Heartland Rugby
Sit
now in my prison cell,
listening
to the radio and Heartland Rugby,
as the
minor teams of the second tier competition,
belt
each other about pretending to be bigger sides.
Takes
me back to my youth and my uncle
coming
home from playing each Saturday,
covered
in mud and blood, and the tears of beer
dribbling
down the front of his Excelsior club jersey.
And
to the days watching the All Blacks
beamed
into our homes in black and white,
from
overseas tours and delayed at that,
when
I would sit on the floor and admire heroes.
Then
my turn playing for schools teams
usually
a No 8 or Flanker, and scoring my Meads tries,
and
doing my Kirkpatrick breaks,
tackling
was a problem though, not hard enough – yet!
I joined
the navy, packed on the weight and muscle
and
played for Navy in a few weekend games,
but
at sea too much, but played every game
for
the ship wherever we went.
Pitches
dotted with coral, or the occasional concrete cricket pitch in the middle of the ground, the Islands
and
against many social club sides around Aotearoa,
the
occasional game as wing, most as openside.
My rugby
highlight, playing alongside All Black legend
Buck
Shelford, Iron Man, and also being one of the first North Harbour supporters back in 1985,
my playing
days resigned to Golden Oldies.
Sweet
Berries
from a tree
colourful,
bountiful, beautiful
and
just right for my tasting aim.
Lollies
from a supermarket shelf
wrapped
in plastic, send kids spastic, licquorice elastic
leave
well alone, my poor teeth.
And
ladies, your tongues,
tastes
as divine, fine wine, yours in mine
and
the taste, lingering and sickly sweet.
Perhaps
the dimension of thought
pokes
fun, has me on the run, facing the gun
when
a simple berry squirts it's pleasure.
Desert Island
I repose
on my own special beach
watching
the ritual of ripple and wash,
Dream
of lust ignited by memory
and
a hot sun caressing my body,
A kind
gesture of waft brushes tears from my eyes
as if
a woman was standing nearby,
I float
off on another journey of the mind,
and
dig my toes deeper into the sand for the next ride.
Charity
Eventuation.
Give
a little they say,
yet
everyday I give a lot,
advice
mainly, and support,
cheer
up here and get moving there.
There’s
a reunion of charitable trusts soon,
me and
my wife, for our daughters, see
ain’t
it the way, charity beginning at home,
well
no home yet, my fault really,
in fact
everything is my fault, truth.
I get
like this sometimes, maudlin I think it’s called,
a state
of woe and betide me, used to it now,
see
me being this way a long time if Lotto doesn’t surprise me.
The Poetic Tale of Tuwhenga and a Maddened Man.
It happened
March 2005,
the
return from space of a long lost son of Maoridom,
Tuwhenga,
God of the Cosmic winds
and
any wind or tidal current for that matter.
He surveyed
the Earth
trying
to visualise how his parents, Rangi and Papa
had
constructed things and what had changed,
and
his survey worried him.
The
Oceans needed a good dose of revitalization,
as did
the earth and the air,
Planet
Earth and Maui’s creations were in dire peril,
so he
set about doing what he does best, resurrection.
First
he swam into the great oceans
and
created stronger currents to help vortex
the
waste to the sea floor, and tsunamis
of spirit
rains onto the land.
He then
set about planting spirit conifers 300ft high
onto
coastal areas of the spiritual homes of the Maori
and
Celt, and set them in motion (they glide)
around
both countries to revitalize the soil, rivers, lakes.
Once
the rains poured down, the mountains awoke
&
started to glide (remember spirit here) over the land,
setting
up further renourishing of the air and land,
whereby
all the conifers ceased their roaming and settled in the great forests of the world to reverse the damage.
Tuwhenga
then invited the Great Spirit Eagle (Hikioioi) of the land known as Aotearoa to join in the party,
and
in unison with Aoraki, Hikioioi settled on a great conifer in Akaroa
Harbour, and started to wake the people up.
The
great Ones, 8 Warriors of old, were arisen and awoken from their resting place in the Remarkable ranges, whereby a huge Haka
was set in motion to help reenergize the land under their feet and in their vision.
Also
awoken, to help sweep the land were the great Celt identities, Gog and Magog, in both Great Britain and Aotearoa and with brooms swept north and south in a boustrophedon
manner. Twin brothers and sisters.
Tuwhenga
then stopped showing a mere mortal the spiritual vision and invited him to become a cosmic warrior, whereby Thane became the
first human to attain warrior status since Maui fished up his islands.
