I pray thee sun thou should set,
or take thy leave better yet,
wouldst at last my thirst be gone,
But alas thee linger, and linger on.
There be no flower not yet dead,
no water flows in yonder river bed.
'Tis a heat where nought doth grow,
nor doth thee ever mercy show.
Dry of skin and parch of throat,
a man doth need no overcoat.
Thy rays doth burn mine eyes,
they do not hear mine mercy cries.
If there be a place where chill be found,
'Tis there it be that I be bound,
A place where there be no burning sun,
show it to me, so to it I shall run.
(c) 26th January 2010
with apoligies to all you Shakespeare freaks
The butterfly and the bee pollinate,
the unknown flower of memory,
then fly off through the gaps,
of the spiders web into the blackness,
of the vast midnight of the mind.
Words shower down into a torrent,
that falls upon a bewildered numbness,
remaining incoherent, they flow on,
into the stream where perhaps a child,
will gather them and weave them into a melody.
Slowly the poet slides away, unnoticed,
into the mist of time and unconsciousness,
Hidden deep within the flower bed of memory.
an unknown flower not yet pollinated,
still waiting in the realm of the midnight darkness.
In the childs mind the sun shines brightly,
as she brushes the words she has taken,
from the stream of life, with the days light,
The poet breathes, renewed and alive.
so it is in the universal garden of life.
Through the shattered pane,
of a broken window,
I look out and see a fragment,
of a day that was, but is torn.
A flower growing without a name,
in the ever shifting garden,
of my minds vague mirage,
it's petals crumbling into dust.
The image of what was,
now drifting in the lake of time,
the ripples distorting it's features,
as it disappears beneath a lily pad.
Clouds racing across a blue sky,
searching in vain for the sunset,
weeping for that which they have not found,
As I retreat to hide within the spiders web
4th January 2011
The old man sat somewhere twix bemused and bewildered,
Staring out at the mist that lay upon the puse horizon of twilight.
Horace, the brown and white dog with the shaggy coat,
came and curled himself around his masters feet,
The old mans hand fell upon the dogs faithful head,
gently he stroked the dog, yet without sentiment,
but rather with a sense of habit, formed by years of ritual.
and so each day he sits and awaits the coming twilight.
21st December 2010
Did you see the poet?
Did he pass this way?
Did the poet speak to you?,
What did the poet say?
The poet said to dream,
'tis dreams that make you strong,
The poet said to admit your faults,
whenever you are wrong.
The poet said to stand together,
yet apart enough for each to grow,
love and trust your children,
enough to finally let them go.
The poet said wear life loosely,
share with others what you own,
learn to laugh at troubles,
and you will never be alone.
The poet said to live life fully,
don't run to deaths embrace,
the poet said he loves us,
and you could see it on his face.
The enemy's at the gate,
weapons of mass destruction,
heat seeking missiles,
the atomic bomb.
going to rape your women,
burn your house down,
eat your children,
and drink your blood.
REMEMBER THIS AT THE POLLING BOTH
AND VOTE ONE------FEAR!
8th November 2010
There was a time I trusted you.
A time you would never lie,
but something happened,
it changed as time went by.
You protected me from accidents,
and your concern was well founded,
but then you frightened me,
in ways that proved ungrounded.
You fed me with lots of lies,
things that just were not true.
Confused about what was real,
still somehow believing you.
Fear I have learned the hard way,
that though I have to live with you,
I have to be very honest with myself,
before I act on what you say or do.
(c)c 6th November 2010
What can I say to you,
that you don't expect to hear.
You seemed to have had me covered,
evey step of the way so far, my dear.
How many times have I been left,
languishing in total despair,
Thinking things were a certain way,
but never seeing you hiding there.
How about the girl who thought,
I was her knight on a white horse,
and I turned out to have clay feet,
you laughed you head off, of course.
I fell in love with "The girl next door",
How wonderful it was all going to be,
only to find out her other seven boyfriends,
all laughing and they were laughing at me.
All those millions in the lotteries,
All those none home run hits.
No, Expectations, I've had enough,
I think it's time to call it quits.
(c) 5th November 2010.
I'm afraid this letter,
is more or less a "Dear John."
I'm sick of hanging around,
crying buckets over what is gone.
I know you would like me,
to spend hours looking back,
at the things that could have been,
and bemoan the things I lack.
