The Ode of Remembrance
We stand
and fight
condemned
by the next bullet
with
your name firmly etched upon it.
We eat
weeks old food
enough
to sustain a certain death
the
shelling sending lesser men crazy,
We pick
up fallen comrades
carry
them back to the first aid post
their
journey in death over for now, forgotten
except
men with honour and integrity
never
shun an honest toil to kill or maim,
the
sludge of winter mud in an Italian front slippery,
the
take on death increasing apace
with
each passing yard gained, or lost
the
enemy also aware they could be going home
We take
injuries, cracked bones
worn
out backs, frozen toes in sodden socks
the
boys of the sawbones busy with each intake.
As quick
as it comes, it passes
the
ladies cheering our return, our demise
the
nation ready to hold us in high regard, honoured
The
day pass, numbers fall
each
Anzac Day sees the fighters
return
to the battlefield and remember the dead,
those
who fell to a named bullet
those
who fell to a carefully aimed mortar,
those
who simply fell to fatigue, minds lost,
and
each time one passes
we recite
the Ode, the constant reminder
that
human life is infallible, transient, lasting,
They shall grow not
old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and
in the morning
We will remember them.*
* The Ode is recited at ANZAC Days, at each day in the Returned Serviceman’s Associations,
and on the Death of a Comrade at the Funeral. I dedicate this poem to my Uncle
Kelvin who was part of J Force in Japan and an Army man for a while. The Ode
comes from For the Fallen, a poem by the English poet and writer Laurence Binyon and was published in London in The Winnowing
Fan: Poems of the Great War in 1914.
Early Whaling
Under
a dying Pacific sky,
the
Barquentine Aurelias sails
mainsail
taut in an afternoon trade
headsail
puffing gently as they do,
Cap’n
Ohrab at the Quarterdeck. measures
the
mate yells orders for crew to muster
awaiting
Cap’n’s orders to bring the ship about.
The
whales appear on the starboard side
maybe
a dozen, all white and ignorant,
their
fate at the hands of skilled whalers
the
First Lieutenant calls for the long boats
crew
muster and wind out the heavy beasts
lowered
to “yo ho ho and a bottle of rum”
the
crew shimmy down the landing ropes,
the
beat of the drum drives the oars,
harpoons
readied, a close kill, danger for all
Ohrab
stands atop his domain, watches the pots
as they
are readied for the processing, danger
in every
corner of this onerous task, reward
for
the crew, rum and vegetables, maybe fruit,
a whale
breaches, the harpoon strikes home
The
dine on rarities, lap up the rum, the pots boiling
seven
tons of blubber to be processed, the rest
discarded
to the vultures of the sea,
sharks,
sea lice, the hot sun and ocean,
the
longboats long secured, a new course
the
wind at her back now, driving her ever northward
up to
the Humpback grounds, better fare.
“Whale
ho” from the crows nest, the journey repeats.
Dickshunairy
I jesused
my grynch, tied doumbs
together
for the ride ahead
made
crystalyses glisten in the dark
the
frime a tick over two seconds
mystifrucktabled
the window open
sevethreeforu
touches a dead toe
delectabolism
a mixture of nice and nasty
those
deareabandies cough haltingly
sadly,
they lay Quesdeemablora to rest
the
making of a new language halted.
Ten Faces of Icarus
i.
The
babysitter came late,
delayed
, a journey
to save
a marriage
long
on decay.
ii.
Teachers
Pet huh,
bet
you gave the quarterback
a ride
of his life,
take
your angst
blow
it up with
a measure
of vodka.
iii.
Parting
company dear,
Yes
I’m Gay
how
did you know,
yes
I have a lover
he’s
taller than me.
iv.
Paramilitary
maneuvers
in an
apartment
South
LA,
you
know -
the
entrance to gangland
just
a whiskers breath
down
the lane from Mac’s
takeaway
drugs centre.
v.
You
posed a question
do I
do the laundry,
I search
my pockets
no recent
down, clean
“yes
I do my washing”
but
I feel cheated by the air dryer.
vi.
The
seniors Programme calls for patience
students
in various stages of redress
wander
the halls and rooms
each
looking for hope,
finding
only
chastisement.
vii.
