Form

Your existence encounters mine
Minefield of potentiality for intensity
Intensity of gaze as eyes meet, meld, colours mingle, borders blur, see as one
As one our hearts beat in unison, unity, tandem pumping of life’s fluidity, voluble valvular, virtuosity, virtuality beyond reality
Reality of hands held, palm in palm, flesh on flesh
In flesh I experience you, feel you, within, without, withholding nothing
Nothing hidden from thoughts that float across the rippled waters of our minds
Mindful of the path we tread down the long dark corridors of idea
Ideals unattainable but never to be forgotten
Forgetting that which was in our path on the road to where we now intersect, introspect, converse
Conversing, conspiring, not tiring
Tiring of your company not considered among the possibilities of this world
Worlds colliding, colluding, alluding to something together
Together as one, under the sun, stars, heavens above our joined being
Beings merging, emerging, converging, verging on unity
Unity of life, life essence, essential to living
Living in wonder, this wonderful, this wondrous beauty
Beauty inherent in its natural form
Form that is us

Lest we forget

I'm sure I've posted this before, but it is the day for it.

'Rememberance Day' at Poets Against War site

It stings so bad

I am sick of the clap

And I’m not talking about that nasty infection that bitch gave me that time
I got ointments and some nice pills for that and it cleared up just fine

Thank you very much

I mean this reflexive slapping of
On hand upon the other
Every time someone stands to read
Regardless of what they say and do

I am sick of the recognition clap
The reflex clap
The supportive, good on you for doing it
Clap
That makes bad poets think they were good
And good poets think you were listening

Give me your silence
Give me your pause
That time for recognition
Give me some sign
Of words being registered
Not just passing
Into ear and through
Down your arms
Making them flail
Come out as

*CLAP*

Give me…

Bitter Sweet Symphony

She tells me she’s so excited, can’t wait to go
I spoon the crema from my espresso
Into my mouth
Smooth coffee bitterness swallowed slowly

She reminds that we’ve got a month or two together left
I smile, acknowledge
My spoon slowly stirring, sugar dissolving
Taking the edge off the bite

She encourages me to come visit, it’s really nice
I nod, stop stirring
Put the spoon down
The sweetening complete

She holds one of my hands, smiling
My other lifts the glass to my mouth
Drinking deep, heat enters, suffuses through me
Artificially enervated

Looking into my eyes, she suggests we go home
I drain the glass
Savour all I can get
The tip we leave minimal

i don't take myself seriously, don't you

sitting at his regular table he
surveys
the room his realm counts
heads
notes faces calculates

considers

all who attend try to
catch
his eye

he holds
involuntary
court does not
disappoint
a wink here a
smile
there greetings verbal and
non
names used when he
thinks
the effect will be best

those who do
not
like him still curry
favour
try to turn his
head
want what is
his
to give

newer attendees just
wish
to be noticed

recognised

for now

above beneath
beside
never truly
with
the poets the
convenor
sits at his regular table
and considers

flirting with the barmaid

(true-ish story from about 10 years ago. posted for a friend)

eyes so disarmingly bright i am compelled

no commanded

to meet and hold them
locked together for as long as we have in these brief interludes

snatches of conversation
conspiratorial gestures
acknowledgment of existence from across the room

do you notice how i watch you
collecting pieces of you to take with me when i leave
capturing your smile in my mind imagining later that it is more than it was

wishing that
the fingers that unselfconsciously run themselves through your hair
the arms you fold across you, holding you
the tongue that plays inside your mouth
the teeth that bite gently, playfully, on your lower lip
as we steal these brief moments between drinks

may one day be mine

knowing as i leave this place where we meet all too regularly
that i must feel myself content with these friendly greetings
comfortable platonic gestures
these far too fleeting stolen moments of familiarity

Allegory

(another old DanPoets comp, where Ted set us the line "an angel black as soot")

Let’s talk, good folk, of war today
A war as old as sin
A war whose borders blur so much
Who knows where they begin

It all began so long ago
With plan ineffable
When one was cast for thinking that
His lord was fallible

Do they do right, who revile he
They call adversary
When only crime committed was
To be but contrary

And hells of fire and brimstone are
But tales told from above
And why so many children dead
In the name of His love

Threatened are we to act for good
With afterlife of hell
But foetid stench of ill deeds done
Comes from above as well