I know you're keen to review,
each and every mistake I made,
me I'd rather walk away from it,
and just call a spade a spade.
I'd rather take on my tomorrows,
not bother to regret my past,
walk into sunshine in the future,
and leave you behind, at last.
(c) 16th November 2010
I know you're not happy,
but there's nothing I can do,
I can't help it you're upset,
how you feel is up to you
I know that hurting others,
is something you do for fun,
but right at this moment, Angry,
I've got to get this ironing done.
With you it's, let's take someones,
sunshine, and turn it into rain.
Let's take away lifes joyfulness,
and replace it with some pain.
You turn up at accidents,
just to add a bit of rage,
Look here, Angry, why don't you,
just go off and find another stage.
(c) 4th November 2010
I'm sorry I could not meet you yesterday,
I was busy, things got in the way.
It was looking promissing then, well,
the heart attack didn't happen
then things just sort of went to hell.
The neighbours cat got stuck up a tree,
I know it sounds like I'm making excuses,
but the truth is there was only me.
And there were other things, not just that.
I would not have been able to ring an ambulance
bloody mobile phone, the battery was flat.
I stood you up, Death, but I can't be there,
at everybodies beck and bloody call,
the wife needed me to drive her to the mall.
Look Death why don't we try again next year,
I'm not going anywhere, I mean I'll still be here.
4th November 2010
I heard you calling quietly,
the voice in the night,
like a siren, just there,
but always out of sight.
I heard your promise,
as you hid there in the light.
I thought I might come to you,
as you gently called my name,
I felt myself drawn to you,
a moth drawn to the flame,
was this really happening,
some dream, perhaps a game?.
I awoke, still here. Alive!
The voice echos in my mind,
the voice that calls us all,
leaves not one of us behind,
the voice, the quiet voice,
sounds so gentle and so kind.
(c) 3rd October 2010
The boy sat beneath the grey gum,
listening to the magpie crooning,
somewhere far above his head.
He watched as the figure approached,
an old man stumbling down a dirt track.
"Yer back than." said the boy, standing.
"Yeah." Replied the man, "I'm back."
The boy sat down again "Yer staying?"
"I should never have left you,
I realise that now." The man replied.
"Was it fun where you went?" asked the boy,
"No, it was miserable." said the man,
"It could never be fun without you.
Have you been to the tree house lately?"
"Not since you left," said the boy.
"I've just been sitting here waiting,
for you to take me to the carnival,
where we could eat candy floss
and hot dogs to our bellies ached."
"I should have taken you with me,
I've missed the carnivals and candy floss."
The man said his eyes filling with tears.
"Is the tyre still hanging over the water hole?"
"Of cause it is," said the boy, "you want to go there?"
"Oh yes!" Cried the man "I want to go there.
More than anything I want to go there!"
The boy stood up and took his hand,
and together they walked across the pond.
You came to me at three in the morning,
you are a figment in my weary mind.
Your gnawled hand with it's broken nails,
reaching through the ether pleadingly.
Dressed in a drab grey dress and bonnet,
moth eaten shawl covering your shoulders.
An over powering sense of sadness prevails,
for I feel that you are not lost, but stranded.
I hear you whisper, a hoarse mournful whisper,
your breath so cold it chills my soul, - I shiver.
"Please, Sir, can ye spare me a mere two coppers?"
"So's I can catch the ferry to be with Jimmy."
I found two old pennies in my cupboard,
I took them and buried them in my garden,
I pray a ghost from Mr. Dickens found them,
and is now on her way to join her Jimmy.
A Corpse amongst the corpses
in this God forsaken place.
No love to come and hold me,
no lips to kiss my face.
With rigid grasp I hold
the gun my country gave me.
Frozen on my lips the prayer,
I had hoped would save me.
Both a brightly coloured parrot,
that sqawks the coming dawn
and the wondeous scent of eucalypt
are from me ever gone.
Here between the limbless soldiers
in a land that widows dread.
Here I'll dwell forever,
with all the unknown dead.
Until the battlefields are covered,
with a gown of emerald green,
to hide away the image
of the horrors they have seen.
Until war's thunder ceases.
until man's hatred is all gone,
no brightly coloured parrot
shall sqawk the coming of the dawn.
The old man sat, his legs crossed,
opposite the young boy, in the dirt.
