Grey Blue ducks fly south
a wing and a prayer
in a pork covered in pigeon poop
smokes a joint on a bench nearby
and Jane chase dandelions around.
the Maimai guns poke.
be any street really,
stark darkness of squealing tyres
to rest on a hot tarmac, planes land
the weed ponds game birds fly
stand sentinel at the local war cemetery
new arrivals draped in cloth
and widowers cry.
shine a welcome to land
people from far and wide
their sporting bride
a war where fowl have no place
of respect, the lowering on a flag
mast to indicate the passing of a dignitary,
a soldier past, be endless, such is war.
to the lands of water and trees.
official, thousands passed
more to follow
of thousand Iraqis gone.
rape of a Land of the Sunni and Shia
have never flown there
enough guns to start a war
the fighting, factions.
The Death Dirge
this is morose, I told you ok?
you wander on with my deathly reverie
the words to fry your soul
list of must do’s before darkness falls
await my telling you what death is like.
and ponder that which I should tell,
a life in a living hell, alongside doyens
strap on your boots and let me take you for a ride
east to west, north to south, the words
eschewed from my mouth.
Times Life section on euthanasia,
filled with cyanide
wills in fact
watch that ticks by till dying time
Children love letter
of meagre means
in the local cemetery
now to die.
urge to fly
kitchen’s a mess, days of leftover food and recipe scraps littering bench tops and drawers. Visitors marvelled at how it all didn’t smell, fooled by scent blocks
everywhere. Red Mars at night a point of reference for a wayward chef.
from a volcanic eruption smouldering and spilling down snow covered slopes, a
man caught between a hut and a boulder, emergency services removed both, leg amputated to ease the pain, dress the wound,
a volcano still smokes, danger ahead.
of all men
await the coming
died of cancer, she was only 54 and went way too early, her sister died just before her of cancer too, and not long after
her brother died on the operating table undergoing a triple bypass. I live my
life never knowing how or when I’m due, God said 62
once and I’d be happy with that.
days were long in the outback town of Coonawarra,
the Aborigines long used to the heat and flies. The Australian males mostly dig for opals to make their fortune, the Aborigines mostly
get drunk on the White Fells firewater
reds on blue azure mantel
yellows yammering for life
grey green grasses dance daffodil dances
light assuages bent cottonwoods
bright orange of an afternoon Sun
cassocks wave in a welcoming breeze
in the sonoran desert brownish cacti point
water beneath scarce, the memory of another life
with minds fresh from advancing decay
black limousine delivers white actors
limousines deliver black
golden globes won by the best skilled.
day shines bright white on burnt retinas
feeling you get when you stare too long
sense of losses as a brown coffin tilts down.
Do you love me My Love?
“Do you love me My Love?”
I do my dear!”
are simple really
to over express sentiments
to overstate a power of being
the want to express in short breaths
that need saying from time to time.
“I’ve bought you a new car.”
needn’t have, I don’t drive.”
hast in knowledge is to impress
where only black/grey illuminates
priorities where they firmly belong
car is for me to drive you in comfort.
“Are you ready to make another of you?”
yet my darling, we have plenty of time.”
days when the sun warms relationships,
five foot waves allow surfing of the water kind,
a sand dune is scaled and slid down,
idea children should arrive soon diminishing.
“Have you found your niche in life?”
Husband, I am still searching.”
traps of old age beckon, sad days ahead,
her to chase her dreams, her visions
no longer express what I want to hear,
is unclear, I need to search the internet
Wikipedia will have an answer for me.’
The P Words
on my dear cheeks,
tree in the front yard
on either side of the state line
kids go to wee
nutcases go when estranged
putty, used in building things.
filled with enamoured delight
heat in the bedroom hitting 40C
kiss (again) that registers 6.8 on the Richter scale.
an American Blues singer of the finest quality
stove that keeps winter’s chill at bay
shape of a bay on a coast bereft of shape.
vision turned into stark reality
that works for the Hefner empire
Greek with smoothed back greasy hair
world too many to resolve
bedroom – Viagra called for
finance sector, Wall Street plummets.
I like the way you are
the way you drive
you take charge and rocket through space
you make other vehicles disappear
your wild driving style.
the way you move
and cavorting on the dancefloor
whirligigs and free-for-alls
your sexually tempered tempo.
that way you sex
and heavy in the heat of passion
ready to cede passion for pleasure
your hips driving home.
the way you moan
the children do something wrong
the car in front slows to a stop
your lips pursed for action.
the way you sleep
dreams clearly giving you great pleasure
mumblings next to me cognisant of sweat
you awake and we ride.
there are times I like with you
those dreams have me worried.
