best… or third,
Finding delight in diversion,
Endless rituals and pieces of paper,
Out chasing dreams,
Meeting butterflies of discontent,
Finding nightmares… spirits…
Forgiving ghosts from the past 
Not yet forgotten…

For home is where the heart is..? 

A cornucopia… or coffin…? (29)

So Walk the Walk…

A lump of gold 
Has as much worth
As a heap of shit…

On a deserted island
No golden coins 
Will feed you…

So walk the walk
And talk the talk…

Turning nothing 
Into something,
Spinning a yarn,
Finding delight
In the darkness,
Sharing pleasure,
Like Midas
Turning the ordinary
Into endless treasure…!

Finding poetry 
In philosophy
And the philosophic
In the poetic…

For such is justice!

Printed and published
With such a licence…
Stamped by one’s hand
This passport of merit,
This karmic certificate…

Admission to enter….

Entertainment…! (30)

Knowledge

Coffee and Cake

Four fit, well-weathered guys 
In their late forties
In esoteric conversation
Sit around a table
Ordering coffee and cake…

In contrast the waiter,
Not yet a barista,
With skin of an untouched peach,
Writes down their orders
Trying to read between the lines…

On returning, nervously
Spills a few drops of milk
On the table-top… 
All quickly wiped away 
With a shy, half-unknowing smile…

Such is knowledge…
Part welcome, part unwelcomed…. (31)

Always Some Dog Out There

The two very short guys 
Had a very small dog
And you would have to 
Bend down very low 
Just to stroke it…

The two very tall 
Overweight guys
Had a huge dog
Which would jump up 
And lick you to death…

Motley mongrel 
Or pedigree pet
There is always some dog
Out there to love you,
And vice versa… (32)
I’m a Black Boy

I’m a black boy
In the body
Of a white man…

No kiddin’.
I am real dark,
Black sense of humour,
Know what it’s like 
To be a slave –
A sex-toy for my master.
Ha, ha, just jokin’…

If y’ got im-ag-in-a-tion
You just be any-bo-dy,
If y’ ain’t got no im-ag-in-a-tion
Y’ be a no-t(h)in’ man..!

In lines of verse
Tell me your secret fantasy,
Tell me what you want me to be…

I’m a black man
In the body
Of a white boy…

O mirror of my soul
Quit smilin’ at me
We are what we want to be…
You, myself… and him…

Hey, no kiddin’,
So lib-er-a-tin’
Feelin’ at home
In what y’ want to be…

Crossing great divides,
There ain’t no divisions
Set fast in concrete
From whence I came…

Just a hangin’…
Rappin’ and a yappin’
with them lib-er-a-tin’
Poets..!
You think I be jokin’,
Ain’t no jackass here,
Just an open window
Staring through the curtains
To the starry sky…

A risin’ up
And a fallin’ down,
Just an illusion, man,
Just an illusion…

Oh, as empty as an actor’s purse,
A see-through balloon
Floatin’ like ‘em bubbles… 

Dis way spinin’,
Dat way spinin’,
Masqueradin’…

So much to choose,
So much already chosen,
Fast escapin’ 
That sad fiction
Called “home”…

I’m just a black man’s toy
In the body of a white man…

You wish…!

Just a hangin’…
Rappin’ and a yappin’
with them lib-er-a-tin’
Poets..! 

Pop…! [Finished with one loud smack of the hands to simulate the bursting of a balloon] 

[The verses in italics can then be repeated in their order of appearance if wished and ended the same way but with one softer smack of the hands to the sound of whoosh suggesting a balloon deflating and flying even higher.] (33)

A Very Hot Indian Curry

Very late last night 
Took home a takeaway -
A very hot Indian curry
And it kept me awake all night…

Inspired me to write this poem…

“Here Making My Breakfast”

In a black suit and tie
With mobile, other hand
Dispensing tea, reading
The morning rag, chuckling
With hot chicken and toast,  
Here making my breakfast
Viewing the desert sand
Low heaped and piled beside 
That famous beach - Bondi…

A gentle voice asking:

“Will that be all, Sir..?” 

Nearly falling asleep 
Over my long black coffee…. (34)

The Many Perils of Cyber Space

				Lap-tops are such a wonderful invention…

Hi there, how are you?

Hey, Sweetheart, feeling hot today..?

You want to be here with Daddie..?				

How should my lecture begin?
				I am a very postmodern example of a prototypical,		
				Experimental transcendental phenomenologist
And my expertise ranges from 
Sexual semiotics in the cultural evolution 
Of virtual reality in relation to the construct of the real, to,
				Interpreting the communicational skills 
				Signified in the unequal power-relations
Apparently involved in alien abduction…

O Chuck, you are sooo naughty…

But, hey, you are my very own pussiboi… 

And you know why I call you that, don’t y’..?
				
				Of course I will need some definitions here:
				The “virtual” is “an inadequate representation
Of phenomenal modes of being”,
Whereas the “non-virtual” is 
“The engagement with a full modal complement 
Of expected phenomenal modalities”.
Of course the trick is in being able to interpret,
Or, rather, arbitrate, this mix of expected 
And encountered modalities in the light of 
Our intuitive appreciation of the currently non-virtual
As it intersects both of these interacting domains…

Daddies got a nice big, juicy bone for you…

You going to beg Daddy for his big, juicy bone..?

Want to taste it first..?

Go on, have a nice long lick…

Yeah…

Yum yum…

Hey..!

Go for it Chuck..!

				That should keep them on their toes;
How I love to teach mes étudiants à la Sorbonne,
Enjoy my all-expenses-paid jet-setting lifestyle;
Love being flown from Yale to Oxford, 
And thence to Berkeley, later, Sydney…

	Hey, ‘Professor’, its time for your medication…
		
So you bought Chuck with you today…
		
Such a lovely dog…

And so playful too..!

							Woof, woof…. (35)

He Was a Serious Student

Albert was a serious student,
Always in the university library
At the stroke of midday,
Eating a secret sandwich when others eat,
Working in an office full-time
Just around the corner…

Vicky always took to the counter
In the lunch-break
Because she was mad about Albert…

“So handsome and hardworking…”
She would tell herself…

But unbeknownst to the same
Her Albert was “already married”
Although too poor to wear a ring…

“How can I”, he said to himself,
“Using skilful means divert her
In a more fruitful direction..?

The next day he sought out
The coded appellation:
Alternative Lifestyles
And there looked for a suitable book
For the purpose he had in mind
Finding one with the title:
How to be a Happy Homosexual
And putting it on the bottom
Of his pile of new books, upside-down,
Got Vicky ‘accidentally’
To read the title 
When it was duly stamped
In her often nervous state
Of sedate solemnity...

