Poem # 69 The woman in black stockings ( or is it pantyhose?)

There is a beautiful woman in black stockings (or is it pantyhose?) sitting on the bus stop bench looking tired at middle age with her raspberry lips. It's hot in the sun and the day at school has been dull, and going home is dull, and I drive by in my van peering at her warm legs ( through one way mirror sunglasses) her eyes look away - shes been warned about ruthless and horny men; she's not going to give it away like that, and yet it's dull waiting out the minutes at the bus stop, and the years at home, and the book that she carries is dull, and the food that she eats is dull, and even the ruthless and horny men are dull. The beautiful woman in black stockings (or is it pantyhose) waits She awaits the proper time and moment, and then she will move and then she will conquer. I drive around the block in my van peeking at her legs pleased that I will never be part of her heaven and her hell, but that scarlet lipstick on her sad waiting mouth! It would be nice to kiss her once, fully,and then give her back, but the bus will get her first.

Poem # 65 Coles carpark mid west coast.

Eavesdropping in the sauna like heat in my Toyota, sucking a mango seed, relishing the sublime furry flavour. Like the tidal stream of the Indian Ocean people ebb in and out with the social flow leaving bobbing in their wake the detritus of their lives. " Shut up, you little cunt! One more sound and I'll send you back to your father!" " Of course you're the father Kevin, You were there when they cut the cord, Jason means nothing to me!" " You know it's amazing when you kiss me - you're more like a guy - you're wife is one lucky girl - you thirsty? Let's get a breezer. " Groceries loaded we steer the Landcruiser down the channels between the parked cars and head for calmer waters.

Poem # 64 Bodyscape

This uncombed hair of head grows like the 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 the wind along the edges of mountains. Blood winds along veins and arteries as do the streams and rivers in soft countryside. With eyelids that close on scenic vistas and reveal the darkness of the night, and hear the vibrations that storm across our features like a hurricane through the night.

Poem # 63 Yallabelli Creek

There is a dip in the ground where Yallabelli Creek soaks among dead gum leaves, beyond that large ghost gums and bloodwood and paperbark and eucalyptus begin to take the place of accacia and wattle. The continued tossing and pouring of the wind among the gum leaves sufficiently conceals the sound of my footsteps on a moss covered log. This soft sound is for the ear what a moonless night is to the eye. I move cautiously slipping from one big trunk to another scanning the surrounding bush for signs and meaning. The two dogs sniff quietly at wombat and rabbit burrows in the creek bank. Suddenly a kangaroo passes like a shadow through the underwood in front of us and we freeze motionless in a bush tableau, except for this part of bounding retreat. This small bush environment may have been certainly deserted, but now that this poor startled roo has run, she is like a messenger sent before us, and with squawk and rustle, parrots,rabbits, echidna, and lyrebird all exit the area.

Poem # 62 Hearthworks I

Hearthworks I I walked in from observing the night sky yet again humbled by the celestial spread of grandeur, and in a moment of clear seeing saw the Aga stove, there it was, a thin pink penumbra all around the outline of the circular lid on the top of the stove, and a hazy oval of energy on its side, and small imperfections in the cast iron, or bits of household detritus, began to spark and twinkle in the surface of the metal, burning off in minimal bursts of final existence like the stars in the night. and I was reminded how everything is part of the great matrix of existence.

Poem # 61 Doggy C Rap

Doggy C Rap Too many little doggies shitting on the floor Too many little doggies shitting on the floor Too many little doggies shitting on the floor Hard to ignore little doggies Shitting on the floor give them the science diet each monthly and give them prime steak fortnightly but still the little turds gleam brightly to spite me doesn't seem quite right to me don't ya see! Too many little doggies shitting on the floor Too many little doggies shitting on the floor Too many little doggies shitting on the floor too many to stand little doggies c'mon! I give them a pat when they're goodly give them a brush when they're ruffly give them a hug when they're luvly give them a bone when they're chewy and still they are pooey That's no good to me. one little doggie crapped in my backpack one little doggie peed on my laptop one little doggie chewed up my wallet Too much to take little doggies! y'all hear me! little doggies got to learn to go outside little doggies got to learn to go outside little doggies got to learn to go outside have a little pride little doggies go outside little doggies c'mon! no more sleeping on the rug little doggies no more sleeping near the hearth each nightly gonna be mean streets for you little doggies and I be telling you quietly gonna be trouble with the man little doggies less you straighten out that strife forthrightly! You know what I mean, y'all hear me C'mon!

Poem # 60 We are.

We are all wise beyond our own level of competency.

