13. A Postmodern Menu

A trendy restaurant salted in the seabreeze,
with windows opening onto a night-time view.
Thin, white soup on pale plates speckled with black pepper,
table tops in plastic matching seated faces.

Three croutons in hiding under the bowl's edges,
like rough rocks in the tide, must wash with olive oil.
Mistaking the street light dancing on the surface
for the moon looking bored, seen waving in the surf. 

The entree all puffed up, a pile of fluffy greens,
tarted up with dressing, slivers of smoked salmon
out riding toasted boards on a flat sea of paste
in patches, with capers, floating rings of onion.

The same plates one more time rounded off with pared steak,
stranded chips to one side, a few damp, drifting weeds.
A drizzle of fine sauce, again broken pepper
decorates this artwork, more mere style than substance.

For dessert did decline icecream, cheese cake or fruit,
the molded sweet terine, all other quotations.
Just savoured the coffee, longing for chocolate,
preferring an honest meal to nouvelle cuisine...

14. 12 Haikus on the Subject of Winter

1.  My planted plum tree
has now grown a lengthy beard
and leans to one side.

2.  An organ chorale
from an old church, in the wind
dancing leaves singing.

3.  Among dry pine cones
gray kingfisher sits quite still
while dog plays with ball. 

4.  Beneath the bare trees
dripping mem'ries of mist bathe
a brightly clothed ground.

5.  The circling mist mourns
an old friend for the dead pine
has just fallen down.

6.  Boy now wears a ring.
Once said just "hello." These days
gives me a lift home.

7.  Thought Autumn had passed.
Saw some trees still shedding leaves
on television.

8.  Just honeysuckle
imitates early springtime
smelling like jonquils.

9.  Buried in the bush
deciduous trees shrink like
scattered skeletons.

10. The heavens are gray,
in the cemetery the leaves 
have faded away.

11. You can easily see
on the leaf-littered footpaths
where people have slipped.

12. A fallen oak branch
is now mute testimony
to the passing storm.

15.  Urban Haiku: Oxford Street (3.8.97)

I. Spring

1.  Urban butterflies:
warmer weather welcoming
café devotées.

2.  On the streets the Gods
are worshipped by the incense
from good restaurants.

3.  The disco heart throbs
signal a sweat-filled night full
of sound and fury.

II. Summer

 4.  The deli owner
cleaning the curved glass counter
with his white singlet.

5.  Rearranging fruit
rip’ning in ev’ning sunlight;
one piece rolls away.

6.  The native lady
without stealing plastic bag
pockets tomatoes.

III. Autumn

7.  Early morning streets 
littered with condom packets
all brightly coloured.

8.  Bright shirts now give way
to lifeless Versace suits
on shop manikins.

9.  In wintry weather
all café society
is soon blown away.

IV. Winter

10. The desert island
in the midst of Taylor Square
looks lost with drifters.

11. Handsome barrow-man
admired by his customers
for his winter tan.

 12. Madam sleeps out rough:
same old blanket, same bottle
of anti-freeze.

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

13. ‘Neath a neon moon
designer fragrances blend
upon the streetscape.

16. Poems Know  Where They Belong

Poems know where they belong,
between the dance and the song;
when you dance and when you sing
see poetry flying free
with two wings beating,
humming in an inner ecstasy.

Some lines in a complicated ballet,
without refrain, without rhyme,
touch transcendental chords
in a celestial music ethereal.
While other styles in a simple thrust,
without subtlety, without delay,
have more basic keys struck,
ringing sounds in a precise display.

Poems know where they belong,
between the dance and the song;
when you dance and when you sing
see poetry flying free
with two wings beating,
humming in an inner ecstasy.

Some poems need no pages 
to serve them in their train,
what you hear is what you get 
in all its well-honed finery.
Others more shy need to be re-seen
before more silent thoughts can be heard,
echoing between the lines like birds,
in speeches delivered without words.

Poems know where they belong,
between the dance and the song;
when you dance and when you sing
see poetry flying free
with two wings beating,
humming in an inner ecstasy.

No matter what critics might say
when the body is made to sway
filled with passions profound
then images and ideas chant hand in hand. 
No matter what style be in play
when the spirit wings its way,
when harmony is found
its found inside the meaning and the sound.

Poems know where they belong,
between the dance and the song;
when you dance and when you sing
see poetry flying free
with two wings beating,
humming in an inner ecstasy....
17. Deposits of Dusts, Records in Carbon Black

1. Leaves paper thin,
deposits of dust,
records in carbon black
of the city’s traffic last week
after the rain...

2.  A scented suburb;
here a curtain in every window;
flagging, from time to time,
the same universal degree
of  bad taste...