By these subtle means signaling
The fruitlessness of her passion…

That night returned the book unread;
Quietly chuckling to himself in bed
He knowing well how it must feel
Both happy… and… homosexual…. (36)

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

Call Me Old Fashioned

“Call me old fashioned,
An old fashioned girl,” she said,
“I like my men big,
Big and easy,
Easy on the eye
And big in heart.
I like ‘em big and manly,
With a touch of stomach 
Without the paunch,
Not super-sized,
A man who can shoot straight,
Doesn’t piss against the wind,
Has no interest in
The notches on his belt,
No hand forever on holster,
His mind on higher things…
Call me old fashioned,” she said,
“I like my man big,
Big and easy,
Easy on the ‘I’,
Easy on ego,
Knows how to say ‘we’…
And you still believe him…
A manly guy without the guile,
A big, big man with a big smile….” (37)

In this Coffee Shop…

In this coffee shop
The Winter sun has set
And two guys at a table
Lean on their elbows
Sipping their sweet chocolate
In conversation
Intently listening above the din, 
Their discreet eyes drinking
An intoxicated vision 
Of the other… the beloved…
Their knees knocking 
Gently together,
Seen nudging each other 
Unseen beneath the table…
In parting too shy to kiss,
Content to know
The other feels 
The same way…
And with reluctance 
They have to head
In diff’rent directions
To eat in separate homes,
Each still without
That extra mat 
Set out beside them…
Before that long, 
Dragged out moment…. 

In this same café,
I see a half-bitter couple
Drinking their long black coffee,
With mouths turned down,
Looking sourly at the cream cakes
On the counter stand,
Their stiff hands cold,
Desperate to break the ice,
Wanting to know if they should,
Could… still go home together,
Turn around this sad ship of state…
He leans closer and says
“I am tired, worn out by work,
By petty intrigues,
I no longer care
If they sack me next week…”
She touches his hand
And softly tells him 
“I still love you…”
He looks her in the eye 
And almost cries…
“Let us forego
That frigid flat,” he said,
“Have something real to eat,
See a picture,
Have a night-out 
And forget about 
The working week…!”
Seen holding hands
When they leave…
Walking along the street
Into the heart of town….

In this Coffee Shop
Not all appearances 
Are what they seem:
Friends and family,
Lovers and strangers,
All with each other,
Not one at home,
Each imbibing a spirit
That makes them think
They’re not alone… (38)

In the Cold of Winter

In the cold of Winter
Composing poems in bed,
Beside my sleeping lover,
Too cold to unlock
The keys before 
The computer…
Hoping a more pregnant poem
Is born in the waiting dark
Before the neighbour’s cat 
And our dog wake up the others
Through the dim-lit fence
That divides their night…
From our breakfast…
Reciting verse
Between bites of toast… 
And hoots of laughter…. (39)

That Circling Shark

That circling shark
Must live inside
My television…
That open mouth
One more Foxtel
Repetition…
Guess life’s like that…
Circling around…
While waiting for 
A bigger shark
To make its move
And swallow you…
Quickly… slowly…
Real soon… deferred…
Between one man’s 
Vision of hell
And another’s
Perfect heaven..?
But… ever left
To walk the streets
And pace upon
This footpath and  
Not the other –
Forever forced 
To chose, trace out
One more endless 
Repetition..?
That opened space,
With usual yawn,
One more repeat 
Again replayed…
Pure nausea,
Or, ecstacy?
Without ears hear
That silent scream,
Profoundly seen
That vista felt
Within a time
Circling along
The dotted line
That leaves you lost…
And found between…
Dancing…alive…
A living dance
Upon a stage 
Just meant for you…
So dream the dream
And smile – you’re on
Reality
Tv, cosmic
Television…
Changing channel
Your passport to
Mere oblivion…
Once more…again…. (40)

A Lovers’ Calculation

I know that shy,
Lost puppy look,
A longing to be
With one person…
Ever in love…

And saw him, again,
On that same seat in park 
Beside the path 
Now taken by self…

This time decided
To sit upon that same bench,
Together with that tall, young guy
Supposedly studying…
Text book in hand…

Not looking him in the eye,
A few moments later,
After a comment 
On the heated weather,
Told him softly
“Thought him pleasant company…
Would love to find him… sleeping… 
Beside me… one morning…”

A nervous, breathy laugh…
Had me wanting to disappear
That very same instant
Like Don Giovanni…
But that wasn’t to be…

“You must be psychic, man,”
He said, moving an inch closer…
As the gods blessed our union,
In silent conversation,
With a few drops of rain…
And, then, a few more…

“Want to make a dash for it
Across the park to where I stay?” he said…
And without an answer
We headed homeward
Thinking we could dodge the rain…

In bed, after the passing storm,
I quietly counted, 
In a binary notation,
The dripping drops of rain,
Like heart beats upon the tin,
Till they stopped…

While waiting for that 
Elusive last beat I said,
“What are you thinking,
Honestly, tell me..?”

“You really want to know?
Was thinking this weird thought…
Calendars can be quite dear,
They make a nice gift 
But too expensive to ask for, 
And hate to throw them out…
So reasoned thus:
Each year can only start
On but one week day,
So need only seven,
And the same for Leap Years.
But, each date in number
Remains the same 
So why not just 
Colour-code the year…”

“Using the colours 
Of the rainbow,”
I said, “and switching colours 
In Leap Years in March…
Displayed on front page..?”

“We should go into business?”

“Mix it with pleasure, of course…”

“So, you are autistic too, eh?”
He said half-looking at me 
In the eye for the first time…”

“No… no… no… never…
Its called being artistic…
Artistic… being creative..!”

“Like an artiste…”

“On the highwire…”

“Ready to fall…”

“Into waiting arms…”

“You know mathematics
Could be sooo erotic…
What is the probability now
Of us being in bed together..?”

“One on one… Hey,
In algebra what marks
An unknown quantity..?”

“That which on a treasure trail
Marks the spot..? 

Mmm…”

A hello or goodbye..?
May mark a promise to pay…

“But, I’m too expensive for you,”
I said…

“But I would find
Some other way..!”
Leaning closer
To softly stroke my chest…

“My future’s then sealed..?”

We looked at each other 
Through the same windows…

“Yep… one plus one
Can still be one..!” 

“Just… ‘X’…”

“Mmmm….” (41)

Knowing the Divine

Today, we will study
The dynamics of the Trinity…

	Theology on speed…

A fashionable feature 
Of a number of religions
Around the advent of 
The Current Era…

	So which one do we choose..?

The Christian Version
Probably has its first, 
Almost definitive formulation
By Father Tertullian…
Around the year 200…
But would not be
Seen as orthodox today…

	Two hundred years, eh..?

Now, what are the members
Of this…

	Wholesome threesome…

Father and Son and Holy Ghost…

	Some model for marriage… family life..?

The secret is understanding 
The role of the third element…

	Lithium… for mania…

In this famous mural
By Masaccio we have 
The Holy Family
But the picture is 
Often called the ‘Trinity’…

So the third party is a woman..?

The Holy Ghost is a fluid partner
And can supply
A feminine touch…

	 The spice of life…

Then, again, that third moment
Could be the difference 
Overcome between
The Father and Son…
An unequal-equality…

Or contradiction..?

Are you paying attention..?

	You bet…!
	Didn’t know
	Knowing the Divine 
	Could be so much fun…?

Yes, you are right…
But, rightly remains,
Unto the end, 
One mystery
You have to experience…

	Mmmm…! (42)
The More Things Change the More They Stay the Same?