Poem # 59 A Traditional Lament

Traditional mountain Lament To be performed a capella Clears throat " I was cleaning my jacknife When you did appear So I leapt to my feet And I cut off your ear. Yo-de-lay lil' darlin Don't you come here No more. Take this as A warning get your ear off my floor My floor!, My floor!, take this as a warning Get your ear off my floor. I stared, I stared, Where the blood puddle did lay. I felt slightly nauseous, I thought I would die. I threw on the sawdust I threw on the lye. I threw on a carpet But no tear did I cry. I cry!, I cry!, No tear did I cry. Yo-de-lay lil darlin Don't you come here no more, take this As a warning get your ear off my floor. My floor! My floor!, Take this as a warning get your ear off my floor." ( evil chuckle, he!he!he! )

Poem # 58 Excellence!

Excellence! She has nothing but contempt for them because they have less knowledge and experience than her. He has nothing but contempt for her because she has less knowledge and experience than him. They have nothing but contempt for them because they have more knowledge and experience than all of them, and she despises all of them because she has more knowledge and experience than all of them together. That is excellence!

Poem # 57 Through my Window Glass

Amazing! Where is Aesop when you need him? The other night at about 10 pm, it was dark, although the street has lights. I looked out of my front window and saw a fox and a black cat walking down the street side by side. They were not running, just strolling together down the hill. I was amazed! Is this a common thing? Were they hunting together? Why didn't the fox eat the cat? "Oh you cunning fox!", thought I. A fox who swims with a piece of fur in your teeth to rid yourself of fleas. When flea ridden you let the fur raft float down stream. You pretend fellowship with the cat - you won't fight- no contest- no loss - passive aggression rules! A black cat would be really bad luck. The cat thinks " this fox is my fox!" but "what" asks my neighbor who saw the cavalcade pass, "happened to the duck? When they strolled past my house they were with a handsome tall brown duck."

Poem # 56 Who Cares

Who cares

Riding my bicycle;
Jasmine scent in the
moonlight,
sharp and heavy,
where the gliding
air changes from
warm to cool.

An open window,
domestic drama,
I stop and watch.
Is this suspect?

The moon escapes
from the clouds,
and suddenly I
feel naked,
like the world
can see me.

The street is numb and silent,
but for a man who's
stumbled home and
shouts at his wife.

A little girl cries.

"Why can't the world hear?"
I ask myself.

Poem # 55 Simpson Desert

Simpson Desert

Perspiration drips onto
The skin made raw by the spade
I used to dig my vehicle
Out of the sand dune.
Like Cain I wander the desert
But can find no refuge.
It's Christmas 2011 and
thirty eight degrees.
"Fuck Off!", say the caretakers,
"It's Christmas!,
We don't do business
On December twenty-fifth!"
I feel that's not biblical,
just sad.
But the desert has compensations
- landscape charms,
Old ruins,
strange sculptured rocks,
big termite mounds, and
birds with attitude.
I've seen fleeting luminous colours
that like pots of gold
are impossible to grasp,
and trees that are almost
human as they droop
from lack of water.
In the desert man is not
able to hide away
like the animals.
In the desert man
cannot hide his desires.
He can fufil them, or not,
but cannot hide them.
Are our actions ever
spontaneous or always
pre meditated?
To what extent is
generosity on our part
magnaminous or
self serving?
Maybe the desert animals
know these answers.
Maybe my dogs know them too,
because their heads are
cocked to one side,
listening without judgment,
Like a therapist, and
their eyes are bright
Above their panting tongues.
I smile at them
as I put away the spade
under that hot sun
in the desert
at Christmas time 2011.

Poem # 54 Reggae Song

Reggae Song

I keep no secrets
I keep no secrets
I keep no secrets
from you.

I tell no secrets
I tell no secrets
I tell no secrets
of you.

I seek no secrets
I seek no secrets
I seek no secrets
from you.

I find no secrets
I find no secrets
I find no secrets
of you.

Love is a joining,
a span across the void.
a union, a narrative,
great stories will unfold.

An open book whose leaves
with seasons will be turned.
The path on this journey
of our lives will not divide.

I keep no secrets from you
You keep no secrets from me
I seek no secrets from you
You seek no secrets from me

No secrets, no secrets,
no secrets in our lives.

Poem # 53 Any Body

Any Body

Got a tattoo on my stomach,
a circular line of dashes
says ' hole to another universe
cut along the dotted line,
earthman inside!'.

Got two earrings - got them when
I saw a special at the wicked body shop,
one piercing for five dollars
five piercings for twenty.
You can't see the other three.

I carry a piece of ten centimetre
nylon fly wire in my stomach to
hold in my hernia.

Got tribal scarring in Becuanaland,
it's identical to the binary code for zero.

Got a quote from Proust tattooed
on the palm of my left hand -
that hurt!

Got a rebore in my sinus, and
a port and polish, helps
my engine run more efficiently.