There’s
several days
memory
loss
the
speed echoing
illicit
drugs hurting,
a blind
poet
eschews
courage.
viii
Lap
dancers are erotic
I can
tell you, I’m a man
no not
a boy, they’d never
ever
let a boy in,
though
Danny from 53
tries
it on with the local Ho’s
they
slap his face
and
encourage him to try again.
ix
I sleep
you
rest
she
dozes
he snores
they
rest
no rest
for
the wicked
or tired.
x.
The
Bird flew west,
confused
the
winds diving shallow
Natures
work awry
pleasant
smiles
time
passed
Icarus
concludes.
The Six Wings of the Phoenix
i.
Those
pacing horses
riders
quivering
a plate
of pasta
for
the winner
wings
flutter
Pegasus
airborne.
ii.
Sites
of world renown
the
Acropolis
the
stadia of Olympia
Sphinx
in all their glory,
whispering
olives
succulent
to reclining
Arabs
and
Greeks.
iii.
By the
light of a Shadow Moon
ghost
riders of the Druid cult
play
nightmare songs
for
little children
in woodlands
cottages –
Lady
Genevieve holds a sword
so King
Arthur can slay
imaginary
dragons
with
dragoons.
iv.
Imagine,
you’re a little boy again,
reading
books about imaginary things
fuelling
the imagination, again,
then
you live your life,
seeking
the kings of beasts
the
beasts of kings
the
Queens of Nevermore,
seeing
the images of Psyrene’s
and
Minotaur, David and Goliath,
life
flows with this imagery,
dives
into the realm of possibility
the
limitless dream songs
Wives
and Husbands spend hours
reading
from Mother Goose
the
Holy Bible, the Koran,
other
books of fiction, and start a story
that
will live with little minds
for
eternity.
v.
Ripped,
torn, guillotined,
French
cakes sweet
after
a revolution.
vi.
Avenues
of hope take wing
the
tax take higher
a population
suffers
greedy
gun worshippers
start
a war to win peoples backing
the
wings of Icarus fall
with
unerring accuracy
on Iraq.
The Potency of Sexuality
Bend
over backwards
for
your partner
do everything
possible
to meet
her demands
the
sexual Olympics
bedroom
fun
and
games
sweat
the order of the day
particularly
the
living room romps
practising
to make
children
a hot
shower
where
fun continues
the
body pumped
for
a good long night
lady
luck intervenes
the
News
on TV
One
a bus
crash in bushlands.
Passion
killer.
Rodents in the Backyard
Backyard
Blues bounce bonny bonbons
Dangerous
Dave drives dented Datsuns,
French
fornicators fuck fermented frogs,
Harris
Haulers hunt harbingers, haughtingly,
Junior
Jackson jams Jimi – jumping joyously,
Lady
Lucy loves liquidating lingerie lines.
I stepped
back from the tenancy agreement,
decided
house loving was a thing of the past,
the
Blues guaranteed to tap a toe or two,
Datsuns
drive crazily around Japan and USA
matching
economies and inflation rates,
the
cost of living gauged by Coke and MacDonald’s.
A hunt
for the Man of the Century went far,
a lady
prime minister in the southern lands
puts
her hand up - chosen on her pants suits
she
runs a little country that boxes above it’s weight,
a society
for the Protection of Children, Love Care
runs
projects to keep disgruntled adults in line.
Harbingers
sound the warning trumpet, loud
the
ringing in your ears the prophecy of change,
free
trade stripped as Jimi’s Star Spangled Banner
rings
out raucously over Woodstock, his swan song,
why
do children of the arts commit suicide, ignorance
or just
a willingness to do drugs for drugs sake.
Lucy
on Peanut loves her man, good omen for children
the
life of cartoons a reflection of real life, not X-Box
where
the fantasy of death and destruction rules,
kids
now going into society and shooting up people
going
into classrooms and wasting years of tuition
going
into the wide world and blasting anything in sight.
Sadly
the days go by
rubbish
chucked out
the
Daisies on coffins
planted
with dead love.
Picking the Rhododendron Conundrum
Hey,
Hitler, you lost the war
you
killed millions in doing so
so why
go to war anyway?
Those
days when remonstrance
recalls
the annihilation of Races
the
last of the German Jews
making
good in good ol’ America
those
that escaped anyway.
Hey
Goebbels, you lost the war,
yet
your propaganda says you win
is it
that hard to deny the future.
The
homosexuals of society disgruntled
an ideology
that said outriders must die,
pasting
posters on lampposts for the populace
to dob
in anyone that isn’t Aryan, pure
the
German machine rolling on apace.