Am I the Only Insane One Here

Everyone now gesticulates,
Is hearing voices on the street,
Seen talking to themselves,
Behind the wheels of speeded cars,
Even endlessly moved to repeat
Themselves in the bowels of libraries…

So tell Jenny you will call her back…
Before I ring your bloody neck
You stupid bitch, something I would not
Say out loud, or snap your Adam’s apple
To the clanging of something classical
Like the sound of William Tell…. (43)

This is not an Advertisement

How nice the treat to find left locked in craft 
So finely formed, like chocolate jet black,
With chiseled shapes well cut as if gems laid
On tray, elegant in line, on such display,
Perfected for presentation, with scent
Too subtle to describe, rarest fragrance 
Left lingering on tongue that only begs 
To be repeated, tokens on parade,
A banner boldly hinting better things 
To come in hopeful sighing as it sings…. (44)

Shifting…

Hear the mad sound of the barking dog,
Hear breath of a passed-over ghost 
Heard rustling in the leaves
As a bird pecks its feathers in the branches…
In deep, deadness of night
A fat, black cat sat coughing 
Beneath the moon-lit tree, 
Just waiting…

Shifting, stirring….

So spins the globe
Never standing still,
Sun’s orbiting too
Well spun around some other pole,
Celestial nomads without a home…

Shifting, turning…

The old lady must move today,
Apartment half-packed
In complete disarray,
Novels now unwanted
All boxed away,
A few treasures yet to be packaged
Masquerading as rubbish…
As yet uncollected…

Shifting, moving…

Fixed telephone forever ringing,
Mobile buried somewhere,
Waiting to be resurrected,
Phone book missing,
No knives nor spoon
To eat a defrosted meal…
Now going cold…

Shifting, changing…

“Slow down I need to sort”
As the movers come to door…
“Not enough room, 
You’ll have to store…”
No bed to lie upon -
Quilted in crockery… 

Shifting, lifting…

Much left behind,
So many memories junked,
Put out on street,
Paper-backs merely looked at…
Pages turning in the wind…

Shifting, striping…

The trickling sands of time
Cannot be over-turned,
An opened and shut tome 
Once writ is left on rack 
To gather dust.
A vacant flat,
Nostalgia spilled across the floor… 
Trashed by tomorrow’s
Universal cleaner…

Shifting, slipping…

Empty are the echoes of silence…
As if the walls could answer.
No entity to find in transit placed
To pace from room to room through time,
Naught but a shattered world on view
Into the swirling chaos sped 
Like this poor wandering rhyme…

Shifted, shifted, now shifted away…

Untrammeled, unencumbered,
Shifted in shape, eternally free…
Forever lost to sight,
Whilst left unsaid between 
A bad, few lines 
Of grave poetry…
Such sad remains 
Best kept unseen…
In departing a song
Was left unsung…

By day, by night
The soul takes flight,
In fleeing – flung,
Without a house
In pure delight,
A living song
Just left unsung…! (45)

At the Bottom of the Garden

Once, every garden had a gnome,
In reds and greens and lurid hues,
Out there in all weathers 
Without an umbrella
O’r his jolly plaster head…

Then, in the Regency 
It was quite the fashion
To import a resident hermit,
A wild fellow with wits
To lend the sight a savage air…

Ply him with plonk
And he would sing,
Feed him with bread
And he would dance
A drunken reel or two…

So, say I this to you
In infinite charity
Revisit this outdoor accessory,
And tempt a tramp to stay
In your empty shed…

So, give the homeless 
A helping hand,
Entice the nearest stray
Into a vacant hermitage
At the bottom of your garden…

Ply him with booze
And he will sing with gusto,
Feed him with chips
And he will dance a tango,
Pique your neighbour’s envy…

Still, much much better outfit him
With bongo drums and potent hash
And he will keep your street
So delighted throughout the week,
Out-beat that weekend disco trash…!

Still, much the better supply him
With bugle and purest crystal speed
And he’ll teach your suburb
A soul-full thing to truly fear…
Keep them quiet throughout the year..!

Alas, the old shed is empty,
No gnomes in this garden,
Only me in a straw hat
Repotting root-bound orchids
As rain belts down upon the tin…. (46)

How Times Have Changed

How times have changed…

Two busy, part-time labourers,
In their middle twenties,
Paving a neighbour’s courtyard,
Heard listening to Christian rap,
Swearing like troopers,
Discussing Buddhist philosophy,
Wondering out-loud 
Over their sandwiches and milkshakes
If they should vote again
For Honest John…? 

How times have changed…? (47)

The More Things Change

“The more things change 
The more they stay the same,”
He said with an ironic laugh,
And a vacant stare…
Now with just one drink too many,
He stopped counting 
After the first,
“A man with a strong thirst
Is what this country needs…”
Interrupted that very moment
By his noisy mobile:
“Yes dear, yes dear, 
I’ve already bought the groceries…”
Told by his wife 
To come back home
That same instant…
Immediately..!
Her voice felt crackling 
Across the floor
Of this public house…
As seen writ large on face 
Of her stunned spouse…. (48)

Trust Me

“Trust me, trust me, 
More of the same…”
Looking each day more 
Like a used-car salesman…

Trust them, trust them,
Can you trust an honest whore..?

A merry band of thieves they be,
They peddle to the rich
And they steal from the poor…”

Would you trust a bloke
In fish-net stockings..?

Or near baldheaded buzzard
With an icy stare,
Who wanted to lock up 
Much more than just your
Wandering daughter..?

Or one overweight lady
Away with the fairies
Told not to trill
Nor sing too shrill..?

Or him who has seen the light,
That preaching man
With mistress on side,
Now reformed again…
Again, tonight..?

Enjoy, enjoy… 
That savage Paunch 
And Judge Judy show;
Hey, hey, don’t be late,
You can still buy my vote
As long you have me
Insured, assured 
Of one more bribe,
I mean, rebate…

With a cast like that 
They will soon make 
The musical -
This comical-tragedy…

Why, tourists already laugh,
Locals will soon despair -
We are all fools
In a sad ship of state,
Manipulated tools
It seems, I fear,
Believing what we see
Once laid out on tv…

“It must be true,
It must be true…”
They keep telling themselves,
Looking just a little blue,
A little uncomfortable
With truth too torn, 
Too worn to wear,
Too thin to pin
On chest or breast…

Still asking us to trust him,
With a big cheesy smile
And greasy grin…

O such courage, such gall,
He has my vote,
Such a slick salesman,
Just what the economy needs,
A man with a mission,
A blood-lust for power,
Deserves you all,
Knows how to gloat
When he outsells 
The opposition,
A man with conviction…
Not yet, I hope…! (49)

Rats

Do rats have bushy eyebrows
And crinkly, kinky tails?
Do they much like to travel
And drink and piss upright?
Do they their heads like stroked
And bonk their mates all night..?

To this if you say “yes”
For sure shall have to call you
“Such a lying rodent”, 
To wit with arse deserving 
One swift boot… though must confess
My furry friends are much 
maligned…! (50) 

Cultural Vandalism

In a large posh steak house
At the door, looking across the room,
A big brassy Buddha
Sat on his lotus throne
Seeking tips in his begging bowl,
With sign to that effect…

Into that vessel was put this poem…. (51) [Poem can be repeated, ended where desired.]