Crimped my salivary gland
one night when brushing
too vigorously
whilst under the influence.
Pushing it with my tongue
constantly makes me look
evil.

I could go on -
but why bother,
let us simply say that
I am unique,
just like
everyone else.

Poem # 52 Wordplay III

Wordplay III

Zeppelin airbus dub her data media
Zeppelin airbus dub her data media

Bulbous bouffant blubber macadamia
Bulbous bouffant blubber macadamia

Degrade centigrade persuade upgrade

Lamia anemia academia mania
Lamia anemia academia mania

Mullet gullet mukluk buttock
Mullet gullet mukluk buttock

invisible unthinkable admissible medicinal

Roughend jocund fecund refund
Roughend jocund fecund refund

Tortilla!

Poem # 51 Farmhouse

Farmhouse

Ruined farmhouse in
crepuscular light
parquet floor a mosaic
of rabbit and sheep
droppings.
Sagging linoleum
in the kitchen
below the old
kooka stove.
Peeling wallpaper,
dust doing its dust dance
in the half light.
Nothing else to indicate
a man and a woman once
lived here in
love and hate,
had conceived in
one of these rooms
or the other,
three children
one with a physical
deformity the parents
were ashamed of.
In this house jam was
dribbled on the floor,
urine swirled around a bowl,
and dreams on a pillow.
Children left, never to speak
to their parents again.
On the wall illuminated in
a shaft of sunlight
a bleeding heart,
and outside the house
a shroud of blackberries.

Poem # 50 Life

Life

Like a rock climber dawns rosy fingers
pulled themselves over the horizon.
At peace for one moment and
hands behind my head I stared at
the spider webs in the corner
where the wall met the ceiling.
Then she said,
" Every time that I tell you
that I love you, you say nothing,
but that's your problem"

I had an inner dialogue with myself
( thought bubbles ) " If I say
nothing when you say you love me
it's both our problems.
My anxieties become your anxieties.
My confusion becomes your confusion.

In life children confuse parents.
Students confuse teachers.
Patients confuse doctors.
Individuals in the flock
confuse pastors.
Those in love who have confused hearts,
confuse those in love who have clear hearts."

but I said nothing.

" You need to see a counsellor!",
she said getting up out of bed in
her underwear momentarily illuminated
by golden beams of light
in which floated myriad
particles of dust.

Poem # 49 Penrith Blues

Penrith Blues

Well I'm going down to Penrith
I believe I'll dust my blues
Oh yeah!
Well I'm going down to Penrith
I believe I'll dust my blues
Yeah! yeah!
Well I'm going down to Penrith
What have I got to lose
Oh Lordy Lordy Lordy Lordy Lord!

Well I'm going down to Penrith
I got Panthers on my mind
Oh yeah!
Well I'm going down to Penrith
I've got Panthers on my mind
Yeah! Yeah!
Going down to Panthers
Gonna play the pokies all the time.
Mercy! Mercy! I got the blues Oh yeah!

I saw a pretty girl Oh Lord she looked so sweet.
Oh yeah!
Well I saw a pretty girl oh Lord she looked so sweet.
Yeah!yeah!
had a tattoo on her left foot,
had a tattoo on her right,
Said " lift up both my feet
If you want sex tonight!"
Oh yeah!
I've got the blues so bad,
I'm almost wishing
I was dead!
Oh yeah!

If you go down to Penrith
wear
a bright bandanna
round your neck.
Oh yeah!
If you go down to Penrith
wear
a bright bandanna
round your neck.
Yeah!Yeah!
Caus it seems that down in Penrith
reds
the only colour it will get.
Oh yeah!
Lordy Lordy, mercy mercy, Good God in heaven.
I've got the blues.

Well I'm going down to Penrith
I believe I'll dust my blues.
Oh yeah!
Well I'm going down to Penrith
I believe I'll dust my blues
Yeah! Yeah!
Well I'm going down to Penrith
What have I got to lose.
Lord Lord, mercy mercy
I've got those low down
pie munching, chip crunching,
bottle sucking,
Lonesome blues!
Oh yeah!

POEM # 48 Junkie Calypso

Junkie Calypso

One morning when I woke up late
a junkie was standing outside my gate
the sight of the junkie so un-nerved me
I had to sit down and have a cup of tea
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
The sight of that junkie was getting me down
so I thought I'd take a stroll around town
but when I set off - junkie set off too
and when i cut back - junkie cut back too
when I speed up - junkie speed up too
when I slow down - junkie slow down too
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
When I sit down junkie sit down too
When I stand up - junkie stand up too
When I stroll around junkie strolling too
When I turn around - junkie turn round too
When I went inside junkie did that too
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
I take a walk into the CBD expecting to lose that nasty junkie
but when I went to the matinee -
I found the junkie sitting there with me.
When I walk down the street junkie walking too
when I jump on the train
Junkie jumps on too
and then when I went to pick up my stride
there was the junkie there by my side
I don't know what this junkie might do
I really don't know what this junkie might do
I really don't know what this junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what this junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what this junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what this junkie might do

Poem # 47 On leaving an empty house.

