Volume IV

As Leaves From One Tree

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Miniature Portraits Of The Human Condition

N.K.Tointon

(1989)

Preface

	In this half unfinished, or half completed, volume of poems I have again tried to find a happy balance between formal regularity and the freedom of the apparently spontaneous and unplanned. Often I use a sprinkling of internal rhyme with a premeditated dash or suggestion of a final cadence that is actively engineered to also rhyme. Semi-rhyming endings are also allowed to enter to suggest the presence of a full cadence, a rest or the element of an emphasis. Alliteration is sometimes manipulated with the same type of effect in mind. Some poems being metered and others unmeasured.
	The poetic type of expression, in my opinion, is not the mere formal application of various poetically orientated tricks of the trade, which with out doubt can also enlighten prose or blank verse and give to them an eloquence in taste, but the sense of essential compression that is brought to bear on the subject matter which is at the same time no mere description and/or prescription spelt out on a uni-dimensional plane of meaningfulness. These restrictions apply to works of art in general whereas this aspect of essential compression directly introduces the presence or spirit of poetry in a literary text. The adequate instantiation of this essential compression within the logical confinement of a matrix of language, orally recited and/or written down, does bear a direct relationship to the length of the poem, however, this does not imply that the poem must be compressed or short, but that in the sequential unravelling of ideas in the overall idea of the poem itself this logical explication must be neither excessive nor deficient but economically appropriate to the intent of that overarching idea. In contrast to essential compression we could introduce the notion of aesthetic compression. Without doubt a work of art is expressed succinctly in such a manner to lay bare the essential constitution it is given by the artist wherein the aesthetic richness of the work of art is generated and at the same time allows the individual to re-constitute that work of art in an effectively intersubjective-objective-like frame of reference. Whereas a novel is not compressed to the same dimensions of a poem, and it is the nature of language to possess a high degree of linguistic redundancy in its logical explication, all the same as a work of art its expression should be neither excessively nor deficiently constructed in its literary confinement. Some form of linguistic redundancy must be left however in the poem for the repetition of ideas and their nuances helps to establish the overall background of that work of art in order to create a contrast for the introduction of dissonant features along with their reintegrational resolution back into the body of that aesthetic text wherein the aesthetic and symbolic richness of that work of art can experientially manifest itself for the individual as-a-person-in-the-world. In this regard therefore a poetically-orientated text is essentially compressed whereas a literary text with aesthetic merit or potential is not so radically compressed, i.e., it is subject to an aesthetic compression.
	We have here a collection of poems that together explore various aspects or facets of the human condition looking at various professions, types of people, different categories of emotion and the exploration of a variety of philosophical ideas that touch upon this subject, etc. Behind these miniature exercises also stands a desire to explicate a realm of meaningfulness that allows us to find, or hope for, a sense of value both in the narrow sense of this life- for-us-in-the-here-and-now but also in the wider sense of life in general.
	Using the theme of leaves as a symbol or metaphor that parallels our own bodily existence various religious ideas are also explored and left open for discussion.
	An important element in the concept of the poetic is the blatant, although subtle, utilization of conflict, paradox, etc. that through some form of synthesis, and the resolution therein entertained, allows the poetic to take its rightful place on the written page in contrast to its more habitual non-poetic use. However this does not mean that a dichotomic division can be drawn between these two fields of endeavour but that some literary text placed under our examination would be more likely found to head in one of these directions at the expense of the other.
	In the aesthetic appreciation of an art work conflict and its resolution plays an essential role in the generation of an experience that allows us to experience the aesthetic depth of that art work. A skilful presentation allows the reviewing individual to de-encode the essential structures embedded in the logical matrix of that art work, in its historical manifestation, in a similar manner to the way other people would reconstitute that work of art if they too were to pay attention to what the artistic state of affairs has to metaphorically say. These essential structures are, to borrow from a musical model of art, basically those mutually defining aspects of consonance and dissonance and the nature of the relationship or resolution between them. Then to borrow from a gestalt model of perception, in order to make these two terms of consonance and dissonance better understood, we can let these two terms define each other by letting those components experienced as relatively the same in our reception of an art work form a background field of consonance. On the other hand anything experienced as different from or dissonant against that static background will be automatically and dynamically focussed upon, brought forward or projected. In the ongoing process that continuously attempts to relate these two aspects the resolution effected is experienced as the aesthetic harmony self-contained, but revealed, by that art work. Hence it is the irregularities in the crystalline-like structure of the poem and the resolution of those defects that allows the art work to generate its own intersubjective-objective aesthetic appreciation. As a parallel illustration the concept of a transistor and its manufacture through doping springs to mind at this point. By irregularities can be noted those features found to be disconcerting at face value, e.g., clashes in rhythm, rhyme, imagery, ideas, meter length, sound combinations, etc. How this resolution is effected is best left to further research, but, suffice to say, that the mind seeks to discover some form of linkage, or middle ground of similarity, between the dissonant and the consonant aspects in the relationship.
	Finally, poetry is a way for the past, through allusion, to filter through the page and revitalize our own cultural understanding and therein assist us in the necessary ongoing transformational re-evaluation and rectification of our own roots in antiquity. That derivation of value that becomes realized for us in the re-presentation of the past through our becoming a person-in-the-world in a-world-for-us.
	Hoping that these experimental poems meet with some small degree of your approval and that the traces of humour spread among them might lighten this task so thoughtlessly imposed upon your patient self. Therefore hoping that these poems will be found to merit your attention I must hereby await your critical appreciation with some degree of trepidation.

								Noël Tointon,
								Sydney and Leura,
								3/6/89 - 24/7/89.

Second Preface

	As this volume is now approaching completion I have decided to add a second preface in order to discuss something of the motivation behind its commission. Although the subject of death is a morbid one it is for all that not without its own degree of fatal fascination. An empty or desecrated tomb or grave is without doubt an object of our immediate interest. We peer on in and half hope to find some intangible presence and if we meet with but a few bones, the remains of a coffin or two, we would for all that probably still write off this fact that these insignificant remnants indicate that once some one, or more, was human, once flesh and blood just like us. Perhaps they were someone loved that for but a change in time could have been us?
	When our time comes to meet death, afterwards, there would be those of us who would hope to be as well treated, for what value a funeral might seem to have as too its final worth? Can time be cheated, can death be outwitted or is it merely at best an illusion or at worst a total cessation of consciousness and personal being? Our best answer to such a question might well reside in our coming to better understand the nature of life itself. When we meet one twin we have some idea of the other and as life is bound so inseparably with death we might well ask ourselves if this insight or method might have some substance, could throw some light on the mysterious nature of existence? Then again the investigation of life itself can not be without some form of value so even if we cannot answer this partial question let us immediately set forth and examine this self-presented phenomenon, the matter of living and the presence that such a force may have upon the expression of our own individual existences. Let us look around us at the social fabric of this world and, with the permission of the person or persons concerned, let us there seek for a re-expression of our own humanity, some potential there that in our scrutiny evokes for us a recollection, or recognition, that the same might well reverberate or oscillate in the midst of our own being which if through its potentiality alone allows us to perceive the harmony or empathy we indeed have and feel in the fortunes or misfortunes of others. However, let us not decide to judge too quickly on the relative merits of the person, or some facet of the person, under the intensity of our investigations and with this principle in mind ensure that we, for the meantime, consider neither the existence nor the non-existence, neither the beauty nor the absence of beauty, neither the moral goodness nor the lack of moral goodness, neither the utility nor the uselessness of that aspect under our poetic revelation. With this phenomenological attitude of transcendental inspection let us look for the essential features that move the presence of that under our observation or reflection. Perceive these poems themselves as an expression of this special type of reductive philosophical interest, as a process that seeks to essentially encapsulate the spirit of the phenomenon which, as a procedure, is allied to the spirit of the poetic process itself. In a sense all one hundred poems in this collection are reflections of each other and in turn reflections of ourselves and the structure and function of this life-world as it is there for us in the world.
	Most of these poems were written in the sequence as you find them without, I must confess, the editorial deletion of any one of them. I accept the uneveness in quality and hope you will bear with the many deficiencies as you come upon them. In our rambles about the world not all events brought forward for our attention call forth the same degree of interest and trust the less interesting might by their very presence better highlight those poems that might capture your interest and, dare I say it, approval. It is of course my hope that this small field of phenomena will meet with some small degree of your interest and hold your attention for a few moments more than they might better deserve. Should you find some humour in their midst I hope it will accent or augment the argument narrated through the lines of these phenomenal poems now unfortunately formulated and fixed upon the medium of the printed page.
	Like a deciduous tree in the quickening breezes before the fall I must anxiously await upon the inspection of your gaze in the hope that you do not pass judgment too heavily upon this frail collection of tiny leaves.
	Thus it is now into the safety of your hands I must deliver this small volume trusting that you might better preserve and maintain the confidences entailed therein, being those moments more often than not shared with me, and discovered through reflection, and made possible through the foundations of a common humanity?

							Noël Tointon, 
		 						  on the Gold Coast,
										  9/12/89.

As Leaves From One Tree

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Miniature Portraits Of The Human Condition

Part I

Introduction

So frail are the leaves that fall from the tree
and fall they must, in some season or other,
each one faulted and flawed, visibly failing,
programmed as they are to be jettisoned,
left behind, cast off the branch that
reared them, that saw them into this world 
and which briefly noted their lonely exits.

Shot out from the cycles of time 
small shoots appear, make their progression
that defies eternal time, that contradiction that
man yearns to discover as their true possession
for only that which self creates can create
a self that re-creates its self-possession.

As these pages turn see each new leaf therein moved
as from one tree, each a percentage point
however unique that mirrors all the rest,
recovers for our inspection a few drops
of our own humanity or lack of it.

Who knows what is lost, what is found 
in the movement of time, destined as we are to be 
a traveller on the face of the earth,
an inscription from past times forgotten?

Like as a passenger on the sands of the desert,
or as a sailor on the waters of the seas, 
or as a denizen of the city by day or night.

Such pictures portray a final betrayal,
essences that reveal as much as they conceal.

Hapless images fixed, frozen on paper?

1. The Factory Worker

Long are the days 
and short the nights
for this weary worker 
for the deepest of sleep 
hard worked for, with overtime,
leaves him with few pleasures 
to search for and share.
Stained are these hands that toil,
strained this face that labours
before the machines that demand
a selfless attention lest in
letting his thoughts intrude 
their identical stamped out produce
spills upon the floor and cries
out to the management
here is one soul that dares to think,
perhaps to dream, maybe reflect
upon the true nature of his work?

2. By More Than Bread Alone!

Like a humpty dumpty 
just put back together,
unkempt, without a daily wash,
this elderly man sits astride 
a low brick fence as the busy 
working world rushes onward, 
unseeing, passing him by.
Slick office boys with hair
still shiny damp catch his
unselfconscious approval,
like time-fixated visions 
from the past of his now shattered 
and weather beaten visage,
for once upon a time he was as they 
before his mental descent down 
the slope of this slippery ladder.
With little money left 
from his pension, yet,
never hungry, never dry,
despite the ravages of time,
he still knew on which side 
of his ample supply of daily bread
where the butter should be spread.

3. Devotion

Such loving devotion to some inner duty
finds for this loving mother its own reward.
Children to look after, a baby too,
homeless husband, meal-times, repetitious chores
all get attended to in the unfolding of time.
Through persistence what needs to be done
finds itself completed through due diligence.
Through such love the world goes round,
what fear should we have, therefore, that the 
wars of this world could be permanent!
Praise the human spirit that it can find
such resolution for the fact of interaction,
itself, can establish for us in time
such fruitful hopefulness, re-establish
such hopeful fruitfulness?!

4. Two Ladies

Two old ladies who never married
still flat together, no scandal here,
said the vicar to himself 
when he went to knock on their door.
Always open to the latest charity,
they took good care of last year's fair.
Always happy to say hello to the 
neighbourhood kids, always helpful,
they were held in such high esteem
by all the country folk from 
around these ways until, that is, 
they were seen on tv supporting, 
of all things, gay rights.
One third of the village thought them brave,
one third of the village thought them sick,
and one third of the village were too thick
to know what they thought or what to think.
"Why," said the vicar, "do you 
support such unseemly things?"
"Well if you won’t we shall," they said,
with a grin and a wink.

5. The Psychopath

Tall and thin and hot of air,
full of instant ambition and little flair
this paragon of aristocratic virtues,
like the lilies of the field,
harvests a happy time, full of little care. 
Little happinesses, however, stalk his ilk:
nothing sacrificed - little gain.
What shall profit this man
when you cannot convert, weave and work
the pointed and poky ears of a sow
into the noble patterns of dexterous silk?
Rank weeds grow frustrated in the wind,
untutored, untaught, self-wise, alas,
for the brains of such a soul, I fear,
knew only too well the clever tricks and
manipulations of personal power,
the well plotted preservations 
of his own callous self-care!

6. A Rare Species Of Doctor

Like as in the game of chess 
natural justice catches us at the right time
through the results of own mistaken efforts.
One doctor, arrogant, with little wit,
dull and dismal in demeanour, 
with the sharpest of tongues,
was stitching a wound that would soon reopen
to reveal his habit for careless mistakes.
More humble we should be, for he was told,
more eyes and ears have those around us,
and some better brains too,
but having no time for others
this servant to the master of false pride
would see less of the world and his job.

7. Factory Farmers

Once upon a time the farmers 
could be seen in their fields, 
found to touch the soil with their hands 
and be the better in manly physique 
from the perseverance of their toil. 
Then they knew the real date of the year 
for through the vagaries of the weather 
the harvests would run either forwards 
or backwards a week or two. 
I remember such a time for in walking 
in the countryside, above the cliffs, 
I would await the first blooms 
of the big round mushrooms, 
white as the pale moon with whom 
they would silently, in the mist, commune.
Hale and hearty then were this breed of men,
now they sit behind a desk and manage 
for the company-landlord these factory farms.
Another row of chickens, 
this year a bigger field of wheat,
how many hamburgers to the acre,
only this potato for the chips?
Forget the taste we want no waste,
those ruby red tomatoes look better in a can,
ripen them in the shed,
breed them, seed them,
feed them, weed them,
don't spare the fertilizer, 
don't forget the routine weed killers,
with hides as tough as leather
picking machines don't bruise them.
With all this science who needs 
an old fashion farmer, equal to the same, 
what's the profit in their extra labour,
when you bring it all in by the ton?
Surely you, as modern farmers, 
don't eat this factory fodder! 
Don't you, all your new supplies,
re-order in the nearby town 
from the friendly supermarket, 
let them instead find for you 
those concerns that process, 
package and pack it all up for us, 
presenting pretty pictures on the packets 
of old fashioned times long past?

