The Poetry Accordion (2020)
Word thoughts melt, fading, away in memory,
running like a sailor
late, after messing up on shore leave,
left his uniform with the tailor
and the name of the girl he loved that night,
if only she would meet him
that girl, she’d love him back and in future days,
maybe even tomorrow, might neglect to even greet him
The words they reappear somehow, freshly twisted,
explanation not provided
no apology, the way it is with trying to explain the paralysed
before the blacks and whites collided
whatever I see, there are no surprises, I’ve seen it all before,
I write it down before it’s just too late
some call it inspiration, others call it muse,
I don’t call it anything except perhaps the Weight.
Words burn like a furnace, the ore stripped
from the sacred solemn ground
if only it would make a difference to the blind, the lame,
the sick among us, who make the protest sound
Puritans subjugate as they should to the principles of language,
hidden in the bushes, shouted in the streets, strangled on the grass
the perfectly acceptable poetry read out on radio,
interpreting the future, the present, and the past
watch me, wince, no room to move except all the way
throughout the blessed earth
letters, manuscripts, waging war on suitability and accepting prizes,
for what any of it is worth
while the father scratches his chin,
the mother stands at the gate
describing the flight of fancy,
the thing I call the Weight.
Words weigh me down, the loss of themes in colour scream at me
through ether, rain and powder
like the ten year old boy showing his father that he could swim,
across the pool and that it would somehow make him prouder
Death is announced, to cancel out the birth, as if it’s grappling
for something, anything, to make it seem good, or right
and the dogs they keep on barking, something’s eating at the fruit trees
I’m going to find out what or who it is, if I have to sit up half the night
The manuscript of no consequence, as if the readership is hanging
wanting something, to provide some kind of idea, a clue, a taste, a date
in anticipation, sipping on a drink, not knowing what to call it,
the thing I call the Weight.
Words, the wind, they both cut through the air,
tearing like a scythe, a blade, a scalpel, a sword through buttons on my coat
dismissing, caring not a care, not a care, an interest,
for the long and thoughtful suggestions in the letter that I wrote
Hearing, smelling, feeling, watching, which is best to try and corral,
the scenes, the phrases, the ideological masquerades of opinions
given equal time, by those who genuflect and have a bet each way
while they pause, reign supreme over all their sweet dominions
Meanwhile in the corner, over coffee, buttered toast, and scrambled eggs
as the young, the old, the pretentious swank of silk and wool and cotton
sit back, swap smiles and laughing while the bent old lady begs
what to make of it, can I make something of it, will the noise inside abate
to appease this momentary affliction, the lifelong determination,
in the thing I call the Weight.
Words, they take me to a dream, crashing tables, breaking windows
and just as I am awoken there’s a knocking at my door
the place that I land in, has no windows, but has a waiter taking my order
I ask her what I want and she says “how would I know, and what exactly are you here for?”
“I ain’t here for anything,” I tell here, “isn’t that the point of it”,
I realise no one knows anything at all, or how to break free of it
“I can’t tell you what you want” she says unless you tell me honestly
“are you here because you oppose it or are you here because you agree with it?”
I don’t know how to answer it, I don’t know what to say,
I don’t know how I am managing, or if it has a bearing on my fate
I only know it’s name,
the thing I call the Weight.
The hounds are at my door wanting to claw out my eyes
I say to myself “this must be it, this is how a poor man dies.”
I think about the killings, the murder of all things true and decent
the ancient ones, the innocent, the old, the new, the recent
I lay down on my side and try to get some rest
and try not to think about what’s up next.
There is decay, there is loneliness, there is waiting, glimpse of hope
people will hang themselves with anything, I conclude, if given enough rope
I look around for signs, for indications that the tuneless, ceaseless thunder
will forge its will upon me, grab my head and push me under
There’s always this contemplation, thought, even as I’m wounded and perplexed
that I know more than any other living being about what’s up next.
It’s got me thinking, if twisted, unseen tears of sorrow
will let me keep what’s left of things, at least until tomorrow
I wonder if it can be left for someone else to sweep up, mix in some grit and dirt with it
so for now I can sing and dance beneath the stars, and even get to flirt with it.
I remembered my mother who suffered for me, in my hunger made me eat
and wondering about what’s up next will not help me to my feet.