Hey
Rommel, you lost the desert
you
went a step too far, no support
the
desert fighters of the LRDG triumphant.
Each
citizen of the Third Reich enamoured,
tarred
with the same brush, Fascisti
lackeys
of the machine, left to stew their mistake
the
lack of realism in a war full of reality,
cramped
for room, the boys at war, doomed,
Hey
Dresden, you got bombed to bits,
bombing
from aerial rampage, allies
a resolve
to thwart the Hitler Machine.
Those
long days when winters cold bit, no fuel
just
wood from the Black Forest and other groves
the
wounded returning home apace, littering
their
minds shot to pieces, bodies frozen by ice,
a resolve
to see out the final days, alone, beaten.
Hey
Churchill, now cometh the man
now
cometh the hour, Roosevelt too
and
Stalin from the North East, vigilant.
Death
litters Europe, Africa, The Pacific Basin
Germany
and Japan seeking world dominance,
the
rest of the world putting a belated stop to it,
the
coffins filling large cemeteries, inundated,
the
Cross Of Iron losing it’s glamour, rusting.
Hey
Johnny Appleseed, Hey Ivan Ivanovich
you
meet in Berlin, shake hands, Hitler gone
the
sound of Enola Gay leaving a bombed city.
The
War declared over, countless homeless men,
equally
homeless families, disjointed,
dishonoured,
dismantled, dysentery.
The
cost of following the tyrants
the
payment - death and misplacement.
Carving Knife
Truncated
a word
that
could be
shortened.
Runny Eggs
She
fries eggs on a skillet
tosses
egg whites high
yolks
low
the
salad tossed over
added
ingredients
filling
up
We all
tried BBQ chicken
the
fat dried and gone
finger
licking
pas
the sauce, hot chili
spray
everywhere
devour
anew
Splat
goes the eggs yolks
splash
goes the whites
splurge
- we all do
Swan Song
Haven’t
you seen the thing yet, Hogmenay Hoopla,
when
scary demons delight little children
the
sparks of crackers and fireworks booming,
drowning
a sad town in tears of colour
practical
townsfolk sell lemonade and soda pops
to help
quench the thirst of those in need
the
Beefmonger sells BBQ chicken and meat patties,
sausages
sizzled on an open fire, spluttering
Ice
by the bucket-load, chilled wine for society ladies
the
menfolk quenching beer by the gallon
I made
a turn down Ocean and Hands, the flowers
all
abundant in their blooms, eye-catching
the
road littered with the confetti and papier mache
little
children playing in Wesley’s playground
I sample
a family life, a single man in utopic furore,
the
indicator on the car says I am turning right
Past
Seddon’s Woodworks and Arts/Craft Store
down
the left, Shoebridge’s Haberdashery
The
crowd dissipates with darkness, lights on
to pave
the way down Eastheimmer
a place
I’m looking for, there, next to MacDonald’s
children
entering and leaving with parents
there
it is, The Sodium Carbonate Store, blackened
from
a fire some months earlier, my new place
home
and work, I park the Winnebago down the drive,
around
the back covered in graffiti and artwork,
turning
off the radio, I hear the thump of Dance music
a bit
of Techno Punk and the society dance of youth,
open
the back door, the smell of BBQ’s and fireworks,
the
fry pan apparently the cause, but a cheap buy,
my first
plan, take advantage of the Mac’s next door,
the
windows, now boarded, to be opened
and
shine a brand new product on the helpless town,
a drop
in centre for the mentally ill, a second home
but
for now, work, and lots of it, to Rex Harrison
the
ugly duckling into a meritorious swan.
Razorback Ridge
We spent
twenty four hours scouring the brush
pig
sign everywhere, the dogs on the point,
the
sound of silence loud in a world of green,
I checked
my rifle, an old Lee Enfield .303
checked
the safety, a round in the chamber
then
from a few hundred metres ahead, the dogs,
barking
and scurrying through the bush, back towards us,
my partner
Bill cocking his trusty Winchester,
lever
action, a round up the spout, both ready,
the
sound of approaching animals, stand by a tree
a balancing
act, me and tree and Lee Enfield,
the
sight set at 45 yards, enough for a hurried shot,
then
out of the thicket ahead, tusked boar running,
it’s
grunt matched by two shots, both hit their mark,
the
boar staggers yet runs on, closing us down,
I lever
a second round, as does Bill, the shot accurate,
we settle
on who’s carrying, share the load, the burden
I get
first digs, hog tie the front hooves, stand and carry,
Down
through tough brush country, the weight hefty
but
enjoyable, a good pig always brings a measure of glee,
Bill’s
got the dogs, all in check, job well done, fed.