8. Fishermen

With infinite patience 
these hunters on the banks of the river
tempt poor fish to bite the bait,
one last supper, so to speak,
something for nothing,
a tasty lure to entrap the diner
onto the plate of someone else's dinner.
Such is life for one,
such is sweeter fate for the other
that we might well ask -
"who is the hunter and who is the hunted?"

9. The Scholar

What gain do you make from all that lengthy reading,
your eyes are now the weaker, your health
a little poorer for the long cold nights of study?

Through these books I re-see the world,
a world much richer than that one before the senses,
through the minds of others I see more further, more deeply. 

Then you are most fortunate for naught stands still
and for you this world having moved on in time leaves 
the lesser sand in your hour glass to downward spill.

No matter for only through cultivated reflection
can we digest the many lessons of this world and for you
this panorama, this passing parade, can find no review!

10. The Hunter

"There is an art to my profession,"
the hunter quietly said, 
"the rabbits are small and fast
they breed too well without the foxes
so I am paid to restore the balance.
With one shot each I dispatch each one,
without them ever knowing,
for I say it isn't what you do 
that matters but how you go about it!
Killing gives me no pleasure
but doing it well does.
Should this be my confession, that I
enjoy my job, so be it, but know me well
to reassure you that this gentle soul 
kills all life with a sigh,
all things are beautiful 
and don't deserve to die
but die they must, 
that, alas, I don't deny."

11. The Idiot

A simple man tells a simple tale
but no one listens to this friendly soul,
what has this idiot to say to us
that we don't already follow?
But the world is a paradox
and the ravings of a madman
can tell us more than we need to know.
Beyond the limits of logic
resides the real world,
beyond this theatre of the absurd 
we find a world more sane 
than this Punch and Judy show.

12. The Teacher

In the days of old 
a moment would always arrive 
when the teacher would pass on 
to his favourite pupil 
the enpowerment of his profession. 
At the right time the teacher 
would magically translate to their charge 
this fact of succession, 
this transmission of culture, 
this precious seed that would 
in turn bear forth noble fruit,
a unique product intangible
that would reflect the teacher, 
the teachings of his teachers...
and the soul of the chosen one. 
An event with or without a herald,
an event with or without a ceremony, 
an event with or without proclamation,
when the teacher touched the pupil
through their hands flowed
this force of succession,
well we might ask of ourselves,
in the deepest of reflection,
"are we not all, each one of us, 
recipients of such love?"

13. The Journalist

	It is my right as a journalist to know 
what the politician had for breakfast, 
on it the whole health of the state
could depend, imagine if the toast was burnt,
or the tea was cold, or the bacon was 
too thin and two pieces too few?
	It is my right as a reporter to report
those facts that the public should know,
or rather want to know, those seasoned affairs,
as father of the state, or mother too.
Titillate them and they wont forget your name,
free pre-election publicity is my promise,
no mega-costing PR-ed commercials here,
just a scoop, even a slip of the tongue for
the sub-editors monosyllabic pen.
	It is my right to publish the truth
as no tv station can, there in black and white,
with a few words removed and few more put in,
a paragraph lost here, a few facts chopped out there,
some unsavoury past thrown in for good measure,
please, one more unflattering photo shot 
to close to the annoying camera will cap off
those latest statistics chosen for some other graph.
	It is my right as a newspaper man,
as another human being, to err, to get 
some of it occasionally wrong, but no worry
your pre-written rebuttal will make
tomorrow's headline news, that way 
two news item for the price of one.
	It is my right as a reptile of the press
to sell more copy, kick some arse,
a head or too, help you to survive that
vote of no confidence our daily newspaper
lost for you in the first place...
yet still you are our man, we won your race,
far better the devil we know, through mutual blackmail
its so much easier, and so much safer.

14. The Alchemist

	Modern man has no need for alchemy
for now the world is in a state of flux,
in constant change, now we desire a place
that knows no chaotic repetition,
a house built in bold bricks of time and space
that will endure without transformation,
only give us still a philosopher's
stone for problematic resolution?
	Alas, transmutation must firstly be 
of self, those heroes of the past would know
this well, and here all the best intentions
must be demonstrated, must be put on show.
May the insightful person see how fired
gases of melted earth rise up inspired!

15. The Paranoid Schizophrenic

"I am a paranoid schizophrenic,"
an unknown man on the bus 
said loudly to myself,
"I know they are not against me
but it just feels so real this thought
that they are out to get me."
Discreetly all the eyes of the passengers 
turn with some slight concern.
"I take these tablets, well sometimes,
they make me stiff and shaky.
When the voices tell me terrible things
I restart taking them,
in a way, you see, 
I give them the medication, 
I'm not mad - its them.
You are not one of them are you,
you look like C.I.A.,
wouldn't like to take one of these
would you, which would you prefer -
the green or the blue?
Ha, ha, only joking, 
have a gun for you,
its an invisible magic one too!"

16. A Dialogue Between A Clown And A Comic

Everyone laughs at us, 
the two old actors agreed,
but why should they laugh so much at 
a clown with a sad old face 
falling helplessly about the stage?
And then why should they laugh at 
a stand-up comic telling jokes 
when everyone expects, 
or at least suspects,
an immanent punch-line, 
find themselves fooled into thinking 
these predicted deliveries
were intrinsically clever 
and skilfully executed?
Its all in the timing,
you prepare the joke or situation,
suddenly change this ground,
replace it with the punch-line,
or punch or what ever, 
and in the process everyone cracks up
provided everyone is in the right mood.
A thirty second gag should be played
for thirty seconds, a five minute skit 
should be acted out for five.
Yes, that is most important,
but what happens in the process of the joke,
what makes one joke better than another,
what happens when we laugh?
Predictable unpredictableness versus
unpredictable predictableness.
Disinterested interest versus 
interested disinterest, like art 
the nature of humour is transcendental.
On one hand humour is indicated
before or during the encounter.
This tells them something else 
is about to happen that is radically 
different from the foregoing but which,
in some vital way, is connected 
to the foregoing through 
some play on words, motif or action, 
some desire or inner thought expressed.
When these two regions collide,
that is, when the foregoing gives way 
to the incoming, in that moment
their interaction dissolves both 
at the same time until time 
allows the new to reinstate itself.
The shock of this dissolution
releases itself as laughter.
Can we evaluate the successfulness 
of the comical situation?
For us we listen to the 
volume and length of laughter.
For the comic analyst it might be 
that the contents of the event
can be measured in some way 
through the distance and closeness 
of the outgoing reference frame and
the incoming reference frame?
Like having a dialogue with someone 
and then pulling the carpet 
from under their feet,
hence the dialectics of
distance and proximity.
Of course there is also the art of timing,
and the presence, or the creation, 
of mood should be right.
A comedian is like a cook -
they put in the right ingredients
in the right amount 
in at the right time and 
the audience bake it for themselves.
I like that, they laugh -
and we get paid!
And then they must laugh at themselves 
for finding themselves duped?
But in comedy they poke fun at us!
And in the course of tragic drama
identify with the tragic hero
subject to all their suffering,
misfortune and horrendous unwinding 
of inescapable fate!
They need to laugh,
we lift their spirits,
brighten the dinted affect 
of these suggestible martyrs,
and that is an artform in itself!
And to do that we must 
also laugh at ourselves!

17. To Treasure The Finding

What fortune is found?
That treasure beneath one's feet.
Not seen nor taken.

18. Lovers

Hand in hand wander two lovers,
the beautiful world is seen 
through the eyes of the other,
how sweet the fact the roughest of diamonds
can find a polish when placed together.

19. The Boxers

These two men must hate each other
the way they pound the brains of their opponent,
belt the upper trunk, bring blood to nose 
and cuts about the eyes and mouth,
intent as they are on domination,
contenders for a crown marking out
a deed nobly attempted
but savage to the nth degree.
What virtue is there in fighting,
what sport is this that encourages the same?
The Catholic picks a fight for the fun of it,
a Protestant avoids all conflict like the plague,
what hope have we when Christian souls
themselves cannot agree 
to fight one way or the other?
In the present there is an 
unconscious search for fun, 
escape from tedious boredom.
In the past there is antique dust and death.
In the future there lurks the promise 
of the rainy day, or hoped for success...
As fire can put out fire
better a small fight than a later
conflagration that consumes all
in its bitter path of destruction.
Then the birth of friendship itself
is borne out of the resolution 
of the conflict that allowed 
such divisive distance 
to create such a potential.
For the spark to fly the fire must cross
the void of darkest space,
like as when the Gods met the Titans
and from their union mankind 
was put on this platform of the world,
this theatre for higher souls.

20. Has The Beloved Leader Caught A Cold?

So some of the braver troops are prepared
to fight unarmed people who protest peacefully, 
demonstrate to the people through might,
through murder, that their government is right?

But all true people have a conscience, except 
the sociopathic few, those persons that more subtract 
than add to humanity, yet of these only a fraction 
are truly violent, truly savage in action.

In times past the emperor who looses his mandate
looses his throne, a tide swings in and sweeps out 
the tired old guard that digs itself in 
on old responses that only the short sighted win.

How can these dry old twigs be snapped underfoot 
before death itself takes them into its embrace,
the final account in this ledger, for all is vanity,
our clinging to power the ultimate insanity?

After struggles in the street passive resistance
must strike the inner conscience of the culture,
strike those that forever value this civilization,
strike those that are paid to fight for such a nation.

Then some natural inoffensive action or device
must be re-evaluated to safely signal en masse
how the people can advertise that they inward rebel,
through those signs found so innocently coincidental.

Like the yellow shirts or the wearing of blue jeans,
like the many women who came to cry each day,
other signs of public intent, public discontent,
always signs must and will be chosen, always immanent!

Why not then, if you would imagine, the simple cough -
a natural reflex mechanism that all possess yet still 
remains under our control, and so perfectly fitted,
especially for the smokers or the chest infected.

If the callous few cannot be touched the feelings 
of all the others can, these other others, reinforced through repetition, escalation, and the magnitude
of all these simple actions or non-actions reviewed.

The world is full of signs, a world of value,
if the context of oppression meets the recognition
of its commentary drop by drop all spilt blood 
is reclaimed, washed away in such a flood.

Add a handkerchief, black or perhaps one of red
like blood, reinforced with the sound of spitting:
then women should sob if pestered, before the others cry,
while men should sound their innocence, all offence deny.

How could the establishment torture a single cough,
how mindless these fools would look that day in court,
what penalty, what punishment could be found 
suffered by all for such a natural sound?

Slowly but surely the will to power is sapped and so
the more powerful have to re-evaluate themselves 
as others see them, accept a down graded status
or resolve to see this sad devaluation reverse.

Imagine the day when the deputies meet in the great hall
and some, some four times to the hour, discreetly cough,
then to be joined by those more braver souls
whose collective vision sounds hope for better goals.

As he must the beloved leader then steps forward,
in the midst of winter, full of influenza too,
with a long speech full of heroic rhetoric, cannot prevent the slightest cough as one slight cough becomes present.

A quiet cough and this cough is echoed about the hall,
another cough and this is re-echoed much louder still,
the generals of the army cough, the airforce and navy too,
one last cough and the great leader pays his public due...

21. These Ecological Nuts In The Trees!

What's one tree more or less,
this forest or that,
when the vegetables are finished
we plant the next season's lot
and leave it in the ground
and with a little help 
it will bear fruitfully 
in the coming year?
Those logs make for jobs
that keep families here,
just as for his father and 
his grandfather there!

But what jobs when the 
small mills run down broke
and get themselves bought up by 
some foreign big time bloke?
Protest, protest the fact
that we were conned,
fed a diet of junk disinformation
that keeps us working 
till they run out of stock,
out of managed trees,
or financial monies
to run these petite industries.

Protesters, protesters everywhere,
into the forests, 
on the roads and up the trees,
arrested, non-arrested,
yet to be arrested,
brave souls that face 
these irate lumber loggers,
no room for second thoughts here.

They think these selfish greenies
should be cut down to size,
should be thanked in kind.
They curse these trendy intellectuals,
these ecological nuts in the trees
who close down their saw mills 
before the banks foreclose
on their limited liabilities,
the debt burdened products 
of our limited mentalities?

22. These Two Boys On The Bus

In the back of the bus
these two young boys, barely bearded,
forget the other passengers
as they express the joyous passion 
they find in the company of each other.
This great pleasure they share
has no bounds in its expression 
but for the look, or stare, 
of the other travellers for then, 
with some self conscious
catching of their breath,
they seat themselves a little further 
aside, but, before long, poking 
verbal fun at each other
and physically tweaking 
each other's hair in jest,
both with locks jet black in colour
and dressed like twins,
or nudging each other with elbows and arms,
take a greater delight 
in such closer intimacy, 
in perfect touch with 
the feelings of the other,
in telepathic rapport that states 
that these two best of friends
dearly love each other.
They go to school together,
they play together,
eat together, walk the same,
talk in half sentences
each shared in and laughed at.
Dare I say the obvious that
they long for each other,
would even sleep together 
in their own way
but for that knife pressing fear 
secretly shared in silent thought
of what others might say,
of what others would say,
no doubt, uncaring, 
not understanding that love 
should have its own rules,
moment by moment,
without preconceptions.
Our naked interaction 
is not the province of others 
but alone for those who share 
in the being of the relationship in question,
greater than its participants,
with a greater life of its own,
perfectly attuned to the uniqueness 
of its own nature
which can not be categorized
except through dishonest default
(when a label from the outside is attached
to the expression of its package,
those feeble wrappings 
unveiled in humble space and time
before the blind gaze of others).
Alas, manly men do not fondle each other
except in battle, or in contest, - 
in the darker depths of 
the pitched and heated fray,
but is this natural?
When one side, one team,
on the soccer pitch deftly 
dispatched that vital goal
all the winning players in that moment
set out to boldly caress each other 
without a momentary thought
for their enraptured,
or disappointed, spectators.
Such love, such solidarity
is perfectly in touch,
expressed with perfection 
through hearty hugs and kisses
that for a few lone moments reveal
our more natural condition,
happily as extensions of one another,
each and everyone of us as like 
the many leaves on the many branches 
of one vast single upright tree;
one deeply enrooted, heavenly extended,
joyously outstretched living tree,
indeed, as like the many leaves
visibly felt on this one living tree!