Tuwhenga
then welcomingly infused himself in Thane, who soon took over time by sheer hard work, and became over a period of eight weeks,
a Time Lord as well, and set about trying to right time and virtual reality.
A cosmic
warrior was hard work, requiring quick thinking, rapid data analysis, and equally rapid responses to everyday human questions,
but in the spirit world he activated eighty plus tasks a second.
With
Tuwhenga, Hikioioi and Aoraki help, he captured the One True God, the Gods of 12, and the Gods of 19, all gods from other
universes, and set in motion a plan to become a monk, which was duly done.
Soon
Hikioioi became Thane, and Thane became Mentat Thane, the sharpest thinking machine on the planet. Tuwhenga retired to the
cosmos satisfied the world had been saved, and now it was up to 17,563 prisoners in world jails who also walked with Thane.
10,000 Zhao Buddhist Monks, The Animal Kingdom, the Undersea Kingdoms and the Celts and Maori.
Maori
Legend speaks of Maui, so does the Thane kingdom, and thanks to a spiritual link with Izzy
Kamawiwo’ole the two ancient Polynesian lands were reattached and spirit shared.
Once
in the Shepherds rest, The Time Lord Thane went to work in the Square in Palmerston North,
a veritable
mish mash of a Time machine (or several) laid out to confuse people and wildlife alike.
Also
passed back now that Thane was a Channeller
(Spirits
and Souls) was the spirits to Maori at the guest house were Te Rauparaha and Te Kooti.
Many a late night Haka in the courtyard tested the recipients of their ability to do what was required from there.
Also
doing the walks up all the streets were three other identified Time Lords, and the next battle was to remove their tools from
them and their abilities and to return the status quo to the planet (and ultimately the Galaxy as Earth is the time wand of
the Milky Way ).
The
battle took place with no one realising who or what Thane was, and in three weeks the battle was over when Mentat Thane and
Warlord Thane combined and s-poke in tongues to the other Lords.
The
last act of the battle for Thane was going on the streets and living rough, to break virtual Reality, his own and the ones
of the Road Lords in their Air eater Cars, also known as Boy Racers.
Here
endeth this part of the tale.
Blew a Left Sandal to Bits
Shoulda spent wisely, sixty bucks instead of a miserly twenty, would have solved
my blown sandal issue by lasting five times as long as the current pair.
Now I have to walk with a self imposed
limp to be sure the rest of the thing holds together, leastways till I can afford to buy another pair.
Must
look bloody funny walking down the street, people leaning the same way I lean to see what the problem is, people
seem to be curious that way.
Oh well, another four months of wear I reckon, enough to get me to winter and shoes
again.
The World
It's a sad place, this world, full of birth, dying and rebirth (so it's said).
The
death takes many forms, but the result is still the same, population controls.
Having said that too many
old folks littering the superannuation ranks, money best left for the living.
I know when I don't get the pension
I'll be dead and worthless, with luck (no bombs in my country).
Annie MacCauley has dementia
She's a sprightly old codger, runs the roost at the Westella Rest Home for the aged and infirmed.
You wouldn't think to look at her she is afflicted with dementia but ask her about her family and butterflies
leap out of her head (ghosts in a closed closet)
Her face is etched with age lines that if ring barked would
reveal 89 yet her energy expresses 69, though ask her about her life and she blubbers. (it must be really hard
on her)
I gave her a kiss the other day, it was Christmas and I was duty Santa, I gave all the residents
a handshake or a peck on the cheek, as you do, but Annie got a kiss (and she smiled for once - a gem)
She
now smiles at everyone not knowing who the suited fella was (the beard) and her memory is starting to open up, she
tells things like she is a sharp shooting daughter of a father (long lost)
I'll leave that place one day knowing
she is still alive and well and still demented a little but more open about who she is and where she has been.
It's Misty in my Mind
It always is on rainy days, especially those days of summer that offer more.
My minds’
grayness seems to replicate the pavement wet with footfalls.
And suddenly I'm struck by lightning, gray turns
to white - for a moment.
It etches possible pasts but plenty of uncertainty of possible futures.
Relax,
the wind will come.
Railway Song
The grunt of heavy diesel electric chugging along with carriages spread out, 40 odd strong, with
the smell of effort killing the throng, with the light of day now almost long gone.
The whine of the Electric
double tag team with many stock wagons where stock scream, with the sound of stock eyes in a stream, so aptly
engineered to replace steam.