3.  Gilded gods are not seen 
in public places
wearing their underwear,
but here luminous figures 
of the long, cold night
grace the sides of bus shelters,
one clone after another,
with a coy look that knows
that we will be the ones 
who will be watching...

4. The bag lady in the bus shelter
didn’t spend her money.
“Everything is all so very dear,” she said,
clutching plastic bundles
filled with hundreds of banknotes 
mixed in with other bits 
and pieces of paper...

5. The tobacconist 
promoting his wares
in the doorway
of his shop…

6.  On rock ledges beside the sea
find myself inspired by nature’s epic cycles
while younger folk seek shorter haiku
in glistening splashes of mortality...

7.  The same sun,
the same moon.
different stars;
the old beggar
walks the streets
like a king...

8.  Everywhere see people,
 talking to “the voices,”
some with mobiles,
 real or imagined...

9.  This inner city suburb
had a gardening competition
at the end of winter...

10. Climbing the stairs 
mother-to-be 
is forgetting she’s pregnant
in the puff
of one more cigarette...

11. Newspapers still creating the news;
talking about each others entrepreneurs...

12. Hairy teenager boy
like a shaggy dog
is tagging a wall.
Need to be clipped..!

13. In the setting sun,
streaming in through the doorway,
the owner of a posh restaurant stands smoking,
waiting, before his patrons enter...

14. Surrounding exclusive Double Bay
the high rise apartments appear to be 
edging ever closer...

15. Long seated at tables
older matrons trying to look younger
with thicker make-up,
eyebrows razor thin...

16. Late coffee, jonquils…
Sitting, standing in the park...
Symbols of summer...

17. At the city bus stops
why must the smokers smoke
up wind from each other..?

18. The lingering smell of popcorn 
in the foyers of picture theatres
reminds me of the urine-soaked ground
of an old style circus..?

19. In the dark light of the pub
the boys all shout each other,
sharing old, re-cycled jokes 
and lungfuls of stale cigarette smoke...

20. Like beckoning beacons at night
the bright lights of the fast food joint
simulate the bright light of the day,
while the frenetic disco music simulates
a lunchtime rush to get you on your way...

21. In the dimmer lights 
of the restaurant
the people stare out 
like gold fish in a bowl
with mouths more open, 
filled with conversation...

22. A city never sleeps
only snores, chasing dreams
along the motorways...

23. On the ground the passenger jets
look like Cuban cigars
with habits just as filthy...

24. Deposits of dust,
records in carbon black,
traces of the city
written on leaves 
paper thin, a world on fire,
desiring immortality
through forgetfulness...

Appendix

1.   Young man walking Oxford Street
looking for Mr. Right, 
and no doubt, like others, 
with those eyes shut...

2.   In life’s love of  battles,
and battles over a love of life, and its things,
people queue beside the automatic tellers,
each one, no doubt, with a story to tell..?

18.   A Mountain Poem

In the mist it seems 
the world and I
become one once more 
for a few moments...

Despite the acrid smoke
from wood fires,
sounds of distant dogs
each one tied up,
the odd rambling car,
the mumblings of a train
carting coal...

Despite smells of winter jasmine,
echoes of hamlets
doing chores,
complaints of a tom cat,
the grumblings of a plane
casting souls
through the rain...

Yet rapt in thought
one forgets all that,
therefore, all this is thus mind,
mere mindfulness...
constructions of thought
wafer thin, folded over,
once more, again, and again...

19.   Shifting, Faultlines - Poems Of Translocation

1.     Shifting, Faultlines

Shifting, faultlines,
movements, in location;
walking up new pathways,
still meandering along the same.

Openings, old doors,
moments, in dislocation;
seeing new vistas,
variations on the urban landscape.

2.    Already Buried

Already buried
	under a pile of paper,
encoffined below
	rows of books,
gathering dust,
	some too brittle to touch.

Waiting for
	that moment of enlightenment,
when some book,
	no matter whether Eastern or Western,
should impress itself
	upon this careless head.

Granting me a better perspective
	on life and death,
and even if I cannot witness
	friends chuckling over obituaries
to this flattened bookworm
	I would not mind.

Even tomes and tombstones
	pass away,
and leave not a trace
	like shadows
being the very fabric
	of this heavenly book...

3.    Auction Blues

Auction blues,
not a house for sale,
nowhere a steady price,
each time when asked
expectations rise a little higher.
Buyers and neighbours,
like voyeurs,
inspect the lifestyle
of its absent owners
under the gaze of the agent
looking for one more customer.
Then the day arrives,
its still for sale,
no second poster 
pasted upon another.
A nonchalant crowd gathers
mustn’t be seen to hurry,
one final inspection,
looking over these furtive faces,
I wonder which 
belongs to the owners?
The time drags beyond the hour,
illuminated by the sound 
of the odd mobile,
that fine fellow there
looks quite nervous
and the bidding has yet to start.
And what price do we have 
for this splendid property,
and a few tentative bids are made,
in this slow drawn out dance
of human poker,
and who gets to win this game,
this time, alas, 
passed in, sold to the vendor...

