There were three in the meadow by the brook
Gathering up windrows, piling ***** of hay,
With an eye always lifted toward the west
Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger
Flickering across its *****. Suddenly
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.

“What is there wrong?”

“Something you just now said.”

“What did I say?”

“About our taking pains.”

“To **** the hay?—because it’s going to shower?
I said that more than half an hour ago.
I said it to myself as much as you.”

“You didn’t know. But James is one big fool.
He thought you meant to find fault with his work.
That’s what the average farmer would have meant.
James would take time, of course, to chew it over
Before he acted: he’s just got round to act.”

“He is a fool if that’s the way he takes me.”

“Don’t let it bother you. You’ve found out something.
The hand that knows his business won’t be told
To do work better or faster—those two things.
I’m as particular as anyone:
Most likely I’d have served you just the same.
But I know you don’t understand our ways.
You were just talking what was in your mind,
What was in all our minds, and you weren’t hinting.
Tell you a story of what happened once:
I was up here in Salem at a man’s
Named Sanders with a gang of four or five
Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.
He was one of the kind sports call a spider,
All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy
From a ****** body nigh as big’s a biscuit.
But work! that man could work, especially
If by so doing he could get more work
Out of his hired help. I’m not denying
He was ******* himself. I couldn’t find
That he kept any hours—not for himself.
Daylight and lantern-light were one to him:
I’ve heard him pounding in the barn all night.
But what he liked was someone to encourage.
Them that he couldn’t lead he’d get behind
And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing—
Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.
I’d seen about enough of his bulling tricks
(We call that bulling). I’d been watching him.
So when he paired off with me in the hayfield
To load the load, thinks I, Look out for trouble.
I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders
Combed it down with a rake and says, ‘O. K.’
Everything went well till we reached the barn
With a big catch to empty in a bay.
You understand that meant the easy job
For the man up on top of throwing down
The hay and rolling it off wholesale,
Where on a mow it would have been slow lifting.
You wouldn’t think a fellow’d need much urging
Under these circumstances, would you now?
But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,
And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,
Shouts like an army captain, ‘Let her come!’
Thinks I, D’ye mean it? ‘What was that you said?’
I asked out loud, so’s there’d be no mistake,
‘Did you say, Let her come?’ ‘Yes, let her come.’
He said it over, but he said it softer.
Never you say a thing like that to a man,
Not if he values what he is. God, I’d as soon
Murdered him as left out his middle name.
I’d built the load and knew right where to find it.
Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for
Like meditating, and then I just dug in
And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.
I looked over the side once in the dust
And caught sight of him treading-water-like,
Keeping his head above. ‘**** ye,’ I says,
‘That gets ye!’ He squeaked like a squeezed rat.
That was the last I saw or heard of him.
I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.
As I sat mopping hayseed from my neck,
And sort of waiting to be asked about it,
One of the boys sings out, ‘Where’s the old man?’
‘I left him in the barn under the hay.
If ye want him, ye can go and dig him out.’
They realized from the way I swobbed my neck
More than was needed something must be up.
They headed for the barn; I stayed where I was.
They told me afterward. First they forked hay,
A lot of it, out into the barn floor.
Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle.
I guess they thought I’d spiked him in the temple
Before I buried him, or I couldn’t have managed.
They excavated more. ‘Go keep his wife
Out of the barn.’ Someone looked in a window,
And curse me if he wasn’t in the kitchen
Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feet
Stuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer.
He looked so clean disgusted from behind
There was no one that dared to stir him up,
Or let him know that he was being looked at.
Apparently I hadn’t buried him
(I may have knocked him down); but my just trying
To bury him had hurt his dignity.
He had gone to the house so’s not to meet me.
He kept away from us all afternoon.
We tended to his hay. We saw him out
After a while picking peas in his garden:
He couldn’t keep away from doing something.”

“Weren’t you relieved to find he wasn’t dead?”

“No! and yet I don’t know—it’s hard to say.
I went about to **** him fair enough.”

“You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you?”

“Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right.”

Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe
In new blue denim,
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau
Stared straight through me
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.

Being screamed at in Pigalle,
And then howled at again
By some kind of wild-eyed
Drifter who told me to go
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting ****** in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
                                                                    
Cash squandered
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush,
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
                                                                    
Metro taken to Montparnasse,
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
                                                                    
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!

the doughy round of your nose
nuzzle-burrowing as it does
my bewhiskered neck
I miss it so
sleeping
alone

the cottony caress of your yawn broken breath
blowing as it does, midsummer breezy
my threadbare open chest
It is not easy, you know
having to sleep
alone

the butterfly blare of your blinking
beating as it does
my back rubbed
I miss it so
sleeping
alone

It’s very nice in Heaven
     Very gentle underfoot,
     God’s temple is so icy calm
     And that’s conservatively put.

     There’s three flags at the gateway
     They’re there to set the pace,
     Hebrew blue and Moslem green
     Under Christ’s bewhiskered face.