Seeking Change

Seeking change,
Seeking change,
Whilst eating seated,
Upon the pavement,
On Oxford Street, 
That first and very last time,
Found the beggars, each one,
Were seeking change…. (52)

**********^**********
Passing Company

Nothing Said

Nothing said – 
Nothing left unsaid:
Two old friends
Forever seated 
Beside each other
In the up-market
Antique shop window,
Beside the cups and saucers,
Both staring 
Into the distance 
Through the glass,
The taller figure 
Now sporting 
A bright red sticker
Marked SOLD;
Both gentlemen 
Looking so sad…. (53)

How To Win My Vote

In the café,
At the big table,
I sat to read 
The weekend papers –
The distraction of elections;
Each candidate trying
To buy my vote…
When the winner entered…
In blue running shorts,
Trying to look a sportsman,
Making me, instead, 
Look so athletic…
I admired his 
Manly ambition,
Noticed his perceptive
Look of pleasure
That he had secured
My tick of approval
When nothing more
Had crossed his lips
Than the sweet froth
On his cappuccino…. (54)

All Under One Roof

The dead collector’s effects
Were now all under one roof:
Fine pictures and furniture,
Some French clocks still working,
Every plate and bowl, 
Even a few cracked cups…
All marking time 
Before the auction…
Before taking charge
Of each passing owner;
One after the other
In succession….
All under one roof…. (55)

A Room With A View

Each single bed
In the hospital’s
Latest wing was
A room with a view
On to the world below:
So quiet that when 
You shut the door
There was much time 
To reflect on pain,
In patience became
A waiting room
For those travelling through…. (56)

Passing Company

The metal press workers
Had two ten minute breaks,
Taking tea already poured,
While those in the office
Worked for ten minutes 
From time to time,
Forever busy making coffee.
Sirens sounding 
The comings and goings
Of those on the floor,
Whilst above the fray
The secretaries hooted
With surreal laughter
To the frequent hiss 
Of the espresso machine.
To this day the boss
Still wonders why
His business went to the Wall
The same day China came to call…. (57)

Birds of Common Feather Flock Together

Back in New Zealand
We watched the birds in the swamp,
Migratory waders,
And understood what that meant -
This feeling of being at home
Despite the seasons
Passing one after the other…. (58)

A School Journal

Within a cardboard box of books
Put out upon the street
Found Cook’s Journal
And thinking that must be
The famous explorer
Would add it to my vetted list.
When home discovered
It was an ancient school journal
Filled with photos of boys
The same age I had been…
Finding a strange nostalgia
Now firmly planted upon
Another country’s 
Delightful sandy shores…. (59)

On Top

Big house on top of the hill
Will never be mine.
No matter, 
Know what it is like
To live on the steep side of a mountain –
Halfway up
And halfway down…! (60)

Two Old Friends

Met an old friend,
Ten years had passed,
It seemed but like
A month had gone,
Without absence…

May be our days
Were so numbered
That just desire
Plans one final
Co-in-ci-dence
To merely clean 
A wordless slate..?

Then met new friend,
Ten years had passed,
It seemed but like
A month had gone,
Without absence…

Though sorely missed,
An impossible 
Past to sketch out,
Ever chatting 
Between noise-filled
…silences…. (61)

Just Passing By

Just passing time
Watching the world on parade…

…and thought if you should walk 
With limp it should at least
Look like one won
In Vietnam, Iraq or Afghanistan…

The peasant spat upon the ground -
No drama here,
Completely un-self-conscious,
All done so naturally
That you had to admire
His unwitting loss of finesse…

Works from nine to five,
Or, more likely eight to four..?
No matter, yet fear his life
Is scripted like a time-table
Bound to go awry…

No belt about his torso seen
On his stone-washed trousers,
His now unwashed jeans,
He has no need for such a device,
He has no waist nor worries
About such simple things…

He catches my sight 
But not my drift of thought,
Such pools of inner contentment,
And flashes me the cutest smile -
One I could almost kill for..!

O poetry personified…! (62)

We Swapped Telephone Numbers

We swapped telephone numbers
But felt he had wished to say something more…
That he had wanted me to ring him…
So, without too much haste, did so
And we soon found the leisure to gossip…
But, secretly wished we had said nothing
And found the time to speak some other way…. (63a)

Who Needs Company

Who needs company
What with the television 
In the corner,
The radio opposite,
And the internet connection 
In the other room beside
The stack of CDs..?
So, when he rang 
And suggested a movie
It was just no contest…
And must confess
“I was out like a shot -
Who needs their company…!” (63b)

In The Dark We Watched

In the dark we watched
This other world tinged
With terrific fear 
Upon the pale screen…
Secretly, held hands,
Enjoyed the drama
Facing the horror
As platonic friends 
Sharing the pleasure
Of just being there…
Beyond the measure
Of all overt means 
To some covert end…. (63c)

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

 Snatches of Song from the Cutting Room Floor
(A Contemporary Metaphor)

High Anxiety

Forever and ever,
The paper’s deadlines to be kept,
Last minute’s of madness,
Snatches of song 
From the cutting room floor…
“We’ll run both stories 
On the Front Page -
Our readers’ choice,
Emblazoned by sub-editor’s nous.”
Two punchy tales
Hot from the wire,
Photos in colour now
Retold in black and white,
Such gray stories puffed up, 
Continued on next page…
More of the same, 
High anxiety -
Awaiting slips,
And leaks and crumbs
From drunken politicians,
Or public affairs
Between indiscreet pairs of hips,
Or poisoned lips paid
To part with sugared snippets
Of scandal sung;
No more than mere gossip
Dressed in flashy disguise;
Of course ran past
Their helpful solicitor,
And Legal Department;
Sited behind their office door…
In old, cold sandstone turrets,
And concrete bunkers
The press is put on pause…
Before the change of tide…
Eager to hear the real news
From further above,
From the top floor:
That daily list of hymns
From the editor…
And his god out there
On the ether…
With in-held breath
They type and toil
To not displease
Their first, unseen reader…

All singing from 
The same song-sheet
An earthly choir 
With messages
Heavenly sent 
From the sponsor,
One’s master’s voice 
Left second hand… 
In third person…
O soul come forth… 
O puppeteer
Be found to bow…
With ink and pen 
Traced silent out
Be heard to sign…
Be seen to shout…! (64)

Just Tell the Truth – Show Them You Own it!

A naked camera tells no tale –
Someone must be seen pointing it,
Outside the frame shaping the scene,
Making it seem you’re the editor.
Documentary or mockumentary,
Some other hybrid from,
Rhetorical narrative,
No matter what to hand
Just tell the truth –
Show them you own it,
Won it fair and square,
Have a gold license to be 
Let’s say, poetic, 
Know how to stake a claim
Right through the heart
With noose about the head
Drawn tight, kept taught,
One reading public caught 
Looking through your lens,
Finding what should be read..!

Between the lines,
Between the lines,
The truth’s best guessed
And left unsaid…. (65)

All is Presentation

Presentation is all,
Nothing else, c’est toute,
Forget substance,
Style is king,
Le bon gôut est roi…

“So, sir, how would you 
Like your hair cut?
In today’s fashions
Or those from yesteryear..?”