4.    Like Living in a Rubric Cube

Like living in a rubric cube,
boxes to the left,
boxes to the right,
furniture in front,
furniture behind,
not a vacant space to find
for one more piece
of assorted junk.
How is it that antiques
look so much better 
when placed in just that right spot
in a roomful of order,
making you then look
that so much younger..?

5.    Packing and Unpacking

Packing and unpacking
memories from the past,
old letters, new books 
you had quite forgotten,
gifts from friends, broken gear
that never got mended,
treasures and trash,
with hardly a shade in between,
like some archaeological dig,
thank goodness we were here
for only three years 
and not three score and ten..!

6.    Burly Men Bouncing Boxes

Burly men bouncing boxes
on and off the truck,
how I admire their skill,
but, still, with the china and the glasses,
the paintings and the pictures,
and ten thousand antique treasures
its my place to leave them 
with a message that these things are fragile,
instructions wasted in these hands 
so nimble and agile...

7.    In the Heat of Summer

In the heat of Summer
on moving in, by design,
the terrace becomes
a cooked warehouse of stores
in continuous motion.

Must move the pictures
to shift the cartons,
must assemble the furniture
to create some wall space,
now pictures can be put up 
clearing the main passage-way.

Finding socks in one room,
a shirt in another,
shoes relocated downstairs,
and the same underwear
retrieved from the wash basin
how many days in a row?

At this moment white mountains
of crumpled newspaper 
froth forth from boxes 
like mushrooms on hormones
dancing across the floor.

8.    Are the Pot-Plants for Sale?

Sitting on the footpath in piles 
these bedraggled chattels
await their movement inside,
watched by all and sundry.
Are the pots plants for sale 
or are they being given away?
Like the recycled cupboard
taken next day
and returned one day after
to disappear once more
some hours later.

9.    Gave up Catching the Fish by Hand

Gave up catching the fish by hand,
found the clothes basket
made the perfect net
except for one lone black gold fish
camouflaged by the desperate swirling
of the gelatinous mud
from the bottom of the pond.
At least the two yabbies
have each other for company..?

10.    Life Without a Fridge

Life without a fridge
need not be a disaster;
the old one was too big to fit 
this well designed kitchen
now without the convenience 
of an old fashioned safe
and its wrapping up of stock
under a dripping cheese cloth,
locking away for a day
the precious produce
from the corner shop.

11.    The First Night

The first night 
the bed looked north.
The next night
the bed looked south.
On the third
the bed went west.
On the fourth
took to sleeping 
in the same room 
on another...
Like some nomad
in a square tent
riding a carpet
with a mind of its own,
spontaneous, heaven sent...

12.    Shifting, Shifting Takes its Toll

Shifting, shifting takes its toll
upon the manifold of the soul,
a week later no longer 
somewhere near the moon,
now entering the earth’s atmosphere
on the back of a golden spoon.

Yesterday did pass that dish
that today has run away,
have yet to hear that cow-ard
shoe horn have its say,
while this bullish kettle bubbles, 
bellows like a drunken bassoon.

The ringing telephone beats
the door bell to the draw
before the hooting of the car
echoes the rhetoric of television
while partying neighbours
still sing that same old tune.

I’m sure that porcelain rabbit
said “I’m late, I’m late”
for work today,
last night or tomorrow,
only ten minutes away
and all so soon?

Hear the dishwasher talking
to the washing machine next door
while a tree-top tom cat
fiddles some mystic rune
seranading passing butterflies
making love to a plastic balloon.

So let’s go shopping,
this mad dog needs more than just a bone,
and with a happy barking sound,
with shadows merely traced upon the ground,
we walk these narrow unseen streets
under the slippery shade of a silvery noon.

Shifting, shifting takes its toll
upon the manifold of the soul,
but now no longer near the moon
with feet firmly placed upon the earth,
find the dog’s tail pleased to see me
having just got off this golden spoon...

20.  Drinking Coffee (After The Poem ‘The Tea-Drinker’ by David Ritchie)

		-Somewhere West Of Suez-

	The whole is greater than the sum of its parts

		           -----.-----

In the Kasbah one evening I was asked,
“Would I like a cup of coffee?”
softly spoken in French thick with accent.

No Western cup this:-
raw beans well roasted like nuts,
faintly glistening without sweat,
polished pellets filled with fire
perfect in their scent,
giving up this aroma
when worn down, ground by hand.

From the stone mill the powder 
is then collected, washed in steaming water,
a muddy pond lifted with a spicy sugar
poured in through a long copper spout
thickening the sludge with a sticky sweetness.

