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Maniacal Misinterpretations
I never
see my doctor, my psychiatrist,
he (or
she) sees me,
the
ink blots had no meaning
yet
the psych thinks I should see
see
the shapes that just don’t do it for me
as if
art was an ink blot, try Dali folks
they
probe your senses with psychobabble
and
wonder why you answer with a ceiling stare
as well
as twiddling of thumbs to show
the
time they are using is yours to waste,
last
patient was no where near as tough as this one
yet
time flies by in a room bare of love
I walk
out, the psyche hurriedly writing notes
to justify
their existence and the job they don’t do,
suddenly
it comes to you, understanding that five
second
look in the mirror, your psyche visit,
I wonder
about life, I have to, so much time,
but
most I wonder why psychiatrists get it all wrong.
In Mary’s Room
In Mary’s
room,
is a
sign of 80 years of existence,
her
clothes scattered
her
scent diminishing
her
passing notched
in the
carpet
where
cigarette burns are
a pattern
in a carpet awaiting replacement
like
her coffin
etched
with time,
In Mary’s
room
is an
indication she lived;
lived
her own life
psychiatrically
entrenched
after
61 years
instutionalised.
In Mary’s
room
is the
memory of her scant attire
the
dresser filled more with dust
than
clothing,
she
was like that.
In my
life
Mary
notched another memory
hobbling
around on a four-toed foot,
forever
dousing her hair with cod-liver oil,
a smoke
invariably dangling
from
gnarled fingers or curled lips
her
smile the thing that catches,
speaks
a survivor-
bemoans
a four-walled life-
engenders
patience-
(she
was always going on about God)
I hope
he’s looking after her
when
she goes,
because
in Mary’s room
death
stalks
beckons
cries.
Cecil’s crypt
I talk
to Cecil, not many do
he’s
seventy four, a few screws missing
been
a miner, dad, husband
robbed
by mental illness
confined
to life asking for smokes
yeah,
nicotine addict
but
you can’t blame him.
Lives
in a world that centres around
the
next smoke every hour or two,
his
vocabulary resigned to asking if you have a smoke,
or perhaps
“can I have ya butt mate”
I sometimes
pander to his desire
and
flick him a smoke
but
that only leads to him asking you
every
time you see him
“gotta
smoke mate”
Cecil’s
socks are as old as he is
the
holes getting bigger with each passing year,
his
clothes tidy, but all the wrong size
as tends
to happen in these places,
I bet
Cecil doesn’t even know what he wears
(or
cares)
He’s
a banter though, get him right
and
the stories flow,
more
to this old man than a puff of a cigarette
and
the abuse he gets from other residents,
he gets
that in spades and
he has
that effect on folks.
I guess
I know one day I’ll write his eulogy poem
like
I did for Kiril last year (he was 79)
to laud
his positive side
albeit
miniscule
but
done just the same.
I live
in Cecil’s crypt too
wondering
who is going to write mine
or I
have to do it myself, as usual.
Rudy's Rancid Rainbow.
Red - the colour of war
death
knocking at the door.
Yellow - the colour of the sun
and battles never won.
Orange - the colour of fruit
peeled away to divulge the brute.
Green - the colour of grass
and rotten bones now past.
Blue - the
colour of sky
the millions that have died.
Indigo - the colour of medals
soldiers with guns and pedals.
Purple
- the colour of mourning,
and of poems with dire warnings.
Black - the colour of ink
and another battleship
we sink.
White the colour of purity
a reason to fight with surety.
Rainbow - the colour of rain
the
war will start over again.
Behind Brian's door.
Behind Brian's door lurks a man
of God,
everything he does (we think)
is with that in mind.
I say that because Brian mumbles
as he is
morbidly obese
and has trouble moving his lips.
Behind Brian's door is a bunch of sayings
he trots out every
which way
and can be understood by the few (not I)
Brian's age is indeterminate, possibly late fifties
or
sixties, or even possibly seventy
such is the mystery of his appearance.
And appears and disappears, tricky wee
fella,
walks like a camel on steroids, and a propensity
to unzip and let rip with a stream anywhere (beware)
Behind
Brian's door is probably a man of vast experience
if only he'd let the door open ( just a small bit)
so we can get
a glimpse of the poor man.
Garden pests
The swirl of the spiral, signifies it's home
over
the land it is want to roam,
daily it wanders, hither and yon
the sticky trail signifies where it has gone,
A
pace that is measured by slow and sure
over plants it goes, eating galore,
the French love them, call them escargot,
all I see is something elegant and slow.