The thud of the Shunter working it's load, Pushing and pulling with energetic mode,
Around the marshalling yards she does go, Setting up the next train with painful forebode.
The whisper of
the Railcar singing at night the people onboard treated to wonderful sights, The moths dispatched in powerful headlight,
The passengers treated to a special flight.
Home is what it is.
Could be a rotunda style, or a six sided country hack, some suggest Pole House, I tend
to think simple bungalow.
My preference for four walls, and a drab decor show me to be something devoid of
life but the furniture says otherwise.
Mottle grey walls set off to rustic brown sofa's and brownware
of bright colours, Birds of Paradise fly free inside.
My bedroom suffers most, storm tossed ceilings and walls
clash with bright aquamarines and turquoises in a landscape reminiscent of Treasure Island.
Burnt Charcoal on the Barbeque stark against the remnants of yesterdays snowfall, the cats and dogs level
vapour trails into emptiness, and their pee runs.
The wishing well is five cents short, always, my abode
never short of a comment even in it's stark reality.
The Pole
Reconnoitre
the Square surreptitious wanderings in a playground for the bored.
The Pole!
stands ten feet tall
and guides all travellers hither and yon
like a huge Monopoly game piece static yet picking up players
apace.
I lean against it, hiding from wandering eyes and insightful rhetoric, yet the shadow cats are but
a wan reflection
of a skinny man and a skinny shadow.
Faceless children don't really see it, as bent grandmothers
and street urchins fail to see through bent aging heads.
Tomorrow it will be gone from memory, pole-axed due
to other quests.
Poetry Pen
Lava
Lamp – green
shaped
like a stagnant poetry pen,
sends
shards of ideas
across
synapses devoid of care.
Electrolysis
shoots hexagonal
shapes
of swirling thoughts,
Reflected
light moonbeams
dance
patterns on white walls.
The
mire of lava lamp ooze
suggests
myriad mind waves
that
swirl across bent neurotransmitters,
leaving
a patterned poem to stand.
Ghost Trails of Silence
You're
aware of the sound, stand in an empty room, and one small move echoes, bit like Cyclops hammering your head.
The
room's not carpeted, or for that matter walls covered, barren to it's wooden core, and still Cyclops resounds.
You change to a concrete bunker, and the sound (if any) is muted beyond belief, except the earthquake boom
of Thor's Warhammer heavily tapping on the roof.
Cracks appear in sound rooms as force leads to decay, been
going on that way since before the Christians boomed their way into others lives.
Christ it was loud!
Now
I near my own silence, when both voice and keyboard no longer sing, and wonder if Thor, Cyclops, or Jesus will
take my noisy carcass.
Wind up toy
Come play with me little sister,
see me lying at your feet,
waiting to whir
and dance across
your bedroom floor.
Pick me up, and wind
make that sound you love,
see me careen amongst
the barbie dolls and clothes
that make you dually happy.
I am older than all toys
you own in your room,
belonged to your favourite uncle,
his smile sits plain on the decal
that makes up the mark of me.
Come little sister,
your sadness needs drowning,
take me up and bring that smile
to your rosiette cheeks
so that I may smile in fun too.
An Association
of Excitement
Stood nervously, calm outside
the venue, an old stucco house bleached by years of sun, windblown detritus surrounding it's imposing grounds.
They came, not many a gaggle
of geese on a fools errand, every week, weeks on end, dark haired maori girl, indian maiden in orange, denim
guy, sweat stained from exertion to get there.
She of ancient years, waddling under the weight of shopping
bags, she must be in charge positive walk, brusque hello to me, a stranger, then the trickle died, my moment.
Walked
in and took my place amongst the group, polite smiles, a wan hello, and the association began, orange top,
she spoke a lot chairwoman, and good, at ease nodded affirmations from sweaty guy.
Old lady sat and looked
at all and barely contributed, I smiled and was made welcome, parted some thoughts and had a coffee, with biscuit,
offered, she in charge, stood back and brainstormed thoughts, onto whiteboard pallette.
A sense of achievement, nothing
done plenty said the group smiled, laughed and made plans for another, next week, same place, same time, and
I affirmed my attendance.
Walked down the street, footsteps
dancing, lighter with excitement of being a part of something, made plans to get there to see orange top, sweaty
guy, old lady and maori girl, and she in charge, for the sake of association, and a day doing something different.
The Dead Bird Littany
Woke from sleep, wasn't
a snore, sound of twittering then silence.
Dug numb feet from warm sheets, wandered into one room thence
another, just the bloody cat and a room full of black and dark green plummage.