For a long time, or so it seemed,
this simmering stew was stirred,
concentrating our focus almost hypnotically,
smells reminiscent of the forest floor
a thousand miles further south,
the cup, when produced, presenting
an intense infusion of the desert landscape.

A well-tanned hand stirred
the swirling undulations 
of the hissing cauldron,
the minder of the shop,
a pleasant Arab lad barely sixteen,
puffed out in a spotless robe,
takes an obvious enjoyment 
in my acceptance of his invitation 
and perceiving my delight
happily lets me sample 
one cup after another 
of such indescribable pleasure.

In the corner of the shop the electric fan 
slowly swings back and forth
with the whisper of a cooling breeze,
filaments of hair upon our foreheads
rising and falling at the same time;
conducting the musical phrasing of its line,
a song hummed, without words 
interlaced with snatches of tacit conversation,
blending the sounds and sights of the night
into one symphonic, floral display 
as if woven in some cosmic carpet.

In the happiness of these moments I reflected
that even a poor cup proffered between friends
is imbued with a value whose merit transcends
the mere earthly taste of that same brew:-

that even the flask of immortality has an end found
when this fragile vessel pours itself upon the ground...

		    -----.-----

21.  Gardenia Grove Revisited: A Set of Variations on the Same "Unstated" Theme

1.    You Will Be Met by the Smell of Gardenias at the Gate

You will be met by the smell 
of gardenias at the gate,
iron-barred, green and creaking,
with a night-time intercom 
and a pin-hole camera,
so remember to smile and not swear,
hide the merest hint of impending madness,
suggest you should see a doctor for depression,
as you cannot hack it much longer,
that you are at the end of your tether,
that you are up to your neck in medication
that no longer seems to work,
or other similes of a suitable humour,
for then service is so quick
they forget to smile and wish you 
'have a nice day' as they send you on your way,
opening one door after another,
in this passage through corridors of security,
although, if you are in a hurry
climb the fence and drop in that way,
but don't break a leg or the odd hip or two
as you might end up staying for the view
watching gardenias wilting in the garden
animated by clouds of mossies taking blood
like the ten thousand doctors inside...

2.    Dance, Dance this St. Vitus Dance

Watch, watch the nursing staff
dance, dance this St. Vitus dance,
squirm, wriggle, squiggle as the pre-alarm 
goes beep, beep, beep, beep_
only fifteen seconds to melt down.

Personal security devices too big 
and too thick to wear in your pocket,
should you possess the same,
every few minutes beeping when it senses
you might be unconscious.

Now don't drop them in the toilet,
don't catch the rip-cord or massage
that trigger finger happy button
for then all the staff come a running,
one more time, one more time.

And should you feel yourself confronted
don't become radioactive like some radiation counter,
for  the noise is enough to tip the balance
and ensure a more physical encounter
for the deafening racket is quite insane.

Imagine a circle of nurses reading report,
all in the same room, happily seated and still,
beeping every few seconds,
such a sight can only incite such laughter,
no better recipe for disaster.

Watch, watch the nursing staff
dance, dance this St. Vitus dance,
squirm, wriggle, squiggle as the pre-alarm 
goes beep, beep, beep, beep_
everyone jiggling their bums at the same time
	to prevent one more aural melt-down...

3.    This Patient Believes

This patient believes
'he is going to be killed'
and this patient believes
'he is going to kill someone'
and in the same two-bedded dormitory
they slept the long night away,
such irony discovered 
on reading out aloud
the nursing reports next day.

4.    Making Waves

Making waves, making waves
as if there's not enough clamour
and disaster stalking this ward
as this dynamic nurse
ruffles the feathers of all the patients.

Making waves, making waves
as if there's not enough clamour
and disaster stalking this ward
as this dynamic nurse
ruffles the feathers of all the staff.

Such a person totally unaware
that everyone else in the end
has the last laugh, for:
"Change is best a slow process,
   step by step it goes,
be gentle, it's as if  you stand
   on fingers and toes."

5.    Time For Group Therapy

Time for group therapy,
also known as "the bitch session,"
for afterwards the members of the group
will certainly need it!

6.     Cocktail Hour

Chloropromazine or melleril,
haloperidol or fluphenazine,
with a dash of valium or clonazepam...

For the bad, bad, bad it's an injection...

And for the mad, mad, mad it's a concoction 
of sticky syrups...

And for the sad, sad, sad a colourful confection
in the form of tablets,
and for some, alas,
its heads or tails it goes 
under the tongue, 
and, thence,
	into the bin...