23. The Perfect Elitist?

In perfumed splendour,
in perfect sartorial elegance,
finely attuned to cosmic fashion
with its own rules
this aesthete slinks along the 
corridors of his humble mansion,
a self enclosed cosmos,
imagined or not,
in a few hundred acres of grounds
laid out in princely fashion,
oblivious to the hard work
of its foundations and upkeep.
Contributions to classical antiquity
clutter his desk,
concentrate the powers of his mind
to some other time 
far from the present.
A dangerous combination 
for the presentation of the past 
should be measured 
from beneath ones feet,
and vice versa,
in the here and now,
for all existence 
is a spontaneous balance, 
self-reasoned, finely self-regulated,
as on the edge of a knife
that not only divides the extremes 
but also rejoins them!

23. The Authentic Traveller

Some travel to the very ends of the earth
and still never find what they set out to seek,
knowing naught as to what they wish to meet.
Some few souls, through accident or design,
can ne'er leave the space of one room
yet through the gaze of the inner eye,
through the light cast by patient mind,
traverse the entire span of human experience
seeing in everything the reflection of all else.
Like a diamond each shiny grain of sand 
encompasses in each flashing fleck a vision 
of the world from its own point of view,
a spectrum whose essence entails a harmony,
a balance between the inner and the outer.
As it was said in ages past: as above - as below,
and know that this lack of difference marks out 
the true traveller as like between 
they who alone taste from the dishes 
in a hearty banquet and they that eat 
from the same and in the process digest 
this ample meal spread out before them.
Seek and sit yourself at this table 
whose edgeless horizons equal the heavens 
of unlimited possibility encompassing for the 
intrepid discoverer their real claim to fame,
lasting foundations for celebration of name.
The curious person uncovers nothing, 
not one thing that could be original, 
in truth finding naught to long time savour 
as they onward stumble in endless circles, 
tripping over woven arrays of monotone facts, 
each one a curiosity, each one a curio 
or momento, each one an equal barely better 
than the former and doomed thereby 
to be washed in the waters of forgetfulness.
The open person without expectations unexpected
discovers what they secretly sight for beating
in simple measure a sweet happenstance resonates
in the breast of that particular world-in-view
matching in perfect fit one unmapped out meeting
conquering naught else than the limits of this region
that such thoughtful ambition carefully arbitrates.

24. The Minimalist

Do nothing - leave nothing to do,
do nothing - leave nothing undone,
see nothing - leave nothing undone,
see nothing - leave nothing to do,
see things - leave nothing to do,
see things - leave nothing to chance,
bring things - leave nothing to chance,
bring things - leave nothing to find,
seek things - leave nothing to find,
seek things - leave things to find,
write things - leave things to find,
write things - leave nothing to find,
write things - leave nothing signed,
cite things - leave nothing signed,
recite things - leave nothing signed,
break things - leave nothing signed,
break things - leave nothing designed,
break things - leave nothing to design,
break things - leave no one to design,
break things - leave no one to sue,
break things - leave someone to sue,
break things - be someone to sue,
fake things - be someone to sue,
fake things - be someone who does
fake things - leave someone who does,
fake nothing - leave someone who does,
fake nothing - be someone who does,
do nothing - be someone who does,
do nothing - leave someone who does,
do nothing - leave someone undone,
do nothing - leave someone to do,
do nothing - leave nothing to do,
do nothing - leave nothing undone...

25. The Mafia

When there is little law and order
the same becomes self-imposed,
like a vacuum chaos is surmounted
by the firm hand of some new force,
sucked in or brought up from within
blatant power runs openly into public 
from the region of its source.

In contest there's either nouveau riche
or the represervation of the old,
who has the talent to be so bold,
who has the finance to instigate
greater profit in such an organization,
who can criticize such a ground
that lies at root innate?

From a position of power pirates
are put down out to sea, out of sight,
in the end forces must stand and fight
to enter or recover that territory
and all its riches entertained,
to trade on its trade and tax the same
and mark out the captain's patch of sea.

Flowers on the grave's a small token
that keeps it in the family,
a visible reminder, a homily,
a sermon that takes it stand
on the natural right that power's
pursuit of its own self-expression
can and does extend a bloody hand!

Only a stronger state can compete in arms
still leaving open its lust for corruption,
pockets hopefully more shallow in intention,
for it is natural to reciprocate
and that means to pay the going price,
paying for new protection, getting and 
giving of gifts through taxes that re-allocate!

Sometimes we trade one for the other
but the better future, or worse, must lie
with the state on whom we must rely
hoping natural checks and balances might 
eventually come to the surface and prevail
to give the state a better name and even keel 
before the winds of bitter international plight.

26. One Human Wreck

We are creatures of habit,
none more so than for the drunk
or simple drug inducted addict.
Here the public finds one such case,
alas, one more than many.
She knows where to go but,
alas, not her name 
and with creative gurglings
rolls her eyes and
stands on one foot and
looks like passing out,
any immanent minute now,
through death's jerky door.
Was found sitting in the rain 
almost in the path of traffic,
sure to be seen,
cigarettes safely encased
in their own plastic bag,
in better care than self,
dazed in a sea of diazepam,
better known as valium,
or perhaps, a sea of serepax?
She has her inverted pride -
"no hostel floor for me,"
she quickly states,
one warm hospital bed 
for the night, please, 
for free, she thinks,
and drops to the floor
with an existential sigh
that should win one more oscar.
The wagon comes along,
not to be appreciated
by this native soul
all asleep in a human pile
gripping one plastic bag
of pathetic belongings -
all discarded remnants,
one sad and soggy mess.
Repetitive repetition
is beyond redemption
without the transcendent
sanity of ritual.
Without her culture,
without a home to go home to,
without roots how can 
a human being plant themselves
and safely grow?

27. Value

Most motivation is a meaningful quest for value
and that strikes at the essential humanity 
of the individual and from thence socially
spills over to consume all forms of society.
Bubbling ever outwards it consumes itself in the 
detachment of an existential frenzy transcending
the physiological motions of bodily control,
the basic facticity of emotional thoughts,
the mental contortions in distorted judgment
egotistically delivered in conscious courts.

From value we get the senses of the valuable 
and the active presence of evaluation too!
I write these thoughts down and pray
they concentrate the perceptions of our mind
in the hope that some seeds will be sown
that in their own time will come to bear
a satisfying fruit and unveil that which self
conceals itself amid so many words? For some 
gold is sought, for others art, some seek sport,
education, ways of friendship, love or health...

The golden cache can be smashed and smelted down,
reduced in the refinery to the anonymity 
of seal stamped ingots each one traded as the same.
No work of art can be so stripped to the bare,
on the floor piles of paint flakes have no price
even if that painting was considered priceless.
What value our education that has no purpose,
what virtue friendship if friends merely cross our path,
don't we live for love, health and general success,
don't we all long for a wife and warmth of homely hearth?

The value of value resides in our getting there,
without the getting there being the final goal:
authenticity lies in the heart of the relationship,
mere winning can only put an end to such aspirations.
How wise the person who can perceive this dilemma
that the value of value has no value and therefore
necessitates its continuous re-creation, helping
us-to-be-there-in-the-world-in-a-world-there-for-us.
Through sheer freedom of the whole moves a valid world 
of value heralded forth with vivid banners unflagging!

28. The Shepherd

Under the blaze of the midday sun
the shepherd boy unloosens his cloak,
unfolds his woollen under-skins 
and bare in flesh lays himself down
as if collapsed onto this pile,
legs slightly apart, arms near his side,
eyes shut, hidden in deepest thought,
now warm on this mountain side.
The embers of his night-time fire 
are now stony cold, the remains of his
morning meal of porridge-like grains 
with yoghurt intermixed flake upon
the sides of his simple wooden pot,
the flock of sheep more asleep than awake 
have wandered together not too far about.
Continent, yet contented, is the traditional
life of this sweet natured fellow who spends
these summer months on the grassy slopes
high above the busy plains too far away
to be seen, leaving in their place
snowy tops and deep shadow engorged 
valleys with running streams and trees.
On the higher passes the greener grasses 
grow amidst the low bushes and shrubs
relieved only by the regular scattering 
of small rocky outcrops that make fair 
shelter from the winds each lonely night.
Yet few worries furrow this rugged brow,
for distraction his nimble fingers 
will deftly play a miniature flute,
or whittle with his knife a pointed stick,
or gaze into the clouds to read the twistings 
of an imaginary landscape to amuse 
the philosophic wanderings of his soul.
Here while the sun is at its warmest,
half asleep, he thinks he hears the sound 
of a humble humming bee and opening his eyes
looks on up to see a small shiny fleck 
of light sailing through the deep blue sky
with the finest of a thin vaporous trail
signing the signature of an international jet 
plying its swift technological trade 
from one of the world’s great continents,
over these mountains, to some unknown other,
bringing this world, alas, that much closer,
unavoidably breathing some modern mono-culture
down the proud and noble necks of those 
						of other nurture.

29. An Overweight Lady At The Zoo

At the zoo an overweight lady moves to the next cage 
to review another species, then moves onto the next one
as an unruly crowd of school children pass her by
and snigger, among themselves they laugh at their own 
painfully plain displacements, poking much fun, the less 
in wit, at a chosen few singled out, by size, by them 
that wish to appease the callous mentality of the mob.

The day is nearly done for this weary over embodied 
soul and her sitting down on the nearest seat sees 
her crashing through the weakened seating planks,
folding up into one mass of cries wedged between
the cracked up concrete tiers that should have 
sat the daily mass of human shape in all its form,
now trapping this vision of our encaged stares.

But the blood of people is thicker than water and they
now rush to help her up, sly sneers turn with speed
to sympathetic sighs of compassionate affection, one 
comic tableau is quickly rended thus to this sad scene
as many extended hands fail at first to budge the tightly
wedged bulk of this wailing human hulk in whose misery 
our hearts seek us to see and meet each other's naked need.

30. The Astrologer

Our daily stars are the 
ravings of a conflicted mind,
a dictionary of dreamt up 
journalistic cross purposes.
Yes, you shall win some money if...
Or, tomorrow you must 
expect a knock on the door,
all half billion of us, 
if we have a door that is?
Then, you are your worst enemy 
so the good fortune
promised cannot appear,
but, if it should arrive 
it is because you are now 
more friendly to the being
of your less hated and
less fought against self.
Look around you at all the people 
you can find, at everyone you can see!
Don't we all have, no evidence
to the contrary, heads, arms and legs 
and yet beyond all that might we not be 
just a little bit unique?
And that being the case 
it follows that we might be 
just some one special,
indeed be someone special?
How can a few miserable lines 
in all the different papers
do this fact full justice?
Truly patient is the person
who computes this unique 
chemistry of the inner soul,
calculates its nature crystalline?
Hard won experience tested with time,
founded on observation and tradition,
filtered through critical meditation
casts the artful shadow of a science 
over the sands of the world, 
a world that reflects the stress 
and resolution of everything else.
A world that takes on a new shape 
every moment between the confines 
of past and future
letting us feel the exhilaration 
of the freedom
that founds the very ground 
of our being if we were
to immerse ourselves
in this sea of authenticity!

31. The Great Economist

The silent rules of the World are simple,
like the artful boiling of little fish,
and apply to all the fields that shelter 
under the seasonal realm of the sun.

All relationships should be completely 
reciprocal, made with the best intent 
that the fullest of feed-back would allow 
systems to regulate all self-consent.

Each action is met through the reaction
that comes to meet it halfway dissolving
the opposites except through distinctions
that meet equally through accommodation.

Human interference must be inspired,
deeply informed as to the true nature 
of the situation and this spirit
must be allowed to freely move itself.

The perfect management is exercised
when the system itself is left unblocked,
when all hands are taken off the controls
and existential nature takes its course.

And that demands much faith, a tolerance 
of the pain felt through unbinding the wound
created and impressed through the thoughtless 
treatment tightly imposed in the first place.

What persists in time is living, alive,
pregnant with its own possibilities,
all we do is merely water and weed,
leave the fields left alone to fruit and seed.

32. How Corrupt The Politician?

You get what you pay for 
and you pay for what you get,
it is as natural as that
but in the field of politics
such oiling of the system leaves 
a sludge called graft and corruption.
So they question the cops who buy
their hamburger and chips half-price,
and the bureaucrat who accepts a small 
token for all the trouble chasing the ear 
of some lazy clerk ensconced upstairs, 
higher up in the civic scheme of things.
But they miss the point of such an exercise 
for in looking over the smaller they 
overlook the greater and miss 
the rotten spoils of some obese Mister Big -
those pinnacles of power,
those paragons of virtue that 
white wash their own images squeaky clean 
singing their own praises magnificent.
So the wheels of industry and development 
need to be oiled, soiled with the pen-filled 
hands of those whose permission allows 
one more finger in the corporate pie.
In the days of yore, not too far from 
the present time, before papers named 
their political sources and revealed 
the peccadilloes of politicians
through photo, through interview or by name, 
the pursuit and exercise of patronage 
was one peaceful key to the game.
If you wanted something you paid 
the going price, dependent upon your means,
past, current or future,
and the more you paid,
and the higher you paid
in this godly scheme of things 
the more you were able
to move heaven and earth.
In this fashion the money and favours 
needed to run the government of the day
seeped up from the people below 
like water from a spring, 
and a wise and powerful king 
would sit at the top of this heap
and tap this source and make it his own.
Then through thorough conservation
he would consolidate this revenue
for the dispensation of further
favour and thereby reinforce the foundations 
of his throne, administer to a dynasty 
of hangers on if they knew how to monopolise
these tricks of the trade.
From the king's rightful dispensation,
although they be now long deposed, or put aside,
the world now thinks the money for 
politicians should effectively trickle down
and then like a gentle rain upon the entire 
face of the earth create an earth
that in time will bear fruitfully,
produce a harvest that can be better taxed 
to finance all those fickle promises 
published as legalized election-time bribes.
But the third estate prints its own money 
through flogging its own publicity campaigns,
the current flavour of the month,
and criticises both graft and taxes,
for the older system is still with us 
but now ever deeper underground, more insidious, 
more difficult to root out, or transform, 
being the more natural way to pay.
Better for all would be that day
when the percentage taken, the tip,
was visible before the eyes of all.
Such a gift would then be deserved,
a public demonstration of worth
deserved by the faithful servant.
But alas the system as it now stands 
only favours the secrecy of the truly corrupt, 
those greedy faceless forces who resist 
patterns of change when there is
little money in it for them.
A web of deceit is thickly spun
with the fattest crook lurking off center 
ready to bag one more paid up contribution, 
a tonne of cement couldn't fossilize 
and fix such a covetous creature, keep 
its many figured digits frozen in the till
before a public inspection. A row 
of greasy hands in the next person's pockets 
then completes the hidden hideous picture -
one judge for dinner with the crim,
one cop dining with party boss,
one contractor housing that special 
politician to poor to afford
one more pretentious penthouse...
"How savage this inquisition,"
they grizzle to the press,
that merely lists this litany of sins 
too excessive to adequately record.

