A Selection of Poems from Volume IV  Re-edited

As Leaves From One Tree

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Miniature Portraits Of The Human Condition

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, saw them into this world 
and which briefly noted their lonely exits.

Shot out from cycles of the temporal - 
small shoots appear, make an expression
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 our 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 passage of progress, destined as we are 
to be a traveller on the face of the earth,
an inscription from the past soon 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?

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.

8. Fishermen

Stalking death
with infinite patience…
these hunters on the banks 
of the river of life,
as if in reflection,
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 waiting 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 hunted?"

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 
too 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 rag
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 
despite its problematic resolution?
	O woe! 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 earth melted 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 -
works like magic,
and invisible too!"

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!

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,
balancing of all of the forces
spread out before us!

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.

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!

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!

50. The Return

‘I heard a sonnet say the other day
that beauty is as frail as a flower,
that immortality cannot be found
in bricks and mortar, neither in carved stone
nor temple groves as silent as a grave
nor ornaments of brass or pottery
nor pages writ profound in ancient books 
nor lines of poetic ink still fresh with thought…

…so flux perpetual, ne’er relenting, will
undermine the slow snail paced appearance 
of a continual change – just as a gate
in a strong walled façade is best battered
not by the imbalance of milit’ry might
but by that unfaithful servant called fate….’

…whose untimely time serves out none but self!?

Part by part, piece by piece, the tattered bits 
of ev’ry institution, like fashion,
are worn away or torn asunder… raped 
and plundered, shaken, plucked out, discarded,
scattered like shattered rows of missing teeth
as here the decayed roots of urban walls
declare that smiling streets did run between, 
foundations once so proud - now so humbled…
and all around mounds of broken pots, plates…
have left one omnipresent rubbish heap….

What hope have we that beauty so naked
could persevere in this unsteady world,
what trust can souls have in distant shadows, 
what sweet taste of pure love could e’er persist?
What would our becoming immortal mean 
but our forever meeting… and parting,
perhaps like the drips on a window pane
that slow collect … and quickly run away?!

‘Each year in this cold garden of the world
I wait, patient, in the best of good faith,
for the return of my fleeting lovers -
fragile flowers full in life, flushed in cheek,
quintessential distillations of youth
that for the moment, like the turning tide,
must stand upon the edge of time, with poise,
soon to knock, knock upon that waiting door…

re-meeting in a swift, heartfelt embrace,
as ancient form melds naïve material
well seasoned in an honored recipe,
re-pricking ground and stem with fruitfulness,
an eternal promise sung in uni(s)on…
that love, invisible, should return… anon….’

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 another drink, we must drink to that,
any occasion can be the 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,
there 'll be no hair on your young, manly chest,
you ain't civil refusing my generous offer, 
go on then, take y’ car, piss off, err… sorry Vicar..!?

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 the patient
"no number two's all 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!"

55. On The Same Train

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

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

To their same seats they too 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 that other older passenger from afar,
sees a long lost friend and lover too.

His imagination drinking in and feeding on
a fantastic friendship, breathing a fantasy 
of father and son, an older brother, sweethearts,
of sighing lovers sweating beneath the sheets.

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

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

With hope he seeks an escape well-intended,
in the right moment of time, with the right person,
without a collapse of good faith in a world
with many rooms and travellers, ten thousand views.

Further down the track an old, 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
his patient soul still marches onward.

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 following in his wake.

The same middle seat on the left gets taken,
unselfconsciously our 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 such 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 inbetween.

How much is seen through our own eyes,
and how much that perceived 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 thought
can pass our lips without their movement?

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 others in a 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!

68. Life As A Theme In Continuous Variation

Each season discards the shell 
of its previous incarnation, 
the material embrace of times past, 
perhaps forgotten, remembered 
in part 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?
How flowers forget the bud,
then petals remember not the face
that smiled for a time so brief,
the fruit, that womb of delight, 
spitting forth its seeded spray
in turn is cast aside while living sparks
impose the habits of a past day,
merest details re-enacted, 
relentless passions given voice,
like shimmering masks 
dancing beneath a setting sun,
like noisy characters forgetting lines
in the eternal rehearsal of a play...
without a plot, without a plan,
a variation on a variation;
lonely Nature - ever watching itself 
as the only actor on display…?

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 over us, a crippling 
			disease,
another war, an earthquake
			or famine,

or in hearty laughter to be choked
by a piece of meat!

73. The Phenomenon Of ‘Going To The Mountains’

What reliving of mythic structures 
	is found in our going to the mountains?