Ten Tripping Toes
They
stand as far from my brain as you can get,
no wonder they trip me up, dry or wet,
they stand there counting out a
tripping beat,
those ten appendages at the end of me feet.
They find doorways and furniture true
after each
hit, they colourise blue,
The pain is short-lived glory be to God
after 48 years each one of them is odd.
They
pass the time tucked away in shoes
singing away the bent toed blues,
sight unseen and thank heaven for that,
so
numb are they when they kick my poor cat.
So there is the eulogy to my ten bent toes
if you don't wash em often,
they assail the nose,
the closest they get to that part called head,
it's always the doorways that me ten digits dread.
Opus in G, O, and E.
Stage
centre
the
spot illuminates
a figure
- supine
drops
rose petals to a stage azure
In the
dress circle
a man
gropes his girlfriend
in asylum
darkness
moves
her G major
to the
pulse of the orchestral pit
The
movement on the podium
switches
to E
male
swan floats into view
dogs
howl in an alley nearby
drowned
by violins
and
a ladies moan
Pastel
pink dashes
swanlike
across
a woodlands scene
the
stage fills
with
dancers swaying
to
Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake
the
air is orgasm
behind
a spotlight
a stage
hand sees
the
minuet of O Major
in the
circle
sends
a shard of white hot light
into
the closed eyes
thine
lovers -
the
noise is horrendous now
viola
scratching innuendo
the
Cello strumming
the
Kettle drum pounding out
the
movement of a hand
between
two parted thighs
dancers
swirl white chiffon
cremation
of love
burnt
offerings of taffeta
to smooth
the
passage
of lust.
Was
that a dog barking?
or the
gasp of an orgasm
cheated
from the lead dancer
was
it the audience applauding
the
stage movement
or the
circle climax -
was
that a night of the opera
or
Swan Lake
garnered
with Purple fissures.
Love
poetry is written
with
a spotlight centered
stage
left dress circle
stage
right
dying
swan
and
in the curtain fall
applause
for
another night
where
entertainment
surreal
is garnered.
Last breath
I smoke,
no the
cigarette smokes
I'm
the sucker
on the
end
until
the end
I drink
not
alcohol anymore
no boozy
old snore
was
my friend
until
the end.
I eat
fattening
food before
good
food for sure now
I can
bend and how
until
the end.
I can't
see the end
neither
can my friend
this
message I send
to see
if you see your end
until
the end.
Wealth
Entry
to the show is as free as a dime in a cup;
startled
birds twitter and flitter meaninglessly
as Geronimo’s
vision is blurred by casino culture
the
penny pinching and rumours of corruption
stifle
a freedom for those with more cash than me;
you
seek a long mile paved with gold and sapphires
a place
where Dorothy tiptoed in youthful exuberance
then
the plan falls into place, the dollar drops
on stock
markets geared for keeping the rich – rich!
I ate
salad on a plate in the Ritz that stinks of dosh
turned
the diamond encrusted fork – picked steak
tonight,
a fat Cuban smoking Texan recommended it.
turning
back to the diamonds, trying to count carats
and
wonder at the depth (and death) of those mines
far
off in deepest Africa and Russia, small
countries
set
to engender wealth for the small fry, broken shoes
broken
promises, broken lives, pure lascivious jewels
garnishing
the petty wealth of Hollywood, or castles
across
Europe and the East – the sum total of tusks
too
rent from wild animals that only ask for peace
and
to be left alone on the African savannah.
Today
I divest myself of all my other possessions
the
ones that screamed conscience and death
the
ones that have me thinking about movie stars
devoid
of any vestige that decries capitulation
of Kings
and Queens flashing star-like
in a
world bent on mediocrity, oneness, same
Today
I planted a tree to repair the damage,
today
I called the Queen and gave her what for,
today
I went to Africa to fill in the mines
and
put a barbed wire prison fence around
the
homeland of the Rhino and Elephant,
fuck
the rich, screw the sex starved Chinese
bugger
anyone that gets in my way
I am
a minority, but I fear a part of a silenced
majority,
so we can watch it all lavishly on TV.
Adam culture
Is it
really that easy?
picking
apples
from
forbidden fruit trees?
How
hard is it?
to bite
deep
into
delicious sin.
Was
it hard?
taking
a rib
to make
sense and sensibility.