We swap
loads, halfway down to the ute parked
near
Spencer’s Gully, the keys safe in a pocket,
we melt
through the forest like we own the place,
The
pig grunted, or was that a death rattle?
we made
it home, stripped the carcass, shared meat,
wild
pork roasted with potatoes and cabbage, yum.
Children of the Longhorn Forest
Deep
in the Belly of Balderdash Grove,
the
songsters wail in mourning song
several
tall Ent Trees swing and beat the air
the
life of puppies in a house nearby
assured
by the magic of the mystic forest.
There’s
a thud of an earthquake,
Dream
Robber the Weary comes
from
within the earth, to steal things,
little
things, and big things, just things
the
children sleep in their beds unaware.
A mobile
hospital settles in the valley
up go
the tents, down go the pegs
into
the heart of the Denizen Beast
king
of the Underground, queen of the Grasslands,
a roaming
Minstrel writes a nevermore song,
Truth
in all it’s ugly facets, rears it’s ugly head,
spies
the minstrel and encapsulates him in mist
the
happy song now a crying song, children wake,
cry
for their mothers and fathers, for the land
as it
weeps - desert tears in a dry encompassment.
Ladies
of the Seven Notch Mile, a house on Ragnorok
hear
the beating feet of the Ent Trees, dancing happily
the
children drawn from beds with parents, outside,
tears
stop, the sky clears and a happy face Moon smiles
the
cacophony of Glade Music sets all to smiling,
yes,
happy heart, happy minds, happenstance
the
Prince of Dark swept away with Moonbeams
the
ground stilled with calmness and sweet song
children
dance to the minstrel, his heart refound
adults
dance a rumba, find new love and hope.
And
on a branch in an Oak in Balderdash Grove,
three
little bluebirds sing love songs to a bush aria
all
the children and adults, the minstrel too, and Ents
all
marvel at the sweet love they endear, and clap
(as
if Ent’s clap) but all the land is basked in love.
Except
under a bridge over the Merrywine River,
A grumpy
old man with scales and seventy years of dirt,
holds
his mud caked ears to keep the happiness away,
there
is always one to be found in every story,
the
arch enemy of happiness, the grynch pre-selling Xmas.
Fear
not, he runs.
Flying the metaphor
Like
a dove
on a
busy errand
Like
a hawk
intent
in prey
Like
flies
busy
in life
The
reason ten geese flying in formation, the need to fly places in regimented order, for life.
As an
Eagle
from
a lofty eyrie
As Uncle
Sam
F-1’s
over Iraq
As a
Monarch Butterfly
sailing
on the breeze
A height
gained by a hot air balloon as it sails high into the stratosphere, men testing chance.
For
every blackbird caught
another
reaches a nearby tree,
For
the width of great Oceans
the
Godwit travels thousands of miles,
For
the kneeling praying to God
a flight
with lofty angels.
The
Pegasus gallops time and space, sets down lightly on Mt Olympus, the smoke long since quelled.
Townsville Tableau
I pasted
daisy dandelions in great hordes on a pin board made for notices. The yellow/white
conundrum splashed golden-like emanating light into a barren dusty room, the seasons passing as the light failed. I’ll have to wait for next summer to revive.
The
rocks of the foreshore
wet
with incoming tidal flows
a sea
lion sits on a promontory
basking
in the glow of winter
a pup
in the water playing, learning,
a Vespa
hurtles down State 54
a sedate
forty five miles per hour
the
last of the traffic bedding down
for
another night in the hills of San Fran
the
blues bar on the corner pumps.
The
other rooms are barren too, long lost a family used to excess, the dust gathering where no movement lies, a mouse the sole
occupant, barring a restless human soul trapped in the netherworlds. The yellow/white
now faded, not to be replaced ever, a child’s thing to do.
There
once stood a tall Redwood
now
the ring bark tableau a picnic,
cars
park in all areas dodging bears
the
occasional deer runs amok
a teenager
wanders from the pack
cellphone
ringing and txting her love
she’s
not attune to nature, most aren’t
they’re
more than likely face a parent
than
the reality of the outside world,
the
tunes on the Mobile baby like.