The story skewed by both sides to
Control what we all see
For both dependant are they on
Our human frailty

The powers that control each of
The camps from which they fight
One thing in common do they have
Both sides do claim their right

To do with our lives as they please
One just like another
The only goal at end of day
Win against the other

Priorities by them are set
Each judge their win, their loss
Reasons to fight are not our own
We but the fighting dross

We all of us but numbers scored
Death but a tally kept
Knowing the truth, his final day
No wonder Jesus wept

Can you be sure which to believe
Decide who’s good, who bad
The arguments for either side
Could drive a sane man mad

But if decision uninformed
Is made you may well find
The state of your immortal soul
Shall leave you in a bind

Can you this day, this time, be sure
Wherein your trust to put
A demon white as driven snow
An angel black as soot

trout fishing

bait is set
hook deep
dropped into water
now wait
tempt

first tug
interest on the line
balance the to and fro
let it play
draw the bait in

gentle resistance
entice
draw it to you with
its own motivation
resist urge to pull
too hard

line is drawn deep
feel acceptance of lure
resist a bit more
urge it to take it
complete

eagerness a hindrance
try too hard
pull too quick
bait is dropped

beautiful eyes leave dance floor
not seen again

outside my front door

on gnarled crooked
old-man-fingered branches
eucalypt leaves hang

long tapered strokes
of artist's brush

gray watercolour
trunk
pushing them up
to reach the sky

Serfing my Liege

Edward "Ted" Kidson-Lord 5/8/1938-14/5/2007

When first I come home each night
It is your face I see
Your photo displayed prominently
You behind a mic where you belong
And I remember

When I go into my study
I see the painting you gave me
A nude, of course,
Some water colour detail
A female behind, prominent lips
Of a cunt displayed
And I remember

The painter, as well as the poet
The sculptor, too
The guiding hand for so many like me
Mentor and friend
And I remember

And think of memories shared
Of butterflies and ants
Of the power of words
Of a heart so physically fragile
And so spiritually strong
A hand held out to one
Just finding his way
And I remember

That poetry is alive and well
In Melbourne
And among the reasons for this
It is you who should be forever numbered
For what am I but your legacy
Another hand to hold a torch
With your grip imprinted on the handle
In all that I do I honour you
And I remember

With thanks, with respect
And with love
And hold you within me
Always

I will remember

ships in the night, trams in the evening (1998)

Note: first poem I ever read on stage, in December 1998


You sit across from me on the tram and return my smile
I watch you

Your eyes
No cliched comparison to limpid pools in the moonlight
Just a lovely pale blue
I study your hair
Watch it flow down past your shoulders
You reach up and tuck it back behind one delicate ear
And I see the elegant line of your jaw
And the exquisite curve of your neck
I watch the play of tendons beneath the pale skin as you turn to look around you
My mouth waters at the sight of the indentations along the line of your collar bones

Our eyes meet
Understanding passes
No words are spoken

I lean forward to kiss the depression at the base of your throat
The tip of my tongue, as if a herald to their arrival
Reaching you just before my lips
I bite gently on your neck, just beneath the jaw line
Breathe softly into your ear as I inhale your scent
And finally kiss your lips

Heat, moisture
A delicate pressure
We are not as starved animals at a fresh kill
Just two new lovers gently communicating desire

We reach your stop and you leave

You had not noticed me as you read your book
And I go home

Alone in my timidity

valedictory

I am wondering how to
Reach you
I am wondering how I
Poet
For want of a better
More meaningful
Word
May hold your attention

And then I wonder
Why
I should do so
And how to make
Myself
Deserving of it
And what I will
Do
When I have it

I can entertain
I can spin tales
Love, hate
Life

But how do I make
This
Mean anything more than
Time
Spent politely
Listening

To me

The beat changes

I walk this once familiar street
Follow the rhythm of my feet
As I feel the pulse, I feel the beat
Of the life that grows where people meet
But the beat changes

The beat changes
The beat may grow, or the beat may slow
But the beat changes

The beat changed between us
The beat of mine, the beat of yours
Asynchronous at the last
Each holding to the idea
The remnants of what once was
Reaching for the other holding them close
To feel the pulse
Hoping
But feeling the beat change