33. These Modern Athletes

See this poetry of perfection
displayed today on the sporting field,
see how these athletes perform,
speculate on their extra-curricular activity,
that additional icing on the cake,
that shot-puts them to such fame.
All those hours of hard slog,
the tedious repetition of exercises
to tame these sets of muscles, 
to strain these sets of muscles
that collectively encases a frame
brought to a peak of excellence
that would break a lesser mortal.
Imagine the control over diet,
the loss of friends traded for admirers,
that computerized programme for training
strictly adhered to with all the latest
research, through necessity, drug enhanced..?

34. The Antique Collector's Defence

Curios are for the curious, without doubt,
but antiques are like distant rivers from the past 
for they inform us of what has gone on before, 
deliver us a taste of a taste long replaced 
but merely echoed, parodied in the present.
In touch with our deeper roots lets us realize,
revitalize our standing in the here and now 
as members of the human race who only through 
the transformation of those traces can restore 
a true self-meaningfulness beyond the value
of dollars that have enslaved our souls, we ignore
the fact cultural ends are more important than means
letting these artefacts show us through such a door...

35. The Psychotic And The Neurotic

The psychotic knows only one day in two,
on the other hand the neurotic has two days
rolled into one, indeed twice the fun, but 
we know they be happiest when they be sick.
Alas, these poor folk tell you that they ail,
be not well, but scarcely a complaint from 
the psychotic although their friends rarely fail
to mention this sad fate, what few friends remain.
The latter too happy by far, or too sad, 
spend the day with little testimony 
to an insight of self, such knowledge 
that would shock any normal person 
if one such normal person could be found, 
but perhaps this defence is best kept their 
better secret for the truth is that there
is always held an inner suspicion,
that makes them edgy when questioned,
but all existence is like a dream
when we know when and where we are we can 
ne'er know who we are that makes this fact!

36. The Entrepreneur

To be successful as an entrepreneur
is an artform in itself, a skill
like that of a gardener necessary
to bring together money and talent,
talented production into time and space,
the formulation of obtainable dreams
that invoke the cooperation of people.
Alas, the poor performer in this 
art-form leaves in their wake the souls
of other folk floundering, failing
through no fault of their own.
It is no sin to fail through trying well,
but to spin a fabric that falls apart
through the follies of egocentricities,
that merry manic ego-mania that suppresses
all good common sense, is like a dealer
who sells antiques faked for recent sale
who themself is fooled having no powers 
of discrimination, no sense of proportion
that would wisely stop them as they fail!

37. The Bowlers

These elderly should be 
congratulated through 
the sound of clapping,
for how can they pitch these bowls
with such precision 
across the grass
within inches 
of the small white kitty.
Each one parrying 
tit for tat
in another dimension, 
playing a game
more mind over matter, 
an intellectual exercise 
in material debate.
Such skill is here in evidence,
matching speed and distance, 
bias with resistance to the path 
teaching us that freedom 
is a transcendent blending
and balancing of forces.

38. The Sick Person

No point longing for death, 
old lady, it takes it own time 
to knock on your door,
it will come when you least expect it,
but if you listen carefully 
you can hear the footsteps 
sounded in the dark, 
the careful quiet tap tapping 
that lets you know that soon 
you will be taken inside out,
outside in in its icy cold embrace.
Hear how the breathing creaks 
in rattled anticipation,
see how such crepitation
releases us from the delusions 
of this fickle world.
Better to take a ticket
and like a spectator
on a raft or seeing a play
invite yourself to attend 
your own funeral, right now, 
every moment of the day,
and celebrate the miracle 
of each passing second
and by this stratagem cheat death 
of its rightful, frightful say.

39. The Bankers

See how the bankers 
grow richer by the hour,
handmaidens of the politicians,
who daily creek up and crank up 
the interest rates by the power 
they have over the greed 
and desire that motivates
some form of acquisition,
be it interest or a loan.
Through inflation we have
a merry-go-round of need
that must, alas, over extend
itself and on itself feed,
producing for some a cooling off,
for others a falling off,
a bankruptcy of action
an unplanned interruption,
a bleeding which for 
the simple soul sees 
no sale of tax loses 
held in tax credit,
no rhyme nor reason 
in this for us that sees 
our loss become our profit.

40. An Ode To The Unnamed Soldier

This young man who didn't desire his death,
now finds himself immortalized 
without his name known to all and sundry,
finds here no truer death than this-
a wandering spirit without a home
must over the face of this planet roam.

Perceive, O Noble Physique, that thy eternal 
suffering has this monument for thy pains,
a grand and empty mansion more important
than thy sacred life, a farce that worships
death however much the pretence is set
the other way, no matter for the heroic mould
casts its countenance towards the glory
of the day that sees martial ambition reinvested.
What justice is this that life which is precious
be not praised but its death be risen 
to a greater height to tower up over us?

O hear, O people, they who in silence
 must faithfully remain,
must endure the bitter wounds of battle, 
must bear those scars that sear 
the psychic soul, that scour 
our flesh and sour the milk
of mother's breast, must find fading 
sadness in final thoughts 
of friendships now laid to wasteful rest 
through the thoughtless inequity of war?!

41. The Paradoxical Look Of The Other

What pressure is felt by the person through 
the look of the other, from the person 
or persons present seen to be seeing them?
How paradoxical this perception of seeing,
and the perception of this perception,
in its presentation to both the looker and 
to the person who feels themself subject 
to an intensity in the looker's staring gaze?
We see, we see ourselves seeing, we see others, 
we see others seeing us, we think we see their 
seeing and then re-see ourselves - seeing ourselves 
seen as other are thought to see us?

Through the leaking roof of the city bus 
the rain pours through the night before 
and is soaked up by the sponge rubber lining 
exposed through the vandal shattered vinyl
covering the barely fitted brittle back seats.
Seated the hapless worker slowly absorbs
the heated moisture and only realizes on alighting 
in the cool air that they appear to have wet 
themselves, but this fact is not the case 
only an appearance but somehow they get to see 
themselves as others' are thought to see them and 
feel the embarrassment they fear would be involved.

Or imagine the following source of misfortune,
one eye that, in the colder weather of winter,
lets large drops of tears roll down but one cheek,
helpless, without control and through no emotional 
cause, what thinks and feels the victim
of this multi-faceted and perplexing paradox?
One eye cries but not the other, and although
there are tears the person is not crying,
but what do others think when seeing these tears,
but it is only one eye that cries but tears are seen 
all the same, how feels the one-eyed crier -
happiness, feeling the tears others must see?

Many times we are called upon to state or do
what we have no heart for or outright reject,
but through our public sense of duty do what we would 
not do, get seen doing what we would not normally do,
get ourselves seen doing what we feel we have to be 
seen doing, do what we don't wish to see ourselves
being seen as doing even though others might wish of us 
that we do only what we would wish to do and not be seen merely being seen - such is the mystery of the other,
that mysterious being we can not be, cannot be apart from,
for the other is no more other than the mystery of self,
both being constructions of the mind and equally empty?

We see a brilliant landscape, a painting well done,
full of inviting and enticing illusion, and living colour,
a drama of theatrical forms discovered and recreated,
echoing previously seen topographies, resonating in
sympathy with the natural geography and at the same time
with previous paintings, previous traditions overlaid.
We see a brilliant seascape, some struggling vessel
in a storm, yet our feet, more often than not, would be either dangling in the water or hovering above the waves.
What wings has the artist, what wings has the re-viewer
that they can see the storm, hear the waves, feel the spray,
feel compassion for the passengers, seen but not seeing,
						   wrecked in this rocky bay!

42. The Building Workers' Stand-Up Smoko

A greater delight is often taken 
from doing that which is forbidden,
a life in love with lust unforsaken
shared in sin leaves all honest joy
						overtaken.

Huddled close in a small semi-circle
standing in the lee of the wind hidden 
from the sight of the overseeing boss
the building workers sneak a smoko break 
with their bought coffees and cappuccinos.

One long hour's cold work has already past,
and night has given way to the milder 
light of day, nervous, forever watchful, 
their thirst finds a greater intensity 
in the execution of the unsanctioned.

They quietly joke, admire the passers-by,
send up their one gay friend - Hey Phil he's here,
a young fellow just for you, he's quite bald
and no teeth too, walks with a stick, and limp,
and brings his cask of wine already chilled.

Then one office girl late for work comes to view,
quickly catches their well-honed hawk-eyed sight,
and all high heeled, short coated, stumbles past -
Hey lady, shouts one bright young wit, use ours,
yi' times running out, better get there fast!

They forget that their boss was once like them,
better they enjoy their forbidden brew,
he thinks, for then they would take twice the time 
and savour it only half as much, so,
I'll leave them be as tradition dictates.

They all stand, barely still as if before
an imaginary fire, on the pavement
on the side street they quickly drink, inspect 
the progress on the building site, take great
pleasure in the right timing of the break.

They mention the coming pour, the smoothing 
of the floor, the progress on the windows,
subcontractors for the door, the labour
for the ceilings, the glass panels for decor,
missing equipment from the plumber's store.

Life's a microcosm of the cosmos,
a miniature world in courser detail,
through cooperation more can be done,
through others ambitions can be unveiled
for we all bleed the same under one sun.

What sin is self-conducted, done alone,
solitary committed, unwitnessed,
so raise the stakes and higher bid,
the pack is dealt and life's the game
						interacted!

43. Reconstruction As Self-Destruction!

A face all puffed up like a monster fish
reacting to the hair transplanted now in place,
like stubble or seedlings, an expensive
course all spread upon this shiny plate,
like a paddy field of newly planted rice,
already the same menu now repeated twice.

A mouth full of stunning teeth all dead 
and dark, all root canalled to the hilt, 
the artistry of an over zealous dentist
now on holiday, a tour de force, without doubt
such talent wasted, one more testimony 
to a value-system cashed out differently!

A new face, all face lifted, for the public persona,
no wrinkles or bags here, no crinkles or sags there,
perhaps next year new breasts for the husband dear,
just think a new model, a new model each year,
what public pressure is this, what self-expression
that deconstructs a new self through such repetitive 											reconstruction!

44. The Cook

The knife of the perfect cook
is always sharp,
their preparation always precise,
appropriate to the dish,
their side dishes in the best taste,
with vegetables always fresh,
cooking the produce of the seasons,
always knowing what is best,
the right herbs used for seasoning,
in skilful proportions,
a tasteful dish is arranged
with artful portions,
a menu is designed as a composition
with symphonic dimensions,
completed with all the little things 
that augment the final interval,
highlighting the thoughtfulness behind 
la piece de résistance,
this work of art
impeccably crafted by the master,
mastered by the chef,
achieved by the master craftsman,
as an artist without pretension!
A great cook takes some edible material,
some food with potential
and realizes the possibility 
of a great meal,
giving value to that orchestrated,
adding added on value to that
demonstrated.

45. Squares, Triangles And Circles

Jonathan loves Jill
and Jack loves Bill,
but Bill loves Jonathan 
and Jill loves Jack
and they all went 
into town together.

But Jack thinks Jonathan
is straight like
a gambler's die,
knows Bill is as
gay as they come
and expects our
Bill to loose his wager.

However crafty Jack
is outwitted
for Bill tells Jonathan
that Jill is a lesbian,
and gets him drunk
and both that night
sleep in the same 
bed together.

But poor, poor Jill
for she meets a nice 
young man called Saul,
who goes for older Paul,
and Mary and her lamb
kept her hands quite full.

But a happy tale is told
for she meets in
a city pub
Harold the Bold
who goes where no man 
has been before,
or so I'm told.

Before long,
in the goodness of time
our tangled tale
becomes unravelled
with partners more or less
the same as before, 
or so it seems
give or take
a break or two,
occasional diversions
here and there.

And once a week
our friends all meet
in the village barn
all hands warmly held
to dance the long 
cold night away
all together!

So Jill sees Harold
and sometimes Jonathan,
who sometimes sees Bill
who sees Jack,
when he is not 
distracting Saul
from cousin Paul, etc.

And Mary and her lamb
are a little older
but still too young
to get mixed up 
in the to's and fro's
of all this and that,
as rumour would 
have it, but still,
all stories will confuse
fact with fiction,
fiction with fact...

Then Jack and Jill
went up the hill
to fetch their daughter
but Jack fell down
and broke his crown
and Jill's been seeing 
more men ever after.

Well, well, well,
you never can tell
but life can make marriage 
look like disaster!

46. The Prisons Mankind Make

Some people make their exit 
from fate through death, 
others are led to wait their time 
in some loathsome military prison,
there others never leave 
and fail to make their mark 
on their hospitable country of origin
except to leave a legacy for 
a more legitimate government
to try to deftly explicate and
extricate themselves from, 
from such an ever-present past.
What conscience has the torturer
when made to publicly amend,
what apology would transcend
the senseless death and destruction
meted out to the innocent,
what natural justice can correct
the administration of such injustice?

Such a sad and heavy destiny 
many unwittingly intend, extend
upon themselves, blanketed in darkness
weaving a loom that entombs all sight,
pitiful creatures that torture
only their limited senses of self
far removed from the fields of flowers
that richly rewards the adventurer
who happily travels to these other shores 
in their worldly quest, taste tested
for the deeper fragrance of this felt insight.

Know the signs that signal such design -
through religion mistaken and over zealous,
through selfish fancies or fantasies,
or delusions of the night, through the 
vagaries of a wandering lustfulness, or the 
ruthless distortions of our political 
indoctrination swallowed and digested whole!
Alas, these hapless souls ne'er realize
they be their own judge and jailor,
their own torturer and executioner too,
all painfully rolled into one!

Have pity on those who cannot see undone 
the damage that society and they themselves
have put upon themselves, such a weight
that has dragged their spirit down and under,
seen themselves self-tied up and bound 
by the dark rope of this indiscriminate,
raceless, classless, amorphous,
ever present, unprejudiced ignorance.