How
hard was it to ask?
A God
what
it is
really all about?
Why
do you limp?
seeing
as how
both
legs are perfect.
Why
do most write?
right
handed
left
guide
in a
book about ambidextrous.
Is love
easy to cherish?
a man
crucified
for
his sins
the
sins of all who follow.
Well
so it is written!
by unknown
sycophants
disciples
to the core.
Why
is the future clear?
not
the past
muddied
by wrong
interpretations.
Blue
– the finishing note
as blue
as all
the oceans
bigger
than all Men’s posturing.
Deeper than any church or book!
Ok
I stop
here
it’s
hard being a hypocrite.
Davy Jones Locker
He keeps
his work-clothes in it,
like
most at Mills Mine do,
but
there’s something terrifying
about
Davy Jones’ locker
the
stickers on the front
suggest
imbecilic moron
the
door opened suggests mummies boy.
In the
dark of a locker room,
men
sweaty from exertion
and
the toils of working
thousands
of feet under,
beneath
dark green jungle
searching
for the gold
on your
wedding band.
But
Davy’s a bit different,
sucks
little licquorice sweeties
at the
mine face
devil-may-care
with
a diffidence
to a
situation possibly
calamitous.
And
his locker reflects it,
death
masks collected
from
each miner passed by,
a remembrance
to his longevity
his
own possibility
the
possibilities of all;
the
miners leave him to it.
Each
keeps a talisman
suspended
from muscular necks
beneath
blackened beards
and
charcoal exteriors
above
blue coveralls
crimpled
from the last wash
when
women last saw them.
One
exception in Davy’s locker
that
all carry in theirs
a picture
of his mother
holding
a fresh lunchbox
from
when he was still at school,
days
to cherish for one so young;
his
few months on the face have hardened.
The Jesus conspiracy.
Regulations
stated no questions please
about
Jesus and a possible conspiracy,
stated
that Moses couldn’t be challenged
even
though he parted a huge sea!
Statutes
state Man must follow the One God
and
his Prophets – yes two - Jesus and Mohammed,
must
never question the written accounts
of the
lives these men begat upon society.
I know
Love, of woman in my arms
not
the love of fellow man, it’s sad really
but
I treat my fellows as equals
no superior
or subordinate as the case may be.
I’ve
read the Bible, three times now yet still
the
meaning of hidden messages don’t jump
and
hit me square in the face, yet I follow God,
but
neither of the prophets, too many wars.
Hannah’s Happy Handbag
She
swings it high and lo
damned
if she don’t know
what
a pathetic show
her
happy handbag is.
She
opens it up everywhere,
she
has a spare pair of underwear,
she
makes a fuss anywhere
such
her handbag’s whizzes.
Within
there are a hundred things,
a lipstick
tube that sings,
some
wayward goldy blings,
her
happy handbag fizzes.
Why
she has Tampons new?
why
she had a spare left shoe?
why
she always wanted screws?
her
happy handbag fizzes.
No money
- all just cards,
swings
it in circular yards,
sends
the glass inside to shards
Visa card for business.
Stolen
one day by a youth,
she
thought so uncouth,
her
anger went through the roof,
handbag
now just hissy-fit.
White Water Rafting
Driving through a mountainous gorge,
a
river splashing white and blue below,
see little specks on rubber tubes,
negotiating rough rapids; and themselves.
Drive
further on, see the signs,
Mountain Pass White Water Rafting,
black lettering on a yellow background,
sort of like
a bumble bee waiting to sting.
Pull into the layby, see the road leading down
to a point, a chalet and a few sheds,
looked
at Patrick, flip the gold coin,
heads we deal with what the road has for us,
or tails, we venture into the unknown,
associate
with water and oars,
sore arses from numerous rock assaults;
tails it is, we smile, nervously, but with glee.
I
write this from heaven, cool kinda place,
Pat sitting next to me with a grin bigger
than the Big Banana on the Gold
Coast,
watching the authorities drag the river,
searching for a rafting mishap, just one of those days,
see the
car being picked up by Pat's brother,
some cop places a tarpaulin on a body,
not mine, nor his, that Swedish blonde
maybe;
flip of a coin eh?
Eye
Eye,
called Veo
designed by some geekboy
to send my image
as a megabyte
to you.
Sits
atop
a monitor,
asleep
'til I hit Webcam
in Yahoo or MSN.