The beat changes
The beat may grow, or the beat may slow
But the beat changes

The beating I receive in the schoolyard has become passé
The regularity, the inevitability of life for the smart kid
Labelled a fag
In a semi rural town
The blows rain down as if upon another
Reaching my body but not my self
Not reaching me where my life pulses
Where my heart beats
Where the beat changes

The beat changes
The beat may grow, or the beat may slow
But the beat changes

The beat…
Change is inevitable
What was is not will be or even is
Intense this tense
Future present past
All part but never constant
Time an illusion measured by intellect
Felt as a fluidity
An hour can feel a lifetime
A lifetime at its end feel but a
Beat changing

The beat changes
The beat may grow, or the beat may slow
But the beat changes

The changing beat, the pulse of this once familiar street
To which I return after so long away
Has that slight discomfort of unfamiliarity
Of seeming lost in a world that once was home
Giving promise of future unpredicted
The excitement of getting to know a whole new world
All over again

think I've heard of it

From the air
The centre of Australia
Is all swirls
And ridges

Earthy tones
Brown, ochre
Black
But overall the heart
Is indeed
Red

Desolate and beautiful
Great swathes of only
Apparently
Barren wilderness
Open, natural
Harsh
And beyond our control

And yet man in his
Arrogance
Draws lines around
Sections
Of Nature’s whole
Divides it into
Pieces
Give names to the
Nameless reaches

Oft times they are named for
Those first brave or
Mad
Enough to face the
Wilderness
But more often as some
Honorarium
For one deemed
Worthy
Those who most likely
Had not set eye on a truly
Natural
Expanse of land

First Words from the Lines of a Love Poem

You
I

You
I

I
You
You
I

You
I
I
You

Yours
Mine
Your
My
I
You

We

Together
Apart
Being
With
Without

I
You
We
Why

Love

Only……

of a love poem

My visions
My nightmares
My life

All in print

Humanity's iniquities
The pains of growth
Rants on relationships
Gone bad
And alcohol fuelled revelry

Every low and
Angst ridden
Moment
Put down in words
Until my heart
Beats slow
And painfully

I tire
Lay my head down and
Dream

Of a love poem

From the lines

These stories are true
As such can be known
Life’s struggles
Humanity’s war on
Itself
The individual’s battle
With life

Love
Labour
Loss

No inconsequentialities
The reporting is
Detailed
And complete

Advance, retreat
Each victory each
Capitulation
But one more step to
Becoming

The stories
Many and
Varied
All coming to you live
Direct
From the lines

First Words

My pen at first
Hesitant
Random scratches of
Infant toenails
On floor upon which
It learns to crawl

Soon few
Faltering
Steps
Vocalisation of rough
Incoherencies

Then listen
Watch the grown ups
Mimic then
Practice

Stability of gait
Increases
Clear voice found
Pen steadies on page

Reveals

First words

when cogito fails (x-post)

what am I this I
which I
this me that I see that is seen
that is the me you see as you
as I see you
which I
who am I
what am I
why am I
where am I
who is this me an abstract inexact abstraction
from the self that is perceived as me
or as you
if it’s you whose perception is required
for existence of this persistent form
that is the I that I believe to be me
if me is real as I
as you
but real is relative
how relative to relate to the self
to my self
to your self
your reality different to mine
you see me as you
I see you as you and me as me
but this me this self
is ill formed sense of being
belonging to what or where is anybody’s guess
but not mine
I choose not to choose
not to guess or require
suggestion of reality
being that which I would be
or you believe me to be
is enough for some
but for me I don’t know
this me I don’t really know
but exist within this frame of perception
this me that is I
that is the you that you see
is this really the me that I see
are we one
this you in your eyes
this me in my mind
who are we
this I me you conglomeration of perceived beings
forming the self
this self
my self
which defies definition or serious inquisition
as to purpose
without purpose I am adrift
in this sea of self
selflessly see that around me as unreality
questioning all that is perceived
this self then questions it’s perception of self
am I
is me
does my self equate with being
if perception is to exist
and perception is questioned
where I this self
my self
this I that is the I that I see
that is me
the you that you perceive
or do you
do I
is this self perceived
or self deceived
by that which we trust in
to deliver us from void into being
into meaning
in existence we trust
but by perception do we measure
the immeasurable
with fallible translation
of sensation
by the mind
the infallible most foolable tool
able to do so much with so little
must all of it be real
or just that reality which agrees with self perception
of meaning
of being
of that I which is me
that is dissipating
instigating
anticipating
the destruction of the self
this entropic being
going the way of all things thermodynamic
breaking down
returning to null state
apathetically allowed not encouraged
as much as this me appears to do
with excess and stress
I digress from me
follow paths outside the borders of my self
this self
whose existence I begin to question
to doubt
without doubt I do not exist
if unable to question that which is around
do I exist at all or drift
in void and null
but if I exist to question
can I exist without question
of my own existence
but losing track of that
certainty fallacy of modern thought
can I still exist at all
but what is existence
but awareness of self
and what is awareness
if not the need to question
to doubt
but doubting that which is perceived
if I am but perception
am I in fact I
is this me
a me at all
am I at all
or am I not
and if I am not
are you
in that you perceive me
or do I perceive you perceiving me
who is deceived
if you are deceived
or if I am deceived
in that you are not of outside
but within me in my perception
this self deception of being
then reliance on your perception
to give me being
lacks substance
insubstantial this construct that is I
that is this I
that is me
is not to be
all that is believed