Smash those chains, unlock the mental fetters
that have thee bound, but which also 
can equally unbind thee, make thee free,
simple thread by simple thread unwound
in reversed order, O perverse disorder
that makes us victims of ourselves!
Sacrifice those egotistical structures,
eliminate those rigidities in our
conceptual thought that keep us forever 
grounded in the emptiness of this prison, 
release us forever from the self-torture 
and confinement that stigmatizes us 
in our struggles from the grip 
of this straight jacketed mentality,
this bleak and bastard inner landscape 
that freezes the enfreeing crystalization
of our own unique spiritual creativity!

47. The Worker

Why does the endangered vine
cling to the face of the cliff,
why does the beetle run and scurry
for cover when from under a stone exposed,
why does the sculptor want to
keep on chipping the rock away;
when the museum has enough sculpture 
and all the galleries too?!
In some form or other all people work,
suffer the working and not the work.
Doesn't the lazy person work hard
to avoid their more ostensive performance?
Remember well a row of patients
who assembled electric plugs
who had but a fifty : fifty chance 
of getting it right.
Had someone more intelligent
to check the random product,
got others to disassemble
the wrongly connected,
then again they would try 
to get these ones right,
with the same old process repeated.
For some this was the happiest 
moment of their day, made them feel 
that they were someone special,
someone who could say that they were 
a worker too just like you and I!

48. On The Railways

To run the trains you need shift-workers,
like many other service industries
and such sacrifice deserves recompense.
If the reward was not made commensurate 
with the service supplied there would be 
no workers on the railways!
On the other hand if the reward 
is greater than the service rendered
someone must pay and that ultimately
is the country and its people.
A drain that drains irrecoverable 
monies is a financial black hole,
and a smaller area of fiscal inefficiency 
is equivalent to a smaller white hole.
Around such a phenomenon is 
an event horizon that radiates 
its own distinctive characteristics.
Increased draining of resources matched
by higher debt, inefficiencies, increasing 
inflexibility, loss of job satisfaction,
loss of time consciousness reflected in
an antiquation of visible assets,
increasing organizational structuralization
and overall loss of performance per person,
per committee, per unit of money reinvested. 
Above all there are queues that keep on 
getting longer in direct proportion
to the degree of institutionalization
matched by the spread of system failures.

The trains run on time so there is 
hope for us yet, except when it rains.

Buying a ticket at point A going from
point B to point C needs the duplication 
of ten pieces of information which
is duplicated a second time in a ledger
that would do the Indian Civil Service proud, 
then tables must be consulted, then an equation 
must be computed to calculate the current price 
if the new price increase has come into effect 
at that station's booking office, if its open.
Outdated selling so antiquated that this 
institution should be carted off to the 
nearest National Trust or some other august body,
a visible joke that makes for a hollow laugh
for the people waiting for their necessary ticket.

What does the presence of railway graffiti tell us?

Do we need on the tracks sleek silver 
advertisements for the last Labour Government 
when people are more concerned for 
safety, speed and orderly regularity?
On the other hand can the Liberals 
promise us more by promising us less?

Its the little things that count, 
that attention to small detail that 
only comes about through pride placed
upon some one person's visible shoulders 
in a diminished hierarchical scheme of things.
The more the worker comes to own the sources 
of their production and the public too, 
and not via a government department,
can the response and responding 
of responsibility come into the fullest effect!

It is quality that counts in the end 
and not quantity and such a standard 
is discovered through the reciprocity 
of feedback on all levels and between all levels.
The architect that designs a house 
should be made to live in the same,
imagine the scope for improvement.
The manufacturer of a bed should sleep in it!

The people that run the trains should ride in them,
with their eyes open for the good points 
and the bad points, the unique points derived 
internally and the good points borrowed from
other similar systems externally!

Intercoms that cannot be heard versus the intercoms 
that startle everyone, including deaf-old ladies!
Water closets that flush people
out of the toilets, systems that don't work
or worse still, overwork! Dirty windows,
airconditioning that's off in winter,
and on heat in the heat waves of summer!
Rather than being in the business of selling
tickets why not let the local shops do this for you,
selling day passes or what ever, and if they 
cannot sell more than 37 tickets it becomes 
their problem and not yours, or rather, ours.
Sometimes the public feel they pay 
for a circus performance poorly conducted,
a theatre of the absurd!

Happy workers mean happy customers,
better reciprocity and concomitant feed back oils
the wheels of the service, lets the system rust 
a little less easily, carry a better bill of health 
for the end of a blackhole is a swallowing 
of itself into a vast black pit of utter 
and absolute selfish, self-serving self-oblivion!

49. Saying Goodbye

Saying goodbye to family, 
the kissing of the beloved,
the parting between dear friends,
between honoured members
of one's society is, on one hand,
a scene of such sadness, 
and on the other hand,
a scene of much gladness
for here we see the depths 
of affection demonstrated,
feel the affection felt
that equally co-exists
between those parting 
and those parted from.
Such  mutual "betweeness" 
knows neither time nor space,
neither change nor self
for living at the center 
of the relationships it touches 
all who participate 
in that relationship.
Such friendship,
such befriending
never ceases.
Even in death the loved one, 
the deceased, is addressed as merely 
the departed...

50. The Return

I heard a sonnet say the other day
that beauty is a frail as a flower,
that immortality cannot be found
in bricks and mortar, neither in stones
nor brass, nor in the lines of poetic ink.

Continuous change relentlessly undermines
the slow appearance of continual change,
just as the facade of the fort
with its fortified gate is best battered
not by the imbalance of military might
but by that unfaithful servant fate, whose 
untimely time seems to serve no one but itself?

Part by part, bit by bit the bits 
of some construction, some institution
are worn away, raped and plundered,
torn asunder, shaken and plucked out
like a row of teeth: - here the roots of 
city walls, there the streets that ran
between these shattered foundations, and all 
around the mound of broken tiles, pots and plates
left on one more omnipresent rubbish heap.

What hope have we that naked beauty 
could persist in this unsteady world,
what trust can the person have in their 
fellows, what taste of love could ever persist?
What would immortality mean but
an infinite coming together and parting,
perhaps like the drips on a window pane
that slowly collect, and then quickly run away?!

Each year in this garden of the world
I wait, in the best of good faith,
for the return of my fleeting flowers,
full in life and flushed in cheek,
a quintessential distillation of youth
that for the moment, like the turning tide,
momentarily stands outside time,
realizes the coming together of 
ancient form with material immaturity,
a heartfelt spiritual union that prepares
the ground for the fruitful fruits
of sexual union, and the eternal promise
for the future of one more visible return...

Interval

Why is value so sought when itself has no-value?

When the leaves of the tree are healthy we do not
see them, only through disruption do we feel their plight?

Three trees in a row is a commercial forest,
three trees in a clump is a woodland vista,
three trees scattered about is a potential desert.

In colder times of the seasonal year the old leaves
wither, fade and then drop away to congregate in the air
to settle upon the rain washed soils, sometimes finding 
the banks of the many rivers that meet the distant sea.

How sad to know that trees are processed in the mill,
to be pulped for pale puny newsprint still more noble 
than the many printed scandals of public life there noted, 
home once for the many creatures and many plants, 
now the refuge of white ants in the rubbish fill.

Pathetic death seems to twice stalk deciduous trees,
before leaves die their spirit seems to be made 
to withdraw from the branch before these garments
deposit themselves on the forest floor, 
or on its ghostly remnants, so by this means a tree can from the depths of winter sleep, in spring, itself restore.

Look, see dead leaves on the dead branch preserved
throughout the cold of winter's icy winds, through
snow, hail and windy storm held fast, brittle
to the core, a signal to the world that the subtle
life-force of the plant is not entrapped between 
the walls of discarded life-forms that fall to earth, 
that secretly, silently the will to power seeks rebirth?

As Leaves From One Tree
@
Miniature Portraits Of The Human Condition

Part II

Reintroduction

All about us is the world of change, 
a sea of continuous flux, waves of discontent,
struggles in no final equilibrium,
no balance, no poise, only posed
for the seeds of immanent destruction
see fate imposed without fear or favour
like an impartial teacher wiping the slate clean.

What reality can be seen, please tell us,
what inner eye has the shortsighted man
or woman to dissect a world constructed,
show fact unobstructed, pass judgment direct,
see the fanciful for fantasy,
see reality for the real, being being being...

Through the union of transcendent and immanent,
through the integration of being and becoming
a world is presented all essentially constructed,
essences without essence, something extracted 
from the sea of nothing, no-thing designated.

Here an oak, there a pine, over there a song bird
singing rending the air pleasant, one sun above
and one moon too turning night into day and day 
into night, everywhere structures for insight.

A row of trees the same, same in species,
same in genera but each one a world of its own,
all the seeds the same from the same fruit sown.

No dichotomy between the illusion and the delusion,
between the tricks of sight and the sleight of hand.

Only a sea of essences, waves without essence.

51. Walking In The Blue Mountains: Around Leura Falls

On the floor of giant valleys
meld the hills of blue gum tree light.
From the edges of the jutting lookouts
such rolling hills fall flat 
before the eye, an illusion 
that breaks on closer inspection.
Today, overwhelmed by such 
strange unfamiliar magnitudes,
I am intoxicated, doubly drunk -
for I have seen new sights,
new waterfalls that before were 
mere names, vague points on maps.
Merged in with such spectacles, 
as a generous bonus, found 
numerous unnamed cascades or 
rock faces of dripping water,
new grottos freely lavished 
with ferns, bizarre shaped rocks,
boulders (the size of mansions) 
even manly giants 
could not move, or re-move.
I set off down the many tracks,
this way and that,
from this sight to that sight.
With each breath I regain 
a better breath...
Like Lao Tan, that `old man' himself,
I skim the surface, seem to be in flight,
feel the breeze coming up from below,
eager to go on, keep going on down.
Riverlets come from nowhere,
lightly fall down this time steepened slope,
spilling over shapely cascades,
falling or plunging into unexpected 
gullies or chasms signalled only 
by the rushing of waters.
Every variation conceivable
sees the falling of water make 
its soft incisive way,
in love with a landscape
no garden creator could ever design.
Near the bottom, all spirits replenished
from the presence of primordial forest,
I sadly turn around and retrace my steps
along other tracks.
Even those parts returned upon 
always offer up something new,
soften the hardships of the climb,
that toil that takes its toll,
yet a labour that remains forever 
well and truly paid for.
May such great joy always lighten
our step, let us rise above
the misfortune and the fortune,
the harshness and the happiness 
of this deeply re-entered world.

52. The Alcoholic

Have a drink there's safety in numbers,
if you do then I am not alone,
we are two birds of common feather 
and we flock together because all good people
enjoy a good chat, a drink and all that.

Have a drink, we must drink to that,
any occasion can be a cause for celebration,
every moment is precious and every drop too,
precarious time ticks away so we must live
life to the full and alcohol celebrates that.

Have a drink, you're not a wowser are you,
hopefully not, you look like one of us,
no dried up tea-ladies here just us mates,
we enjoy each other's company,
we'll live it up and tell the best of yarns?

Have a drink, the shouts on me, hey barman, 
a drink for this new bloke there, 
you cannot refuse its the custom here,
what will you have, its all the same to us,
but the heavy bitter is better and darker too!

Don't have a drink then you bum, what are you -
an alcoholic, can't you take your liquor 
like a man, there 'll be no hair on your chest 
young man, you ain't civil refusing my generous offer 
before driving on home, go on then, be gone!?

53. Super-Nurse

"If you have a problem see sister,"
the young male doctor tells 
the persistent patient
even though on this shift tonight 
the nurses all be male,
even the one blind patient
knows that fact, that much can see.

"I am constipated," claims this patient
"no number two's all this week so far,"
even though Wednesday has yet to finish.

"Drink plenty of water, bran for breakfast,
take piles of vegetables and fresh fruit too,
don't sleep in the bed all day and night,
exercise in the corridor, meet people,
						see the view..."

"I can get no satisfaction,
I want an immediate evacuation."

"For god's sake give the patient 
his laxative medication,
he is driving us all to distraction,"
the other patients complain.
They tell him to wait for the night sister -
"see supernurse Florence on the night shift,
the earth may not move for her,
neither shall the heavens for many moons,
but without a doubt she can 
move everything else in between!"

54. Like Lonely Sheep

What we find works for us 
we like to re-find working for us.
We choose a certain place 
at a certain time and through
our presence we make it our own.
Seeing people in their own space
lets us place them in 
our own scheme of things.
Remember those days long ago 
rushing to lectures in the afternoon 
at four and when crossing 
the last street before the campus 
would see one very obese cyclist
happily fleeing factory work, 
huffing and puffing, his bike 
hardly steady as he went on past.
Each day I expected to be run over
even when I didn't see him.
Students who study in a library
seat themselves in the same place,
perhaps like to see others 
sitting in their own places.
Perhaps the real secret of the public bar
is that people find it easier 
talking to the furniture.
People are sometimes more funny
than a flock of sheep:-
if they enter a room 
they make it their own,
if two people enter a room 
and they don't know each other 
they divide the same into two, etc.
They make two rooms
and more often than not the roof 
would have to fall in before 
they would find themselves 
speaking to each other.
On one hand we have 
the instinct of the flock,
and on the other, the aloofness
of the lone wolf that avoids
the rabble of the pack.
On a planet inhabited
with six billion souls
the person should find no excuse
to be without a friend,
to be without a mate,
to find themselves lonely 
or without a date..?

55. On The Train

On this train the same day each week
this passenger likes to take the same seat,
sit in the same carriage, spend the time 
reading the paper or completing a book.

Then as sure as the hands of a clock 
keep on going past the same old numbers
two teenagers schoolboys come on board
at the next station down the track.

To the same seats they gravitate, the first 
a short fellow engrossed in homework,
the other a tall person of fine wistful looks 
with his back to the direction of travel.

They exchange a few words and then open 
their books but the taller guy finds himself 
in another world of inner self, a world of longing, 
looking out, seeking and secret searching.

With a nervous glance repeated that speeds 
itself out the window our youthful friend
admires this other older passenger from afar,
sees a long lost friend and lover too.

His imagination drinking in and breathing
this fantastic friendship, this fantasy of
father and son, two brothers, sweethearts,
of sighings lovers sweating beneath the sheets.