On leaving an empty house

A full house is a home,
it has a rhythm and beat of life,
a pulse, it sings a song.
An empty house is clean, utilitarian,
a machine for living in.

then just as you turn to leave --

a widening shaft of sunlight illuminates
a corner and you remember that's where
the sewing machine stood,
and the negative shadow shapes
on the wall were
positive family portraits,
and on the refrigerator
was childrens art,
a glorious gallery lyric
celebrating life.

Poem # 46 Weeping

Weeping

Why feel sad? Why cry?
Is it because you see reality more clearly?
Cry for lost species
eliminated to sate our appetites.
Cry for magic that has been forgotten.
Cry for those who won't try
to find the poetry that surrounds them.
Cry for those trying to be someone
other than themselves.
Cry for originals who
want to be modified.
Cry for children who
act like adults.
Cry for those who are free
but think they're prisoners.
Cry for those who betray
their sex.

Poem # 45 History

History

Can you jump in the same
river twice?
When we look at the same painting
is the painting that you see
the same as the painting that I see?
Why gamble our share of the present
on the future?
Investing every misery towards a happy
ending to our history.
Our combined story will never end,
either happily or unhappily,
it ends every second.
Content for some,
discontent for others.
One second up, one second down,
the beat and tempo of a rhythm,
all ways ending, all ways not ending.
Is there anything, or is there
nothing to wait for?

Poem # 44 Time Space Love

Time Space Love

Space and love are one and the same,
beyond the expanding volume of
the universe space ceases to exist,
and there we would

have no space to contend
with and no time.
In our shelters if we have no space,
time accelerates dangerously.
At high speeds time is stretched
and love can jump the tracks.
At the end of the day unless
we are riding a ray of light
like a cosmic cowboy, then we need
time to slow down, we need our space,
and even just a little bit of love
can illuminate a long shadow.

Poem # 43 Death Notices

Death Notices

Obituarys are towards the terminal end
Of the daily broadsheet.
I read them to marvel at the trail
individuals have left to mark their
path through life, while
I have only left muddy footprints.
There is no glimmer in the
image of the deceased,
however notable their life.
This is how the press indicates
respect for, or fear of, death.
The eyes of the significant one
in the image are
dull and flat,
as if the sparkle of
their lives and achievements
has been scattered like
magic dust amongst those
of us left behind.

Poem # 42 A Scatological poem

A Scatological poem

We filled our heads with knowledge
in the crowded room
delighted that the school was empty of
high school students.

The empty buildings were still littered
with the remains of food,
and scarred with obscene graffiti....
what the Principal did with dogs.

It was desolate outside our seminar room.

Time passed
and my stomach contracted with a natural urge.
"Where is the nearest toilet?",
I asked an executive.
"The downstairs boys are available."
"Are they clean?"
"They looked good when I checked them this morning."
Reassured I headed in their direction.

Relieved, I squatted naturally on the the bowl.
As I viewed the grotesque writing on the walls
of the cubicle
an awareness smacked me with full affront.
Quelle horreur! What a predicament!
There was no paper!
(Of course!, the school was empty, it had not been supplied)

I considered the resources at my disposal.
The water?
... I had no knowledge of the operational method.
A handkerchief?
... disposal presented a problem.
... there was nothing for it, I must venture forth.

With pants around my ankles,
waddling like a duck or a dancing Cossack dwarf,
I headed for the entrance.

I found a bin filled with useful paper.
I grabbed two sheets and
as quickly as the action allowed
returned to my former position
on the bowl.

Regaining my seat I considered my sheets.

One was a tract from a religious instruction lesson
complete with an illustration of Jesus giving the sermon
on the mount.

On the other a quote from Xenophones

" If oxen and horses and lions had hands or could draw with these
hands, horses would draw pictures of gods like horses, and oxen
like oxen, lions like lions, and the gods would resemble the bodies
each species possesses"
and a picture of Karl Marx.

Was this telling me something?
What a dilemma!
Was I to deface a picture of our Lord, or was I being invited to wipe out a
seminal concept which led to mans emancipation?
Any decision would be a philosophical commitment.

Would God forgive me?

I made a leap of pure faith,

flushed,

and pulled up my pants.

Better to live with shit
than to forsake ideals
or commit sacrilege.

It was an uncomfortable feeling.