7.     How Very Depressing

With all the noise and commotion
how very depressing
Mabel is again regressing,
and poor Albert is so senile,
at least he remembers to use
the same wash basin for a urinal,
while Charlie is economical,
finds the carpeted floor
all he needs for all his needs,
then, while Tom tells Dick
to thump agitated Harry,
Mary demands service with a smile,
whereupon, with three telephones 
still ringing and one alarm
Margaret finds the door
the perfect place to escape,
posing as a visitor,
saying a tearful goodbye
to Aunt Matilda
who hasn't a clue that her 'niece'
is on a Schedule Two, or a Twenty-Four,
is now on the run from the Police,
needs to be picked up once more,
is not that insightless to believe
her doctor who said:
"My dear, you look so distressed,
this is the perfect place for a rest."

8.     Prophets, Scribes and Texts

Now remember everything needs to be 
noted, explained and annotated,
mentioned, clearly marked and signed,
dictated, clarified or re-defined,
filed, filled out in triplicate,
correctly labeled and initialed, 
addressed and delivered,
pigeon-holed with other memoranda,
computerized and tabulated,
prepared for committee,
seconded, precisely reported,
summarized in the minutes
to be duly recited once more, 
buried in reports for the meeting 
of some other committee ad nauseam
treating patients as 'texts'
and staff as 'scribes'
and hospitals as 'contexts'
for the babbled scriblings of doctors
like 'prophets' reading entrails
translated into mystical runes
to be then interpreted in 
the language of the world
issued in the silent scratching
beneath fingers too busy
with bits and pieces of paper
to notice this time-honoured remedy
often found in a simple cup of tea...

9.    Thank Goodness the Smoke Detectors are Not Working

Thank goodness the smoke detectors are not working
for when the doors are locked the patients must stop smoking,
as if pigs could fly and rabbits could talk,
how daft can you get to put this nonsense in writing,
sadly, before long, some careless cigarette will be lighting
the demise of this unhealthy atmosphere,  signaling
a re-drafting of this exercise in such thought-disordered  thinking..!

10.    Turn Things on their Head

Turn things on their head
for when upside down
you can then see 
how things are suppose to work,
thereupon, in reversion,
the irony of names can be superceded,
when a spade again becomes a spade,
the patient the 'patient',
the nurse the 'nurse',
the doctor the 'doctor'
and a hospital is once more 
a place for the tending of the sick.

Remember the patient is the one 
who is meant to suffer,
and not some consumer of a service
like the eater of an apple
dreamt up by some bureaucratic
cost-benefit analytical accountant,
and the nurse is not in some contract
with the patient unless you expect a tip,
and the doctor is 'The One who has been doctored'
lest they speak too much out of turn,
and remember the 'admitting officer'
is the 'non-admitting officer'
otherwise the entire world 
would fill the ward.

Turn things on their head
for when upside down
you can then see 
how things are suppose to work,
thereupon, in reversion,
the irony of names can be superceded,
but don't apply this advice 
to the poor patients themselves,
they suffer enough
without our helping them.

11.	Gasp, Gasp

Gasp, gasp as the fingers grasp
one more cigarette held fast.

	Don't bother to give them up,
	they're about to give you up,
	O doctor, now a patient at last.

Gasp, gasp as the fingers grasp
one more cigarette held fast.

	Don't worry about that ship of death,
	its only a rumour like those tumours
	now tightening their net from keel to mast.

Gasp, gasp as the fingers grasp
one more cigarette held fast.

	Dying before that cigarette ended,
	tightening your grip for some time, till, 
a vast blast of smoke took you at last.

12.	   Internal Assessment

Would you get a thief to audit their profession,
or a salivating woollen wolf to count the sheep,
or the same accountant to check the petty cash,
or a policeman to police the police,
all hallmarks of the communist state,
like the blind leading the blind
for the seeing can never see the seeing of their own seeing,
only an apprehending of the fact 
that there was 'a perceiving.'

But like mice posing as rats, 
we must rat on ourselves,
therefore this is my advice:-
never appear too perfect;
otherwise next year you must relapse,
never criticize yourself;
only your criticism,
never self-deconstruct;
complain about your lack of complaint,
rewrite what you wrote last year
and never forget 
those fashionable fields of research;
alas, a work still in progress,
never be too hesitant nor too sure,
fear that the devil is in the small print,
re-define your working definition,
and don't take too long,
you should remember 
your medical profession,
not nursing a pen 
nearly empty of ink.

13.    Accreditation

Tomorrow is that day for inspection,
that dreaded accreditation,
pity those poor cleaners fixing
that continuous mess,
the whole place must look neat and tidy,
for one whole day, or, at least 
between those hours from nine to five-thirty.

Today is that day for inspection,
that dreaded accreditation,
while the Police sensing a vacuum
deliver noisy presentations by the hour,
surprising the official Visitors just dropping by
to review that box for complaints
filled with the same old grumbles about
the Catholic Church, the Mafia, the CIA,
Asio, Mossad, the KGB, satellites overhead
and bugs that move about the walls,
the floors, the ceilings and bed.