A storm is brewing, not the one you think, it rolls, in plasticine and dough
where the captains and the legislators cannot and dare not go
Go ahead and ask me about the hill, that falls into the sea
if you have to ask me, go on ask it, but don’t ask it just of me.
There’s a gold cadenza waiting, from an ancient cherished text
while I sit and quietly contemplate what’s up next.
It’s got me thinking, wondering, if I stare at the abyss
and cast my dreams towards it, to a place that I won’t miss
There are scars for sure, I can live with those, I’ll lift up my skirt and show you
there’s nothing here to harm you, disappoint you, shock you, break you, throw you
There is a knocking at the door, my next steps are weak but true
and all the while I’m thinking about the next time I’m with you.
The wind cuts like a stiletto, the flowers are starting to bloom
the soldiers lay down the dying, a daughter shoots up in her room
A letter arrives for the lonely, the wind whistles cold through the trees
A prophet yells “don’t fall for the phoney, they’ll steal your memories.”
I recline my ear to the music, the rhythm, the beat, the rhyme,
as I try and weigh the gravity of this weeping Pantomime.
The warehouses and stores lay empty, there are barricades on the doors
friends are making glances, staring silently at walls.
There are broken hearts that love but still alive to teach,
there are rumblings in the street that it’s all just out of reach
The phone rings after midnight, the caller pleads “please absolve me of my crime”
“Not yet,” comes the answer “all the while we’re in this Pantomime.”
There’s a slick haired operator, reading from a list
he’s standing at his platform, with a snake above his fist
He’s reading a proclamation, saying “do exactly as I say.”
He makes a promise he knows he cannot keep and then he walks away.
I wonder if anyone notices, as he swivels on a dime
and murmur to myself about this drama filled, dark, sour, confected Pantomime.
The sun is rising, it’s running late, as shadows fall on bones
it goes dark for a minute, while it obfuscates, no one answers phones
The journalists want some answers, as to the when, the how, the why
A man in a long black coat steps forward and says, “the minute you’re born you’re old enough to die.”
A friend calls me, concerned, he says he’s getting nowhere, down in this dirt and grime
I tell him not to worry, we’re all in this together, in this post-modern Pantomime.
There are people who talk in mellowed tones, as if there’s a secret they need to hide
While others scream there’s nothing wrong, we’ve got God here on our side.
The student, immigrant, the widowed bride, ponder as they stand in line for soup,
they request that someone contact God, to see if he favours any group.
The news screeds contain the same old thing, the verbiage for the time
while the weather closes in again on the same old Pantomime.
Nineteen years, nineteen lies
nineteen lockups where justice dies
Nineteen children dragged away
by nineteen others, one fine day.
Nineteen denials turn your head
nineteen bodies on tracks found dead.
Nineteen Police cars around the bend
just in case you’re with a friend.
Nineteen grave sites, nineteen mothers
burying daughters, sons and brothers.
Nineteen arrests between dusk and dawn
nineteen babies being born.
Nineteen songs, nineteen dances,
from far horizons come nineteen glances.
Nineteen smells of dust and sand,
nineteen thousand years on land.
Nineteen schemes, nineteen scholars,
proposing settlements with dollars.
Nineteen jail cells filled with kids,
nineteen reasons to bang on lids.
Nineteen others, granted bail,
nineteen brothers back in jail.
Nineteen different ways of searching,
nineteen tracks with trackers working.
Nineteen shoes shined, nineteen masters,
nineteen sets of chains on rafters.
Nineteen times and nothing found,
nineteen ways to get around.
Nineteen guards who block the entrance,
nineteen years with reduced sentence.
Nineteen verses for the nation
sung for moral appropriation.
Nineteen treaties, nineteen vows,
nineteen whys and nineteen hows.
Nineteen ways of being told,
nineteen dollars made to look like gold.
Nineteen teachers read from a book
about a man, a man named Cook.
Nineteen denials and nineteen more,
nineteen times dragged to the floor.
Nineteen women cry tears of rage,
for nineteen children half their age.
Nineteen races with the dogs,
nineteen racist ideologues.
Nineteen colours in our skin,
nineteen angles to shine light in.
Nineteen failings from Commissions past,
nineteen changes from the last.
Nineteen fish caught with spear,
nineteen meal times spread with cheer.
Nineteen students graduate,
no time to waste or vacillate.
Nineteen stars, to render mysteries,
nineteen dream time tribal histories.
Nineteen ways to till the land,
nineteen ways to understand.