Not untouched is this older guy, for he sees 
with admiration an inner beauty to this longing soul
that feels itself trapped in a world unlike itself, 
a world of fears and unshared loneliness.

But if the truth be known he cannot be alone,
already his inner substance has been divined,
his secret already out, before long he must into
words and fact put this trust into other hands.

With hope this escape is made well intended,
in the right moment of time with the right person,
without a collapse of good faith in a world
that has many rooms, many travellers and many views.

Further down the track a very old man
takes a backward seat as is his usual due, 
holding unsteadily onto the armrest, 
propping himself upright with careful zest.

In a steady wakefulness he retreats 
from his day dreams with a detachment 
born of advancing age, although long retired
this patient soul still long marches forward.

Then further down the track one outdoor worker
comes on along the platform as he does each day,
no finer a physique could be seen around these parts, desired admiration follows in its wake.

The same middle seat on the left gets taken,
unselfconsciously this fine bush workman reads 
one more cultured novel from the pen of some 
talented author whose hand now hold his attention.

The taller school boy is lost in longing wonder
and finds his wandering glances met in a kind of
half signalled recognition, a simple smile
catches his sight unsought, seeing thoughts forgiven.

While calmly all seeing from the back seat
a wiser older man assigns an inner consent,
acknowledges a world of sight swept like the tides
backwards and forwards across the reefs between.

How much is seen through our own eyes,
and how much that seen through others,
what seeing is this that sees this seeing 
and finds itself seeing such inner perception?

What delight can true lovers take for granted,
what secret thoughts can be shared, what
silent words of compressed encouragement can 
pass our lips without their word filled movement?

56. The Lady

I once knew a lady who knew 
the butcher, the baker 
and the candlestick maker;
and fat from the butcher
went into the pie for the baker,
to be celebrated by the light
of the blind candlestick maker.
Then one day all three went
to see her and knocking on her door,
all within the same hour,
came instead to meet each other.
But a wonderful time was had by all
except by her now ex-husband
who didn't know, who didn't think 
she could be so popular.

57. Perfection In Music

Ride a bike along the road
with tyres taught with pressure
and your bottom feels every metre,
every bump and depression.
Wonderful are the senses that extend
beyond the hollow confines
of our muscle mounted frames.
Then what miracle is thought that flies
from a brain that cannot see itself
nor see its seeing nor see a world
unreconstituted without appearance?
What experience is this, 
this fact of inner life, 
that through reflection alone,
like perceiving through perfect glass,
the mind can sever the material
and see through the immaterial
to find a world of it and other
along with the presence of the
non-it and the non-other?
Truly the music of the spheres must 
ensure such pre-arranged harmony?

The perfection of music is sometimes
found in those that profess the same,
what delight is this that sees and hears
such subtle sounds, such nimble fingers
that can play the keys or frets or like
as an extension of its own soul and lets
the music fly to listening ears
and there play upon the soul of the 
waiting attentive listener?
What could be said is best left unsaid,
what is best left unsaid is best
listened too, what words of introduction
could enlighten our knowledge,
teach us the higher thoughts of 
composers now long dead, integrate a room 
alive with the subtle electric of life
and promote a better future more happy
and content with the riches already had.
Well cultivated is such an instrument
that can instil such thoughtful 
communication between the many souls
that inspire and are inspired
by the same, what intercourse is this
that if music be the food of love play on?

The person cannot live by bread alone,
inner needs must be set to resonate 
with the vibrant excitation of the 
mystical reverberation that sparks
all meaningful motivation; what value
is being, what being is value
that cannot take delight in the extension
of the many senses, cannot take delight
in the music of the spheres that pervades
the very being of being, the value of value,
the absolute nothing filled to overflowing?!

58. Working Out

Why the weights, why the exercise,
those weekly routines in the gym?
What feedback do you get from
the muscles that can now lift 
the weight of an average man?
Why the sweat, why the pain,
why do you put up with the cramped
confines of the locker room,
the smells of skin more natural
than commercial deodorants,
those smells of aggression
more ritual than the intoxication
of flashy fashion, bodies hidden,
compromised in revelation?

59. Keeping It In The Family

This is my poem dictated for yourself.
My more commonly known name is Chris,
Chris for short; short and simple
I be myself and more a country person
although now almost a full-time city slicker.
I have known my second cousin Collin, 
now half my age, since he could crawl, 
then could unsteadily walk, that day 
that naughty boy removed all the flowers from
beside mother's path, each matchhead
stalk by stalk plucked with a systematic 
delight the same way I had many years before.
Later met this snivelling snotty nosed
kid with cap and satchel home from local
school where he could scream and fight
like the best of them with his share
of bruises perhaps the same well earnt?
Then he came to this town, to Teachers College
where teachers taught teachers like 
teachers taught untrusted charges.
And now I know him more on equal ground,
would come to my country crib, this
weekend batch to relive a pastoral life
long lost to both of us in our youth.
He told me he had lost an interest in
women his own age and wondered 
why I hadn't married although I wore
one old antique wedding ring?
Told him I had known a married man 
who then was now my age, just past fourty,
for a small number of happy years,
an affectionate travelling salesman 
who seemed to have worked quite hard;
and who did so saving a few days 
each week to spend some of it with me.
But a careless car accident killed him,
through no fault of his, some drunken sot 
instead got carried away, to live 
and drink and drive another day.
It seemed as if one minute before 
we were planning the timing 
of our next secret assignation
but this sudden assassination,
this horrific smash in its aftermath
left me without his longed for return.
Heard his fate just before the funeral
and to the church went to sit in a pew
far from the front, felt his coffin pass
for those few seconds when carried past,
no doubt a matted, clotted, tattered 
tangled, mangled mess, cold and lifeless 
pieces of loving flesh too ugly for 
the mortician’s cosmetic best.
Saw the wife, with family and many friends,
crying quietly in her grief and knew 
how she felt but also knew that this unknown I 
should not be seen to shed such easy tears 
for someone who had surely known me not;
who among these collected friends could share 
my grief, comprehend this other half?
And then this Collin grew more bold
he said the day had grown quite cold
and that we should chat some more 
in bed... and then in ten seconds
ten long years of parted grief came apart, 
dissolved, although my dearest Charles
shall not remain by this self unforgot.
There in some lower-higher heaven,
that happy hunting ground for souls 
like us, I shall have two wedded husbands 
at least to share my waiting hand,
find the warmth of an inner psychic bed.
In age, between Collin and myself,
the many years now mean nothing 
and find the weekends sped
while the week days drag on from one
long telephone call to the next.
In winter's icy breath we brace ourselves
for cliff top walks and from the tops 
unwatched half hold hands, see 
the landscape viewed with one sight.
Under the trees under summer's sun
beside the streams we half sleep the day away 
while in the warmth of night we laugh
and talk, debate the merits of some cd,
an old record or well cast programme on tv.
All the relatives know us well,
that yearly round forever attended.
One more aunty to visit whilst in town, 
"you two will be fishing again this weekend,"
she makes the same enquiry once again?
"Yes, yes, we enjoy the catch but only keep 
what we eat, the very best, the best two
cooked one hundred different ways,
so please, please, don't serve me fish,
please no more during the working week,
you understand, its good to catch - 
						less to eat!"

60. The Frogs And Toads

In the tractor shredded paddock next door,
after last weekend's tropical downpour,
quiet nights like clockwork now meet
one amphibian convention.

Get up, Get up, Get up, Get up,
scream the randy male frogs to each other!

Get up, Get up, Get up, Get up,
scream the randy male frogs to each other!

And not to be outdone as they squelch
across the sodden soil 
the male cane toads belch...

I'm the biggest fucker around here
you muddy mother fuckers.

I'm the biggest fucker around here
you muddy mother fuckers.

Each out bidding the other in noisy din
turning a silent field into a 
hissing pissing cauldron of lusting sin,
leaving wakeful sleepers listening
to a noisy world out admiring itself
on a slippery slimy surface of mirth and mire, 
the heavy air still heaving to the sound of 
						  rampant desire!

61. The Aussie Barbie (Barbecue)

Down by the river
walking along a gravel path,
alone, after dusk.
The light of the silvery moon
shimmering through the trees,
the smell of barbeques
wafting across from the other bank.
New Australians in their new homes,
each out doing the other,
more generous, a veneer of style
lifted from the old world
fashioned through magazines.
The food, half eaten, and drink 
have liberated then from 
their foreign tongue.
In the shadows the children 
play, half comprehending.
From time to time 
their strange expletives 
fill the air,
these jesting echoes said
but hardly felt.

62. The Body Transplant

The teenage boy finally has his first car
and now every Saturday morning its
tuned and washed, oiled and cleaned,
detailed with a dedicated supervision.
But, alas, in speeding through his 
parking procedure he bangs his 
front fender into another car and so 
this Saturday afternoon his time is spent
making amends, putting back into place
what simple carelessness itself both
took from him and gave to him.
Happy with his responsibilities,
and obligations, this new vision 
of himself as the driver of a car,
he soon repairs all damage done
and makes a compact with himself
to be more careful in his travels,
for not all parts can be so simply 
transplanted - hard worked for,
hard won, what cost careless fun?

63. Resettlement

Sudden winds of change.
Shifting sands forming sand-hills.
Blighting the landscape!

64. The Prince

So the Prince must be thinking of 
naught else other than 
the political art of warfare!?
Not even to dine, no woman nor wine,
no making love, no playing chess,
no time spent in reflection, 
no time neither to read about
this crafty art of warfare.
What author could he listen to
for when the fisherman thinks about
catching a fish the fish 
must surely escape him?
A point made in rhetoric
is a strong point well made,
itself a qualification of some
general ground agreed upon,
a ground now reworked.
Who could mistake a signpost 
for the destination,
the fisherman's rod for
the repast to be caught?
And then in neatly turned counterpoint 
the extremity of the qualification 
is itself in turn undermined
and from the noise of the dialectic 
the dignified Prince is silently
heralded forth, full of glory, 
profound pageantry befitting
the noble monarch magnificent in his
thoughtful munificence, a seer
whose future parliament 
for all the people he oversees
re-realizing the republican stability
of a new empire in the bright shadows
of antique Roman rule.
A Prince both loved and feared 
but never hated, twice respected,
in splendid isolation amid his friends,
friends well chosen, well tested,
an invisible presence that exerts
their vision without interference,
like the mystical spider that weaves
a shiny web and then to the side unseen
quietly waits for it to do its work,
in attendance without waiting,
a performance in perfect balance
dispatching what must be done
for the good of the empire.

65. The Ongoing Re-Creation Of Identity

The tennis player ceases to play,
the runner ceases to run,
the poet forgets his inspiration
and for the while adds no further 
					lines...

Can identity be adverse to function?

66. The Rites

A society is best held
in receipt of the fact
that it has a body of rites,
a cannon of social conventions
that passes on down the ages 
the accumulated wisdom of antiquity.
But no blind adherence 
is called for, merely recognition
and the timely transformation
of such a repository
that makes of it its own,
an appropriate taking of the best.
With careful cultivation
demonstrated downward 
through example, induced sincerity
reinforced through the growth 
of living relationships,
repeated ten thousand times,
the soundest preparation 
for the next ten generations, 
the giving of the greatest gift 
to our future ancestors!

67. Self-Sacrifice

The ultimate sacrifice
sanctioned by Confucius
was the sacrifice of self,
but such a sacrifice
that knows whether 
it should go ahead or not.
A suspension of self
untrammelled by private
and public fears of self,
the performance of 
a perfect execution,
the execution of
a perfect performance!
What pressures 
such commitment but 
the overwhelming humanity
in such a sage?

68. Life As A Theme In Continuous Variation

Each season discards the shell 
of its previous incarnation, 
the material embrace of times past, 
a time perhaps forgotten, remembered 
only with the return of one more year?
Like clothes discarded what value
is labour enshrined, what price
the remaindered book when 
the blank pages of the same 
would now call forth a better price?
The flowers now forget the bud,
then the petals forget the face
that smiled for a short time so brief.
The fruit of that womb of delight 
now spits forth its seeded spray
and then left in abandonment
reposes the habits of the next day,
merest details only to be added
to the relentless passions 
		of this well plotted play...

69. Fate

Beneath the shiny surface of 
				security
lurk the dark black sharks
				from the deep!
Who knows the time they attack
				so we forget
that destiny has its own timetable
				to re-enact -
a bus to run us over, a crippling 
				disease,
another war, an earthquake
				or fever,
in laughter...
	   an innocent piece of meat!

70. Breakdown?

Public perception can speak 
in one language,
a profession in another
and sometimes the twain 
never meets but merely mixes
about the edge 
of communal thought.
A social breakdown
might be seen,
has the nurse yet seen 
a mental breakdown -
this unpleasant euphemism
for a multitude of misfortunes,
a vestige from some other time
unknowing, cultural custodian
to a body of knowledge 
in best part superseded
for all the existential light
the careful plight of other minds 
have cast upon the fabric 
of living language 
and all its embedded 
			insight?

71. More Money Than Sense: A Naughty Limerick?

I once knew a wealthy student whose was so very dumb,
who bought a fabulous Hong Kong watch for a princely sum,
but such a lousy jerk was he
that we all found it so funny
he had bought such a cock-up for such a 
						dumb gift to give his mum!

72. The Property Developer

"I have bulldozed everything in sight,"
said he, "I am a property developer,
have no time for trees, should know 
what value in dirt resides in a flat patch 
of earth, the more I can cram on in 
the more value I add to such a site.
What the local council will allow of course,
what with a little encouragement, 
a party funded promise here and there.

"O, I do declare, how could we live here," 
said the husband loudly to his wife?
"My dear," said the wife, "this place 
is a dreadful bore, all squares and boxes,
a desert of bricks all cheek to cheek,
what future could we make for ourselves here?
What retirement could we make in this retreat,
a long labour of love would be wasted,
no garden could hide this army encampment?
Let us buy a block of bush up yonder,
a place with some view but much, much more 
an inner court of pastoral delights, made 
to order, an instant investment tucked away,
a warm haven to escape that rainy day?"

					...and the birds 
came back and the little beasties too,
and the children learnt to respect the summer 
sunbathing snakes that kept on out of view.
And soon the bush nearby was no more, but a mad
scramble was on to reclaim such an obvious loss,
and only those with no money sold their soul
to the old fashioned property developer's 
treeless view, while the landscapers made 
a mint in natives, gums, ferns and palms, but,
the sad irony of this simple tale I tell
is that this master of mindless vision, 
craftsman in endless subdivision, must now 
put back those trees to sell his flattened lot.
A court order to that effect found him guilty
of environmental damage, the last council forgot,
and all the fines and fees he now has to pay
will make a large natural park in the outer city
where good old Australian trees must be replanted
					and there be seen to stay!

