The coastal winds set all our
orchard tree leaves dancing,
vibrating like music in the air.
That same clean breeze on my
face generates a smile, while
offering the slight scent of the
oceans salty splendor.

In my mind in color, behind closed
eyes I can clearly see my beach, the
waves, sand, rocks, all the winged
creatures soaring and wind floating
on the westerly air currents. I could
even hear their calls to each other,
and the muted laughter of human
children at play. The sight of people's
dogs free running the beach and
cavorting in the shallow surf.

An hour and a half drive each way,
taken many times over most of my
lifetime, seeking that view and being
rewarded by it. Familiar as the faces
of my beloved now grown children
and nearly as comforting to gaze upon.

Yes, I could make the drive, but even
that gets harder these days, as most
everything does. But why drive it,
when all I need do is close my eyes,
point my nose up into the breeze and
embrace that beach in my still vivid
mind's eye, while these technicolor
memories last, before they all fade
to black.

We come into this world swaddled
in clean, soft Diapers and parental
love, and some decades later, go out
of it wearing soiled Pampers and
mostly on our own, or all alone.

In clear dawn’s prescient light I saw
Integrity of man withdraw,
Withdraw from that integral grace
Illuminated in that place.
A clear blue light in silhouette
Of moon and mountain pirouette,
A truthfulness of stark relief
Quite unencumbered by deceit.
Unencumbered by the paws
Of those who bare discordant claws,
They who twist God’s clear blue light
To manifest their grip on might,
Those who would, quite by perchance,
Enlist oblivion’s nuclear dance.

This hanging crescent moon aloft
Above our mountain’s darkened croft,
Delicately etched in vivid glow
Of promised new dawn’s velvet show…..
Dependant now on exchanged themes
Of thermonuclear warfare’s screams.

But then…..
Old soldiers call from War afar
To we who listen, jaw ajar,
To wisdom earnt by good blood spilt
Be of Field Grey or Scottish Kilt…..

“Fight no more this curse of War”
They, from beyond the  grave, implore,
“We sacrificed our youth for thee
So thou might dwell in harmony”

In clear dawn’s prescient light they saw
A slit of sunshine’s open door,
Where sanity, just, could pave the way
For laughter’s peal to save this day.

M.
“Lest We Forget “
ANZAC Day
25 April 2017
HAMILTON, NEW ZEALAND

All Roads lead to Salvatore
A Poem by Corset


On the way to Salvatore
I was cracked
A diamond with her head down
pops another piece of gum
makes light of the crest
makes the sign of the cross
across her window pane breast
forever more
Gooseberry products only
she swears
the scratch of her voice
a sonnet of fingernails
on chalkboard
"there are no teachers here "
says she
only nightmares of agriculture"
and the slow lonely climb,
limbs bowing to the knees.
acquiesce of leaves
holding on in vertigo
skinny dipping the night air.

Bertram tells you to ram it
his balcony tilted
like a slot machine
a glimpse of clothes drying
on a Taiwan breeze
ran into a tree
"don't be afraid"  says he
"it won't feel a thing"

You keep your voice down
still it drowns the radio
while fashion jewelry
lift their pointed legs
it's pepper on a dying mans steak
we dare to be sub-standard
people are shouting
we will do our best
to make sure promises are not kept,
to honor the test subjects
we will build a barn
threaten the faculty
with time honored contingency
and look forward to the *****
side of fact.

We shall take our time,
scoffing behind our hands
we know
if a person can not be themselves
they tend to be someone else...
suffering.,
surely there must be a way to
pin this tail on the donkey,
or at least the blunt
blonde official, when you
get a close up
you can tell how old
she is.

A trillion lights bid hasty reflection
The bowed following preordained paths to
cardboard suburbia , under jet fuel rain , gnashed
in misery , some oxycontin follower , worshippers of Herod , rock ***** payback in five dollar denominations
A trick , a spittle of ***** in a ladle drawing gold from a coat pocket
Like a child's first snow , the learners license , naked in city lake
Kings with chewed teeth , bottom feeders in search of a vein , convenient Christ for **** and Jane , peanut butter for crustless sandwiches and taxed brains
Anarchy dreams , Presidential schemes , Syrian children burnt beyond
recognition , American pregnant teens , what would Jesus do ?
He's left us to our own devices* ...

Oh, those poor
peasants
without a ***
to **** in
who celebrate their
thin-skinned twittering
king ascending
in his gilded elevator
of gold stolen
from the empty plates
of those
who do pay taxes
with real axes
to grind
it boggles my mind
just what in
the hell
could they have been
thinking
I mean, Sweet
Jesus, we'll all be
refugees
in the end.


Where e're we go, we celebrate
The land that makes us refugees,
From fear of priests with empty plates
From guilt and weeping effigies.

--Shane MacClowan, "Thousands Are Sailing"