Yes
a soul lost in time, ghosts they’re called an untimely death, not time to say goodbye the white/gold of a ring on an
opaque ring a reminder that once a good family lived here. Then the light dies
and all images deflate into grey/black. The dandelion shines in memory.
An amazing
sight, Humpbacks at play
not
to mention Minke’s shadow dancing
the
coast full of sightseeing boats
as humanity
tries to get to grips with Nature
a long
lost heritage, the sea, whence we came.
The
Mobile in Geoff’s room rings, incessantly
he races
to answer, trips over his dirty clothes
dives
for the bed and answers, out of breath
out
of time, the thing bloody clicks off, battery low,
she
will ring back, though she’s rather impetuous.
And
the night brings tears, soulful deep tears, the memory an ache, the longing a desire, the five fingers of ferns on the desk
gathering dust, a reminder of better times. ‘Why’ he thinks ‘is
he a prisoner of this wretched place.’ He wanders back to Heaven, mindful
not to disturb the rest with his moaning wails, his deep sobs of regret. He takes
the memory of the Daisy/dandelion with him, his final visit.
She
leans against the redwood table
cursing
that poor excuse for a boyfriend
she’ll
drop him if he doesn’t get his washing done
if he
doesn’t keep his phone charged, duh!!
She’ll
drop him if he doesn’t become a man.
To date,
the world faces reality in many ways, but most of it is out of tune with nature, with natural things. Everything is now the Wow factor, the less we see it, the more the WOW!!
And unfortunately Wow is losing to human endeavour, destruction, expansion, advancement. Too late to grow dandelions and daisies, they’re getting few and far between, too late to fix untimely
deaths (though they are encouraged). Yes a true conundrum.
Rock and Roll
I’m
a Karaoke singer of ill-repute
sing
rock and roll
do the
stroll
belt
it out like a coot.
I’m
a Karaoke singer of fame
sing
Rock ballads
poetic
standards
rock
it out with no blame.
I’m
a Karaoke singer of good cheer,
Led
Zeppelin tunes
Roy
Orbison croons,
thumping
it out with no care.
I’m
a Karaoke singer, Rock’s my line
Deep
Purple’s Hush
a Dylanesque
rush
Forever
Young in full time.
I’m
a Karaoke singer of divine light
George
Thorogood
sounds
that would
leave
a parting shot highlight.
A stroll through my memory
The
road was long,
wound
it’s way
through
the
memory
of my mind.
The
taste of salt
as it
meandered
along
a populated
beachfront,
bathers
chilling out.
A foreboding
as it
careened
through
petrified
forests,
filled
with Neanderthals.
Dream
sequences
as it
stopped
at an
Intersection,
the
cross traffic
fighting
with pedestrians.
Seven
seconds
a reaction
time to
fallen
heroes,
the
cenotaph
laden
with wreaths.
My mind
sees a white line
dotted
in places
passing
areas
where
high speed technology
fights
with semantics.
My head
is sore
to much
input
touch
of output
the
need to breathe
or take
a data dump.
I’m
lost in the fogs
of Otago
Harbour,
Mount
Cargill covered
in the
early snow
of autumn.
The
black ice
on Franz
Josef Glacier
sends
slivers of cold
on a
Haast Highway
creeping
buses.
I seem
to remember,
a time
when I drove
with
head out the window,
black
frost killing
screen
and ears.
The
alacrity of sourness
a taste
of black top,
my motorbike
sliding
the
helmet saving my life
still
tar in mouth.
Today
the road winds south
always
south
to a
time I have forgotten
to a
memory
fading
with the years.
She says - I say
I walked
down the road,
cars
whizzing by
your
tacit NO to sex
ringing
in my ears
I should
have learnt
she’s
sixty five, me seventy
the
need to fulfill
animal
ambition, contrite.
I walk
down the street
trucks
slowly pulsing
I asked
you for Honey and cheese
you
gave me a forlorn look.
I should
have remembered
the
days when your mood
is a
cannon to a flagship,
the
wreckage strewn everywhere.
I walked
past Kirkaldie and Stains
the
pants suits reminding
you
are the boss, figurehead
me a
cold shovel in midwinter snow.
I should
have taught myself
to play
the violin to your double bass,
a concerto
held together
by the
rhythm of life.