     Hindu’s have got a leg in
     And Zen for Zen’s sake’s there,
     But the Proddies and the Catliks
     Are in dispute as to what is fair.

     Amazing how they bicker,
     The Proddies and the Micks
     You’d think in time they’d sort it out
     Take the Irish…Silly ******!

     Getting back to Heaven…
     The golden pathways there
     With avenues of crystal gems
     To welcome you upstairs.

     And high above a shining light
     Burning in the sky,
     Which symbolizes passion,
     I suppose, or pigs that fly?

    This symbolic high Heaven stuff
     Is very hard to read,
     It could be ornamental
     Or perhaps, exactly what you need.

     One thing’s very certain though,
     When you glide into this place,
     It pays to have a solemn look
     Of seriousness on your face.

     They don’t like silly buggers
     Who joke and act the fool,
     Commitment is the keyword
     And the Bible is the tool.

     Confusing when you get there
     You’re read the riot act
     And threatened with damnation
     If with the Devil you’ve made a pact.

     The heavy condemnation
     The steely searching eye
     And then the tome of absolution
     Because He loves you, so must I ?

     So think upon it brother
     If you think you cut the cloth,
     Then walk right up and wing it
     With the Angels, like a moth.

     But should you have your doubts
     I suggest a quickish about face
     And leg it with the villains
     To that other warmish place.


Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
28 April 2009

It was going to be the trip of a lifetime. Sydney, Cairo, Constantinople, maybe even Jerusalem if there was time and breath left in us. We came from the far-flung reaches of the earth to the bustling capitals of the Middle East. Just me, my good mates -  Blue, Grim and his cousin Frank - our chaperone Sergeant Major O’Donnell, and 1,500 other lads of the 1st Australian Light Horse Brigade.

Frank copped it at Gallipoli, never even set foot on the beach. I left him screaming on the metal deck of the landing craft awash with ***** and blood as he watched his innards unfurl. ****** oath, they stunk! Like ten-day-old snags left out in the Adelaide sun. His Mum always said she’d have his guts for garters if he enlisted underage. I reckon she’d never use that expression again. She was a nice lady too, that Mrs Gibson.

Tell me, fair dinkum, what do 18-year-old, daring-do dreamers from Parramatta know of the chain of high command, a war of geopolitical strategy and stiff upper lips. The bewhiskered gentlemen who manoeuvre their pieces in imperial map rooms will live to fight another day, and yet hold their fallen troops accountable for the unpredictable tides of history.

Grim took Frank’s death hard. From that day on his war was one explosive suicide mission. In the end, he walked into a spray of Turkish gunpowder at Chunuk Bair. The Distinguished Conduct Medal he earned that day sits on my mantelpiece beside a photo of the four of us at Giza. His sister Molly, my dear sweet Molly, turned out to be the love of my life. Funny how that happens - the threads that hold us together, the ties that bind brothers, the strangers who become our saviours.

The sergeant major succumbed to typhoid fever in Palestine and that left Blue and me. We sit and remember. We laugh at the horror during the day and shiver in our beds at night. We wage war with ourselves, our choices, our victories and defeats. We marvel at the world and the territorial ambition of nations, shake our heads at the repetition of dumb history, and raise our wavering fists to those same men in their ivory towers. It’s in all the newspapers that the Vietnam conflict is this generation’s Dardanelles Campaign. ‘A vain and protracted engagement fought in a topographically hostile arena with disproportionate loss of life’ is what I read. Yet wonder of wonders, a Yank - Blue knows his name...but I forget...Neville Someone - walked on the moon last month. Do y’reckon we helped to make that happen? Four cobbers from New South Wales, who had a knack with horseflesh and a taste for kangaroo feathers, on an adventure which spanned more lifetimes than I could ever have imagined.

The stench of their bodies overwhelms.
Their barks and howls echo as
Weirdly human voices.
I want to answer back.
They would not trust me.

The lions joust and scream
for position on the dark brown dock.
The stark sun stuns some
into a trance-like slumber.
I feel the heat burning my cheeks.

They would not move, even
if it meant to breathe, I think.
Alpha bulls clamber over
The immobile hoards.
And doe-like eyes, laden

With silken lashes peer out at me.
I carry no fish in my pockets.
I am not worth even
a casual interrogation,
which I would not pass.

I lull them, dull them to sleep.
Their blubbered bodies,
plump, sleek, bulging, flop
only as little as the flies permit.
And then: they form a chorus of harpies.

Bewhiskered snouts snarl,
baring sharp brown teeth.
They no longer want me here.
In my reveries, I harpoon the
Ugly ones. They answer back.

So, like Orestes, in Sartre’s play,
I flee the Furies of the flies.
The lions bark and howl.
I want to answer back.
But I no longer trust them.

The following words crafted soon after the soul of me daddy set adrift into the empyrean realm joining the rank and file of entities constituting spiritus mundi.