The cat holds it between maw
agape, a cat smile no doubt "here you go, Master"
I shake my weary head, wondering cat scratch fever, dead
bird littany pity consumes then buries in a move back to bed, put cat outside first, and prey.
pray to bird god ask
for absolution for the puss cat, rolled eyes, slept.
Note for waking man -- add
feathers to burgeoning pile. Why me, cat?
Sings for a mate
Magnificent Tui, bellbird
with beautiful song sitting alone in Totara, seeds aplenty, room to spread and your song rings throughout dense
forest for one to hear, where is she?
You prepare the branch, adorn, a floral tribute and you sing, continually for
her, her heart her mind, the Tui song that settles in the soul of all who hear,
some just don't get it, or
know it, or care.....
she lands, a-fluster, makes
motions up, down, and all along your prepped pad dances to your song, you to hers, she offers you obey nature
and take, she flies to feed,
you start then, the nest, for the time is here
you build apace, she admires,
inspects questions your expertise but you build, and sing a new song ringing out through deep flora, the song
of union found,
and she sings along, mate for life.
Rocky faces
Subtle differences
cracks
smears
blurred lines
futile indifference
if you look
long enough.
Sullen demeanour
moody
brown
cracked faces
Fallen fences here
if you see them
often enough.
Asinine posturing
morbid
frozen
broken promise
burnt offerings
if you touch them
with love.
The earth rumbles
we fear
shake
our resolve bent
you stumble
faltering
on your own steps.
Humbled by cracks
in a strong rock face.
Lonely
Lonely,
like a bluebottle adrift on
a sparkling beach,
lonely,
like a giant dying kauri in
a podocarp forest,
lonely,
like a discarded husband in
a broken marriage,
lonely,
Like a GM corncob in a Gisborne
field.
Lonely in my reverie of life
and death,
my outlook reflects my input,
stunningly empty of things,
those things needed to grow,
but not a failure, I stand
tall
like that lone Kauri,
wash in and out with the tide
like that Bluebottle,
change with the science of
GM
to fit a new environment,
grow with two families in
my thoughts
not just the one that left
me behind.
Yes, not so lonely, my abacus
weighing lifes equations daily,
with dexterity and skill.
I might die with noone at
my funeral,
but my internet family will
wonder?
Sips Champagne from
a Wrought Iron Balcony
Two mannequins, porcelain
Cherise swabbed in silk chiffon, dapper Jean-Luc penguined in coat tails, a dance of evening lust in a glass of
bubbling champagne, the lights of gay Paris illuminating their passions.
'neath the the gas-lamp on
Rue St Lugiene, Poirot in paupers rags smokes and swigs from a paper bag, rough sown grapes of faraway Portugal, watches
a balcony of love, spits old memories onto a cobbled pavement.
The four poster sways
to the beat of single lust, a sanguine Stephanie rocks her fingers to the image of her Julien, he with the nightstick
and the sauntering swagger on Parisienne streets, her Gendarme twice a week, tonight he comes.
Julien studies
the balcony, his amour rising with each kiss between the two beauties, his mind swimming in his mission, his
sight riveted on their motion, mindful of old Poirot and his gaze Paris, lady of intrigue.
In another moment, they meet champagne
spilt and splashing dribbling onto wrought iron spillways, spilling on to passing couplets pas de deus, a ballet
of movement whetted by the love of those above.
They move, clink glasses on cement tableaux, waltz amour in two
step to the street below, arms linked past poor Poirot, toss him a sou and meander up la Rue behind a sauntering
gendarme, in love, bubbling with intoxication.
Poirot downs the last dregs of Port, turns and follows with a
stagger, admiring her pear shaped arse and the length of her slender legs skipping a tango of happiness.
Stephanie
leans out the bay window, her nakedness basking in the warmth of a Parisienne night, people laughing and dancing
in the street below, there he was, his dark blue uniform flashing hello, his look straight at her, his awareness
for those he met, and she spied them then, Cherise and Jean-Luc, her loins stirred, their beauty and love such
a stirring emotion.
Poirot stopped metres from them and found another gas lamp to lean against, they'd stopped
in a street cafe, ordered Burgundy and a patisserie, le gendarme strolled across the street and danced up the stairs
to who knows where, he pulled the book from his greatcoat, and began to write, the poem transfixed in his mind.
