Poem # 30 Wordplay II

Wordplay II

I am no foolish wordsmith,
I try for trenchant solutions
that are almost cunning
when acumen and influences,
beauty and salient opinion are required.
How far is up?
Could Jesus write?
Can we jump in the same river twice,
and do Parisians go in Seine in
the summer?
Endeavour is always character building,
and curiousity is tantamount
to happiness.

Poem # 29 Alone

Alone

When I was first alone, I was lonely;
I'm not always lonely when alone.

Then I thought on "alone",
would I rather be one of a
large Catholic family, at Friday
dinner, in a favela in Sao Paulo;

at a crowded, deadly dull,
evangelical convention;
trying to find the Porto
Vaticano by following a robot like
line of Japanese tourists; or telling
a doctor that I'd end it all, if I
had the courage, and did want to
inconvenience people.

Yes, there are virtues in being alone.
Why not enjoy them?
Tomorrow, someone else who is lonely,
might die in your toilet, a terrorist might
send you a severed finger in an empty
mayonnaise jar.

When you're alone people find ways to
ruin your loneliness. People will be there
for you when you hate them, and
scarce when you need them.
People'll never let you down.

They won't get more cool or sensitive,
with the passage of time.
they will still be destroying
tattered, tortured, souls;
like a butterfly collector
with pins, or a bullfighter
with his epee.

Poem # 28 It's the size that counts

It's the size that counts

"It's not the size down there",
said my brother,

" it's the size between the ears
that women find sexy."

"I'm leaving", she flamed!
"You didn't match my expectations,
you're not satisfying me,
you weren't even capable
of finishing your Phd!"

Poem # 27 Wordplay

Wordplay

We eschew delight
with poor platitudes.
Vapid language that
springs from guile
can mask an obtuse idea.
The ignorant know all,
those that know,
know they know nothing.

Poem # 26 Dreams

Dreams

My dog dreams,
his legs twitch,
he is running,
he whimpers softly.
All creatures dream,
though not as men do.

Do trees dream?
they dream tree dreams,
gumtree dreams, acacia dreams.
Do dead men dream in their tombs of stone?

Nostrums give dreamless sleep,
I would rather dream.

I dream of flight,
and safety,
and warmth,
and success.
I can float through three dimensions,
a complete lifecycle through the night,
another reality
where anything is possible.

In dreams you always wake
before catastrophe.

Rest in peace Xena the Warrior princess.

Poem # 25 Bodyscape

Bodyscape

This uncombed hair
grows like wild grasses
of this round world.
My body lays on its side
with undulating contours
of hills and valleys.
Long deep breaths flow
in and out, like
wind along the edges
of mountains.
Blood winds along veins
and arteries,
as streams and rivers do
in soft countryside.
Eyelids close on scenic vistas
and reveal the darkness
of the night.
Hear my vibrations that
storm across features,
a hurricane
through the night.

Poem # 24 A Sermon

A Sermon

The budgie is dead
maybe it died of loneliness
and depression.
I found it one fine September morning,
how ironic, such a beautiful day,
it was hanging down with
its back towards the outside world,
head stuck into a gap in the bars,
its cheek turned side on
as though afraid to meet our eyes,
it had managed to hang itself.

I had warned the family,
"that budgies not getting enough attention,
it needs warmth and affection, someone
to show that they care."

It wanted to communicate,
to try to let us know how it felt,
cheeping and fluttering,
and banging its wings on the bars.
We were all too selfish or busy to respond.

The budgie is dead,
with a bit of shit grasped in one claw,
and a white feather in the other.

Poem # 23 3 Minute love affair sonnet

3 Minute love affair sonnet

Hot Australian sun reflecting and refracting
from chrome and glass.
Our cars stopped at traffic lights clustered in a knot.
Fingers tap, eyes meet, gear levers thrust, adjust the feet.
He looks nice, she looks nice, attractive - attractive made
a pass.
Eyes and smiles linger behind glass,
a fair person, a fair proposition, a fair occasion,
a three minute love affair with no time for liason.
Place; moment; smile; the face is sweet.

The red light changes, we all move off,
they smile again,
and lower the eyes, just enough.
In a brief scenario they somehow connected,
communication maintained and not rejected,
a moment in time poetic but rough.

