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In Time Forgotten

The lane was rutted and pitted
(a bit kangaroo edward)
you could see the potholes easily
and not just the ones that had appeared
after the flood

Like the expression
‘this road has seen better days’
this lane certainly had.
Oh, and the floods,
I’m talking about the ’74 ones

It was a dusty little lane
off a country road
not far from the highway
with a turnoff easily missed
The sign was gone.

The grass was slowly encroaching
from the verge to the wheel tracks
as very little traffic, if any, now
travelled down this back country lane
Time moves on

Down the end of the lane were two
weather beaten timber homes
with that familiar, black mouldy
look about them, where the last bit of paint
had flaked off about 30 years ago

The strangler vine had done its work
for what was once two houses,
now appeared as one with the vine
engulfing both in its wanton squeeze
In the garden bed, flowers still bloomed

The white ants had feasted well
with half the stumps eaten away
and the other half barely standing up
The floor of the house dipped and swayed,
looking more like the roll of the ocean

In a time forgotten this lane had thrived
Fifteen houses, eighteen families
they had their own football team
and enough kids for two cricket teams
they were known far and wide

But as families moved and banks foreclosed
the houses were sold for the price of the timber
The old remained but their years were numbered
and in the end, it was just the two of them;
brothers with a long lived gene.

Ninety five years they had lived in this lane – twins
The houses identical having been built and
crafted in their younger days when they married,
Three generations had walked those floor boards
yet sadly, in the end, just the twins remained

They died within days of each other
Nothing suspicious, but the causes were unknown
They have been gone for twenty years now and
I still remember them so well though,
families’ always will I guess

Time will tell, as it always does
the last houses will fall
the lane will become over grown
and in the end even the memories will be,
in time forgotten