Then it shines blue
to say I am there
whereever
there may be,
a few seconds away
you smile
at me
Megabyte Me.
Is it a coincidence
I use Windows ME?
Who?
Me?
He
he.
The
Great Procrastinator
Made some mince on the stove,
heard the phone ring,
answered
the phone,
it was my brother,
the doorbell rang,
was the neighbour,
asking for sugar,
walked to the pantry,
the
cat demanded food,
made for the fridge, KittyBites!
needed a drink,
went to get a glass,
found a two week
old bill
sitting on the bench,
ran to the office for my pen
saw my chequebook
picked it up for some reason,
trotted
to the bathroom
looked in the mirror,
saw a hungry man,
with an irate brother,
an unsettled neighbour,
an
estranged cat,
a drink needing to be drunk,
a bill waiting to be paid,
a pen trying to be found,
a chequebook
that needed using,
and now an image needing fulfillment.
A mower on the
verge of extinction
It's just
a piece of shit
hunk of rusty damn metal,
a motor that clunks through
the phases of cough and splutter.
Spews
smelly fumes into pristine air,
makes enough noise to keep the neighbour
deaf for a good week or more,
'til the
next time at least.
Costs a packet to run,
can't see the point in keeping it,
'cept makes my house look neat
and tidy,
first impressions don't you know?
I
was 15 dreaming of being 45 looking back
Was just this minute
in a reverie,
chewing over ideas for another poem,
when I had this vision,
me 45 going on 46,
sitting in a 2
room house off the main road,
juxtaposed alongside a skinny kid,
30 years younger, in fact 30 years ago.
One
and the same person?
Nuh, not really, things happen,
change, get altered by life,
see that blow up kid waiting to
be fulfilled,
waiting for his first girl,
hand in his pocket nervously scratching.
What's changed, apart from
the dimensional things?
A beard, greyish now, not the bright red
of an 18 year old brash young guy,
more pork around
the ribs and stomach;
then he could run a mile in 4.30,
now he'd be lucky to ride it in 5,
then there was those
rolls in the hay,
few and far between then, at first,
but a reputation soon builds,
what was once all night,
is
now all right if it's 15 minutes,
if that, he thinks.......
Masquerading now as a learned poet,
hell 25 years
ago, be acting the bloody fool,
speeding down highways like Jackie Stewart,
in a single seater F1 car,
or making
vodka punches for weddings
and watching the guests leave worse for wear,
smoked a bit of weed too, and did some trips,
things
you try when you're young,
the only trips you manage now are over the stoep,
and the only weed, the stuff that mocks
your garden,
and your lazy greenfingers.
Reminesce about the runs with the boys in the Navy,
to far off ports,
and clubs,
sightseeing in dark alleys and neon nights,
or play sport all hours of the day,
to kill time, and maybe
the opposition,
local of course.
Now your sport is on the TV and the PC,
your accident last year took care of
that,
lucky though, all those years, actively sporting
and not one serious injury,
except after five years of marriage,
vasectomy
(that wounded pride for sure).
So what's different with life now,
everything really, and in another
20 years
I'll write another poem bemoaning the life I have now,
we men tend to be bitchy that way, you know!
Will
write about how 50 years ago I was a kid
with different memories and recollections,
and joke with my nurse at the
foolishness of a man
who wrote this poem to prove a point,
that simply didn't exist then.
The Journey (Gurney)
(Think phonetics)
Imagine
a
shin
rules our life.
Ration
a
lit
e
makes no sense to me.
The day dawns where words
simply
explode
into a force of their own.
The past three days
my
poetry leg
suffered
a
hamstring.
Oh how I limped through.
TLC maketh a good recovery
now
the cavalry
comes
2
the rescue
carries me to this page.
How not to feel first thing in the morning
Like a walrus,
all whiskers
and elongated teeth.
Like an
elephant,
too heavy
and ponderous.
Like a mouse,
a little grey,
and minute in the world.
Like every
morning,
disgustingly human,
exceedingly frail.
Crawl Space
A little under there,
bit over there,
claustraphobic challenge.
Pain
shoots star bullets,
into nether recesses
in hiding.
Some say Scwarzenegger,
I say
De Vito.
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.........
Written when I had just viewed
a current affairs article on the Holmes Show about a truck driver who was a tetraplegic being kept alive by machines and who
was pleading for his right to have the switch pulled to end it all. His theory was that he died before being revived and since
machines had saved his life, and machines were keeping his life going, he had the choice to have them switched off because
being a very active person before the crash, his mind was in total torment because he now had no quality of life. Fair call
and I agree.