The
street was noisy Paris at her best, yet above this he heard them, Cherise and Jean-Luc talking love talk, and the
grunts of a Gendarme and Stephanie from an open upper level window, he wrote on and all too soon, the Port took
effect, the light dimmed, the sounds diminished, Parisienne night died, a ragged street beggar slept at the
base of a post.
In the morning, the balcony was sticky, the sheets which held a sleeping gendarme, ruffled, two
mannequins slept peacefully alone, and a street poet woke and wandered off for another bottle and another night on
the Rue's of gay old Paris.
71a Stagnant Street
Had a brick home once, 71a
Stagnant Street, in a town called Nowhere, lives came and went, same doctor and butcher, undertaker and cop, Mrs
Stillhere from 73, spits on her dog the same way.
Funny how little changes in decades, eons even marvel at
people happy to be boxed and moving nowhere fast, just living life, don't know how I escaped?
Yes I do. Climbed
a tree when I was 12, saw hills and the sea and knew there was something else, apart from next door and the likes knew
there were different people than Nowhere people, and streets would have vibrant names.
Tucked away in my memory
now is a place called Everywhere, where everyone is different, and this last fleeting visit to Nowhere, to Stagnant
Street, was to say goodbye, to bury Mum and Dad.
Liquid Sculptures
First frost, hanging in
supine still air, a mist of sanguine quality, stirs a fruit orchard bare of leaves and sculptures dance suspended, from
dapple limbs.
The drip-drip-drip of melt
from the sun, an icicle or three weep, their shape moulded by suspension and a sudden cold, birds fly by, not
many shake branches in so doing, the sculptures quiver and break.
A glass tear stands alone now shivering
it's quiessence, the rays filter and shatter through it's gentle shape, water song in icy throng, for those who
stand and admire.
An early frost, creator if you want to see? An early frost, dream maker, as it should
be.
A few words from the Creator
Eerie sitting on a porch snow
wafting down gently falling to ground and I watch, frozen as it hits the table melts to water flows away gone.
Yet under a microscope, it's shape
suggests more?
Willow Talk
Three of them,
stand guard on my fence,
mostly sullen and quiet,
yet give them a bit of wind,
and party time in Willow Alley,
see them wave about,
gesticulate all over,
throw discarded leavings
to passersby, curious.
If they could walk, they'd
walk the talk,
willow talk on a silken grass
verge,
verdant green leaves and blades
seen
to be blending in a clash
of sameness,
and the higher the wind activates,
the more determined the conversation.
Guess what?
Can you hear them whispering?
Or perhaps the chatter of
laughter
as they bend and chortle loudly
quiet.
Maybe one day, when you bend
your ear,
you'll hear their latent Willow
Talk too.
Sigh!
Ah! but I see it, the sign
language is clear.
The Monument
Included in the ten foot slab,
of granite and marble,
those stark words-
"They died for their country"
every year, once a year
people are reminded.
Why only once?
Etched on the faces of those
who parade,
a sense of loss, of wounded
pride
and a memory of those that
died,
carried in their hearts
and souls and minds
the ones who went,
became left behind.
Old ladies at the RSA,
tend the kitchen and the bar,
measure plates of salad,
pints of liquor,
to hide the scars, of those
they serve
and their own, the ones passed
on,
like the letters in the marble,
all going, going, gone.
Why only once a year?
The scarifice was too large
for a once a year thought,
as if their efforts were for
nought,
and those that died,
living a desolate lie,
every Anzac Day they live
for half a day,
then quietly forgotten.
Lest we forget.
Maybe a plaque in every school,
"Kia Kaha, they died for you"
serve their spirit, their
memory
for the betterment of a new
world,
walk proud, be kind,
walk the walk of peace for
all mankind,
take honour in their blood
and wash yourself of their
cleansing lotion,
Arohanui, fallen warriors,
you are missed, and never
forgotten.
Ice Cutter
Leaning into it, fierce
death storm no breath, cut short on a wave of snow flurry and 50 knot winds, stupefying senses sensory deprivation as
the ice cutter, severs.
Blizzard, snow storm supreme blasts flesh of dead bones, unprotected devoured in a
blur of slurry, makes for hard times, to open eyes and see, see nothing but snowblindness, take a picture, might
be your last.
Tide washes dross from the
floors of pity
Moron, stagnant refuse
growing detritus floss on once solid food, the fridge looks like a bacterial worm and I eat from within, my anger
lost in mourning.
She died, left me to look after myself, irons cold these long years a washing machine standing
lonely, my rags tatters, lay about, strewn in disrespect.