Why does the sight of uplifted terrain
	inspire, some swept up silhouettes
more than others, might that not be a clue
	for us in this formation of aspiration?
Even a rocky hillock completely urbanized
	with dwellings is given greater value
than those suburbs humbled beneath its feet,
	even a house there without a view is seen
to partake of an uplifted ambience,
	why this shift in valuation?
But does integrity of the landscape
	in the end have the final say,
can a mountain still be sacred with a road
	all the way to the restaurant on top?
Can we truncate our pilgrimage, diminish
	the efforts in obtaining our goals,
is the pleasure of the act intensified
	when one has undergone the trials involved 
surmounting natural obstacles, can there be
	some form of gain without pain?
Perhaps the tourist can vicariously relive
	the subconscious labours of the ascent 
when enjoying the scene for its own sake,
	experience the difference in air?
Like being closer to heaven, leaving the world,
	all spiritual ideas implicated,
such thoughts intensified by the view,
	the more natural, the more impressive
the more sacred that elevated site,
	then in conjunction with the myths
of ‘great men’ our picture is complete,
	to be re-experienced through allusion,
the re-creation of time’s past, a sexual ritual
	hinting at the real pursuit intended?
Our universe being seen in a symbolic light,
	pregnant with hidden meaningfulness?

A natural curse must fall upon the person
	who has no inner panorama, can find no resonance
with the originality of a real world,
	who set out to destroy the power of psychic signs,
sentic sign-posts to an inner way of life.
Would that sensitive souls might unite, rise up,
take back what belongs to none…
before Nature extracts its debt
from the flesh and blood of its very own…!

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
	bodies 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 silvery wind swept silt,
splash with purpose like porpoises,
	or beached like whales
that congregate on crowded city sand,
	rarely alone, whole families, 
whole tribes and clans of blacks or whites, 
gold or tanned, some pink, some red,
most a coloured combination of the above,
	some converging in caravans
complete with kitchen sink,
	others with hampers of food and furniture?
Under a shimmering sun swimming 
through a sky of roaring sound
see how a sparkling pleasure irradiates 
around those strapping connoisseurs 
of surf and sand, those masters of board
	or sleek beach canoe out saving life,
smile back at those more professional bums 
gagged in tight trunks 
whose every effort reworks, re-tunes 
an office body not yet ready
 to fall apart under the ledgers 
of company profit?
What delight to hide from the heat and lie
	under the shade of the casaurinas,
whose filtered light 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 glare.
What delight the evening stroll
	along beside the washing tide,
to view a distant horizon now empty of fleet
	still concealing 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 cannot be won!

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 self and one for tax-man.

Trip, trip; trip, trip travels the wife
with some golden jewelry
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

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 extraordinaire!
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 excellence, to be fully
restored before your very own eyes.
And now the moment we have all 
been waiting for, quiet everyone, 
this dangerous act of suicidal diving demands 
great concentration and perfect timing.
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 too 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 - has he stopped..?
No, he is swinging back on up,
like a bouncing ball on an elastic string,
a bungie jumper, a human yo-yo…
and now he has caught the high support,
from whence he came!
Well, ladies and gentlemen, 
that was a surprise wasn't it?
Our death-defying artiste has done just that 
against all expected odds: remember –
all appearances are deceptive!
Thank you all, all you good folk 
who paid to see our show tonight,
to see someone defy the forces of gravity,
simulate an act of imminent death…
Thank you, and good night!

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 will,
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 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 -
then the world of music mixes in
with one world of perception
meeting in one world of harmony,
letting evocation integrate
all the e-motions of the universe
in symphonic celebration.

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 would the examiner be -
some ethereal god peering down
through the many layers of heavens 
under the scrutiny 
of their cross-eyed care
out 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 dinner?
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 out 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 
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 religion
of all our pagan forbears,
to give us profound access 
to our descendants 
not too far, not too far away
from the cares and concerns
of 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 artfulness
in all measure long thought 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 remains 
imprinted with these worn out footprints
we stretch across the fatal gap
that tries to link all physical fact 
with fundamental 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 brazen 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!

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

Jump, jump, John who,
on the campaign trail,
yes sir, yes sir
see my ‘sorry’ 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 come the monies,
taxes, tax all
the dunnies.

Vote Goss for boss,
go vote for Labour,
help Queenslanders 
free each other.

Bump, bump comes Bill,
have you a drover’s tale,
yes ma’am, yes ma’am,
beyond the pale.

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?

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 today or next week!"

99. In The Deepest Darkness of Night

In the deepest darkness of night
the light of stars tell a story -
that history t’was before 
simple civilizations could think,
could blink, and wave
to the majesty of such a sight.

I welcome an unknown grandeur
found washing in the vista,
in the surge of an unnamed sea,
a geography of infinite mystery…

Should one construct their house 
in the delightful immensity 
of a world of white light,
on a crested sail already sailed..?

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 bound in an ego
can know the frustrations 
of thought and fear
resident in a world 
emptied of all meaningfulness.
One more paradox –
that inner detachment opens up 
a clearing of being, transparent, 
re-covered through revelation.
Brightly, the thought of light
sears the novice's soul;
when sought - escapes,
but in resignation -
fades as it slips on back, 
always an introduction,
only an intimation
of a humble beginning,
a blessing that touches,
passing on a 
speech-less message….

How many folk have recounted
such a tale to me..?
Perhaps there is safety in numbers,
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 distorted 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, trudges with what ever burden to hand,
in the existential utterance of the heavy sigh
it longs for a release, never to lie down… and die.

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

But each day the sweet perfume of the scented wood wafts 
among the trees, a presence that unites each branch, each grove –
a smell too subtle for some, a mystical trace echoed in 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!

Noël Tointon, Re-edited in Sydney, 3.6.01