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,
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The Order of Capuchin Friars
The one legged man jumps in singularity across the hot bitumen road, dinner plates breaking as they fall from his arms. His home made porcelain tea service, kiln fired in the neighbours ceiling, is not a good imitation. A creeping vine tangles itself through the red curly locks of identical twins standing silently by the side of the road. There is a tunnel. On Fridays, the local fish and chip shop will serve their meals with only vinegar and tartar sauce. They charge based on the size of the potato. Manchester accents blare from the television set still operating in the abandoned studio apartment across the street. There is no electricity. The town markets have noted a declining number of fish arriving from the local fishing village three miles out of town. They are yet to determine whether the fish, or the fishermen, are in decline. The one armed man is still on the run and has joined forces with the one legged man. Their future does not look bright. “Ramrod straight you slacker, ramrod straight’, the regimental sergeant major yells. The parade ground trembles with fear. A starting line is painted across a single lane bitumen road. The city is twenty miles away but hundreds of people are there – all over sixty. This is old school – Phase 3 v Monaro v Charger. It is no competition in whatever phase of life you are. Harold Holt has died again and again and again. There was no Chinese submarine. Three blind mice have run straight into a brick wall and are currently on their way to emergency. The capuchin monkey was relentless, the Order of Capuchin Friars less so. A 4am the road sweeper clears the dinner plates from the road – another day starts.
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When nothing is written
nothing is gained,
we’ve seen the devils avarice
consume the soul
of a closed minded man
with a button dick brain
Assaulting our senses
those crowing stories of
vaginal conquests he, feels no pain
thinking smarter than the rest,
reality says he’s a geological flat top
with a tiny closed brain
It’s what men can do
what all men could
and too many men do,
they obfuscate truth, befuddle
the masses, ignore the evidence
then ask the question “would I lie to you?”
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