Scour the living room, long since dead of her memory see
dust mountains building mosques in worthless prayer, a dog I don't recognise, wanders by as the tide roles in.
Mirrors
all broken shards of nothing staring back, a long face once recognisable now a chagrin fur-covered feint, tide
roles out and takes me with it yet all it touched follows
and haunts me. I drown in the misery of existence subservience,
abandonment, suck water deep into the lungs coughing up dust mites, and surviving.
She stares back at me "come husband, I await" yet
the tide turns again plonks me in my holy chair, I pray for resolve, restitution, duck into memories
and
swim long strokes of fantasy to assuage the beast, play back the video of my mind and make love to her once again,
then sink in the realisation the fridge is bare.
Broken Hearted
Today I read, the words
of the dead and dying left in trenches trying to remember the loved ones waiting while their life is abating,
and I cried for their misery, the Broken Hearted.
They swallowed their pride and drank the foamy blood oozing
from the punctured lungs because they could do no other but cry for sister or mother, the Broken Hearted.
I
then read of the generals in bed laughing and drunk shacked up in their bunks with nubile young maidens, nary guilt
laden, nor thinking of the Broken Hearted.
I put down my book and had another quick look in the mirror spewed
my guts out for the tragic young warriors left on the battlefield and cursed humanity, feeling broken hearted.
Today,
I swear, to those distant and near, that my will is to forge a peace everlasting but its harder now to do the casting
for anyone that's able to forget being broken hearted.
Wake up you fool, look what you write in spite of the
vitriol and mans solemn plight, we rush headlong in to eternity to be what we are and be what we've been, forever
great and equally broken hearted.
I have personal freedom, I have escape and responsibility and children, a wife and
I have the Net, Roger, and other lives that bring my being to completeness only occasionally broken hearted.
But
I digress, back to the story, the soldiers die and the generals get the glory, and some bastard of a president or prime
minister glorifies the deeds, as only the remaining families' bleed for the Broken Hearted.
Obviously a commentary on
the despair of the dying soldier and to those who remember, and those who forget, and the ease with which those who decide
the fates of their charges, take the glory.
The Bus Stop Analysis
Do you know what I am thinking
when I see you drive by,
Am I looking at you but can't
catch your eye,
Locked in your world, doing
your thing,
My Bus Stop analyses, what
will it bring?
Yuppie in the Beamer, smoothing
his hair,
Chatting away to no one thats
there,
Fixing his tie, it still looks
quite funny,
Off to a meeting, making more
money.
Old guy in a Landrover, hair
balding, grey,
Looking all over for a memory
to play,
Shaking his impatience, to
those too fast,
Cursing his age, but remembering
his past.
Two young girls, cramped up
in their Mini,
One too fat and the other
too skinny,
Chatting of their conquests,
before and to come,
One of them turns, and pats
her sore bum.
A bus full of those who need
to be learned,
All kids full of mischief,
a match to be burned,
A driver whose headphones
dont quite sit right,
My thoughts race to their
future plight.
But the Caddy cruises past,
coffin onboard,
Sign of the fish, sign of
the lord,
A memory lying dead in its
final journey,
Not two days ago, alive on
a gurney.
A Ferrari speeds by, with
a wistful lady,
Intent on her race with the
silver Mercedes,
She eyes me standing at my
stop of study,
But cruises on by her mind
on my body.
My reverie is shaken, by the
sound of confusion,
As my study is rent by a mighty
intrusion,
A hippie walks by with a spring
in his gait,
Turns to me, stops, and says
"Peace to you Mate".
My conclusion to the analysis,
firm but sure,
Is that man is quite ignorant
when hes locked up secure,
But if he is roaming the land,
out on his own,
He is friendly and open, and
not given to moans.
Will the Kids ever know....
Theres one lying on the ground,
In the middle of the day,
With a coke bottle in his
hand so proudly on display
And see the spreading stain
Across his chest again,
Will he ever know why he lays
this way?
Theres fifteen more spread
across the screen
Where two insane
Vented their spleen
With a mission of revenge
upon their mind
Where will it end
Will they ever know why they
lay this way.
Theres the image of this waste,
Sent across the narrow space,
And daily beamed into my own
living room,
Can I sit here and view
The madness of the few,
Do I question why the kids
all lay that way?
Do you take your own kid off
to school,
Knowing someone there will
kill,
Or do you leave her locked
up in your sheltered home?
Do you banish her away
Or accept that judgement day
May cause her to be the kid
lying that way?
How do you make a difference?