I strolled
into a Police Station
to fill
out a missing persons form,
you’ve
been gone for days
the
house a mess, silent.
I should
have read your moods
after
all it’s been 40 years,
I see
the reflection in the Sergeant’s face
know
that look well, mirror.
I walk
home, as if it still is a home,
a message
from her sister
she
is safe, just wanted time out,
I make
a pizza and cook for dinner.
I should
have rung her back
I know
not the reasons,
pig
ignorant, to women’s ways
the
light switched off for a lonely night.
Ice on the windows
I take
something as simple as an Icicle
dip
it into an icicle liquefier
watch
the puddle patterns
articulate
into nothing.
I take
ten golden Chocolate éclairs,
munch
manfully hard
the
shape of dripping
cream
leaving shapes
on a
patterned T Shirt.
I utilise
bricks from a brick wall
build
a sand castle
dock
leaves for windows
the
mortar runny
as it
splashes my galoshes.
I take
seven strips of leather
twirl
a sequence
pass
to my son
a hat
for his tiny head
his
dribble pooling on the floor.
I borrowed
my wife’s pantyhose,
tie
the lettuce plants
to stout
sticks
tomato
sauce
on a
hot sausage.
Wind Chimes of Life
It’s
the end of the day,
a hot
sun putting itself
to bed
those
screams of night
about
to interrupt a sleep
of the
dead
a pale
wind puffs along
blowing
moonbeams
into
my room
I’m
touched by gentility
softened
to tender roast
eaten
again
by a
ravaging Morepork*
on it’s
nightly errands
poor
mice
a lake
pools on the carpet
tears
of Never Again weep
memories
at the
rising of a morning sun
the
mourning wail recants
tears
of ice
We make
it back to reality
you
and I, all of us,
breathing
So sadly
the Moon sinks
to be
dragged up again
on the
morrow
Pasted
to an opened window
the
reminder life exists
wind
chime.
The Flight of the Hawk.
I went
for a walk this morning,
sort
of mid-morning
not
too early,
birds
all a flutter and preening
flying
to the ground
feeding,
I past
a paddock with a horse in
he seemed
too pleased
with
his life,
The
cows in the field over the road
chewed
their cud and mooed
as is
their want,
The
road took a turn to the left
the
tannery belching
dead
flesh,
On the
way back, a car roared past
I gave
him the proverbial fingers
he practically
took them,
back
to nature, the hawk soaring
on wind
patterns etched
in the
mind,
I got
home, quickly wrote this poem
my feet
swollen, testament
to a
long hike.
When the River Ran Free
Deluged,
downpour
dripping
dirigibles float
falling
farther than
ten
titan’s tossing cabers
catchcry
calling clueless Honies,
Hopeless
happy honorariums brown
boiling
bottoms, butt-kissed, still
sodden
saturated stilt walkers cry
circling
curiosities cringe manfully
making
music mount zestfully
zebra
zing, zealots groan
giving
gravity great jest
just
juicing jalopies afresh
aftertaste
about apples running
right
‘round Rogers window
where
workman wonder inside
incessantly
incanting irritable Kings
Knights
keen – kneel opulently
opening
orations on Victorious
vectors,
violent volumes pour
pouncing
ponies prance quaintly
quizzical
quips queuing, Unicorns
uncover
uniqueness, under etchings
elicited
every evening largely
liquefied
largesse loosens longingly.
Inglings.
Wasting,
the
water running free in gutters
could
be
used
for
gardening
or clever
toiletries.
Dreaming,
the
thoughts of fancy land scopes
should
be
used
for
laughing
or passing
Croatians.
Scraping,
the
bottom of the rum filled barrel
would
be
used
for
coughing
to alleviate
a dire need.
Roman Roads and the Aqueduct.
A wide
sweeping vista,
daffodil
filled fields
the
spreading Oak
a lark
eschewing a poem
(Keats
I think) yes
as seen
from an old Roman road
the
country the same
two
thousand years on
to think,
a Centurion
squatted
by the road
to lay
a plan for dominance
the
need to subdue the Saxons
whose
leader in years to come
would
fight with vim and vigour
Bodecia,
lady queen, fighter
from
a roman aqueduct
where
water flows still
the
drains irrigating paddocks
flowing
in the wind, - wheat
and
barley for beer production,
Yes
a centurion tasted of the broth
made
from hidden Hops, yeast
frothy
head and warm brew
to be
supped with tender care
a Caesar
copulated with royalty
the
babies of the Celts ready,
above
Hadrian’s Wall, steady
to fight
and drink and be heady
the
Tartan Kilts men fight and win,
the
Romans held at bay, always.