"See dat fella?" he said pointing at a tree,
"Dat fella's yer brother, yer big brother."
The boy turned and looked at the tree.
"He's a livin' fella just like you are,
I remember when he was a little fella,
just like you're a little fella now."
The old man smiled, "He's a good fella."
he continued "he'll give ya his bark,
fer yer to make shelter and his branches,
fer yer to make fire when it's cold."
"Dat one dare! Can ya see da bush?"
he asked "Dat bush, dat one your aunty,
when you're hungry she will give ya berries.
See dem little ones?" pointing at the flowers,
"Dem ones they are ya sisters." He announced,
"Dem one's bring you beauty and brightness,
dem ones are de girls dat make us all happy."
The old man laughed showing the gaps in his teeth.
Pointing up he said "Look at dat fella up dare!
Dat fella he carries the sun around ter keep us warm,
an' when dat fella cries he fills our water holes,
dat fella he's our friend he lights candles at night,
so us fellas can find our way back to our womin."
"And what about you grandfather? What are you?"
The boy asked as he looked up at the old man.
"Me!" replied the grandfather "I guess I am da bringer.
I'm dat fella that brings these stories to yer,
so yer can understand that the country is our family,
it is alive like we are and that joins us together."
The old man tapped a twig, he was holding, on his foot.
"When the wind has blown my skin off and I am,
only a white stick laying in the desert sand,
yer will be the one who will look after dis family."
he said. "Then yer will become da bringer."
Hey you! Yes you!
You with the pen in your hand.
You, who has always been so kind,
Yes, you with the poem in your mind!
Thank you for your passion,
the loving friendship you give,
for the ways you've supported me,
without it, I don't know where I'd be.
Hey you! Yes you,
You have enriched my life,
You there struggling to find a rhymn,
Thank you for sharing your life with mine.
(c) 24th September 2010
See him on the street,
in his ragged garb,
His state of hygene.
suggesting life is hard.
He screams abuse,
at no one you can see,
he hears voices inside him,
from which he can never flee.
Looking lost and lonely,
cast out into despair.
watch as they ignore him,
as if he wasn't there.
See him shuffle off,
down some shabby lane,
hunted by those voices,
sending him insane.
Where is our humanity,
we treat him like a bum,
this mentally ill man,
who is someone else's son.
(c) 10th May 2010
Today I walked around Sydneys streets and laneways amongst more than a hundred mentally ill men and women living on those streets and in those laneways or in shelters for the homeless.
As a writer I believe it is my responsibility to put myself in situations where I can observe real life and to write down my observations. These are my observations.
Holly lived in darkness,
Holly lived in pain,
Holly heard the voices,
from deep inside her brain.
The voice that called her useless,
The voice that told her "Cut".
The voice that called her bad,
the one that declared her "Slut".
Holly told the doctors,
about these things inside her head,
They said she'd grow out of it,
as they sent her home to bed.
There beneath the donner,
she stayed huddled up for years,
The voices ever getting louder,
they kept adding to her fears.
To day a mother lost her daughter,
they never got to say good-bye.
All the time the voices watched,
they watched Holly die.
(c) 10/May /2010
The old man sat on the Stone of Knowledge,
He called the boy to him for the last time.
As the lad approached him he saw a tear drop,
flowing down the old mans cheek.
“Why do you cry?” the boy asked his master.
“I cry for you,” said the man “for you are a poet.
Your richness will be your description of poverty.
Your banquet will be the bread of the begger.
Your tears will flow with the blood of innocents.
You are like the windmill dredging words of hope
for the deaf ears of greed and the souls of despair.
This is why I cry. Sit with me before I leave.”
The old man stroked the boys hand and spoke,
“You will need to become the petal of a sun flower,
the scent of a rose and the strength of a tree.
Dream the fall of a raindrop, the drop of a snowflake,
climb mountains and slide down rainbows,
Swim with the shy platypus and the playful dolfin.
You will not see my face again, except in your dreams,
But you will always hear me whispering in the breeze,
be still and listen and you will hear me.” He finished.
“But,” cried the boy, “where are you going?”
“All these things I have asked you to do,
I have done, and more, my time is over,
I must go now to the Land of All Knowing,
There I will hammer my fist upon the gate
and a voice shall call out ‘Who begs entry?’
I shall reply in my proudest voice,
I AM THE POET!"