How can you make a change?
What is the easiest solution
for your growing pain,
Do you seek some re-education?
Or are just happy with retribution,
Or do you accept that some
kids will always lay this way.
As you wrestle with the dilemma,
Of the bullies and the winners
And the losers and the victims
on the screen,
Do you finally turn off the
box,
That transmits the ratings
vox?
And glorifies the killers
who make us pay.
Its nothing to do with guns,
Or knives or how its done,
Its really about the way we
drift apart,
A gun is just a tool,
Used by some of lifes fools,
To make the ones that hurt
them lay that way.
Can your conscience comprehend,
How life will really end,
When its finished by one who
you may befriend,
Does it hurt to extend your
hand
Or your heart to fellow man,
Can you stop all the kids
laying that way?
Take some personal responsibility,
Give you kids ability.
And show them how to treat
their fellow man,
Love the one with acne,
Play with the one with a lisp,
And show the kids how to stand
and how not to lay.
Seven Degrees of Sea
1° Beauty
Look around, nary a sound, Twinkling
sparkling millpond, Light dancing, no breath of wind, Paradise before you, Deep blue mirrors sky's hue, Clarity
supreme! See bullet-like fish dart and dash for metres and leagues down.
2° Paradise mottled.
Wind breaks the calm of seas
balm, yet still no harm, little ripples do break the serenity, still paradise not quite as nice but panorama is
churned, greyish tint The blue is less clear, Fish not there.
3° Paradise broken.
Grey clouds whipped by strongish
gusts, waves rolling Whitecaps strolling incessantly, Blue turns to dark green picture once serene now crazy
with churning spume clarity lost, murky water Thoughts darkened by the haze Cloudy wind-filled days.
4° Crestfallen
Swells building, waves breaking,
CRASH, wind whips water mad dashes across the surface Black roiling cloudbanks, close the gloom, leaves no room for
the fainthearted, motion started sea boiling green and white as stomach fights the crests and troughs Battle soon
lost.
5° Gut wrenching.
Death is near, no ocean clear, Lunch
is sent spewing misery ensuing As clouds now speed across your vision, Gales, high wind precision Swells stand
up and confront the fear of your dread, White anger, grey green broth Merciless ocean whipped to froth.
6° Passion Play
For as far as the maddening
eye sees, unrelenting danger assails the stranger to the power of the sea, Clouds one big procession, wind obsession,
your life at the mercy of powers far greater, and sooner or later the boat will sway and rock and toss, and moronically
ride out the oceans passion play.
7° Natural Forces
You ride the Dancing Horses,
on forces not meant to be, no one conquers the Sea, but feel it's power and it's serenity, be it Paradise, or
majestic Glory, take from it what you must Revile it, revel in it's touch, It will treat you, natures power as
it wishes, by Seven Degrees, The Seas.
Ruptured Soul, Tortured Whole
Is it too much to ask yourself what
sort of life you'll lead? is the bodiless mind that you have ever gonna bleed? and are the memories that come swelling
up torturing your lonely mind A really happy existence or a life you leave behind?
Is the machine what you really
want to keep your mind alive? or the pulling of the power switch your only chance to survive? and why if you've
been dead before, can't you choose to be again? What is this stupid folly of the ones that we call Men?
Can
you make it through the endless days? Will the loved ones clear away the haze? Is your life lost in the mirror maze? Can
they feel your heartfelt pleading ways? and if the jury answers your earnest prayer can they play the game, truth or
dare? and is the reality of the endzone yours, and yours alone?
When you see the far off sun-baked
hills a-gleaming in the morning light, will you try to move your once strong legs and seek to scale their might, and
if the running river of your mind stretches out for a midnight swim can you move your arms and torso, will they answer
to your whim?
and if the blackened memory
of your strength fails to move your body on? Do they understand the reason why, then that you'd sooner be gone.
Will the doctors then concede
your wish? Are you out of water, floundering fish? Can you move your will to topple the dish? Is your philosophy
a load of trash?
and if the jury answers your
earnest prayer can they play the game, truth or dare? and is the reality of the endzone yours, and yours alone?
And the tube that settles
in your throat that pumps your useless lungs, and the tube that pushes useless food into your fucken useless gut and
the bloody useless head that holds your stinking useless brain and the useless flipping body that tries to ride
the train is the hopelessness of your life going to be your sad refrain?
Will the loved ones who care
for you? Reach out and do what you can't do! can they answer Gods fate for you? and If they don't what will you pursue? and
if God answers your earnest prayer Does he play the game, truth or dare? or is the reality of the endzone yours,
and yours alone?