“Short back and sides,
Parted in the middle,
No side-burns, please,
Square at the back…”

…after Oscar Wilde..?

Sins of commission,
Sins of omission,
Nothing else - only sin,
La bonne vie est roi..!

…after Oscar Wilde..!

Les bons mots sont morts,
C’est la vie..!

Songs from the cutting room floor…

Here today - gone tomorrow,
In his wake he left such sorrow…! (66)

How Much is that Painting in the Window Worth?

How much is that painting in the window worth?
That one with the serious look
Of a non-decorative landscape…
Slightly surreal, slightly abstract..?
It makes quite an impression,
Sadly emotive in its somber shades,
Enlivened with the passage to and fro 
Of passing strangers along a beach…
An excellent signature don’t you think –
So beautifully manicured, 
Surely the hand of a real artiste…

Alas, it’s sold and only sits here for show,
All bought from photos by the glitterati,
No first and second refusals in a row,
Worth their weight in gold, I say…

There’s fame in fortune
And fortune in fame,
May cost a ransom
Only fame can buy,
A charter to print money
In this buying a name,
A branded prophecy
Self-fulfilling, without shame…

“O darling, such wonderful wallpaper…
And it pays its self off… given time..!”

“…and looks after itself, I say, I say,
Even when we go on holiday…!” (67)

A Model Model

Model on the catwalk
Doesn’t know how to talk,
An ornament on show,
To be seen, mere shadow,
One clothes horse not for sale,
Part male and part female,
One part beast, one part god,
In real life such a sod..!

It’s such a pity, 
It’s such a bother,
That the sweet package
Is better than the present…

Take your pleasure 
In the unwrapping;
Not too fast, not too slow,
In your dreams cut the bow…

Model on the catwalk
Doesn’t know how to talk,
An ornament on show,
But beating down below
A real heart thinks real thoughts,
An uncensored version… 
The inner manikin..!? (68)

The Film Producer

The film producer preferred to work in the dark,
Hack and tacking slivers and slices of film,
Perfecting a world in the mind’s eye,
Manufacturing reality from reel to reel…

It’s a hard day’s work, but it’ll be alright;
It’s a hard night’s work but it’ll be alright;
Yeah, yeah, yeah…

Slick sounds and sights
From the cutting room floor, 
Snipped and shaped to measure,
Turing actors into cartoons,
Wedded and welded together,
Fragments sprinkled like confetti,
The final product for the market
Stretched like one piece of spaghetti… 
And shrunk for greater profit…! (69)

The School Teacher’s Formula

I have to teach them a,b,c…
In maths their x,y,z…
Then there’s the three R’s…
In geography – those capitals,
In social values things like STD’s,
And other awful acronyms…
All padded with praise,
All carrots without the stick,
One entire syllabus
Cobbled together as if a canon
Of sacred lore… beyond fashion…

But that’s the easy part,
For now every step took
Must be written about
In those endless reports…

Like an echo on paper traced,
By trade, players who write the play,
All said things in their proper place,
Endless reports by night and day…! (70)

The Reader

I’ve read the novel and wrote the review,
Marveled at the quality of the print,
Admired the picture on the front jacket
But wondered why the portrait there
Bore little resemblance to the plot,
Just one more conspiracy, I fear…

Thank goodness for advertising
Reaching out, connecting us
In detour through an open wallet…

Thank goodness for advertising
Reaching out, connecting us
Across this worldly expanse…

A few coins finding us this pleasure - 
As lost and found in some other world…
Profound proof we too are living treasure…. (71)

The Poetic Presentation

The perfect poem writes itself…

But, there can be no perfect poem
Thus the poet is a midwife
To something more stillborn than alive.

With what skill can they then revive
That which has no life of its own..?

The poetic simulation…

In the throes of death it wiggles it toes,
A few sounds are made, an idea grasped,
And before you know it here it goes:
Machinations of the mind enfolded
Upon the pages of paper plucked 
From sounds upon the feeble air…

In the audience always a carping critic
With pen constipated, emotions held fast,
Full of wind, before sails anchored to a past
Yearning to hear two-legged horses 
Trotting to a meter slow or fast
With the occasional limp or trip
To suggest this beast was not quite asleep…

Hey, awake, the future is yet to come,
Straining to find a newer voice -
A smiling, morning face that catches the sun
To an intoned lilt whose rhymes and rhythms 
Portend a different fate, more the sound
Of a purring car or cat or flying horse 
Too fantastic to catch in dated quill and ink…

Heave, ho, see it move an audience
With a new heart-beat beating out 
A more fashionable time in wheezy breath
Or some more volcanic boom… or bang…

Inside, a hollow heart, a house without a home,
A black hole full of light, light-headedness,
The poetic as only repetition well-said again…

The collision of surfaces, nothing too deep,
An empty tomb echoing, without author,
A resonant hologram filled with hissing foam,
Rolling reverberations, thunder and cracks
Sighting a living lightening surprising self…

In resignation a sign, a mere signature, nothing more…

So let us worship this je ne sais crois…

Mere representation minus its presentation,
Meeting an excess spilling forth
Like a death-defying blood
Animating a corpse so gesticulated…

Heave, ho, see it move an audience
Entranced and in suspense,
A sonorous drum belting out the blues
Or poking fun at those who confuse
The tragedy of a distant past
For a comic caper… that cannot last..!

An opened mouth, something to chew upon,
This is the text of a more modern song..! 

No more than a vision
As empty as a seashell
Stranded upon the shore;
A vehicle filled with voice 
Unheard, like sea itself,
Until picked up and placed
Upon the ear to taste
That roaring beach within…. (72)

The Patient and the Doctor

Here in this bed still breathing
Is a concatenation of sick labels,
Diseases and syndromes 
For without such names 
This excellent doctor is as lost 
As a near deaf blind-man watching television
With the sound turned down…

All is preparation, presentation…
Decisions, decisions… like driving a car…
You start by tracing out a street
And then its left or right or straight ahead
With stops and starts and when you have arrived
That inevitable need to find a park…

So, you have a pain here,
As the patient winced… 
And then smiled…
Such is knowledge…
Always an edited version -
Answers channeled 
In a dialogue
Between  strings of questions
Like shiny beads 
Upon a tangled necklace…

All is ornament,
Nothing more nor less,
Fragments from the past
Re-arranged to form
A presented gift
To a forgetful 
Future always late…. (73)

The Politician

An instrument of fear,
A brave beacon of hope,
Hopeful agent of change,
In sheer defeat a soul
Who knows but pure despair…

Such sadness must follow
The heartbreak of past fame,
Fortune is won and lost,
Re-won to lose again… 
All victory is hollow…! (74)

The Award

Always recognition in some form or other,
Occasionally an award or prize,
Or piece of paper, perhaps, a post-it-note
With a few choice words to that effect -
“Good on you, we are proud of you…”

Such a laugh,
Please get real,
Work’s not done
And you want
To give me
A medal..!

Always recognition in some form or other,
Not necessarily fair or equitable,
A bit of faint praise, a nod or smile,
A remembrance of your name,
A curse of scorn or simple scowl…

Such a laugh,
For your bread
Do you toil
Ear to ground,
Use your eyes,
Use your head.?!