Nineteen leaders, nineteen voices,
laying bare the nineteen choices.
Nineteen times caught on tape,
theft of food the taste of grape.
Nineteen more who walk on by,
the grapes in season are worth a try.
Nineteen eyes preventing trouble,
watching from inside their bubble.
Nineteen lists of nineteen streets,
nineteen cops mark out their beats.
Nineteen frisks of nineteen pockets,
nineteen pills with nineteen dockets.
Nineteen protests beaten back,
nineteen arrests to keep us all on track.
Nineteen lawyers work through the night,
nineteen sticks of dynamite.
Nineteen reasons to sit and learn,
nineteen ways to make country burn.
Nineteen berries, nineteen plants,
cook them, eat them, sing and dance.
Nineteen elders state their position,
nineteen points in their petition.
Nineteen beds, turned away
neatly turned for another’s stay.
Nineteen bodies in the loam,
rest in their ancestral home.
Nineteen tongues, daily spoken
raising spirits never broken.
Nineteen days of dream time sharing
nineteen ways to show the caring
Nineteen seasons on land and sea,
nineteen steps between you and me.
Who was it who killed poor George Floyd,
who was it who made his life null and void?
Not me, said the cop who stomped on his neck
I was just tryin’ to keep the man in check.
He couldn’t breathe but it’s not my fault
I had to keep him down, I had to quell revolt.
So, who killed poor George Floyd,
while some looked on in Schadenfreude?
Not me, said the President with his strident claim,
These thugs who protest, it’s them I blame
If they don’t go home the guns will sound,
I’ll let out the dogs so there’s blood on the ground.
Well, who then killed poor George Floyd,
was he killed for something he was trying to avoid?
Not me, said the driver of the pickup truck
He was an old black man who ran out of luck
I’m just tryin’ to do my job,
don’t blame me, I’m not part of the mob.
Who was it who killed poor George Floyd,
were they scared of him, or were they just annoyed?
It wasn’t us, the people screamed, “we’re as honest as the day is long,
Our nation is free, our nation is strong.
We can’t help it if the black man falls,
if want your freedom, you must obey our laws.
Who killed poor George Floyd,
who took his life while with the same life they toyed?
Not me, said the judge from his bench on high
We can only watch while our citizens die,
We apply the law as it’s handed down,
we don’t judge over black, brindle, white or brown.
So, who then, killed poor George Floyd,
and why were the bullets and tanks deployed.
To keep the peace, said the Chief of Police, from behind his shield,
it’s the only way to make protesters yield.
Their dignity will have to wait,
now please step back behind the gate.
Who, this is the question, killed poor George Floyd,
could it happen here, amidst all the peace we’ve enjoyed?
Nothing to see here, said the Mayor of the town
We’re in a different place, we don’t hold our citizens down.
it can’t happen here, we’re more civilised,
we understand the injustice of those who have died.
So then, who killed poor George Floyd,
who stole his life, how was justice employed?
It can’t be us, or our society,
it’s fine to be liberal, to a degree.
But just as the ghosts, the ghosts of Jim Crow,
they die in the dust, as they did long ago.