Poem # 22 Contents

Contents

A house
Supermarket
Emergency
At the top of the beanstalk
A madhouse
Moving on
A journey
A shop
Rock
A book of heroes
An outrageous relation
Story
Deserted houses
What's going on?
Mystery
Man-made climate
Experiments with words
When? Where? What? Which Way?
Television
Brainstorms
A place to play
Books for reading aloud
A patchwork of stories
Locked in
People
Titles

Poem # 21 This poem is seven words long

This poem is seven words long

This poem is
only seven
words long.
I'm sorry,
I made a
mistake, this
poem is
actually
twenty words
long.

Poem # 20 The girls and the budgies

The girls and the budgies

The girls are young
and walk and stand
in the dust along the highway
and near the service station
at Eastern Creek.

I don't know how much they make
but they end up in cars in
the cemetery, sucking cigarettes
and other things.
Hair in their faces,
runs in their stockings,
swearing, and calling out, and looking sad,

under the full moon
and bright stars
on peaceful nights.

They remind me of
when I sat in the kitchen
watching budgies make
droppings into their seed,
and into their water,
and the budgies were pretty,
and chattered, and
were frenetic,

but never sang.

Poem # 19 The Sorceress

The Sorceress

I know a Sorceress,
her name is Flange Desire.

She says things like;

"There's something seriously
wrong with your relationship",

or

"Susan really likes you"

or

" The boss was talking
the other day, he's very
worried about your work",

and in this way she casts her spell,
and it works and works upon me
unless I counter it with some magic
of my own.

Poem # 18 Wynyard Station mens' room

Wynyard station mens' room

I entered the toilet
at Wynyard station,
observing all the rituals.
Don't stand too close,
don't let your eyes wander,
get a corner position
if possible to guard
from prying eyes.
As I turned from my business
to wash my hands
I was startled to see
beneath a cubicle door
two feet in lace up boots,
naked legs, no pants,
and between the feet were
three things.

A pile of toilet paper
piled high
in layers of
lessening width
like the adornments
on an extravagent
continental cake.
On the peak of this pile was a
syringe, and
beneath the pile
grew a pool
of blood
rich and red,
an ever increasing
Rorschach blot
of primary colour,
three dimensional,
a sculpture,

but the most
startling thing of
all was that no one did
anything, just washed
their hands and left.

Poem # 17 Desert Fire

Desert Fire

The desert in North Africa at night,
big sky country,
the stars a glittering arc
from here to eternity
above the red earth.

The campfire demands our focus,
hypnotic in its attraction,
flames darting like small red
desert creatures
leaping from bark to branch to leaf;
a soft vapor of heat
the caress of breath
from a living thing.
Flames whirl and writhe in frenetic movement,
I see tribal dancers in the flames,
cinders rise on the smoke
to float like newborn
fireflies.
The fire with great red wings
a resurrected phoenix,
a dancing partner
making a connection.

Drawn into the dance I see
the crimson and orange veils,
strength fearsome to behold,
yet beautiful, so beautiful,
alive with heat,
and I understand
the magic of the
desert.

Poem # 16 Truth

Truth

A little truth comes
at the dawning of each day.
A little truth comes
at the closing of each day.
This morning in the shower,
I had a thought,
cruelty springs from weakness,
but how does that explain
a duck ripped open
from the head to the shoulder
by a fox,
or a tsunami
that kills children,
one thousand or more.

Poem # 15 Thoughts on a cucumber from the past

Thoughts on a cucumber from the past

When I was 10 in 63, I was a cub
My head full of Akala, Dibs & Dobs,
and leaping wolfs.

In the early summer we went north
to camps on the central coast,
where myriad groups bivouaced like Attilas' tribes,
and the standard of sisal lashings, splices, wooden totems,
and badges on sashes competed for status.
Each group had a bonfire.
I wore a dangerous knife, golden tassels on my camp shirt,
and gaiters for my socks.

In the evening we fought other groups on the beach,
we called these fights "rumbles".

I tackled a softer boy and pinned him down, covered
him with sand until he said
"pax"

In the night we crept up on the Surf Club through tussocks
like wily Pathans,
and listened to Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs.

In the day we climbed the big hill that overlooked the sea.

The sun glinted, the air was clear and hot
in the Australian summer.

On the train home some boys yelled and waved
toilet paper streamers like Knight's pennants.
We explored the toilets and the ricketty connections
between carriages that were strangely exciting,
we had heard of decapitated heads on telegraph poles.