Today was that day for inspection,
but now the quiet of the night descends,
with the inhabitants of Gardenia Grove
now feeling at home, relaxing a little,
rediscovering some sense of normality,
when the place is quiet enough to hear
the dripping of a thousand taps,
the humming of fans, the banging
of well-fitted doors, the constant refrigeration
of the water-cooler echoing in the passage way,
see which lights in the dark don't work,
smell once more that distinctive male toilet,
trip over a communal ash-tray for a carpet,
at least the staff flick their butts over the parapet,
but don't be saddened by this institutional madness
for 'paper standards on a few more pieces of paper'
underneath beats a pulse filled with life and energy,
transcending the ministrations from 
invisible nuns of mercy, the administrations of a hierarchy 
sitting in on one more committee,
the tragedy of an institutionalized ill-being in our society
and the comedy of life in all its deepest and darkest irony
for that spirit which persists must work,
and work, and work in all its infinite mystery!

22.  Eight Poems on the Present Participle of the Verb ‘To Come’

1.    Coming into the World

       We are told about our birth,
but does one remember..?

Moving from that controlled environment
gone awry 
was it with anticipation,
or apprehension,
a feeling of freedom
or in a mutual explosion of pain
as I busted my long over-drawn,
overweight self out
into this cold realm 
of absolute dependence
called individuality..?

But the joke is on us who think
that at that moment 
we then entered this world..!

Mother's womb was already in this world,
a room for conception,
not some doorway from outer space,
but a place for re-creation,
merely a vacancy,
a tenancy let 
for the short-term…?

2.     Coming Forth

Children appear so dumb
but they are at their very best, 
so brilliant, when
unravelling a world
too complicated 
for explanation...

Flying in flights of fancy
this young lad climbed stairs
three steps at a time
along the course of life's
downhill trajectory...

But truly nothing is lost,
drop by drop 
all experience accumulates,
gives us a context, 
and a contrast,
which, moment by moment,
defines us,
yet defies us to be other than 
what has gone on before...

Should I now take this staircase
two steps at a time 
or walk down in leaps of four.…

3. Coming to Manhood for the First Time

Manhood discovered 
for the first time,
in drops of immortality,
like the discovery of  God
at the age of five,
but, at that time,
in the serenity of prayer...

But, no, that was not the case,
this seeking for the void;
this revelation therein,
merely echoed dreams,
fantasies more real than reality,
visions, a turning around,
a watershed,
that sought a life 
far beyond the loneliness 
of one's own mere selfish 
singularity...

Falling rain 
relieves the land,
trickling riverlets
becoming rivers,
washing the surface of islands
before being embraced
by the eternal sea.…

4.    Coming up in the World

Only children play games,
adults put such childishness behind them...

Or rather behind some serious persona
they play games more deadly 
than the dares of juveniles...

Going up in the world are we?
Learning to succeed,
already know which set of conventions
to play with, when and where,
displaying only superficial intent..?

I now walk the stairs 
one step at a time...

You have done well,
award yourself a degree,
the more honorary the better,
remember they only reward
those who play the game,
as if there were but one set of rules,
exchanging token baubles 
like giving beads to natives
when they speak the same language...

All documented on bits of paper,
pale reflections of past actuality,
distorted interpretations,
given one more numerical address,
now shifted further out
into the anonymity
of cyberspace.…

5.    Coming Along Together

Painfully we discover
not one thing can be done by ourselves
pure and simple...

Every action beyond some reflex
images, imagines some convention
already reflected on the television...

Ah, but in love, and friendship, 
every caress,
every reciprocated gesture 
is a discovery of the world in itself,
a re-discovery of the inner essence
of the all-transcending moment
lost in  inner space
turned inside out,
a place that has no geometrical dimension,
nor temporal restriction...

In the text of my current relationship
I meet the author
who meets me
and together 
we rewrite a history
that cannot be recorded,
only traced out
in echoes and sighs,
in longing glances
from the beloved;
from he, or she, 
who is that chosen one,
inside that sacred circle
that momentarily enfolds
those of us who reside therein...

Before the graves of immortal ones
I have brought these paper tokens 
of poetic flowers,
in reflection 
forgot the cemetery,
in the ecstasy 
felt those sparks fall
through a collective choice
into the fireplace 
where one more act of love
will consume itself.…

6. Coming towards Death

It is stated that "to live well 
you must know how
to die well..!"

I sought enlightenment
only to forget
that moment by moment
immediacy shakes me
by the hand...

Ultimately death will inform you
of what purpose
your fleeting life might have had
in its tortured endurance...