Always recognition in some form or other,
Better then to be seen and not heard,
Play the game, divine the left from right,
Document the bare minimum,
Too much is too absurd…

Such a laugh,
All’s vacant,
Edited,
Empty fame,
An ego
Found… absent…! (75)

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

There’s No Place Like Home!

A Simple Tale Tolled by an Idiot

O fool, O fool,
To think in words
One could retrace 
One’s simple life.
O paper idiot,
O pampered tool
Of such self-conceit
To think one’s own biography
Could represent truth:
What’s done is done – 
Your bed once made
Was lain upon;
Not talked about
Astride plain sheets
Of dry parchment.
Sentenced to the confines
Of this dusty bag of bones
How could each lying sign
Of sighing speech espy
A life relived,
Revive that distant tale,
O deceitful copy,
Unraveled and strangled
At birth when told…
Forget lost opportunity,
O timid one!
Give up those dreams
Of what might then have been,
O fickle fate…
But know, know well,
One naked fact: 
As sure to sound
The bell once rung -
‘Tis the confession
That should be forgiven!
That counterfeit of life…
For where to walk you would,
That short shadow of self,
There is but one condemned 
To stand each place 
Where you once paced… 
And stood… and drank
That empty glass…! (76)

A Not Too Distant Land 

A distant land I once did stay,
O Motherland, O fair England;
And very quickly felt at home…
Strange blokes in long, gray overcoats,
Smelt fish n’ chips, drank tasteless tea,
Saw cathedrals, museums free,
A white castle with token moat,
A variety of simple folk 
And elegant black cars intent 
On reaching first next corner street…

A not so distant land I once 
Again did stay, O land of birth,
And found to my dismay a tongue
Almost foreign, yet to my ear
Each well meant word still sounded clear…
Though wrapped in thick and long white cloud,
In humours black and dry, these rains
Worked hard, knew how to play and laugh…
And caught by smile of local lad 
Would find my heart was home once more…  

Know well the heart is home today
When from desire it does not stray…! (77)

Echoes Echoing out upon the Street

It’s late at night and hear echoes
Echoing out upon the street…
The air is chilled, cut dry by beat
Of mindless disco from the pub,
A reasonable crowd laughing 
Madly in gloomy light behind 
Its swinging doors left loudly shut…

In lane-ways dark with busy cats 
The plastic rubbish bins become 
Recycled and emptied of scraps
Left behind by a homeless tramp…
Across the street two barking dogs 
Take on a desperate banter…
Silenced by curses wild and rank…

That midnight hour, a curtain call,
And now to say goodbye, to take
Unseen one last bow before time,
Head off homeward, retrace your steps
Echoing on the empty street,
Be grateful when the key is found
To open wide that welcome door…

And seek in bed sweet nothingness…

The self is but a vacant lot,
A sad rumour of a tenant;
When home no lights go on to say
The lodger’s here and here to stay…
No phantom mind in feeble mask,
A murmur here caught mumbling lines,
An actor shaped through traced-out signs…. (78)

Its All in the Present

I am a Christmas present
Ready to be unwrapped…
Nice and slowly… ho, ho, ho..!

Father Xmas (with whitened beard)
And gift all rolled into one…
He, he, he…!

Oh well, we all have our delusions
So don’t burst this bubble
Too quickly…
Or break the package…
For if truth be told
We be naught inside…

But could we ever walk forth so ‘naked’..?

…yet, already, I stand before you…

But you will see me…
Only in your dreams…! (79)

Perfection?

The
Great
Picture’s
Done
With
One
Stroke,
My
Poem
Perfected
Will
Impress
Itself
On
Just
One
Line
Of
Verse…
So,
Is
Perceptive
World
Designed
Upon
A
Single
String…
Entwined
In
Dangling
Bits
Without
Address..?
But
What
Is
Heard
That
Might
Provoke

A
Sum
More
Correct
Than
Mere
Guess…? (80)

The Perfect Fake and Forgery

The Chinese painting was
A perfect fake and forgery,
Fortunately,
Not worth much more nor less
Than what was paid for it…
Deceitful down to the very last seal…

Yet, so strong in hand,
So swift in brush,
Such resonance with the master
In whose shadow it imitates
With a subtlety of its own…

Between the shades 
And patches of light 
It makes a picture glow with pride…
Could almost instruct the teacher, 
Let him re-find himself 
As he be seen…
Alas, now dead… 
But, still, not quite gone…

The illustrious one learnt through copy,
Like those before him,
By their own hands
Perfecting the fake and forgery,
Trying to find an inner voice
Re-branded with own tag and chop…

The honest artist 
Is nothing but
A simple tradesperson
Recycling the past,
Peddling crumbs 
And a few pieces 
Occasionally
More substantial…

“O so original
And so unique,
O so masterful, 
So individual,
Such a feat,
Un tour de force!”
Exclaims the sycophant…

“Une pièce de résistance!”
Resounds the echoing fool…

“Please, please,” say I,
Quietly to self
In whispered desperation,
“We only have here once again
The perfected forgery,
The perfect fake, yes…
A wonderful copy,
An artful illusion…
Still, it does take the breath away,
This je ne sais quoi…
No more… no less…!” (81)

Once House and Home

Once more would stand in front of the old house,
It grimy walls now thick with graffiti…
Some pleasant, happy times were enjoyed here,
And moments too of cold and harsh despair…
Recall the parties, music and laughter,
Now find this place like one long hangover;
The roof caved in, all the windows shattered,
I have come home and yet cannot belong…

And remember the song:

O son, there is no place like home,
Yet there’s no place like home, my son,
The song birds have their nests in trees,
The bunny rabbits their burrows,
The pigs their sty, the sheep their shed,
But, for us… the lonely path… ahead…! (82)
And Now the Proud Owner of a French Clock

The dealer said upon final payment,
“You are now, this instant, the proud owner 
Of one French clock… from the First Empire,”
All softly said with a subtle chuckle…

“It now will be the master of your house,
Setting the tone, controlling behaviour,
Striking the hours and half-hours with a bell,
Asking for correction and weekly wind…

A mere curator, servant, custodian,
A sheer cipher in a long lineage
To be handed on to the next person…

Unless a disaster should strike instead,
Find you – you, yourself, left bereft of charge
Through theft, or careless damage gravely led…!” (83)

Ah…!

Too many apartments have been rented in my name,
Each one home till the next big shift,
My only piece of furniture, beside the bed,
Well, shall let you guess…

Tonight the rain was pouring down,
Got as wet as a duck’s backside 
Trudging through slush by push bike,
With hair all slick from oily sweat
And shorts stretched tight like swimming trunks,
My runners squawking as they squelched upstairs…

A quick shower all hot and steamy fresh,
One coffee from the machine,
A piece of rye bread with my favourite cheese
In time to watch the news 
To the background sounds of something classical…
Now seated upon my one leather chair
Outstretched with footrest… recovered… 
‘Tween these two places of here and there in bed 
Have now defined a heavenly space 
Within my future house… 
Ah…! (84)
A Cosmic Headache

A cosmic headache,
Reach for the aspirin,
Let it dissolve in the glass.
Find a galactic cluster
Whirling around,
Spinning ever so fast…

In the blink of an eye
Ten thousand worlds -
All gone in a single gulp…

Has the whole world 
No more meaning than this,
Or does value lie
Only along the way,
In the in-between,
Through the trip itself..?