The Invasion of Poland,
from - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Invasion_of_Poland_(1939)
September Campaign," "Kampania wrześniowa,"
a time when Nazi Germany and the USSR
signed a deal
to split Eastern unit into two zones, Nazi and Russian
to power share.
It started on the 1st September 1939
was over by 3rd October, split in two
the Polish Army withdrawn to neutral Romania.
In a place in history, people starved
others got by, Jews rounded up and herded
like cattle to the concentration camps.
The polish rights were severed
cut from reality, survival
the need to get by with new masters.
20% of the pre war population perished
the Germans took hold of the USSR
when they invaded the USSR
in June 1941
the Red Army reclaimed it in 1944,
the Germans on the run, tails between legs
the Red Occupation to last for many years.
The Fighting Man
Built like a two tonne Sherman Tank
reminiscent of Goliath of Biblical terms
the strength of ten elephants on heat
made to withstand desert storms
the battle from ground and air, his realm
takes out regimental guards and terrorists
a food supply pure uranium, essence
the drip feed of water from a portable reservoir
the stamina of running bulls in a Spanish town
Takes to water with special feet, mechanised heels
chases death ships and cargo bearers with alacrity
the patience to fire nerve rockets to destroy pain.
In his death throes centuries from now, he’ll remember
a man in a machine, sort of Robocop of the Army
the need to strip him bear to walk alone, unarmed.
Even Sad People Smoke
They stand outside at work come rain, hail, or shine
puffing away in a healthy environment, fresh air
their conversation rigged to the rigours of the day
their need to be outdoors once every hour or so, done
at night, the pubs and clubs, someone’s private home
out puffing away never once looking sad, ecstatic.
Yes I smoke, once every 45 minutes of my waking day
yet I feel no sadness, just overheard someone say so.
The Last Train to Babylon
You made a million dollars last week, yet you cry the world owes you a favour.
The washing in your room ranks five deep, and rank is what it is. Spend
some money on a maid or housekeeper.
The Last Train to Babylon
the rails south of Baghdad
carnage for all to see
Shia, Kurd, and foreigners
taste of blood drying on a mouth smashed
cup on the nightstand beamed piping hot coffee, the cigarette in the ashtray drawing down.
The polite discussion on the TV makes for background noise. I see the
love for the written word flash across the screen as you
tempted another morsel from the acclamation journal.
a warning to all
tracks being blown to smithereens
the oil pipeline is safe, secure
days of Hussein the Hated passed
ride downtown to choose your next business partner a major hassle with cars locked in grid-lock, the cell phone constantly
beating out the next meeting. Cairo called to
say something big is going down in the Middle East, something about a train of peacekeeping
citizens being sabotaged for the sake of religion.
crucifix, the star of David,
with a memory of the Koran
death rights amongst the carnage
disinterred bodies of the dead and dying
on their way, no matter the medical supplies.
draws the curtain in the office, now dimly lit by fluorescent tubes, the computer screen blinking email. You watch her go about her job, wondering if she would wear a burkha?
Of course not, this is the free world. The urgency of another phone call reminds you to check your investments, to dial the doctor for
another check up. Oh, she says the doctor is in Baghdad to help.
Last Days in the Palace Grujon
around in the dark
long dimmed by neglect
carpet covered in droppings
furniture dust covered and barren.
pointed out the dust on the mirrors
genuine misconduct of housekeeping
passed since human habitation
kitchen rust coloured and stenches
real estate agent holds her nose closed
place where the downstairs toilet overflowed
smell of rat urine and bird faeces
need to think this one over for prosperity
monsieur, it is a bargain, ready to spend”
upstairs, the second level a little cleaner
smell from downstairs permeates every room
windows nailed shut since the French Revolution
we open the chequebook, especially the view
the third floor bedrooms and a sitting room,
dust thinner here and less of a worry, nor smells
at the spare cash register, place an interest
was thirteen months ago now, the sun shines
every room shines brighter for our work, guests
around the palace and enjoy, the gardens
by your tender love, my forte decorating
isn’t central France or anywhere
is a little town in New Zealand called
the Palace Grujon is a fictitious name
a three storied Bed and Breakfast my wife wouldn’t buy.
to do with cold winters.
a problem in most societies
constant use and abuse of solvents
an immediate high.