A tight
ring road around the Old Roman Baths
the
Bath township built around springs
by Roman
splendour to due diligence
to capture
leisure after a hard fought battle
many
bums have sat on it’s tiles,
post-roman,
post Anglo-Saxon
post
Viking, post Celt, post Norman,
post
French, Post German, post IRA,
a post
in a river ties a punt to stillness
near
Cambridge, City of Knowledge.
And
many English Poets see the aqueduct
write
a love poem, or a sonnet, musicians
write
creditable odes and ditties, aware
that
history stopped at the now, not wherefore
ready
to recognise something as it is.
Making Moonshine with a Difference.
I ironed
my white starch shirt, the heat sending steam bubbles into my face. The TV’s
playing a rerun of MASH for the umpteenth time, Trapper John mixing another illicit cocktail.
I liken myself to Radar, short, impish, diligent, like how I press my clothes.
I look at the steam rising and wonder why it’s taking 30 minutes to do one shirt.
The
mind, a conundrum
thinks
by itself
moves
with the moods
Serotonin
and Melatonin
fighting
with each other
for
a stable condition.
I drive
the car, firstly the left lane to bypass stalled traffic, secondly center lane to access the bridge lanes. My indicator flashes with each move, due diligence, a cornucopia of decisions. I look at the Speedo’, a sedate 75 kilometers, the bridge gliding snakelike under tires filled with
air last night. Averages say wear is even, odds say the puncture will come.
Today
must again be my lucky day.
The
work is innocuous
time
sheets say chore
a knock
on your door
a need
for more output,
the
brain clicks into overdrive
as neurotransmitters
pulse.
I made
it home, another day of durable dalliance, the second time this week the mood swings changed in mid work. I looked at light standards on the way home and saw roman gladiators waiting to pounce and score lion cars. The traffic lights blinked secret code messages to me, letting me know that there
will be no crashes here for another week – steer clear.
The
blazer in the cupboard
golf
meeting Wednesday
the
lady of the house
remnants
like her scarf in the pocket
she’s
been gone now for 8 years
my fault
entirely, I’m afraid
The
Dashboard clock sings twelve forty three pm. It actually flashes it in diode
red. The stereo is pumping out Ironmaiden’s Number of the Beast and already
the psychosis is taking affect. I make it to the meeting, a little worse for
wear, a minor sweat brushed off with the scarf from the pocket. Even that action
cries tears.
There
is no one at the door, a usual trait, but this time it doesn’t need someone to stop your progress. Illumination comes from a light above the door and a message board – Members Only. Yes, 8 years ago I was a member. I’ve done this every
Wednesday – tortured my soul with my old life.
You
have Bipolar
the
Psyche said
permanent
for you,
I made
a massive recovery
clung
to past things,
as I
rebuilt the future.
I’m
not even sure I live in a home anymore. I know I go to 266 Forrest Hill Road,
a house, but it’s not a home. I haven’t seen the girls for 4 years
now, and that really hurts. They are my children for God’s sake. I slip inside, drained, touch the photo’s of each of them, yes in my mind I also touch my wife though
no photos, I know that relationship is closed. Tomorrow I’ll travel to
work, and maybe quit, I need to change my reality to include my family.
They
sip champagne,
I sip
cordial,
just
because I can,
the
smart ones with new clothes
the
ones like me drifting along
in non
conformity.
I start
ironing the shirt again, yeah left the iron on when I left last evening. The
heat burns through the starch and the material has a bronzed streak running over it.
MASH is still on, Hawkeye spilling his banana daiquiri over Frank Burns. The
light outside dims, good, I don’t mind the dark. A street light outside
flickers incessantly, luckily my bedroom is on the other side, otherwise I’ll be flickering.
Mind
games forever
we know
nothing else
Thinking
Warriors
Flowers
She
sits in her kitchen
messy
as all hell,
a flower
on the window sill
wilting
in the midday sun.
She
runs through the minefield
that
is her decaying mind,
a touch
of rouge, lipstick
a dress
to die for.
She
hears him approach
goes
to the front door
a measured
manly knock,
does
she hurry too quickly?