Ain’t no words, ain’t no actions,
ain’t no turgid explanations
Ain’t no thieves, ain’t no captains,
ain’t no messy complications
Ain’t no artists, ain’t no drawings,
ain’t no pictures left to paint
Ain’t no galleries, or theatres
ain’t no Priest, ain’t no Saint
Ain’t no magpies in the spring,
ain’t no policy or dictum
Ain’t no flesh wounds on the body
to identify the victim
Ain’t no shepherd with his flock,
ain’t no one beneath the covers
Ain’t no Father with his child saying –
“if I could have my druthers”
Ain’t no doctors, ain’t no nurses,
to wrap the leg that’s badly bleedin’
Ain’t no food left in the pantry,
ain’t no one to do the feedin’
Ain’t no letters being written –
sayin’ “I will love you truly”
Ain’t no prisoners left inside,
ain’t no rules for the unruly
Ain’t no guru, ain’t no teacher,
ain’t no method, ain’t no grades
Ain’t no night time assignations,
ain’t no men behind the shades
Ain’t no buses, ain’t no cars
ain’t no petrol sniffing kids
Ain’t no wasted trips to Mars
ain’t no nation on the skids
Ain’t no light on the horizon,
ain’t no finger pointin’ shows
Ain’t no descendin’, ain’t no risin’
ain’t no fighters aiming blows
Ain’t no vandals, ain’t no crimes
ain’t no conflicts, ain’t no wars
Ain’t no saviours for the times
Ain’t no cleaners to mop the floors
Ain’t no wires, ain’t no traces,
ain’t no powder, ain’t no phones
Ain’t no wasteland, ain’t no dump
ain’t nowhere to hide the bones
Ain’t no lodges, ain’t no guild,
ain’t no changing of the guards
Ain’t no Kings, ain’t no Queens
so they can send their kind regards
Ain’t no friends, ain’t no enemies,
ain’t no China or United States
Ain’t no wages, ain’t no fees
ain’t no talk about their fates
Ain’t no treaties, ain’t no vows,
ain’t no papers being prepared
Ain’t no speeches, ain’t no vowels,
ain’t no words that are being spared
Ain’t no truth, ain’t no lies
ain’t no sympathists, or cranks
Ain’t no weapons to use as alibis
Ain’t no soldiers to roll out tanks
Ain’t no cops, ain’t no burglars,
ain’t no windows being smashed
Ain’t no lifeguards on the beaches
ain’t no vehicles being crashed
Ain’t no handshakes, ain’t no greetings,
ain’t no suits to wash or press
Ain’t no notes to take in meetings,
ain’t no blouses, ain’t no dress
Ain’t no pretence, ain’t no conceit
ain’t no bullwhip, ain’t no axe
Ain’t no raised fist in rebellion
ain’t no time to just relax
Ain’t no ancients, ain’t no scrolls
ain’t no wisdom, ain’t no knowledge
Ain’t no students, ain’t no classes
ain’t no university, or college
Ain’t no prisons, ain’t no islands,
ain’t no refugees, or slaves
Ain’t no freedom, or captivity
ain’t no hideouts, ain’t no caves
Ain’t no carbon, ain’t no plastic
ain’t no alloy, ain’t no steel
Ain’t no counsellors or psychics
sayin’ “this is how you feel”
Ain’t no Bible, ain’t no Quran
ain’t no letters from abroad
Ain’t no Mercedes on the Autobahn
searching for their Lord
Ain’t no villains, ain’t no heroes
ain’t no one to blame when things go wrong
Ain’t no point in counting zeros
ain’t no poem, ain’t no song
Ain’t no bastards, ain’t no brawlers
ain’t no bodies in the bin
Ain’t no fishermen, ain’t no trawlers
ain’t no fat, or fish to skin
Ain’t no sweeping, ain’t no cleaning
ain’t no dust, ain’t no broom
Ain’t no kitchen bench tops gleaming
ain’t no homeless with a room
Ain’t no plantings, ain’t no seedlings,
ain’t no tilling of the ground
Ain’t no phone calls from the parents asking –
“may we come around?”
Ain’t no càfes, ain’t no bars,
ain’t no fingers on the keys
Ain’t no lose talk on the streets
that will bring you to your knees
Ain’t no libraries, to read and ponder,
ain’t no rooms with ocean views
Ain’t no parks, to sit and wonder
ain’t no papers, ain’t no news
Ain’t no soup, ain’t no ladle,
ain’t no Mockingbird to fly
Ain’t no hand to rock the cradle,
ain’t no ear to hear the cry
Ain’t no Premiers, ain’t no pretending,
ain’t no hide, ain’t no seek
Ain’t no messages they’re sending
to which they cannot plainly speak
Ain’t no face masks, ain’t no health
ain’t no pharmaceuticals to buy
Ain’t no ladder, ain’t no wealth
that’ll hold ya till you die
Ain’t no markets, ain’t no sales,
ain’t no prostitutes or whores
Ain’t no standing in the hallways
ain’t no windows, ain’t no doors
Ain’t no winners, ain’t no losers
ain’t no races at the track
Ain’t no drunks, or legless boozers
ain’t no one to slap their back
Ain’t no honey, ain’t no salt,
ain’t no sugar in the bowl
Ain’t no blame, or finding fault
ain’t no weeping, suffering soul
Ain’t no switches, ain’t no claims
ain’t no guidelines, ain’t no rules
Ain’t no smoke, ain’t no flames
Ain’t no one working, or downing tools
Ain’t no smoke, ain’t no mirrors,
ain’t no sirens, ain’t no fires
Ain’t no promotions, ain’t no scorecards
ain’t no corpses, ain’t no pyres
Ain’t no sermons, ain’t no altars,
ain’t no Eden, ain’t no Gate
Ain’t no slick haired rich evangelist
determining your fate
Ain’t no time, no time to think,
ain’t no rescue, ain’t no plan
Ain’t no place to store the conquests
of the last extraordinary man
Ain’t no stairway up to heaven,
ain’t no troubadours with strings
Ain’t no bread that needs to leaven
ain’t no baths, there ain’t no springs
Ain’t no money, ain’t no prizes
ain’t no old men going to jail
Ain’t no cakes, ain’t no surprises,
ain’t no black man out on bail
Ain’t no mountains, ain’t no valleys,
ain’t no fire trails, ain’t no shoes
Ain’t no pubs to drown your sorrows,
ain’t no Jazz, there ain’t no Blues
Ain’t no concrete, ain’t no oil
ain’t no oceans left to dredge
Ain’t no minerals in the soil
ain’t no trees left on the edge.