the stars look clumsy tonight

I don’t roar like a tiger
Just tend to rabbit on
And my metaphor is really dragon
But like a rat up a drainpipe
I do so love to monkey around
And though I can be a bit of a boar
I’ll either float your boat or get your goat
But I’m starting to get a bit horse
So I’ll stop sneaking past
Like a snake in the grass
This dog of a verse
That’s dumb as an ox
But when the rooster crows at dawn
All is forgiven

Koyaanisqatsi - 1994

Images of existence glimpsed through electronic eyes
This is the life that many see

Cohorts of giants straddling the land
Skeletal colossus reaching to caress the sky with steel arms

Ants streaming along blue-gray trails
Metal exoskeleton and rubber feet

Moon eclipsed by concrete tower
Stars drowned in the glow of polluted citadel

Setting sun warped molten heat pouring down glass façade
Spirit replaced by neon glow, physical beings with no place to go

That's what planet earth now means to me
This is the human life I see

differences

(note: written some time ago, just reminded of it recently)

If I were older
I would tell you of the divinity of your beauty
And you would think me eccentric
Above and beyond the lust
That gives motive to compliment
You would accept my words
The kiss I place on your hand
The cheekiness of my flirting

If I were younger
My clumsiness would leave me tongue-tied
Or prone to outbursts that you may find cute
That you could call youthful infatuation
Or something equally dismissible

But I am as I am
The age that I am
The man that I am
And I want you
Oh, I can stand back and give you honest appreciation
Of your face
Your voice
Your mind
But you would believe what you would
Believe that at the age that I am
At the stage that I am
That there’d be an underlying motive
To compliment
To flirting
That I am at that awkward age
Beyond youth
But not yet distinguished enough
To evade suspicion
And hell, you’d probably be right
Sometimes
But I’m too old to disseminate
And too young to pretend
I don’t want to fuck
So make up your own mind
For what is attraction after all
But one body’s recognition
Of want for another

And yeah, we can just be friends
I’d like that
But what the hell
You are attractive
And I am interested
So if you want to
Let me know
And if you don’t
Well
We’ll talk about the latest book we’ve read
Or movie we’ve seen
Or wine we’ve tasted
And pretend there are no differences between the sexes

fingerpainting

our paints
arranged
on plates
in bowls

the urge to daub
upon us

our brushes
nimble
eager

paint strawberry kisses
on my chest
from the juice on
your lips

Vale Mr Gemmell

And when Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.

David Gemmell is an author who has made me cry, laugh, and rejoice like few can. An avid fan I had until the last week read all but three of his books. Epic tales of flawed heroes, courage, and human endeavour in the face of trials and tribulations few of us will with luck realise.

And within which are found values I can only hope I have the strength to at least emulate in some manner.

Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil.

The last three books that I had as yet not read were the trilogy based on the tale of Troy, on which he was working at the time of his death in 2006. The third in the trilogy, aptly titled Fall of Kings, ably completed by his wife Stella.

The last books he ever wrote. The last of his novels still waiting for me to read.

Tonight I finished Fall of Kings.

And wept.