Light of Hope Holds True
As you sit there in your wheelchair,
Staring
out upon the sea,
Can you see the flash of lightning,
A striking memory,
And do you look and see the Rainbow
Shimmering
it's many hues,
Does it remind you of your sorrow,
Is the rainbow totally blue,
And can you shake the wooden stake,
from
your pounding heart,
Is it too late to change your life,
And make a brand new start,
Does reality really scare you
son,
When you remember what you've done,
Turn away from the sea then boy,
And reach out for your gun,
Place the
barrel between your twisted lips,
and count from one to three,
And when you pull that trigger, man
You know that
you'll be finally free,
And escape from the madness
Is the relief that you do seek,
No one you know really cares,
Of
the insanity you do reek,
Will they ever forget you now?
Your thoughts upon their walls,
Can they ever doubt you
freedom
Do they know that it took balls,
To shatter the frank inanity,
Of your pathetic little life,
No reasons
only actions,
Insanity! It is rife.
Insanity! I love my wife.
Insanity! Cuts me......
Like a knife!
No
I cant release the shakiness,
Can't seem to free my distress,
Am I saddened by the loneliness,
Of my terror I hold
in,
Can I reach for the stars once more,
And go through the nearest door,
Shuffle limply 'cross the moving floor,
and see I that can win,
Against all the well stacked odds
And against advice from knowing Gods,
And in favour
of the well shaped bods,
I struggle against the tide,
When I look at myself with the gun,
Do I make a difference
to everyone?
Can I shine once more like the sun?
And bare my restored pride.
Will I ever be down again,
Can I
ever forget all my friends,
Will the road take me round the bends,
Will I ever slip off the edge,
Not if I am to
face myself,
Put all the shit upon the shelf,
Release my tension, get my health,
And make that solemn pledge,
Insanity
escapes me now,
Lunatic, I'm not one now,
Free of spirit, like the owl,
The rainbow in all its hues,
No longer
feeling blue,
I'm the stronger now for you,
Can you love me now I'm through,
The light of hope holds true.
A statement on the despair
someone goes through dealing with depression and the need to end it all. But then being able to focus logically on the outcome
of that act and working out how to come to grips with their own problems and map a possible future.
The Friend Ship Sails Through Life
Hear the deep siren blow,
the sound of the Friend Ship,
ready to sail,
all aboard
grab what you can
Make a step forward
take a strange hand,
look at the faces of those
yet to meet
look at your glee
wonder their strife
Welcome aboard the participants
one and all,
To the Friend Ship of Life,
you'll have a ball.
Feel the new waters flowing
Beneath the new Friend Ship,
pasts unfolding
new horizons ahead
touch a new life thread
pass a new smile
read a new lesson
stop for awhile,
reach for the souls of your
shipmate tonight
feel for their pain,
meek and insane
Take a stroll with your heart
in your hand
along the boardwalks of the
Friend Ship.
Scurrilous banter, happy tirades
wonderful thing the Friend
Ship
burgeoning blades
smothered and hidden
annals rewritten,
together for a moment but
together forever
moments to cherish
times we do sever
as the Friend Ship swells
with its myriad burdens
some are happy,
some are hurting,
Blood is spilt
feelings left skirting
As the Friend Ships boilers
burst with the weight
of fractious uncertainty of
a path taken late.
Walk to the stern, touch the
breeze
As the times blow past our
Friend Ship
ills to be buried
mistakes forgiven
pity the sad ones
who have fallen to Miscreant
Ship,
leave them abandoned
drop them off
or offer your hand
back to the Friend Ship again
smooth the dark waters
cherish their frailties
lambs be not slaughtered
and left in the freezer
even one geezer on the Friend
Ship tonight
is rolling in remorse for
his perilous plight.
Keep the unfurled flags flying
at the bow and the stern of
Friend Ship
watch as the breeze
removes the disease
of disassociation
and offering that, your soul
to an arsehole
can be, I see
an uncoiled rope
and salt laden hope
Light some more candles on
the Friend Ship tonight
so all who have faltered can
follow the light.
And what are we if not only
human
storms will toss the Friend
Ship about
moments spuming
waves crash about
stomachs churned
and times when the gunnels
sag
with the weight
of the sickened
but the seas will calm
and repair to the harmed
will be offered and accepted
to keep the Friend Ships afloat
for the sake of humanity,
don't build a moat.