I had a cucumber left from the camp,
it was still fresh.
Cool, solid, green, like a vegetable submarine.
"take it to your Mum" 'Skip" had said.

On that journey the cucumber had become my beloved.
It was precious to me, imbued with the soul of a small
loveable creature.

It became a symbol of something more.

A boy grabbed it, and laughing flung it from the train.

It smashed,

white and pulpy, like flesh,

on a telegraph pole.

Sadness overwhelmed me
and I cried.

This cold evening in August,
I think of the death of that cucumber,
and of brown uniforms, bindings, knives, rumbles,
and what boys do.

Poem # 14 The Patron: he meant business

The Patron

He meant business

He was an older man
At an age when complacent men retire
if they're not ambitious and determined like him.

He was big,
doctors would call him obese,
detractors would call him fat.
I just thought him big.... strong, powerful, with latent authority.
He was dressed in a Norfolk jacket of Harris tweed,
with an RSL badge in the lapel and a tweed trilby hat.

I met him in the main warehouse of the transport company that he owned.

He had started with one truck.

The warehouse was red brick, with a galvanised iron roof.
The front walls were ivy covered
and huge pink and white peace roses grew in the freshly turned red earth that
exuded the pungent smell of horse manure.

The town was like a piece of Victorian England, the warehouse impressed me as being like a great hall on the edge of the desert.

The air was dry.

" The air of the desert was good," he said,
"machines lasted indefinitely in that sort of air.

I had come to the warehouse to leave my wife's sculpture....
... The Semantic See Saw.... to be taken to an exhibition.

It was placed at the end of a long line of art.

"What do you think of Art?", he asked.

I considered and replied.

"I don't know"

"I've looked at these", he expounded, and his arm swept to include the sculptures.
"and I think some are good and some are bad,
and I know what I like!"

He puffed up his chest as he said this.

His Rolls Royce was parked there.

Silver and charcoal grey with red dust on the underside of the fenders and
covering the double R on the hub caps,
but the silver lady gleamed aggressively
behind an imposing black steel
bull bar he had attached to the front.

The bull bar was like a steel gate.

"What do you think of my car?", he asked.

"It's impressive" I said, admiring the leather upholstery and walnut facia.

He nodded and told me...

" I put the bull bar on for the roos and the cattle,
they run on the roads at night,
when I drive across the desert,
those roos look like old men in grey raincoats
when they hide in the scrub at night.
I didn't want them putting a dent
in the grill when they died,
but when I hit them with the bars
they bounce ten feet in the air
and they're dead before they hit the ground.
It's a good car to cross the desert at night.
I can do 200ks in two hours, and all I can hear is the ticking
of the clock.
I wanted to turn it into a ute but
the Rolls people wouldn't hear of it.

I said nothing.

He continued;

" You know what I like most about this car....
I like going to the football in it."

I thought of the lean men jumping
with their arms outstretched in their
striped guernseys at the football ground
with its red brick pavilions and huge Moreton Bay figs.
on the edge of the desert.

"Yes, I like going to the football", He said,
"and everyones lined up waiting to get a car park,
one, two hundred cars or more,
and the gatekeeper sees the Rolls
and he waves me past,

and I drive right past them
without waiting

I drive past slowly
and I see their looks of anger,
and frustration, and spite.

"You bastard!" they mouth from inside their cars
and they lift one or more fingers or even
an arm in a gesture of contempt.

"I like that"

He looked smug as he said this.

I looked out of the huge open sliding doors of the warehouse,
and in my mind's eye I saw grey steel wool clouds gather above that
ersatz English town on the edge of the desert in Australia.

Poem # 13 Grass and refugees

Bicycle riding, or any repetitive activity can become a meditation allowing the mind to focus.

Grass and refugees

On my bicycle, a long steady climb,
heart, breath, rotation, pulse,
all combine as one
to move me steadily forward,
upward.
The long grasses on the verge
become third world people,
waiting to be cut down.

Long columns of children
file past
marching in pairs,
boys and girls together.
Women in fatigues at
the head of the line,
and more at the tail.
Children dressed in
cut down military surplus gear
carrying scant belongings
in their small hands,
faces blank and acquiescent.
Girls with untrimmed hair,
boys with rough haircuts,
done with bowls and blunt shears.
I see them pass as I ride along,
they stare straight ahead
as they walk,
none of them risk a sideways glance.