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The Magdalene

From Magdala on the western shores

she came and bore witness

to the crucifixation of Christ

and to his resurrection,

here was a woman of belief

Named Mary and then Mary Magdalene

she was not the sinner woman

some would have you believe,

possessed by the demons of seven,

healed in exorcism by the hand of Jesus

Supporting the ministry of Christ

here was a woman of wealth,

of substance, of compassion,

with no glass ceiling she was marked

first amongst his women followers

The apostle to the apostles

her word of resurrection questioned,

as a woman given as an unreliable witness

the lack of faith of others

did nothing to destroy her own

Mary of Magdalene, image tarnished

condemned by men of papal religion

penitent again by the word of only men,

remembered, celebrated, in many religions,

she did not cast the first stone

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A Parasol in the Midday Sun

In the mists of a dawn

Time will not erase the best of me

nor the visions of the worst

There is no expiration of a fool that

Time can erase 

Sacred meal, final meal

The rest of me ‘

A vision forsaken

This curious castle full of

A twisted mist of guardian spirits

I walked with a parasol in the midday sun

Memories of the silence, of

Quiet water dancing spiders

Counting days

The importance of your face

Of the candle collector

I have found that In the blood mists of dawn

Storm-clouds rage over clowns

When words desert you

There is a view from up here

We look at the stars

For silken dreams

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The Role of Backbeat

As we travel the ancient forests

Silence diminishes the night journey

In the mind, one pathway closes

Where another may slowly open

The night is cool, sounding lifeless

Do we question the silence

Or the tightness of strings

As the puppeteer moves

Cold was the sweat

Alone on the sea

Cool flow as the ships go down

Graffiti love

I am here, where are you 

A last breath in a world seen differently

A soul relished

Meet me by the wall of silent whispers

Alone on misty mornings on a bench seat for two

In that Indian summer

In the reflection off her timeline

Weathering the storm of blue blossoms

A man who dreams, a man who screams

The roll of backbeat

Cooling rivers of summero

A character without serifs

White butterfly

Irrational but irrestible motive

A belief of action

Strident noise

Disagreeable sounds

Rhythmic pattern

A cutty sark of dreams

the fire within his mind had flared

exploded like a bushfire ravaged gum

in a glorious expression of his

When the greatest moments of life occur – 

Enjoy them

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Scars and Barbed Wire

I remember the history of my first scar,

You don’t forget bullying and barbed wire

Chased by a group of Catholic and non Catholic boys,

There was little difference between bullies in those days,

They all ran fast in the thrill of the hunt

Cornered at the base of a once insurmountable chain mail fence

Fear can make a young boy do extraordinary things

Climbing the 12 feet and flipping over the top

Barbed wire hung rusty on the other side of the fence

Careless workmanship an age old story

I remember the feeling as barb caught skin and

Still visualise the trail of bright red running down my leg

The run home was fast and bloody, my grey sock turning red

I tried to sneak in quietly through the back door

But an ever vigilant mother could not be outsmarted

I’m sure I lied, never telling her that I was being chased

Life was easier to live if the bullies felt you never told

Bullying is like racism, its not in your genes, its learned

What I want to know is what were the teachers teaching

Nothing good comes with a serving of barbed wire

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The Last White Crane

The white crane would fly in the morning sunrise

through the sickly smoke from the funeral pyre

Mourners would stand from sunrise to sunset then

watch as the ashes were scattered to the winds

On the mountain of his birth he would die soon after

returning there when the white crane called him

When found by his guardian spirit, the white crane,

he would leave the stifling confines of his city behind

One last journey home, one last long walk

before he would join the crane in ethereal flight…

The cranes lungs ached for an air he could not find,

an air clean of spirit and humble in strength

This city was a place not kind to white cranes, or

other totemic animals, but the crane persevered

Flying in from the north on a hot summer’s evening breeze

the crane easily found the spirit of its one connected soul

Amongst a million homes and four times as many people

their connection was strong, the crane had flown true

Arriving home the man saw the white crane sitting upon his roof

and knew his time had come; he would leave the following day

Eating one last small meal, he thought of what lay ahead

and wondered on what path the crane would lead hi

His sleep peaceful for the first time in years, his dreams

were guarded by the last migrating Siberian crane

In the morning the crane slowly stretched its wings,

raised itself gracefully into the air and began to fly

The man, rested and sated, followed the crane;

where the crane flew the man went without hesitation

Down long valleys, across deep rivers, over mountain passes

man and crane travelled together, souls beginning to entwine

In an octave of days plus half again their destination was met,

(though it was not a place aesthetically pleasing to die)

His youthful days gone, he would still die before his parents time,

city life had left him lacking the strength and stamina to live long

The crane would lead him true, guiding him to the next life and

although born together, the crane, like his parents, would outlive him

His remaining family members and those few friends still alive

joined him for what was to be his last meal in bodily form

The morning found the white crane standing sentry outside

the room of the man he was to carry to a new world

His parents mourned as only parents can, preparing the

funeral pyre to burn for a day, then watching, like family do

As the fire burned the crane rose and dived, rose and

dived through the smoke and hot coals of the funeral pyre

Each time the crane breathed in the soul of the burning man,

it’s feathers becoming blackened by soot and floating embers

Minute after minute, hour after hour it flew

until the raging fire was no more

Landing finally at the edge of the now cold funeral pyre

the crane stood with his white feathers covered in ash

The mans parents clasped hands and bowed to the crane

then watched as it raised itself and flew to the heavens

There was now only one task left for the crane to do as it

flew higher and longer looking for the source of the sacred river

Under a full moon the now blackened Siberian crane flew

until it spied the rivers ancient headwater

Circling three times, watching all below, it finally dived into

the depths of the river where the surging water cleaned it’s feathers

Stung by the cold the crane could do no more that to exhale,

with one almighty breath, the soot and soul of the man he had protected

Rising once more, this time from the river, the arctic white

crane flew to the sky to return from where he came

That year the white crane flew alone on it’s familiar migratory path,

as it had done for the past seven years, but this year, it would not return

The last white crane had once again found its one connected soul

and finally they would join each other in heavenly flight

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Born Too Early

When did they turn the lights off
Overheard conversations lay abandoned on the floor
The band played snippets of kiss me good night
As a remnant from a conversation whispered
“she looks like some I knew”,
before trailing off into the night
‘Sweet bird now fly away’ a voice cried
As the moon beat down on the milling of ghosts
I often thought myself born too early

Where the ink ran from her pen
A score of blackbirds flew from the parchment
Words cried at the sound of her writing
Being a reader with small thoughts I sat there
Between the stone roses to read them
Her heart had been done to death by poets
I tried to find it and put it back where it belonged,
You understand, I’m trying to put you in the picture
I often thought myself born too early

I stood between a conversation and none
when a thousand hands stuck and I blew my mind
on cigarettes and warm bush beer
The road was potholed with cliches and metaphors
As I walked this path I did not want to write
Old men told me, it all starts with just one sip
To drink an ocean of wisdom from just words
You have to drink and then drink some more
Again, I thought myself born to early

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The Sound of Nothing

Can you hear it?
Deafening

By definition
It should not be there

But what is nothing
Is it the no in nothing?