See past the mistakes
let go the brakes
love all the snakes
sincerity grates
but try to relate
and not slip apart
keep hold of the ropes
from the Friend Ship, your
heart!
I Magic Nations
Imagine if you
will,
The bold black
sun rising in the morning,
The colour of
the sea, red,
instead of blue,
Imagine the colours
all different,
What would you
do?
Imagine the grass
blowing in the
wind purple beyond belief,
And all the trees
are yellow
and leaves falling
are white,
Imagine that
the sky burns green
in the middle
of the night.
Imagine the sound
of silence
Louder than loud,
like two million people talking
The colour of
their faces,
indigo in many
places
Imagine what
they all must think
how pink could
have been replaced.
Imagine the names
of artists
If the colours
have been changed around,
Deep Green, The
Moody Yellows,
and of course
those Indigo Floyd fellows,
Imagine if Cilla
Black
was Cilla Purple
for the rest of her years.
Imagination is
what we perceive
and how we see
this world of ours around us,
I magic nations
out of nothingness
Make things seem
what they aren't
I imagine that
everything
is different,
to what I see and what I can't.
Silence Reawakened
Bathe in the beauty of the
sound of nature,
feel it's warm glow,
it's cooling snow
and marvel in the afterglow
of the touch of a creature.
Wash in the glory of the rustling
of trees,
hear their mystery,
smell them clearly,
and love them forever dearly
as you answer their ancient
pleas.
Bask in the water of absolute
purity,
sense the clarity
offer your charity,
and catch the chortling hilarity
of the expression in natures
surety.
Bathe away your ills
wash away your pills
bask in Natures will
Silence Reawakened!
A Literal Pyramid Tree of Life
Heaven
after ageing
life in the slow
lane
fingers turning
green again
Grandchildren
a plenty and thence
still fit to
build that new boundary fence
The children
now married and settling down
The drive to
the lock up across the far side of town
The long grind
of daily ritual to house feed and care for
your new baby
children, the house, dogs cats and ever so more
And your newfound
spouse is clinging to your love as you to theirs
after burning
of timelessness, money, egotistical desires, and living without fear,
and the knowledge
you've gained is so fresh in your mind as you seek your freedom
from the years
that you spent shackled to the drudgery of compassion in your parent's kingdom
snuggled safely
in the arms of your adoring folks, who instil their desires, education, intellect and hope
that the effort
for you in your infancy will not be wasted one day when you're set free, and no longer crawling
from the baby
you were, and the time that the milk of your mum was so pure and the life started with your first bawling
the hopes and
the loves of your parents enthralling in the love of each other, to be father and mother, is certainly the foundation of heaven.
Acts or Accidents of History
My thoughts soar to the sea,
the
realm of the spirits
ere they go to be free,
The Russians and now Americans
stride arm in arm,
Sailors now free
from this planets many harms.
Whether down below,
or up above,
those who serve their country or the deep blue
sea,
do it for love.
Poem written during the loss
of sailors from an american ship and a russian submarine, one to terrorism, one to an accident.
Children of Peace
The young, beautiful and innocent
are now bravely dead,
while the old, the wise, and ancients,
are screwed in the head,
The war is fought on a level playing field,
bullets versus stones,
The bravest on both sides never yield
fighting each other 'til it's just bones,
fighting each other for enduring peace
for the land they claim,
fighting with children
leaving them lame.
Winners, there are none,
losers aplenty,
goodbye, my son.
Tell me the result,
tell me who won?
About Israel and Palestine, a thought of relectanct assignation.
Going spastic over plastic
Yo, behold, the material that never ages,
the smoothness of a baby's bum,
why is plastic so wonderful, chum?
What
makes it's various forms so enticing?
The bow of the phone handle, the shape of the keys,
Who invented the stuff?
Those
rascally Easternees?
Play with it lovingly to your life's contentment,
How can you break it, Oh Plastic
Why try,
when you feel resentment?
Clean it vigorously so it's lustre remains,
don't forget the glass inserts
and those fingerless
stains?
What are your chances? of surviving the crash,
betwixt the steel, or the polymer mash.
Probably none,
if your day was done!
The transfer of forces from forty thousand horses,
steel or plastic,
your death will be fantastic!
OOOrraaaahhhh, die cast or dead car?
But in the end plastic remains pliant and stable,
the cells non-rustic, the
colour faded,
unlike your hard steel, all rusty and brown.