A relaxing thought…

Take one moment 
From the beginning,
Add one moment 
Found at the very end,
Stir well… and wait… 

…and quietly smile…! (85)

Admiration

Every person admires someone,
Or so it seems, and so I’m told:
One friend confesses that this be
The local barrow man,
Selling fruit with a well-crafted technique,
Sporting a wonderful physique 
Ripened with a perfect tan
Beneath his shorts and thin T-shirt…
Another soul is transported
By musical mastery
No matter whether that beauty be
Baroque or classical,
Syncopated blues or antiquated jazz…
Confess, confess… as if in a mirror
We see the real world reflected
Through the eyes of the other…
Perceive a world so full of heroes…
Unless a tad skeptical
And insightfully know
We are all flawed, tragic figures…
That most of us just don’t give up,
Keep one long date with blind faith,
Maintain the struggle,
Populate this planet with role models:
The happy husband and happy wife,
A loyal friend or honest stranger,
That teacher who loves the challenge,
Our more artist who can never stop,
A preacher who know he knows not God
But still prays for deeper wisdom,
With me gets down on bended knee
To give thanks that this heroic earth
Is already halfway to heaven…! (86)

Alas, So Sad…

So sad the poet unable to chant,
Her fragments of verse fitted out
To stay silent in some bottom drawer…

So sad the author never read,
His mighty works buried in the dust
Of a dry desert where souls never visit…

So sad the playwright never declaimed,
Never sounded upon those creaking boards,
Divided by rapturous curtain dropped and raised…

So sad many stories remain untold,
Even though brought to life, transcribed…
As mute inscriptions on a grave
To be, in turn, buried alive…! (87)

Death Has No Face

Death has no face,
No bold notice
To be declared 
Before that time..!
Big A, big C,
A tidal wave,
The killer’s knife,
Ne’er quite appear
As if ordained…
No date drawn up,
Set in concrete…

But hey, be real,
Since when are we
Like stone sculptures
Deemed immortal..?
Can you not see
Its icy hands
Already writ 
In letters large –
One life sentence..?
Then, inevitable… 
Execution..!

So laugh out loud
That death at least 
Can sometimes be
So… so discreet...! (88)

Making Progress

In cold of night
The day is born,
That stillest hour
Before the dawn.
No beam of lamp
Just stars or moon
To light the street
Before the sounds 
Of  modern cars…
No horse would need
A lantern lit
To guide its feet
Along the lanes
To faithful sounds
Of clip clopping
On chilled cobbles; 
Taking the waste,
Bringing the milk,
Carting rubbish…
Despite our wealth,
Our invention,
There’s nowt much more
Today out there 
That’s  to happen
Yet still we think
There’ll be advance
Along time’s path…
Such thoughts deserve
An honest laugh…! (89)

Taken Away

The smell of sausages from the take away
Reminds me of my first scout camp…
A long weekend on our own,
Learning to cook, use a compass,
Find ourselves halfway
Between kids and adults…

Remember cooking my first roast,
Judged a great success,
Making jelly under a Summer’s sun –
From plastic rubber to scrunchy crystals
For those who got it to set…
And the spit and sizzle of snags
Outstretched upon a smoky stick,
The acrid smell of manuka
Now prized for its sticky sweet magic…

So strange we were told to seek such skills –
Who today cooks on an open fire
Lit with two matches, twigs and wet kindling?
What a mystery is this 
That they prepared us for the future
By re-visiting the past…
And there to tie impossible knots,
Or rig a sailing ship, 
Sleep together in tents
Like those that dug for gold,
Explore the virgin countryside
Following the trails of sheep,
Surveying a landscape
Already mapped,
We who became an open band of brothers -
Certified masters 
Of the sacred barbecue… 
Performing handed-down rituals
By noisy night and peaceful day
In one slow, comic take away…. (90)

One Poem in Search of Itself – A Poem in  Search of Another

In walking to my place of work
I completed the next poem…
But, later, failed to remember
How it started, its theme and end…

To the slow drop of the dripping tap
Sat on a couch and tried to recollect…

…locked the door and shut the gate,
Wandered up the darkened street,
One lamp-light missing,
Wondering what to write…

Perhaps something on the thought 
Of waiting in the midst of resignation,
Or the sad idea that death is our final home…
Avoiding a speeding car when crossing the street…

Passing the old church noticed
Four street people in a huddle
Trying to stay out of an unusual chill
From a cold, unseasonable wind;
No doubt would be moved on 
Tomorrow night…

Observing the same well-designed furniture
That never seems to sell…

Then an empty pub, 
The two barmen laughing,
Trying to keep busy serving 
Their one customer…

Gliding past the petrol station
Perceived a small village-like industry 
With pumps and shop,
Small piles of newspapers
Not likely bought this hour…

The night-club is doing fine
With a thousand folk 
Splashed across its big tv screen,
Waltzing on and off 
Some postmodern cat-walk…

Running late but no need to wait 
At the lights as it flashes green…

…my thoughts only recalling 
The passing scenery…

So forced to now admit 
My perfect thought-poem 
Has expertly escaped 
The confines of the page… but… (91)

Snatch the Night-Club Chappie

Its quieter in the country,
In rural village life…
But now the village is a city
And the country bumpkin
Has become a city slicker
By default…

No difference really,
Remove the fashionable clothes
And you will have
The village idiot…

Snatch the night-club chappie
And place him in 
A backwater town
And you’ll still find… 
The same old village clown…

The faintest smile no effort takes,
The saddest face till tension breaks…! (92)

Learning to Spell

If A OK thought I would par-ty
But my bo-dy wants to send me to bed,
Be-neath the blankets, be-tween the sheets,
See the night stretched out in sleep…
My chest is not ea-sing,
Would rather de-light in song, instead,
Has me coughing a Coughing Cantata
In a minor key somewhere betwixt F and G…
Master the curse, fix the hex
And learn to spell…. (93)

Fireworks as a Metaphor?

Betwixt the bang and boom
Of a million dollar’s of fireworks
Is there a metaphor here,
An image of something else..?

We have seen it all before
But still we come to this same hill
To view the first thing of the New Year
After shaking hands or trading a kiss…

Is there some high anxiety here,
An expiation of guilt,
A reckless desire to waste
Or kill a perfectly good night..?

Or is the true secret this 
That we be out celebrating
The old year and not the new,
Happy to be still here…

Enjoying the company 
and not the view…? (94)

A Materialist Philosopher Once Said…

A materialist philosopher once said 
“Thought is nothing more than 
The excretion of the brain!”
Is poetry then nothing much more
Than the droppings of the middle class
Seeking a hopeless immortality 
On the surface of wasted pieces of paper…
Read their left-over thoughts,
The delicate remains of that musical master 
Master So-And-So,
Or the pretty remnants of 
Miss Dying-To-Be-Read, or,
The thunderous ponderings of Mr Onerous, or,
Mrs Longing-To-Be-Fed-In-Bed…
Still, so powerful is the text 
That poetic art has immortalized 
That famous name “Anon.” no less!