Live life as if you would the same life
ten thousand times...

I painfully climb the steps
half a step at a time,
an aching carcass
ready to fall,
resisting gravity,
waiting to bring me down…

The creation is a joke,
a trick without a trickster,
a sense of humour
endured through laughter.…

7. Coming to a State Beyond Death

Took the bread, the wine and water,
mumbled a few mantras,
looked heavenward,
beyond, a small circle of friends
came to greet me,
then I fell asleep,
or, rather, woke up,
for the fever of the influenza
had now left me,
dragging its calling card
across by leaden body
filled with the glow 
of reflected thought…

There is no inner world, 
and there is no outer world,
there is no death
and there is no life,
only dreams of salvation
flickering in the eternity of the moment,
already interpreted,
always in need of self-correction...

I once re-met a friend,
whose kisses were sweet,
whose touch was divine,
in those seconds
years of absence 
dissolved like sugar 
in the juice of lime,
and this friend said to me:

“A friendship has no end
knows not a time or space;
a place where hand in hand
we must meet ever more
in a land without a trace
upon the sad surface
of this world insane..!”

But, alas, I never knew his last name,
and in shifting we also lost
each others' new found address,
and so these words alone
can now only bring 
a pale, counterfeit comfort 
when I fondly remember 
those heartfelt glances
the last time we parted,
in public, and could not kiss.…

Is life nothing but
a meditation on loss,
a leaving, a being left behind,
or is it a footprint,
a footnote, a gloss
on reality, a value signed
by the faceless shadow 
of the Divine 
found moving forth,
endlessly coming 
into each and every embrace…?

8.    Coming Back Again

When bed-ridden
I am still fleet of foot,
in thought, in my imagination,
I can travel without hesitation
through time and space...

In novels I can enter new worlds,
all realms rooted like trees,
all upon the same ground,
variations upon themes
too profound to expound...

Forever coming back,
in the cinema of the soul,
recollected, new bottles
taking old wine
every moment
in the passage of time...

The past reshapes the present,
portending the future
in a flash,
each discrete second reincarnated,
re-created,
free to change direction,
yet a mere perturbation
in orbits that can never be calculated,
that know no calculation..!

Endlessly coming, coming back,
never escaping the flow;
only escaping that metaphor
that thinks an escape can be thought,
sensing the site of my salvation immersed
in the scented stillness of that flow
endlessly coming, coming back…!

23.    Can Appearances be so Deceptive? A Parable in a Prose-Poem?

Paul the Progressive Priest
celebrated a communion
in an inner city parish
nearly devoid of old-time parishioners
and flush with funds
from the very demise 
of his original congregation.
“We are rich,” he said,
“let our community patronize
the richness of potential
we have here among us.
For a start let us lend cash
without interest, or a date
for final repayment,
to those of our urban poor
who most deserve such a break
and in the process
help them to discover and promote
their creative talents 
what ever they be
before the sight of God…

‘Tis better to give than to receive,
better to seek a seat in heaven
than to lie with the rich man to dine
when the poor have become beggars 
before thy very house…

Thanks to our young priest;
admired by all the congregation,
Paul the Portrait Painter, for example,
at last could paint all day.
In gratefulness, and having found
a fashionable favour 
with the public who can afford
paying for his labour of love,
he painted an old school friend of his
completely naked, with wings,
with a purity of presence,
more angelic than an angel,
that could not offend
even the most prurient prude
and presented it to our father.
On coming home that night
our priest found it already hanging
in the bedroom, at the foot of his bed,
a tall religious picture, like an icon
offering a glimpse of heaven,
worthy of veneration,
bathed in a flood of moonlight,
even more lovely to behold.
And the priest thought…

This person pictured is surely
a denizen of paradise,
should I adore this image 
or should I get to know 
the reality of the person 
behind this image,
is it not better to love reality
than to merely seek after
the reflections of 
its representation..?

Paul the Prostitute this past week
was very sick with influenza,
gastric and bronchial with
pneumonia, sweat washing
only his brow and fevered chest,
naked except for two odd socks; 
and where his big toes peeped out.
By his pimp this lad was fed with food
customers and condoms,
offered free drugs thankfully declined,
and this week left alone
to mend for the busy Easter season
when trade apparently picks up,
produces a much greater profit.
Our portrait painter tells the priest
where his young friend can be found,
and there before him now sees 
a vision of beauty reduced,
laid out flat, seeking restoration 
in health upon a humble couch.
On his mobile he summons help,
and in the meantime washes clean
our young lad who is not so sick
as to appreciate his turn 
to be administered…

In art should we worship 
the creation or the creator,
in life should we worship reality 
or the reality of that reality..?