And it's immortality continues
life immemorial, no human
spoils,
and the bones and your ashes, contained within its lingering grasp.
Your last breath, entombed by your folly,
snuggled
down close to your plastic dolly.
Mind Slip .
Oh, the torture,
What have I done
To my family?
What agony, break of trust
And faith?
Broad brush, Minds rush,
Clear to me now,
So stark against the loved
ones.
Time flies by
As my mind raced
Out of control,
Not a part nor a whole,
Just the complete
Breaking of trust and love,
Completely bizarre
And strange, my mind rearranged.
Ten days of
Manic treatment to my head
Reconstructed,
Bit by bit, thread by thread,
Today, realisation!
Of what family ills
Were inflicted by Bi-Polar
skills,
And sadness at what I had
done.
A poem I wrote to express
to myself the terrible price my family had to pay for my disorder. Understanding this helped me understand and start the healing
process.
Sunflower Captured
I had a picture in my mind,
Yellow,
Green,
Purple,
Brown,
I bought that picture,
Sunflower certainty,
Yellow,
Green,
Purple,
Brown,
I painted that picture,
Committed to paper,
Yellow,
Green,
Purple,
Brown,
Now sunflower beauty
Is caught three ways,
Yellow,
Green,
Purple,
Brown,
A picture,
A flower,
A memory,
Oh, yeah!
A Sailors Moon
Twenty six years, where's
it all gone,
starting alone, finishing
alone,
but many memories along the
way,
happiness found, swinging
hip sway,
many occasions and none too
soon,
none more wise than a Sailor
Moon.
Sunny career, full of light,
sunrise to brighten up the
drear night,
many friends and faces true,
so many I can't remember who,
and if any had been mixed
up by the spoon
they'd all be wiser in my
Sailors Moon.
Many ships on many seas,
too many times, drunk on my
knees,
too much forgotten from the
night before,
waking in the morning on someone's
floor,
totally smitten with women
who swoon,
totally belittled like a Sailors
Moon.
Very tough those seas so rough,
nary seasick while others
had had enough,
working hard, time while's
away,
every ship working strong,
all the day,
making life's travesty a happy
croon,
singing a song to a Sailors
Moon.
Candy Striped Sentinel
Stand eternal watch at harbours
gate,
Guiding light in dark of night,
Sentinel of oceans path,
Rangitoto Beacon, candy striped
tower,
Day by long day, hour by lonely
hour.
Rotating beam of safety sure,
Lighting dangers for all to
see,
Making sailors hearts feel
safe,
And daylight sees the sentinel
strong,
Fisherman's guidance, ship
pathfinder.
Making the most of natures
glory,
Masking mad moments, boats
too close,
Risk her warning, heed her
peril,
Marvel her architectural majesty,
Her phallic certainty of shape.
Lighthouse aglow, candy apple
red,
Smooth cement strong as teak,
Safe in the strong beam of
light,
All pass by day and night,
Candy striped sentinel of
the port.
Verdant Green
When you are at sea
there
is something often unseen,
A colour those on land
take too much for granted,
No trees standing proud,
No grass
wafting on the plain,
Yet you see it,
again and again,
But we at sea
see it sight unseen
That wonderful colour
Verdant
green.
Oh sure we see it from time to time
When the sea turns nasty
the wind gets high,
and icicles of cold
attack
our vision,
Then and only then
do we see the colour
you all take for granted
Verdant green,
And for most of
us,
when it is sighted,
It is time
For lunch to be blighted.
Verdant green.
The Big Red and White.
There is my baby, shiny red
and white,
Parked in the driveway
Waiting for the moment,
When we head out on the highway,
And valiantly skite,
V8
roaring, benzine smells great,
See the world shine in her chromium plate.
Shes lacquered all over from bonnet to
boot,
And gleaming in splendour,
Front and rear fender,
The object of my life long lust and love,
My Chevy Bel
Air,
Stick shift with four on the floor,
Me and my darling take off in a roar.
Cruising down backstreets and
the main road,
Arm out the window,
Wind in my hair,
Just cruising and moving without a care,
And chicks they see
her,
And wonder in awe,
If they can get in her and feel that roar.
Luxury leather so red and replete,
White
rolled piping,
Adorning the seat,
Smells of the old days so great and so straight,
AM radio playing rock and roll,
Etching
that sound
Deep into my soul and driving the pedal on down.