At the bend in the river, beside the pool,
Aborigines made disposable tools,
Chipped out and thrown away,
May be some day picked up
And enjoyed as a beautiful thing – a flint
Winking in the sun with a wicked glint;
Taken up with a grin, re-made through copy..?
Who are we to say a literary surplus
Is a commodity to be traded
When such pickings are there to be taken,
Perhaps more enjoyed in the making 
Than merely sampled and misunderstood..?
A misbegotten vehicle for a tag,
A pointed tale with a sharpened edge,
Or blunt instrument to convey a thought,
No matter - a left-over item, 
A redundant entity 
In a pointless economy 
Caught in the babbling brook
Of a cultured conversation,
Between a rock and a hard place…
And sometimes too… betwixt
The covers of a book…! (95)

The Whole World Is a Poem

The whole world is a poem:-
From this angle - a comic caper,
From that - a tragic fate too stuck
To fix its hapless victim…
Here an object lesson,
There a subject about to learn
How life can turn… so unpleasant…

What cruel intentions has the Poet?

The surf came roaring in with waves for walls
And soon astride those tides were nets to take
Dead souls like human dolls awash, to shake
Apart their humble homes or hotel halls…

And for their honeymoon two travelers said:

Your moonlit lovers once did stroll along that beach,
Warm tropical waters lapping their cabin’s edge,
The main hotel well-sited within easy reach…

The town was not too far away…
The airport beside the lagoon…

But fate has ways and means for selecting candidates-
Heroes, martyrs, champions… 
Throw the odd coward too into the mix
And you might surprise yourself…!

We live like jetsam and flotsam 
Upon the surface of the earth,
A play-thing for the Gods,
So who are they to intervene
When prayers themselves no longer
Feel at home..!

A frail bubble, a ball of trouble too,
A bouncing, falling pile of pain and woe,
But, muddled as we are, we still feel free
To seek a place called home to homeward be…
And there we rest in this unfound belief 
That we can insulate all self from grief…

For so it seems, as often told to me…
Our house is where the heart is pleased to see
A chaotic ocean’s left beyond the wall, 
With fate postponed once more, above recall…

“Thus, here we lie, and forget Thee… for so homeless we truly be…?” (96) 

**********^**********
Going Home… Going Home….

Going Home… Going Home…

George, good news -
You are going home…
We are discharging you.
Now, we want you 
To continue taking your medication
And report to the Community Center
Every day except Saturday and Sunday
And see your doctor 
The first Friday of each month…
Going home, good news, eh?

But nurse… I have no home 
To go home to.
The social worker could only find me 
A bed in the Talbott;
A hostel for the homeless…
Even as a resident 
I still don't feel I have a home 
To go home too…
I wish I could…
I feel at home here -
Do I have to go…? (97)

Help Pension off the Part-Time Poets, Please!

Help part-time poets receive a pension,
Very rarely do they get monet’ry mention,
Its hard work for them all this invention,
To put to paper this higher dimension…

But do not superannuate the critics 
Whose pens know only bitter, twisted prose 
When not fitted tightly between clenched teeth 
Whilst looking round through specs with pointed nose
For one more victim addicted to verse…

“O hear I one more breathless practitioner”,
Methinks them heard to say whilst list’ning
To a tachycardiac, paratatic text
Swift engaged in a drunken ataxia 
Skidding across the page without a comma
Changing tack with each new participle
Lost in a timeless orgy spent avoiding
An inevitable, finite conclusion…

Outpaced, of course, by pure pomposity 
Imposed upon pretentious ‘poetry’
In a dizzy, edifying edifice 
Of majestic substanceless nonsense
More silent laughed at than defined as comic
Even when cast in a more serious mode,
Echoing in a derivative manner
An ancient fashion that might well be seen 
As if through some besmeared shortsighted lens,
With a persistent beat with feet like some
Archaic cockroach with a limp sent out
Obsessively to dot all ‘i’s’ and tick 
All ‘t’s’ upon a traced out trail to trek
Across the page from here to infinity…

And so we sigh, “O pension off these poets…!”

But take pause in reciting such refrain…
For all versifiers working at this craft
Can only ply, in truth, a part-time trade…
From slick professional to slack protester, 
From sonneteer to prose-poet extraordinaire 
All searching, suffering, patient souls working
Their gilded pen, or their blinking cursor,
Must seek to find a few old, scattered drops 
Infused with newly sweated inspiration,
Re-enact some significant remark 
Although we must confess that those who bleat 
About the deadly decline of poesy
Leave more a mark upon their abused page 
With crooked fingers soiled deep black with dirt 
From a dark, dank, evil, jealous invective…

So pension off all poets for they be 
Real workers too, unrecognized, enslaved…
They who must toil for their few pennies thrown 
Soon spent upon re-leaving that space wherein 
Those mindless tasks are done, contracted out
In this world re-branded new by an inversed
Peasantry who, with no merit, wield whips 
Composed of forms, interminable paper piles 
And files, in a headless bureaucracy
That barely parallels this realm of fact;
So poor poets are sold in mis-managed 
Economy, this state of prostitution
To keep body and mind, one soul intact…

So know all poets part-time artists be,
Enmeshed in ill-tempered temporality…
From time to time engaged in sweet forgery,
Crafting paper flowers with blooms that sing
Of an uncanny vision ne’er before seen;
Transmuting the mute into singing song,
Transporting plain speech into purest sound
Full-filling to the brim that resonant volume 
Found charged with depth, significant meaning
To dance within immortal clothes of their 
Mortal master, mistress to higher power,
Inducing well all-thoughtful hearts to glance
Upon the same ecstatic landscape raped,
No notice taken how their cloth is draped;
Envisaged – heav’nly fields of poetry
Advanced ten thousands ways through endless trance…

So pension off those part-time poets, please!
For they deserve a kinder fate than shaped
By worn out critics, mere imitators…
And thank them too for their well-crafted look
Into another world, this world seen anew,
A home we homeless must soon learn to share -
From rocks and trees to plants and birds and notes
Recast in sound insight that makes our life
Less sore, a drop sweeter with sheer delight..!

So take the glass and hold it to the face
And thoughtful drink, don’t spit, this crafted dram,
Find deep reflected there one’s faults and flaws
For what is seen is self in that same space..!

…and be grateful that unpensioned poets
Have still the good grace to recite to you
Such measured lines that you could not have said
But say for you what thoughts you think unthought
Till now so painfully, pleasantly led
Where you could not have trod… where angels tread…! (98)

Our Brother is Going Home

Our brother is going home today…

The dearly departed 
Was much beloved…

Today we bury our brother…

From dust to dust,
From ashes to ashes…

…at last a home
Without the rent to pay…
Without a mortgage…

But, at what price…
And for how long..?

…and who exactly is it
That now feels at home..? 
When we never have one
When alive…
When always threatened 
With eviction…

In some form or other..? 

Even in death..?! (99)

One Last ‘I’ Poem 

A small hot bowl of soup part had
As here I wait for cool cold death
Once more to creep on up… choke me, 
This time I feel his breath so close…
Look south out through window with pen
To write a last poetic thought…
But find self chuckling at the joke… 
That I have left… one perfect blank…. (100)

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