Given accommodation in the presbytery
Paul the Ex-Prostitute, 
now into full-time work, 
talks with Paul the Portrait Painter.
“How can I repay my friend the Priest
for the love he has shown me?”
“You know he loves you, 
and I know you love him,
why not the two of you become lovers?”
“But how could this be arranged
without embarrassing both of us?”
“I have a plan.” And together 
they plotted the fine details of this task,
this mission should it be put into reality…
What distance is there 
between desire set in theory 
and the desire put in practice,
how close the thought of a reality
and the reality of that thought
if naught separates 
one thought from another
but the thinking of thought itself..?

In the middle of the night
Paul the Ex-Prostitute
stands on a stool in front 
of his picture in a perfect 
alignment with it and calling 
his friend the Priest to awake 
gently brings him to consciousness.
Still half-asleep, in a rush of amazement, 
the Priest is told not to fear,
he is told to shut his eyes,
and quietly pray for the things 
that he would like to see happen
in this half-awakened world of ours,
and coaxed to state 
what he himself might seek 
if asked what he would like to see happen 
in the course of his very own life,
and prompted if he sought a lover,
in the affirmative questioned
if he would take Paul the Ex-Prostitute
for his beloved friend, and, 
in whispering a nervous “yes”
promptly awoke to find 
his friend beside him
pledging love in kisses and caresses
too divine for words,
much too desired to deny,
both wondering…

If in dreams we can find reality,
and in reality we can find our dreams..?

Or must we, O Reader, with our bodies…

Seek pleasures both pleasant and unpleasant
like prostitutes with their clients;
see into an inner reality like painters
who can re-create the world transformed;
and like our priest, discover 
amongst those transformations 
what reality those realities have..?

Or, in the end, finally believe…

That metaphor, simile and parable,
anecdote and analogy can have no point.

That there can be, in reality,
nothing other than experience;
the experience of appearances,
the appearance of experience…

That appearances can only be deceptive
if we unwisely believe 
that we can truly see beyond them…!

24.    Andy the Handy-Man is Your Man

In Autumn do you need those leaves retrieved,
like gold stars stuck upon the shiny velvet pavement,
or papering the dry grass like soggy books all scattered,
then Andy the handy-man is your man…

For an honest fee he will rake the garden free,
weed the beds of bedraggled flowers, trim the edges, 
give a haircut to the roses and other bushes,
plant those jonquils and other bulbs, all year round
massage and manage your lawn or veggie patch,
bring into flower all manner of flora, 
lop dead branches from tree-ferns, feeding those pots
with dynamic lifter, fine minerals and fertilizer…

If you need a gardener then handy Andy is your man,
if you need a gardener then handy Andy is your man…

In Winter after work before it gets too dark
if you need your shopping brought home or some other errand,
parcels collected from the post-office, bones from the butcher,
then Andy the handy-man is your man…

He’s a hard worker who’ll give the house its weekly clean,
give the carpets a thorough vacuuming, 
see that those Persian mats get a proper beating, 
polish the silver till you’ll smiling all over it,
set the table for a party of twelve, wash the laundry,
fold the sheets and shirts, put away the linen,
make the beds as if in some holiday inn,
even feed the dog and walk the cat should you insist…

If you need a cleaner then handy Andy is your man,
if you need a cleaner then handy Andy is your man…

In Spring if you need an interior decorator
to see rooms repainted all minimal and post-modern,
or returned in a hush to a lifestyle more romantic,
then Andy the handy-man is your man…

Watch him turn inside out your run down mansion
and then put it back together like no other,
work miracles on the inner masonry,
have the plaster restored to perfect Victorian taste,
get the old wood-work whipped into shape,
see tiles placed in a sympathetic symmetry,
find all manner of lighting expertly strung up and hung,
with the furniture  re-positioned without a scratch…

If you need a decorator then handy Andy is your man,
if you need a decorator then handy Andy is your man…

In Summer if you think your roof needs fixing,
or those eaves re-painted in a stunning pink,
or the chimney-tops needs an authentic re-topping
then Andy the handy-man is your man…

Watch him dance o’er the shingles like an angel
on fire, painting those balls on the balustrade,
climbing that central urn twinkling like some Xmas star,
all stripped to the waist, washed in manly sweat…

Watch - but do not touch! Don’t ask for overtime,
or those extra services bought round some dark, quiet, 
innocent corner, this artist ne’er charges after-hours, 
only works at home for pleasure, not profit…

when Andy the handy-man is your man,
when Andy the handy-man is your man...!

Epilogue

1.  The birds are dancing 
in time with perfumed flowers,
but not with the bees.

2.  Gorged on scraps of bread.
Rosellas then went to hear
the guitar player.

3.  The Summer downpour
made such a mess, all cleaned up
in the Autumn rains.

4.  Like stoic mushrooms
more discarded umbrellas 
soon litter the park.