I wonder why we call our cars she,
When this one
I feel
Is an extension of me.
Its power and its might totally mine,
So why is the stigma,
Of a she car so strong,
When
I am a boy car that has lasted so long.
Heads turn in wonder at the blast from the past,
Their eyes hotly blinded,
By
the chrome plated babe,
And their memories reminded of simpler times too,
When the crime rate was low,
And cars went
so slow,
And everyone smiled because times were so good.
Songs oft written then that
feature few words,
Penned for dancing,
And late night romancing,
And a snuggle in a Bel Air overlooking the beach,
But
those days have passed,
And the innocent be blasted,
By the advent of communications and the populist way.
The
sixties saw my Bel Air become a junk heap,
All painted in slogans
About love, hate, and peace,
And the dope that
was smoked in her ruined seats,
She was built strong and tough,
And could handle the rough,
And rode out the
storm of uncertainty then.
Some kid in the seventies found her broken and beat,
And moved to his backyard,
The
Bel Air off the street,
And restoration started that would take ages to end,
Money so tight
Cause the disco was so
right,
And the car become a love shack at the end of the night.
Decay was so eminent when it moved to the beat,
Of
rappers and scrappers,
Vying to compete,
A Rapper called Bel Air MC was on the prowl,
For a prop for a video,
To
rap with his crew, y'all know
And the car was repainted and dented beyond hope.
In a junk yard a dog pissed against
a white wall,
Of a Chevy Bel Air
Left in disrepair,
But the smell of the leather and a gleam of some red,
Forced
a middle aged man,
To resurrect a dream,
And for ten long years laboured to restore the gleam.
So when you see
my baby driving down the street,
Dont look at the car man,
Dont look at me,
But look at the past glory of another
bygone time,
Imagine the lives
And the struggles survived,
And look at the Bel Air as a window to your past.
And
on a final note, one not to be repeated,
I joyfully confess, mate,
On the sounds she makes,
I have placed a CD audio
rack beneath the seat,
And I cruise the streets,
Tapping fingers and feet,
Blissfully happy to my favourite Roger
Waters tracks.
Alphabet
Coupe
The C in Coupe is pronounced S as in circumspect
They
tersely turned, twined, then twisted,
my mortal mantel meanderingly,
over outward opiates openly honest,
said Sandy
Suffrogette singing sanguinely.
He harboured harbingers homeward ho,
caught ketchup cabbages cringing cowardly,
bought
baseballs burnt by brownie buns,
whistled wayward warbles, went whisperingly.
Jumped junipers jauntily during January,
ran
roughshod 'round Russia randomly,
grabbed garbage gambits going green,
erred exhaustive eastward, ebbing eerily.
I
should explain during, in some english dialects, it's pronounced with a very soft d, hard J infliction.
A Technophobe builds
a webpage
He sat there one day,
another
friend,
another webpage to view,
got the idea
he was missing something.
Dived into Google
"Free Webpages"
got
a thousand hits,
bamboozled,
hit Tripod and the journey began.
Register it said,
'heck' he thought,
what
do I call myself?
Morgastraben sounded unusual,
entered the obligatory password,
twice, to be sure, to be sure.
Found
the welcome message,
and a pointing to "Build Webpage"
three weeks later
he'd mastered 'Add Page'
patient this
guy, very,
managed to upload a picture.
Seven weeks later, five pages
many nights scratching head,
paid lips
service to instructions
that would have lead somewhere,
made a break, had more pages
in viewable format.
Sent
emails to his friends,
"look at me, see what I did"
no one answered,
too busy he figured,
rebuilding their own,
sent a link to a daughter.
She said, "gee Dad,
didn't know you had it in ya"
he smiled, knew it was worth
it,
hit the edit button,
added some poetry,
and a few more photos.
Sat down, been nine weeks now,
admired
his handywork,
others had replied,
to complain mostly
about their pictures in there,
'shit' he thought, no pleasing
some.
The rip off
Bought into a dodgy insurance company,
sold semi-legit policies
to old
and young alike.
Made a million before I was forty five,
spent it on nothing really,
such
is life.
Got the news from my family doctor,
terminal, no policy
guarantees
quality of life
or quantity.
One Tooth
One
molar, munching
one canine, ripping
one incisor, tearing
one wisdom tooth
where was I?
One tongue,
feeling
one hole, gaping
one tooth, missing
one thought, posing
when the hell did that happen?
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