Ain’t no judiciary or courtrooms,
ain’t no lawyers dressed in silk
Ain’t no dodgy, jewelled up salesmen
ain’t no preachers and their ilk
Ain’t no principles of warfare,
ain’t no bullets, ain’t no gun
Ain’t no badges, ain’t no welfare,
ain’t no grass on which to run
Ain’t no prizes, ain’t no openings,
ain’t no presents, ain’t no gifts
Ain’t no Prince to send his wishes,
as the winds of changes shift
Ain’t no man, ain’t no woman
ain’t no one to hold your hand
Ain’t no verses, ain’t no chorus
to try ‘n’ help us understand
Ain’t no spare room, ain’t no attic,
ain’t no mattress, ain’t no sheets
Ain’t no flute to quiet the static,
ain’t no marching in the streets
Ain’t no measles, ain’t no mumps,
ain’t no ambulance, or nurse
Ain’t no doctors, ain’t no sleeping
ain’t no quick fix for the curse
Ain’t no coffee in the morning,
ain’t no milk, ain’t no cow
Ain’t no smiling, ain’t no yawning
ain’t no answers as to how.
In Autumn, Spring, or both, write the leaves that fall, bud, blossom or bloom
and children summoned after breakfast, clean plates, wash hands, to tidy up their room
meanwhile, the Vietnamese lady around the corner, making lamingtons, second to none
and the mechanic’s call to remind me, maintenance is required, if my car is still to run
and nurses who check temperatures at the side of every bed
and sideways I glance – and bow my head.
Then there’s Schubert in C Minor, carrying tension through his hands
dark, moody combinations, colours life, his death, as his last song softly lands
while other music plays, in vain, trying but it’s never quite the same
and interruptions, amendments, the Poets, who wait to hear their name
and promenades of spatial needs with a needle and a thread
while I stumble on in solitude – and bow my head.
The slowly cooking porridge and the coffee, make mine black
suffers nothing inconvenient, as if there’s a shortage out the back
the Mother’s taking knowledge and the Father’s at the lathe
risking everything while singing about the lives still left to save
in momentary thought oblivion, temporary amusements being fed
while I take my application, sign it – and bow my head.
Back to Schubert at the piano, knowing his days are running out
leans down upon his century, tries to twist if not to shout
and the lamingtons, like their maker, never out of style
brought to carers and their children, to energise their smile
and ceaseless eyes maintain a movement, just started, set to spread
while I can do nothing more – but bow my head.
And finally now, in confronting light, I bow my head
with the lamingtons all gone and with Schubert now dead
hang on tight, to the other side, ride the sacred cow
if you didn’t see me then, how is it you’ll see me now
no need to make enquiries, there’s no need to even try
I will now commence to bow my head – and quietly here just lie.