Borne aloft into the netherland
the body bearing thee soul  
of Boyce Brandon Harris
birth name given to my late father
buoyed into the great beyond
united with spirit
of mine late mother Harriet,
whose passing well nigh nineteen
orbitz of the earth around the sun.

Elysian fields embraced dada's soul
which rocketed into aerospace
(courtesy General Electric satellite)
just a tadpole more than three
earth orbitz and a half years ago,
when venerated, loved,
and celebrated then nonagenarian
on par with jumping frog
of calaveras county,  
(whose captor disguised
as toad tilly grim reaper)
went a courtin for fresh corpse,
nevertheless melancholy
still plucks mine heart strings.

Mine psyche still situated awry
placid countenance of yours truly doth belie
residual sadness easily prompted
can easily trigger me to cry
linkedin when grim reaper gloated
October 7th, 2020,
he did somewhat peacefully die
(courtesy congestive heart failure),
though methinks immortality
I did briefly espy,
when miracles of modern medicine
tried, but could not
stave off mortality nor fortify
depredations of aging concerning
one (back during his boyhood)
a wunderkind, whose accomplishments
evinced a lad who pulled out all the stops
laudatory when a young handsome guy,
whose intelligence scored high
native talent aptitude tests did imply,
an august presence
his person, especially birthday celebrated,
lorded over, regaled and touted
like fourth of July
completely unlike yours truly
pitifully jejune existence well nigh.

The late polymath and scientifically astute
Boyce Brandon Harris
exhibited prolific talents at young age
aside being scholastically gifted,
acquiring graduate degree
courtesy Columbia University,
freshly minted mechanical engineer,
(he admirably ranked within
uppermost percentile academically),
I hashtag thy mine deceased father
(a Renaissance man
- jack-of-all-trades),
who possessed (née excelled)
at diverse creative abilities.

Aside from being schooled
as mechanical engineer,
(which courses in mathematics and science
he passed with flying colors)
his mind genetically bequeathed
to craft almost anything under the sun
evidenced first by yours truly,
the second offspring and sole son
who ofttimes felt intimidated
at being in presence
of said versatile person.

Handicrafts included
expending blood, sweat, and tears
coercing, fabricating, invoking
earth, wind, and fire elements of style
to craft multitude of projects;
i. building me Flintstone (foot powered)
car with wooden license plate

ii. making playhouse for all three
of us - his progeny;
iii. amassing wood pile(s)
to stoke wood burning stoves;
iv. designing Zayda trail
for Teddy and Ruff
(two doggone mixed breed Border Collies

rescued courtesy youngest sister
at her Jacobsburg,
Pennsylvania work site);
v. constructing sauna in cellar;
vi. etching, detailing (al fresco);
vii. plus trimming living room ceiling
with dainty crown moulding;

viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof;
ix. tiling the kitchen floor;
x. building a cistern for brethren,
xi. wood paneling many rooms;
xii. building custom made toy chest;
xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility
driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark;

xiv. partly assembled a kayak;
xv. Rehabilitated derelict houses
in Norristown, Pennsylvania
xvi. retooling - enhancing porch
with tiles (formerly slate covered),
where Morris dancers performed
at wedding for eldest sister.

Unlike him who did beget me,
I experienced cognitive challenges
that beset one painfully shy
and severely introverted male
more to the point
as a lad and mediocre student to boot
promotion to next highest grade
occurred just by the skin of my teeth
and analogously, figuratively, and poetically
nearly shaved née scalped,
butchered of me pilgrim's pride

thankfully peach fuzz bewhiskered
fine hairs of my chinny chin chin,  
staved off retention
never forcing me to repeat a grade,
which may help to explain
why I wear dentures,
oh... these choppers
then worn for about
one eighth of mein kampf livingsocial.

A sense of inadequacy prevailed,
when absolute zero self esteem
strikingly and suddenly manifested
in tandem when parents moved
their young tender family within
Lower Providence School District,
but into a vaunted larger house
(initial summer estate constituted
about one hundred acres of woodland -
named Glen Elm
think Winnie the Pooh -
house at Pooh corner).

Not quite two score plus ten years
spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road
(above mentioned abode alluded),
and twas there majority
mine existential highs and lows,
where nadir of mein kampf transpired,
I emotionally hit rock bottom
upon onset of prepubescence
yet major event triggering
mine major depression
set in motion,
when parents chose February 28th, 1968
to move out of shoddily constructed domicile
located on Lantern Lane.

As shared with Renee Cardone,
(the therapist whose virtual sessions
linkedin courtesy Doxy.me portal -
similar to Zoom),
that aforementioned date
marked a turning point
after which time, I floundered
experienced irrevocable mental health issues
punctuating my psychological equilibrium
with chronic distress,
though I forgive father and mother,
who unwittingly made decision
how uprooting their offspring
to move without consulting
either yours truly, or older
and younger sisterly sibling.