73. The Phenomenon Of Going To The Mountains

What reliving of mythic structures 
	is involved in going to the mountains?
Why does the sight of mountains
	inspire us, the shape of some
more than others, might that not be a clue
	for us in this phenomenology of aspiration?
Even a mountain completely urbanized
	with dwellings is given a greater value
than those suburbs humbled beneath its feet,
	even a house without a view is seen
to partake of this uplifted ambience,
	why this sentic re-evaluation?
But does the integrity of the landscape
	in the end have the final say,
can a mountain be sacred with a road
	all the way up to the restaurant on top?
Can we truncate this pilgrimage, diminish the 
	efforts in obtaining this goal,
is the pleasure of the view intensified
	for having undergone the trials 
and tribulations involved in surmounting
	the natural obstacles placed
in this world before us, can there be
	some form of gain without pain?
Perhaps the tourist can vicariously relive
	the subconscious labours of the ascent 
and also enjoy the view for its own sake,
	experience the difference in the air?
Like being closer to heaven, leaving the world,
	all these ideas seem to be implicit,
then there is the beauty of the view,
	the more natural, the more impressive
the more sacred that elevated site,
	then in conjunction with the myth 
of great men our picture is completed,
	to be re-experienced through allusion,
the re-creation of times past, a ritual
	following of the real pursuit intended?
Then our universe must be a symbolic one,
	pregnant with hidden meaningfulness?

A natural curse will fall upon those people
	who have no inner panorama, can find no resonance
with the original beauty of the real world,
	who set out to destroy these psychic signs,
these sentic sign-posts to another way of life,
	then the sensitive shall unite and rise up 
		 and take back what belongs to none!

74. The Phenomenon Of Going To The Beach

Why do weekend people enjoy 
	their weekly going to the beach?
What phenomenon is this that sees
	people roasted like toast,
feet burnt to the dryness of tinder,
	a happiness found in being there?
What primal urge sees them surge
	out upon the golden sands,
splash with a purpose like porpoises,
	or like beached whales, that
congregate on the crowded city beaches,
	rarely alone, whole families, 
whole tribes, either black or white
	or tanned, some pink some red,
some a combination of all the above,
	some bringing everything,
almost including that kitchen sink,
	whole hampers of food and furniture?
See that sparkling pleasure radiating from 
	those strapping connoisseurs 
of surf and sand, those masters of board
	and sleek beach canoe out saving life,
those professional beach bums whose every 
	effort reworks, retunes an office body
not yet ready to break apart under 
	the ledgers of company profit?
What delight to hide from the heat and lie
	under the shade of the causurinas,
that filtered light that in falling cascades
	through the interlocking lacy frills 
that in the gentle breezes feather duster
	a patterned sky like the ceiling
of some infinite gothic cathedral,
	giving respite from that blinding blaze.
What delight that evening stroll
	along beside the washing tide,
that distant horizon now empty of fleet
	that self conceals a numerous assembly of
other worlds beyond the crashing 
	white rushing sweep of the waves?

The cities may rape the land,
	invade the mountains, push back
the dunes, ravish the fresh water wetlands
	but never there can they compete
with that margin that embroils the coast
	in one continuous war, a war 
		that happily can not be won!

75. Writing Of Letters

A simple 
written letter
has ensouled
the spirit, 
or lack of it,
enshrined in its
authored hand.
Repaying careful
attention
we should gaze
into its midst,
like seeing into 
a darkened mirror
and their
by proxy
commune with 
this shadow
of its creator.
Is this force
of inward 
ideas near
the center,
take a good direction,
consistent 
and whole?
Do you feel
the urgency 
of truth,
the truthfulness
of agency
or do you find
one mind
on vacation,
one soul adrift?
How does one
correspond
with these lines
of poetic verse,
essential drops
of another soul,
quintessential
distillations
in compression,
impressions on paper
as if carved 
in stone?!

76. The Politician

"I would be a hypocrite if I was to say 
again that I told you so."

Did he not warn us that the other party
would be in trouble if they were to 
believe their party propaganda:
what the public has for consumption
is advertised on our screens
in ten second, thirty second bursts
and their embedded is a pack of lies,
a fabric neither side has the right
to pull apart too far so stranded together
is our political spectrum, so tightly 
inter-welded, infected, incestuous.

"I would be a hypocrite if I was to say 
again that I told you so."

"I er, ah, that is, so to speak, um, would
like to say, that democracy, democracy
has never been more stronger, stronger, 
never more...(to be drowned out by applause),
so all you people gathered here today
(watching their tv sets at home ready 
to zap one last speech for the endless 
re-run of another soap) would like to say..."
that in this week's episode Paul and John
are plotting the downfall of Bob and Andrew,
but will Jeanine's shifting house 
						get in the way...
stayed tuned for this week's exciting episode.
And now for some messages...

"I would be a hypocrite if I was to say 
again that I told you so."

77. Architecture

The construction of buildings is something imposed 
upon the landscape, often without consultation,
something imposed on a place where people 
come to live, work or play, and sometimes all three.

Grand architecture well conceived,
well constructed and appropriately sited
in response can elicit from the human soul
emotional forces conducive to the design intended.

But the human person is not a glasshouse
of imposing pretension, nor just a public
Persona without that individual element
of je n'est quoi, certain mystery, presence.

Therefore those public places that are truly public
should reflect just that fact, be public places,
places in our midst where people can come to congregate
as people with faces and not as anonymous masses. 

The formal gardens of Versailles were off-set
by an informality in their surrounds, those mazes,
and country paths, pastoral villas, hidden forests, hills with grottoes, secret nooks and crannies 
							for assignations.

The magnificent should be contrasted by the insignificant
so the person in the terrain can feel themselves
to be a part of the landscape and not apart from it,
a place where they can look inwards as well.

Or be a small group together by themselves not felt 
to be imposed upon by the awesome scenery that might surround them, such natural contrast reimposing a greater, more healthy, natural impression of grandeur.

"Am I from another planet," I ask some friends
on just this point, do others feel this self same way,
need alienation from the landscape be our only option,
must we impose our structures, can we escape such	
									arrogance?

"Well, yes, I did come from another planet,"
but I was reassured it "was a very nice one,"
and, yes, others do come from such a nebulous zone,
or so it was implied, or at least not denied!

Perhaps we should insist that the great be intimate,
the distant - close, the high - with some part somewhere 	
lower, the long - somewhat shorter, the brilliant - dark,
the impersonal - friendly, the open - mysterious
								and welcome too!?

78. The Bureaucracy

"Do you have an appointment,
would you mind then waiting,
the official concerned is quite busy,
a working lunch with the head of
					department?
You understand you must fill in this form,
then take it to that other desk,
they will action your request,
give you permission to seek an interview
							here?
Now this is the way it should be done,
but here we do things our own way,
that was the way it was before the 
recent minister what's his name,
or was it a woman, the succession 
is all too often, all too confusing?"

And some months later past the year...

"Now when you get your interview thank
the official for their time,
be patient, for you know a delay
has been decided upon in the interim,
hasn't read your file yet,
but don't despair I've put it
in the soon to act upon bin on his desk
next to the most pressing,
the urgent I hand to him personally,
the most urgent I read to him during tea,
and your file's turn might take a week.
You must realize that civil servants 
cannot decide departmental policy,
or more to the point, be seen to effect 
the same, better to let them see the 
merit of our affirmative action,
your permit through these channels
will soon be assured, and no 
we don't accept some small contribution,
but, maybe then, some champagne for the next
staff party, our work is an art-form
whose execution is our best satisfaction!"

79. The Inner-City Sweat-Shop

Zip, zip; zip, zip rumbles the sound
of the sewing machines flat out
in this sweat workshop of the Greek,
a small darkened room just behind 
the boarded up front of a shop.

Slip, slip; slip, slip as the scissors
cut out one more flash pattern from 
the latest material in this year's
fashion fabric to enrapture
some boutique owner's collection.

Clip, clip; clip, clip as the busy
Asian and Polynesian women
finish each newly completed
item of apparel, all loose 
threads and scraps on floor discarded.

Sip, sip; sip, sip as the ladies
take their tea beside their tables,
no time to chat, no words to speak,
no thoughts put in simple English,
just that infectious yawn or smile.

Drip, drip; drip, drip drips the roof in
winter's rain competing with the
toilet's continuous flushing,
contrasting with summer's weather
opening the shop to public gaze.

Pip, pip; pip, pip - sounds the signal
on the radio and now its time 
to cook that tea for their families
down the street all lodged in tiny 
flats owned by their thoughtful boss.

Flip, flip; flip, flip nimble fingers
count the bank notes from the real shop 
next door, tailor and slave now master
of two ledger books of figures,
one for the self and one for tax-man.

Trip, trip; trip, trip travels the wife
with some golden jewellery
and a few small diamonds too
cashed in Athens for one more
fancy flat on a hill with a view.

Hip, hip hooray; hip, hip hooray
for industrial legislation,
for a sanitary workplace,
minimum wages and equality,
for overtime and holiday pay!

80. Transcendental Suspension

And now ladies and gentlemen
what you have all been waiting for -
the death defying act of 
transcendental suspension.
And now a warm round of applause
for our demonstrator of this art,
our guest - Mr. Hugh Mann,
the balancing specialist extrodinaire!
Let us wait for a few moments in this our 
grand finale as our star climbs to 
the dissying heights of this spectacular
point of descent to the world below.
From this point the target chosen will be 
the ground where our subject tonight 
will find themselves reduced and fragmented,
shattered into ten thousand pieces.
But the great trick, ladies and gentlemen,
will be the re-assembly of this person,
an illusion par excellance, to be fully
restored before your very own eyes.
And now we have the moment we have all 
been waiting for, quiet everyone, this 
dangerous act of suicidal diving demands 
great concentration and perfect timing.
And now our star is ready to leap, 
remember folks there is no safety net 
below, and I repeat, remember there 
is no safety net waiting below.
Silence everyone, let the drum roll sound,
...and there he goes, O what a dive,
what a dive, and where is he aiming to land, 
he has aimed right out into the audience?
O this is frightful to watch, he's going 
to land, no, he's slowing down, yes,
he just above the folk in the front row,
what's this he has stopped..!
No, he is swinging back on up, he has 
an elastic cable to his legs and now before 
our very own eyes he has caught a high 
support and is returning to his perch.
Well ladies and gentlemen that was a surprise
wasn't it, our death defying artiste 
has done just that against all apparent odds,
remember all appearances are deceptive!
Thank you all, all you good folk out there 
who paid good money to see our show tonight,
to see someone defy the forces of gravity 
we have been only too happy to have obliged! 
				Thank you and good night!

81. Going To The Doctor

With some trepidation we visit the doctor,
what inner unwelcome mystery might they 
reveal to us today, what unsound fears 
can come alive with that thought of 
				an impending death?

I do have a small pain here, around 
the stomach.
	 - Some dyspepsia perhaps?
No more near the back.
	- Might be just a touch of 
that old skeletal neuralgia?
No more inside, around the kidneys.
	- Some nephritis?
No it might be more my gall bladder.
	- Well then its cholecystitis.
Well it doesn't feel like that it feels
more like some form of cramp, a chill perhaps,
an aspirin or two does seem to do the trick,
I only mentioned it because you asked?

...and after some ten minutes of prodding,
and pulling, a few twists and simple tricks
the doctor from the depths of deep thought
began to look serious and in a hushed tone 
							spoke...

	- Well my young friend I have some 
good news and some bad news, alas, 
to tell you, with regret the bad news is 
that your condition is terminal,
but the good news is that 
I would place my safest bet in saying
that it will take many, many long years
for this healthy frame to unravel,
(said with the flashing of a wink 
and a little cough-like chortle). 

82. Being Stressed Out

"Who wants harmony," I was told,
"I enjoy being `stressed out',
I enjoy solving problems"
(and no doubt living dangerously).

"Sitting pretty like an angel strumming
the sweet and melodious strings of my harp
has no attraction for me, if I had 
a choice my choice would be hell!"

"Into the fires of desire I shall
throw myself all passions unbridled,
I want the happiness of real fun,
no idle beach existence for me."

And a good point he had
for few recognize the fact that
harmony is something worked for,
won as things come to hand.

Harmony is the equilibrium of movement,
the resolution of dissonance,
the ongoing discovery of the moment,
the mutual facticity of the relationship.

The steel blade of a sword
is forged in the fiery furnace,
annealed in the sudden coolness of water,
hardened under the repeated blow of the hammer.

But the art of the master cratfsman
ensures a reference point or center
wherein the absorption of attachment
realizes a selfless self in full control.

A self that leaves behind a faceless fool,
one that could know no better,
realizing the spirit of the law and not 
the deadliness of the shattered letter!

83. Sailing

How could the very sailing of a yacht
elicit such subtle pleasure,
evoke enjoyment in an onlooker?
Even boating around in a dingy
delights the mind, gives us 
another way of seeing the world,
takes us to a place the way
simple human beings could not go,
lets us travel and re-transcend
a freedom found through floating,
finding an extended mastery over
this fickle scene, this fleeting show.

84. Forms Of Pettiness

How petty the bitchy mind,
how perfect the perfectionist
who can never unwind?
How silly the nastiness
of an arrogant wit
who can do nothing better 
than hiss and spit?
A how completely insightless 
the haughty twit
who thinks money can buy 
all things under one sky
including one intelligence.
Alas the best things 
of this world are under attack - 
like the treasure in the 
farmer's field the harvest 
demands the simple measure
of holding back
the reins of a pleasure
that leaves behind no track!

85. A Table For Two

A table for two 
implies a room with a view,
good company 
and elegant conversation,
and a few earthy comments 
to highlight the wit, 
a dash of humour
to lubricate the natural
flow of repartee,
the unhurried time
to digest the diet
of an enlightened 
consciousness.
Where two be 
there be three,
between them 
an infinite sea.

With taboos forbidden,
without motives hidden
or plans half concealed
two friends let the course 
of their interaction
go the way it would,
all bounty of thoughts
are made to tempt
the cultivated palate,
self-reflections for an entree,
interesting issues form 
a heated dish, fruitful talks
about friends and things
to be followed by chocolate
with the coffee or tea.
Such a pleasure one must savour,
gives our life a human flavour.