"Look at me when I'm
speaking," said the teacher " you're very rude!"
" look at me when I'm speaking, I want
to see your eyes! Why won't you face me!"

"They made me do that," said the Kurdish boy.
"They made me do that,"
and his eyes glistened.

Poem # 12 A horrible drive in the rain

The following poem is an example of the kind I mentioned previously, it is in the first person narrative voice, it is not my voice. The illustration is of a Toyota Landcruiser FJ50 set up for buffulo catching or shooting. In the 1960s in Arnhem Land buffulo roamed in such numbers they caused a significant impact on the environment. My neighbour across the road Ron Ball was an authorised buff shooter and catcher. He used a vehicle like this, and up until the 1980s ran a very successful business in Arnhem Land on the Marrakai plains. Ron would tell me typical Northern Territory stories, for example, in the shooting camp they had a number of mini bikes, one night waking a little the worse for wear Ron decided to save energy by riding to the outhouse on a mini bike rather than walking. He headed off into the darkness and was going full throttle when the bike became airborne, and it was only 50cc. In the morning he was bemused to see skid marks up the side of a grazing buffulo. The following poem is not about Ron, Arnhem land, or buffuloes, but it is about a four wheel drive.

A Horrible Drive in the rain

I started my brand new
Pajero V6 3500 4WD this morning
it has all the luxery appointments
air conditioning, GPS, state of art audio,
leather seats
it cost $80,000
My wife and I had to scrimp and save to buy this car
but it was worth it!
I started it and went for a drive in the rain
I like to drive it each morning before I drive our old car to work,
and then put it away in the garage to stay clean and dry.
This morning was horrible, in the rain.
A skink was caught in my five speed wipers which were beating at level
three.
It had no hope,
first a leg came off
then a tail
then another leg with its small webbed feet,
then its head.
I could clearly see the look of despair
in its small black eyes.
Pieces of it were stuck all over my windscreen --- what a nuisance!
Further down the road it happend again
I hit some small furry thing that was scampering across the road
I was really annoyed!
There was a red stain and an eyeball on my new gun metal grey duco.
And finally
a parrot flew straight into my grille.
That made me really, really annoyed!
it took three cans of aerosol
and heaps of degergent to get those red,green, yellow, and blue feathers
out of my front end.
They ought to get rid of all these things
that cause you so much trouble
and dirty your rig!

Poem # 11 Cockroach and I

Cockroach and I

On a tropical night
that was like being locked in a Chinese laundry
I lay down on the wood floor
trying to stay cool

and a COCKROACH ENTERED MY EAR

I woke quickly frightened
shaking my head like a dog
my soul nearly lost on its dreaming thread

my head buzzing

it seemed full to bursting with
brown spiked legs protruding above a lobe

At the hospital the mister sister said
" Can't get it out mate"
As he probed with probes and tweezed with tweezers.
"A few drops of oil may do some good"

The Dr. said accusingly

"NEVER PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR EARS BIGGER THAN YOUR ELBOW
YOU CLEANED YOUR EARS!
NEVER CLEAN YOU EARS
IF YOU HADN'T CLEANED YOUR EARS
IT WOULD HAVE GOT BOGGED"

For a fought nights, fourteen day journey
that cockroach travelled with me - hitchiking
held by cotton wool in my ear

At school black, brown,yellow and white children
chanted
'Cockroach, Cockroach"
So unkind
In the playground they played with a chorus
"Her comes cockroach, here comes cockroach"

In the staff room
colleagues kept their distance

The card school muttered
"filthy, disgusting" and with burps & grunts
moved to another table

Patrician women in designer clothes
elocuted me
"A cawkroach?..... what is that?
Oh how gharsley for you"

The feminest left wing union rep transfixed
me with an enigmatic stare
and shot rapid fire
"You know what's happened don't you
You've been violated by that COCKroach
penetrated abused...
it has come to oppress you
to dominate your mind and body"

At length with the second aid of medical apparatus
the body and head and my body and head
parted company
I recovered and the relationship between myself
and the cockroach
turned to myth

I had been on a journey of learning with that
cockroach
and I had learned about
humanity

Poem # 10 Kevin and Sharon's wasteland

Strange things can happen in suburbia. What goes on behind those facades? I met an electrician once who was captured by aliens on the way home from the Blacktown RSL. They took him up to the mother craft for the obligatory anal probe, and then dropped him back near his car. This was to his benefit because it enhanced his sex life. Apparently the experience opened his perception, and allowed him to see his past lives.Sex between himself and his wife was not going well, but when they realised they had known each other in Egypt during the time of the pharaohs, it perked up.So successfully in fact that they began running workshops to allow others to benefit from their knowledge.

the following poem is about suburbia.

