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.