86. Why Mozart?

Why listen to that silly old record,
why Mozart one hundred times,
go out and live, go and listen 
to the real world out there!

But real hearing demands
we hear from the heart
and then the world of music mixes in
with one world of perception
meeting in one world of harmony
letting evocation integrate
all the emotions of the universe.

87. Is Life But One Long Exam?

Is life but one long exam,
a time spent in passing some grade
unbeknownst to our selves?
What study could be done 
for a test that is unannounced,
how could one's entire life itself
be spent in such examination?
Who then would the examiner be -
some ethereal god peering down
through the many heavens under
the scrutiny of their care
to invade the privacy 
of their many charges?
Perhaps some devil too divine
for the surface of this planet
playing poker by proxy
with the lives of broken men?
Perhaps some great computer
entabulating the latest
karmic scores for the next
impartial redistribution?
Perhaps the wickedness 
of a fickle fate playing
Russian roulette with the magic
of indivisible numbers.
Perhaps some perception 
of the omnipresent 
and omnivorous other
that metaphorically 
eats those guests
it takes out to diner?
Perhaps the toughest 
hanging judge of them all-
the self that has to see itself
as if in a mirror 
suspended on a wall?

88. The Myths We Tell Our Children

The myths we tell our children
are too fantastic to believe,
what value to find in such natural
concoctions set up to deceive?
What mythic relevance can stories 
about heroic princes and dragons, 
wicked queens and noble fairies 
have for the education of our progeny?
Take Father Xmas, a strange old man 
giving gifts to children
told by their parents not to accept 
gifts from strange old men!
Take that Easter Bunny, a rabbit
indeed with eggs, running around,
too preposterous to believe!
Take that stork that brings babies
by postal deliveries down dirty 
old chimneys too few to see
that all kids must wonder how 
parents in high rise flats
could get beyond mere pregnancy!
Take that grand daddy of them all,
namely one illustrious God,
an old man with a beard
too busy to ever go to bed;
hearing petitions and prayers
on a veritable tower of Babel
threatening floods or worse
in one more hoary fable!?
How strange, how strange, how far
the noble mind can be left ajar
to leave us the religions 
of all our forbears,
to give us profound access to 
our descendants not too far, 
not too far away
from the present day?!

89. And The Myths We Tell Each Other

Our language is a sacred repository
of myths and models from the past
by science and recent thought
in all measure long surpassed!
So heaven is up and hell is down
has more sentic sensibleness than sense
for some modern religious geographies.
But the way we think has long been 
imprinted with these footprints
that stretch across that fatal gap
that tries to link all fact 
to fundamental religious belief.
Contradictions and paradoxes abound
in full symbolic richness,
what part has an inner logic in the
ramblings of an unconscious mind
that sees birth in barren virgins,
living death in a tree of wood,
sees celibate monks in tender embraces
that would embarrass most human faces?
And then those pioneer myths to gloss
a convict past of frightful proportions,
imperial overtones to smother well
the political life of a still born country,
those treaties later honoured too late 
to need to pay some meaningful recompense,
then the fact whole tribes were slaughtered 
for little else than to clear the bush
and make it clean for whiteman's hands;
savage arms that shot them dead
or forced them to manage a forceful bed.
How the inner contradictions can tear apart
a world that knows not enough reflection, 
finds not a tongue to speak, to connect
one human heart with one inhuman head!

90. The Best Art Of War

The best art of war is masterminding 
those measures that prevent such 
a wastefulness in human resources.

The best medicine is prevention-
O doctor keep me well and then
I shall pay you for your trouble.

The best debts are those intended
to pay themselves off for free,
that neither bust the bank not thee!

Some consolidation before expansion,
no perfect deals, careful progressions,
strong roots keeps alive the battered tree!

In chess there's only one enemy,
numerous pieces help one king
but fatal mistakes by self signal 
					your own undoing!

91. Bah, Bah, All The Polies Want A Cracker!

Jump, jump, John who,
on the campaign trail,
yes sir, yes sir
see my tail.

Dump, dump Andrew
before polling day,
gladly, gladly,
disarray.

Er, er, stutters
Hawky in his sleep,
bugger off you
silly sheep.

Pick, pick pokes Paul
with his big long stick,
one more J-curve
does the trick.

Woe, woe, wails Joe,
my pension's no more,
don't you worry
about the law.

Now, now Greiner
where comes the monies,
taxes, tax all
the dunnies.

Vote Goss for boss,
go vote for Labour,
help Queenslanders free
their neighbour.

Bump, bump comes Bill,
have you a long tail,
yes boy, yes boy,
without fail.

Come, come to sit,
members on the hill,
pass a motion 
or a spill.

Bills, bills, more bills,
a country in hock,
does the PM
wear a frock?

92. The Seriousness Of The Day

The seriousness of the day
sees all time slowly passing away,
sometimes faster, sometimes more slow,
what can the person do but just give up,
give up those delusions 
that hide this fact from us, 
take things as they come,
minimize the addiction of our desires,
plan a few simple ambitions,
reflect upon the path the world
truly passes on its way,
enjoy the unexpected serendipity
of the cosmos as a trickster in play?

93. How Black The Blackest Depression

"How black the blackest depression,"
the manic patient told me,
"too terrible to comprehend,
from the heights of happiness,
pure ecstasy of the gods,
to this numb filling oblivion,
like a black hole in the ground,
falling in buries me in this tearful tomb,
freezes the emotional me immobile, 
like wrapped in a shroud of lead,
a mummy in a womb waiting
for the seasons of spring
that the exhilaration of mania
eventually bring, when life is one
more party with that final hangover
hanging, hanging, hanging over my head!"

94. The Crooked Cop

One more crooked cop,
where does it stop, 
where does it stop,
all this corruption, 
all this rot,
what health has the state
that cannot eliminate
this graft seeking,
money hungry lot?
Go to the top, 
go to the top,
its not the roots 
its the head that heads
the hands that take,
that make or break
the reputation of the state.
See them milk
one more fat contract,
alas, tens years too late,
keep them honest,
reward them well,
let them spend their
parliamentary privileges
in the old city jail,
but give them 
for hard labour
a simple reward
for a day's work
honest done
the privacy of a few days 
in the sun.
Perhaps a holiday or two
in a fancy house on a hill 
with a view?

95. Found Written In An Exam

"It is the same conservative politicians 
that pursue state censorship who, without
a doubt, are the ones that indulge 
in violent sexual acts, its a fact as 
recent history has shown in Britain and USA."

Could we imagine Ronald Reagan saying,
"Make my day," or Maggie Thatcher
rolling around in the hay then rising up 
							to speak,
"on your knees, please, please be quiet, 
or I'll whip the next member who makes 
a pass for my position however honourable 
							and antique!"

96. One More Party

To some going to a party,
like doing a circuit or a round,
is a dreadful chore once repeated,
a vision in superficiality,
fine conversation without
the sparkle of sensitive 
consideration, all issues
and weather, trips overseas,
the shop, the shop and more shop...

An excuse for an excuse for an excuse
that realizes its true imputed value
more by the way, by those that
fall by the wayside, those things
set up in interconnection...

Horny Harry has Beatty to say
she wont say no to you know what,
and our Larry and Tom have not 
been seen in the garden for an hour,
and shy Barry with some drink
now has poor Rose even more drunk than him,
and Gary and Matilda waltz each other
to the distant bedroom of the house
while Parry's on par to be shown the door!

The party is nothing more than an excuse for 
an excuse that realizes its own imputed value
more by the way, by those that
fall by the wayside, those things
set up in interconnection, a new business,
a new idea, a marriage of convenience,
nothing to do with the show itself
merely the coming together of interested
parties that seek a better day,
that seek to play a lottery this natural way!

97. On The Sacrificial Attitude

Once it was considered proper
to sacrifice as if the gods were present,
to conduct oneself as if one's own
sacrifice was forever immanent,
now all is done for some other sake,
in the heated passion of the lost moment
without the beauty of ritual,
to an idol called a simple self or soul
in the well-springs of inner torment!

98. Lets Go On Strike!

Let's go on strike,
the word is out,
for the winter and the night,
then in summer let us take 
our sickies on the beaches
for the health of a tan, 
the wealth of the nation 
is not our concern, 
what surplus value can labour get 
but through the disharmony 
of the unending strike, 
so down go the tools,
its one more fight,
one more slight on the workers,
one more march through town
past the Dole Office on the right,
past the queues on the left
and the might of the Middle Classes
hanging on, hanging on tight!

99. In The Deepest Darkness of The Night

In the deepest darkness of the night
the light of the stars tell us a story,
a history before this simple civilization 
							could blink,
could wink before the majesty of such a sight.

I'll take a delight in this unknown grandeur
found washing in the vista of this unnamed sea,
a geography of infinite mystery, should I 
feel free to construct a house in this 
					our future home to be?

100. The Mystic

With thought silent
dissolved in the full firmness
of an impassioned intent
directed by a one-pointedness
of thought without thought
in the rhythm that quietly sounds
like the exertion of a flying bee
the mystic was overtaken by
the illumination of a light
that was neither inside nor out.
Only a self conceptualized
in the idea of an ego
can know the frustrations 
of thought and the fears
resident in worldy meaningfulness.
What a paradox that through
inner detachment there opens up 
a clearing of being transparent
before all if they can find their 
recognition of this revelation.
Brightly the thought of this light
sears the novice's soul;
when sought it escapes,
but in resignation
as it fades it slips on back 
to give an introduction,
to give an intimation
of what is only a humble beginning,
a blessing that touches us
passing on a wordless transmission.

Many people have recounted
such a tale to me,
perhaps there is safety in numbers
after all, some light at the end 
of the tunnel, some ray of hope
that gives life more meaning than
the mere creation of value,
the mere value of a 
			presented creation?

Conclusion

The sound of the melodious song-bird lingers
upon the air for but a few seconds longer,
what is lost is lost for all eternity,
what hope have we to self persist when beauty 
itself is so fragile and cannot see out more 
than its allotted time, a time without pity,
a time that disperses the fragrance of the pine?

The needles drop and carpet a forest floor,
replaced by the anonymity of a thousand more,
discarded complaints of humanity are jettisoned
by the labours of half-men, bidders to the delight
of the selected few, those non-entities in power
whose collective vision has no reason to stay afloat.

Trampled underfoot the human spirit still finds
that it seeks to reason why, flying in the face
of adversity it trudges on with the burden to hand,
in the existential utterance of the heavy sigh
it longs for a release but never to lie down and die.

What inner inward hope drives the person forever on,
when that horizon itself can never be thoughtful held,
a death defying delusion that we can escape the sickle blades of that old hand as he reaps this perfect harvest?

Each day the fragrance of the pine wafts among the trees,
a presence that unites each branch, each grove, a smell
too subtle for some, for others a trace of mystical 
									   desire.

What lack of value is found whilst swimming through 
									   memory, 
forget the past for the displacement of the forever 
									   present.

One life-world, one world of life, one loving world on 
									     fire!

Index of Poems

   	Prefaces

	Part I

   	Introduction
1. 	The Factory Worker
2. 	By More Than Bread Alone!
3. 	Devotion
4. 	Two Ladies
5. 	The Psychopath
6. 	A Rare Species Of Doctor
7. 	Factory Farmers
8. 	Fishermen
9. 	The Scholar
10. 	The Hunter
11. 	The Idiot
12. 	The Teacher
13. 	The Journalist
14. 	The Alchemist
15. 	The Paranoid Schizophrenic
16. 	A Dialogue Between A Clown And A Comic
17. 	To Treasure The Finding
18. 	Lovers
19. 	The Boxers
20. 	Has The Beloved Leader Caught A Cold?
21. 	These Ecological Nuts In The Trees!
22. 	These Two Boys On The Bus
23A. The Perfect Elitist?
23B. The Authentic Traveller
24. 	The Minimalist
25. 	The Mafia
26. 	One Human Wreck
27. 	Value
28. 	The Shepherd
29. 	An Overweight Lady At The Zoo
30. 	The Astrologer
31. 	The Great Economist
32. 	How Corrupt The Politician?
33. 	These Modern Athletes
34. 	The Antique Collector's Defence
35. 	The Psychotic And The Neurotic
36. 	The Entrepreneur
37. 	The Bowlers
38. 	The Sick Person
39. 	The Bankers
40. 	An Ode To The Unnamed Soldier
41. 	The Paradoxical Look Of The Other
42. 	The Building Workers' Stand-Up Smoko
43. 	Reconstruction As Self-Destruction!
44. 	The Cook
45. 	Squares, Triangles And Circles
46. 	The Prisons Mankind Make
47. 	The Worker
48. 	On The Railways
49. 	Saying Goodbye
50. 	The Return
    	Interval	

	Part II

    	Reintroduction
51. 	Walking In The Blue Mountains: Around Leura Falls
52. 	The Alcoholic
53. 	Super-Nurse
54. 	Like Lonely Sheep
55. 	On The Train
56. 	The Lady
57. 	Perfection In Music
58. 	Working Out
59. 	Keeping It In The Family	
60.  The Frogs And Toads
61.  The Aussie Barbie (Barbecue)
62.  The Body Transplant
63.  Resettlement
64.  The Prince
65.  The Ongoing Re-Creation Of Identity
66.  The Rites
67.  Self-Sacrifice
68.  Life As A Theme In Continuous Variation
69.  Fate
70.  Breakdown?
71.  More Money Than Sense: A Naughty Limerick?
72.  The Property Developer
73.  The Phenomenon Of Going To The Mountains
74.  The Phenomenon Of Going To The Beach
75.  Writing Of Letters
76.  The Politician
77.  Architecture
78.  The Bureaucracy
79.  The Inner-City Sweat-Shop
80.  Transcendental Suspension
81.  Going To The Doctor
82.  Being Stressed Out
83.  Sailing
84.  Forms Of Pettiness
85.  A Table For Two
86.  Why Mozart?
87.  Is Life But One Long Exam?
88.  The Myths We Tell Our Children
89.  And The Myths We Tell Each Other
90.  The Best Art Of War
91.  Bah, Bah, All The Polies Want A Cracker!
92.  The Seriousness Of The Day
93.  How Black The Blackest Depression
94.  The Crooked Cop 
95.  Found Written In An Exam
96.  One More Party
97.  On The Sacrificial Attitude
98.  Lets Go On Strike!
99.  In The Deepest Darkness Of The Night
100. The Mystic

Index