see kids wandering the streets
hoods up and a bag to their nose
them in the supermarket, blotchy faces
a sign that society doesn't overly care
it's willing to make it easy for solvents
purchased over the counter no questions asked.
the Wikipedia article talks more about
inhalants, yet it still mentions something
the scourge on society, the blot on the face.
down to pick something up
my head to ease the pain
I wish it was fake
hang my hat
Sir Robert Falcon Scott
out on this adventure
Amundsen to the South Pole
as we could be,
ice was broken with wind driven snow
Antarctica's best defense against Man
want to make haste tempered by needs
to have enough food
to have good clothing
to manage good distance
to be the first.
I stand at the Pole, the Norwegian flag nearly decimated by the strong Polar Winds, the sign we had failed, the shoulders
of the men slouched in failure, too hard to get them going again, the loss so hard to take.
for the Ross Sea,
his return journey
supplies dwindling as endeavour bit,
rice swelling with the cold, cold, bitter cold
Evans perished today, a sign perhaps that we won't make it. We pee and defecate in the tent now, a sure sign this will be our dying place. The wind outside too cold and bitter and very cutting, we lost another to the storm, Oates, frostbitten
and sour. If I had a pipe I would share it, but all I have is words of comfort
and our diaries. Some write letters home.
I estimate were are within reach of One Ton Camp, but physically we are readying for death, too far gone.
is remembered as a great adventurer
though he lost on two counts
fact he tried I suppose evidence enough
hear about the deeds of the dead on Everest?
Ten minutes before Stanley met Livingstone
a change in the mood of the party. They too sense something momentous. The blacks have a spring in their step, the Arabs - measured increase in pace. Personally I have the feeling a new mountain will come into view, or perhaps another new animal species.
been lost too long now though I know I’m travelling in the right direction for something? The carriers and horsemen trot single file down the jungle growth, the undergrowth hacked with machetes. We sense something new, something daring around the next bend, but all have been through
too much to even contemplate.
Stanley I presume.
last time two white men met in Africa
never, unless you talk about the Crusades
this far into deepest Africa, no one
light in the afternoon sky dimmed
were shaken, backs patted
good luck and fortune for the two to meet
hundred yards to left or right
history would never had been made.
What she knew about my lineage.
knew more about me than I her
she have association with my ex?
talk for hours
to help her get through depression
lost her husband, heart attack
a willing ear
chat and soon it was more than chat
discussions of past and present, future too
breakfast I made
soon followed by a hearty lunch
dinner we shared with alacrity,
this way and that, warmly received
for birthday and Christmas, love maybe
I went missing for two years
never gave up hope, waited everyday
of a return, a snippet of news
my Ex off all things
reassurance I’d be back, to swoon her again
still, I wonder how my ex got her email address?
Ribbonwood Lane and the
ripple on the water at Blackmarsh Grove spirals
mirrors of Oaks and Willows reflect upon
Monique paints the scene with pale watercolours
sense of hue redolent in a summers day refracting.
hedge down Ribbonwood Lane shines indigo black,
run and press themselves in for the fruit within,
gates at Reubensteins farmlet open to produce seekers,
painter taking it all in as he daubs oils of the Lane scene.
Minstrel Diego sings a life song as he dances down,
the lane another voice, another colour on canvass,
painters imbibe in his enthusiasm, drink it to palette
cars in a funeral procession drive through darkly.
Hanky Panky the maize crop scarecrow whistles a bird song,
free of birds, the crops still in one piece, just
chime on Mayor Dromgool’s clock tower chimes
run hither and yon to attend churches as is done.
Ribbonwood Lane resounds to the patter of feet
lifeblood of a farm town drawn to reality, beauty, signs,
the time of life is slow and meandering, painted,
artists continue apace, gathering ribbons of colour, daubing.
comes all too soon, buggy’s with oil lamps and whips,
horses clip clopping down the Lane, snorting for effort,
painters long gone now, light turns to dark, gloomy,
blackberries hiding for another day, the Castigans claiming night.
the Castigans, or the body snatchers, the night callers,
long black dray, and Clydesdale horses whipped
lady Candroghast laying dying at the Cottage Clamatis
one house down from Cappy’s Corn Farm, around the bend.
overstretch their welcome, the children run for cover,
great horses clop their way down the drive, whinnying,
sound of the horses, the widow passes, the body readied,
it’s final journey down Ribbonwood Lane, past
the chiming clock.