Or is it the thing
But what is the thing

Because isn’t nothing
A not

So do we look for a hing?
But there is no such thing

So are we back at no
Or are we back at nothing

If we have no love
We have nothing

But that nothing, leaves a hole
And isn’t a hole a thing

Sure, we can’t feel it
But we can fall into it

So doesn’t that mean?
That it is something, not nothing

Because we know
You can’t fall into nothing

Can you hear the sound of nothing?
For nothing should not have a sound

So does the sound of nothing
Sound the same for everything

Is there no sound if
No one is there to hear it

Or is the sound of nothing just the
Wind blowing past our ears as we fall

Yet in space where gravity is nothing
We could end up falling up

Would the wind still blow past our ears?
If we fell upwards

So is nothing something
Or is something nothing

Will a broken heart always
Sound like a broken heart?

Will a broken heart be broke?
Even when it is not broken

Will love always make the world go around?
Even when there is so much hate

If I give nothing to my enemies
Will they give me nothing in return?

Could that be the point, give them nothing
And they will give nothing in return

No grief, no pain, no death in return for
No grief, no pain, no death

Give them nothing
And they will return the favour

Imagine the sound of nothing
It would be deafening

Is the sound that should not be there?
The sound we all hope to hear?

Am I getting anywhere?
Or is this just nothing

I don’t know,
but I think it is deafening

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Rhythm and Rhyme

I like rhythm and rhyme

music not mime

these words are a blind

I look at the signs

the times

the repetitions in the mind

I feel the heat

the beat

I hear the defeat

from people upset

when goals not met

where everything’s a threat

I look at the signs…

I like rhythm and rhyme

music not mime

whose is this time

poetic, prosaic

however I say it

words can make it

they show if we try

if we let go they fly

words to the sky

from there to here

through the atmosphere

for all out there to listen

I look at the signs…

I like rhythm and rhyme

music not mime

to feel is no crime

do we stand and fight

knowing it’s right

or steal away in the night

do we hear their cries

see the tears in their eyes

then look away as they die

are we just too slow

too afraid to show

should we hang our heads low

I look at the signs…

I like rhythm and rhyme

music not mine

their time’s running out

what does it matter

you say as you chatter

but your voice is just clatter

spare me your pleading

your incessant bleating

it’s kids with the needing

it’s poverty that screams

it’s not in your dreams

it is, what it seems

I look at the signs…

I like rhythm and rhyme

music not mime

it’s decision time

with danger fraught

if lessons not taught

do we do what we ought

do we get off our arse

or give it a pass because

they’re not in our class

like Abel and Cain

it will all end in pain

no one will gain

I look at the signs…

I like rhythm and rhyme

music not mime

who will remember this time

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Paupers Don’t Lay Down to Die

1.

At his funeral, there were only two;

the nurse who cared for him as he lay

for two months in a hospital bed,

barely conscious, no visitors, and

the social worker who came weekly, mostly,

not a visitor as such, for he was just one of the 60

written into her contract to visit each week

the hearse driver didn’t stay, not that he would,

for some reason Thursday’s were busy

once the coffin was lined up, he left

2.

On a bench in a funeral home

sits a container, like a shoe box,

it has a label that reads

“this container is the repository for the

cremated remains of the late, Unknown Female,

date of death, 27 March 2017″

on the day that will mark 12 months

since her pauper cremation,

with ashes still unclaimed,

someone will scatter them to the wind

3.

there was no, next of kin,

at least not known

a family brawl,

a demons drink,

a depressive struggle,

a cold fight with ice,

there will be no family,

no one to claim his body,

it will lay for 4 years in a morgue,

you see, he died without identity

4.

The mortician does not discriminate

Queen or consort, prince or pauper

her respect for the body is fervent

she will bathe them with care

trim a little hair if necessary

maybe a final shave, all the while

protecting their modesty, even in death

he is sixty, on the next table

lays a child who just turned six

her mother cannot afford the funeral

5.

no one talks about the poor,

even less so when they die

few people will know what a pauper is,

that a funeral service is an option for them or

that they are often more respected

in death, than they were in life

I passed a park bench the other day both it

and the old man who lay on it looked derelict,

I said nothing and hoped the man was just asleep,