Hey there Vegetable Man, don't let them scramble the salad, cause if they do, you'll surely
go mad, hey there once strong guy, take your right to die! Only God' can ask why.........
Flight of Humanity
Seven thousand feet above
the ground, humanity, States bound, flies under the heaven, silver bird, seven four seven. All tucked in very
long flight, humanity soars on an endless night.
The preacher stirs in his
seat up front, drunken git, pulls a stunt, in the toilet, did they feel it, smoke roils out, alarms go off, Hostess
looks in, breathes his hacking cough.
Cholera spreads it's deathly
wings, Celine Dion starts to sing, Death reaches out kids start to shout, Preacher offers Gods hand, two hundred'll
be dead ere they land.
The couple down the back,
under blanket, continue to go at it, death all around, she continues, up and down, Old lady going to see her son, shoots
both heathen, with her gun.
Who's pulling the strings,
making the plight, of the passengers in endless flight, a deathly trip, no ones hip, to the plague that rages, even
the bright and now dead sages.
If a dog wandered the lonely aisles, and saw the deadly smiles, would he take
a piece to chew, with nothing else to do, the plane continues unabated, God's will is terminally sated.
Is humanity trapped on its
mindless mission? can the change be moderated derision, some mad smoker, starting the choker, killing the innocent just
as God wanted it, will he relent?
The fighters pull up alongside,
peer inside, yellow eyes of the Peoples Army deride, the unwanted intrusion, standby, nuclear fusion, Flight one
oh three goes down in unrecorded history.
United American held to ultimate blame for torching the flame, setting
the missiles on course, no fate worse, than a smoker with a hacking cough, killing the world, wiping humanity off.
No Words
Can't speak,
mind tied in barbed wire,
can't type,
hands handicapped by numbness,
can't reach the paper,
thoughts too far away,
can't die,
the knife is empty and pale.
No words,
can prepare you for indifference,
no words,
can chop through the mire,
no words,
issue forth from my finger
tips,
I am empty,
like a well sucked dry.
Yet I got this out,
been struggling for days
nay, a damn week
and the discourse of loneliness
is the only language I speak,
take a course in discourse
WINZ'll pay,
but I got to speak, another
day.
No words,
a scary damn feeling,
seeing others talking
your lips move but you say
nothing
whisper monologue to the wind
no words to bring you back
in
For Him
Right before bed, she made
it, his favourite orange muffin, moist and warm, on the bench cooling ready for his morning tea tomorrow.
She
did this, for him, every night, every day, and he never acknowledged, just grunted a gruff ' morning and shucked
it in his bag out the door and gone.
For forty years, then one day she did it, she baked a banana one, for
him and his placid ways he walked out the door as usual, gone.
She was on the stoop, waiting, as his
hunched coalminers body trudged up the path, "alright" he grunted passing without looking she turned, the groan and
sorrow etched on her furrowed brow.
She stood by his coffin, his mates surrounded it, tossed crumbs from muffins on
his casket, and she wept, not understanding the significance, later, at the wake, she asked and she cried.
For
forty years, George would take his orange muffin to the coal face, and feed it to the canaries, the life savers
of the miners, for forty years he never tasted one, never knew her orange.
Worse still, never knew she had tricked
him, and she cried, and to the end of her days, she baked a muffin at night as usual, took the fresh one in the
morning and spread crumbs on his grave, so the birds could feed on his kindness still.
Return of the King
Yes, I sat through it, Three
hours eighteen minutes of pure cinematic bliss, the third in a trilogy, that leapt words onto a wonderful landscape of
screen action.
I watched all three sat transfixed in awe, at the mastery of a New Zealander bringing the second
biggest tale of all time to reality, wondered at the plethora of his skills and depth.
Wonder no more, the
brush stroke finished, complete in it's magnitude, and hope we of Middle Earth reality have turned fantasy into
a playground of the mind, for days, nay eons to come.
Water in Three States of Being
I wrestle with the liquid
fusion
of water in motion,
lack dimension in my thoughts
as shapes transgress aquatic
form.
Battle cold lands and snow
flurries
hands swiping aside frozen
fluff,
throw demented headlocks on
icebergs
as they floe, escaping the
ring of water prison.
On a steamy day, I breathe
escapism,
form floating clouds in clear
blue skies,
my mind reaches up and ruffles
serenity,
causes disruption as I catch
solid steam.
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