“Good
afternoon Ma’am,
here
to read your meter “
his
gruff voice warming her up,
she
shows him the thing he desires
not
her she thinks, his intent
to finish
his task and leave,
she
looks at the flower again,
not
him then, she was flummoxed.
“Thank
you ma’am” he intones
turns
and leaves by the way he came,
she
smears the lipstick on a handkerchief
the
scent – she needs a shower.
Still
she looks at the flower
wondering
who left it in her letterbox
a white
rose a sign of love
the
dissipating flower puzzling?
A Rollicking ol’ sea shanty
Those
ten foot seafarers, riding White Horses
across
an Ocean so blue the sun blinks,
across
Pacific Islands covered perennially in palms
men
stepping ashore and giving birth to Sea women,
across
horizons bent with sun shimmer, mirage
the
height of these men increasing the closer they get,
roaring
Forties, and riding cascading water falls
some
seven metres tall and oncoming, till CRASH
they
hit the side of an abandoned Log Carrier
dive
into the fucken hold and sinking the lonely beast,
the
now 21 foot seafarers glee in their capability,
saving
souls, sailors, and sailoresses, scion of the sea,
white
horses now growing to charging elephants,
and
lambasting a shoreline like a wild tsunami,
rotting
houses, dead bodies, unwary populations,
the
salted water deteriorating vegetation, as it does,
like
the Royal Albatross, floating on mid air currents,
fighting
for fish behind brave ships, in the Southern Ocean,
Back
to the warm tropics, piggy backing on trawlers
the
scurry of fish hungry sea birds scavenging food
45 foot
tall seafarers growing apace, running on cyclones
the
rage of wind and sea throwing it’s power at Fiji,
the
bure’s washed wet, the populace on high ground
a white
horse appears to reclaim it’s rider,
the
riders make their home on Kilauea’s slopes,
the
fire mountain and the sea farers, companions,
until
another summer storm whips up the sea,
and
off they go again, ruination and wreckage
into
the realm of Tangaroa and King Neptune
into
the real world of the hardened sailor, Ocean rave.
Ovarium
If men were born
with ovaries in hand
and the bits
and bobs
to go screw themselves
how would they handle childbirth?
Top Fuel
I thrust
into her,
a thought
she
could
do better,
tweak
this, rub that,
see
the dials respond
at one
hundred miles per hour
her
pistons
running
full bore,
well
oiled cylinders
thrusting
back
in response
I see
her head sweat,
the
gaskets straining,
nitros
pouring into a rampant
carburetor,
powering
the counter thrust,
her
legs stretch responding
to full
acceleration,
then
I hear it, the power boost
grease
nipples straining
at three
hundred miles per hour
and
the parachute ejects
after
another four point six second run.
Yes
I love my car.
A Mirage of Vague Musings
a burgeoning
weight of responsibility
the
ladies carry children
men
their pick and shovel
the
relaxation of security
war
finished
fighting
over
stick
figures in coffins
play
Mozart’s Requiem Mass
opportunists
take stock
the
thievery
so easy
to do
when
eyes averted
a dove
flies to the Middle East
an olive
branch
dropped
with
Icarus
Wings
over
Iraq
then
the nanny at No 19
cries
loss
baby
snatch
from
under her eyes
the
police suspect
a drug
lord
as you
do
in LA
instruments
show a rapid descent
dropping
lie flies
over
a dead desert
long
lost of life
from
nuclear
explosions
the
mutant scorpions
devour
mutant
ants
and
up the food chain robbers vie
for
deviant fare
on soul
less streets
where
babies cry
in strollers
pushed
by
mutant
mothers
then
sadly a president is shot
the
free world aghast
mutant
marksman
find
his target
the
last of the wannabes
a tribe
of city Indians
left
to make mayhem
sadly
the roses wilt, irradiation
the
world goes crazy
as deer
and antelope
in an
African sunset
find
they are
lost
in the
reality
of big
brother
and
one sees the Mountain Gorilla
the
rock of Primates
disappear
just
because
they
are valued
by Chinese
medicine men,
the
toe nails an aphrodisiac
would
you believe
might
wins most wars, salient point
might
used wrongly is war
and
the memory remains
into
children
left
playing
with
fake guns
in a
New York precinct
the
murder rate
bound
to increase
then
in closing the sun shines blue
one
morning
and
the citizenry
espy
Neptune
in the
rear vision mirror.