Kevin and Sharon's Wasteland

In our suburb there are no fences,
a bourgeois concept.
Everything appears
peaceful and serene,
a post modern Arcadia;
but behind closed doors,
and curtains that twitch,
there are strip mah jong clubs,
and wife swapping biker groups;
gay cannibalistic cabals;
plots of power and autonomy;
lots of suicides and divorces;
plans for the destruction of lives,
and families, and Christian morality.

The newsagent reckons
it's because our suburb is
under a cosmic black hole,
with twilight zone vibrations
swirling down just on us,
we're 'ripe for alien contact', he says,
but I reckon it's
just typical
high water rates
suburbia.

Poem # 9 Poem with no name

In art I try to capture a moment of poetry, to communicate a way of 'seeing', in poetry, another art, I attempt to distil an 'essence', to communicate something essential, to provide a truth. Visual art and poetry can come from anywhere, the following poem came from a jumble of words on the fridge, constantly rearranged until a narrative appeared. I never gave it a title, hence the title it has.

Poem with no name

Our kind words rose, like the steam
from coffee, between us.
You, a woman, sexy even in a riding suit
of green Harris tweed.
Your head rested on a golden pillow
of hair, as you relaxed on the leather sofa.
Your creamy skin made the tweed
sensual;- Why did you wear it in
our humid climate?

I thought of the stiff woollen fibres
pricking your delicate skin.
My eyes followed the map of your
light freckles, and the fine down on
your arms and the nape of your neck.
There was a W there reminiscent
of your sex;
and I was very sad it was over.

Poem # 8 The favour bank

The Favour Bank

" I love the artists", the director said,
my heart goes out to them, it really does,
I don't want them to suffer for their art.
I'm doing them a big favour keeping their art works!
All they do is purchase materials, create it, transport it,
and give it to me to put in my stock room.

I'm doing them a big favour - and what,
they want something in return,
money I suppose?

Poem # 7 The Woman Warrior

The Woman Warrior

I play table tennis
I don't play ping pong
Ping pong players
can ping their pong elesewhere.

When I play with speed,style, and finesse
I a-chi-eve Zen concentration.
I only play "A" grade, or "A" reserve.

A hand-de-capped[sic] girl came to play.
"My name's Veronika", she said,
and sipped a rum and coke.

"It's a ruse" said the tournament organiser,
a swarthy east-european named Rudy.
"It's a conspiracy; a gambit; a sneaky ploy; a cunning trap.
The administration are testing me out
to see if I'm politically correct
.... but I'M not naive.
I see through their schemes.
I'll let her play
but why? oh why? did it have to be an un-armed woman.
Armless! Armless!
Why could it not be in a wheelchair!
or at least with one leg and two arms".

"Oh I don't know" I said " she could be the best un-armed
table tennis player in the world", and we both laughed.

In round two, I was the armless woman's opponent.

It was a slow agonising game,
like swallowing bad tasting medicine.

It was a game of suspended intention,
of compulsory tolerance.

She held the bat beneath the stump of her right arm, and her body swayed
extremely, like a tree thrashing violently in a strong wind.

When she gathered a ball from the floor
she flicked it with her foot
until it bounced high enough to catch in her mouth.

The with a violent sideways jerk of her head she hurled it in a long
parabolic arch across the net
with a fine silvery trail of saliva following it
like a comet's tail.

Each time she gathered the the ball it
took an excruciatingly long time.
The umpire droned the score like a mournful undertaker.

We did not wish to patronise her
but we did.
She won only one point
-- or should I say I lost one point.

The final ritual of the game was to shake hands.
What could I do?
I shook her short turnip like stump.
It was dry, wrinkled, and friendly.

I left the table acutely embarrassed.

I had lost.
Whatever the score, she would always be the winner.

She had no hands, but I was the one handicapped.

She was not embarrassed.
She was not dis-membered
from lifes' club.

Veronika was a powerful force of determination

eliminating all opponents.