If only I’d had one moment, if only I’d had some time
if only I could make some still small sense of this imaginary rhyme
If only I’d not chased shadows, challenged, instead, their version of the truth
if only the world’s crazy misshapen axis hadn’t been tipped on its ancient misshapen roof
If only I’d ruffled feathers, if only I’d raised some doubt
if only the spruikers of rectitude didn’t make me believe what it was that they crowed endlessly about
If only the trails and the highways, gave me signs along the way
if only the self-righteous clowns in suits had died or gone astray
If only I’d sprung from Corona’s bench and shouted what I thought
if only the silver tongued salesmen hadn’t been allowed to sell me what I bought
If only the soporific axioms of society’s judgemental gaze
hadn’t stalked the unsuspecting, expecting us to follow all our days
If only the publicly funded rulers, proselytising till they bleed
had bothered to even realise, onto their ground fell barren, poisoned seed
If only the so-called penitents had railed and sallied forth
and stormed the gates of the sanctified, showing them all what they were worth
If only the hypocrites and messengers, the dogs who barked at every wheel
had instead turned on their masters, chased them, mauled them, so they’d somehow get to feel
the insipidness and emptiness of everything they teach
while proclaiming thoughts of greatness in the moment that they preach
If only the sanctimonious hadn’t dragged their religions near
and based their protestations on the very things they fear
If only our dreams hadn’t been burned, scarred by their Machiavellian brief
if only their imaginations, lacking, had shown them up in stark relief
If only the schools and teachers, in refusing to be changed
had realised that it’s better to be wrong than to be intellectually estranged
If only when they’d been shown up by long haired fugitives
had they admitted to themselves they did not know how the other lives
If only I’d noticed emptiness, instead of shop-worn bored consumptions
if only I’d just ignored their tunes, their well organised assumptions
If only the patriarchs on their recliners, who sat in judgement all day long
had known that making others weak did not in turn then make them strong
If only the halls of politics, where the unimaginative beat their chest
on their cloistered archipelagos, where they decide that they know best
If only they’d imagine their irrelevance, from the corner of their eye
if only they’d notice the rumblings in the streets before they craft their lie
If only the anodyne reflections of those who divide and rule
had made them pause a moment, to know there is not equality in school
If only the revolution had purged the nation’s conscience, if not the nation’s guilt
then all the longings, turned down, refused could then have it all rebuilt.
If I go down to the water I can see it, momentarily –
It reveals itself in ripples, winking, slyly, at me –
then disappears, it isn’t there, but it was, feigning, dodging in and out, prophetic –
alluding to virtues of sleep, to rest, when feeling somewhat energetic.
So many other things, sweet manna, this sleep, for those who sweat and labour –
filling the well of compensation, or reward, for those who so dearly crave her.
It is this, right here, this, the regeneration of the body, the spirit, or the mind –
or both, or all, if that is what I need, or crave, or somehow in this moment, find.
Check the kitchen, is power generation low –
as I search behind a lounge room chair, for something I can throw –
still, stillness does not arrive and how it all, if at all, its denouement is deferred –
the caffeine induced light-shed nature fighting gallantly, preferred.
Pity treads on the heels of images while it hustles itself away –
says “I’m not ready for you, yet” – come back another day –
what to do, where to go, it monsters thought dreams vacillating –
but dreams are not, merely holidays, ideals or plans procrastinating.
Slumber, sleep, what is it but an absence of the other, or yesterday’s commotions –
compressed into sensual imaginations of needlessly bought devotions –
wisdom – none, it strangles all the things that others purport to it and beseech it to continue –
in gaining, gathering, written, words in support of it, while it strains with every sinew.
The space, the song, of limited speed, if possible, to dance beneath the morning shower –
not diminished, or ignored, resting, content in its extraordinary power –
if only, to look again, in the water, for the ripple, that will mean I’m finally mended –
unto the rest, the peaceful rest, that I’d, to, hours ago, surrendered.
Fires are burning, lines are bracing
Nights in silence, hearts are racing
Tongues are wagging, shelves are clearing
help arrives, for the hard of hearing
Sitting round in circles talking
Wanting more, much more to give
while people talk – about the way we live.
Coffee’s brewing, tea is drawing
Ice is melting, food is thawing
Halls are filled, with conversations
Speakers question, motivations
Opinions offered, not confirmations
Sifting values through a sieve
while people talk – about the way we live.
Winter harvest, hopes are sinking
Minds are focused, on different thinking
City roadblocks, cars are stalling
Buses filled, while rain is falling
Commuters sharing thoughts and theories
in their communal co-operative
while people talk – about the way we live.
Mothers weeping, babies crying
Markets tumbling, sheep are dying
Travellers arriving, at their station
Tourists cancel their vacation
Taking time, some deliberation
more time needed to weep and grieve
while people talk – about the way we live.
Books are written, stories told
Price adjusted, for growing old
House investments, keeping tabs
Innovation, is up for grabs
Trends and movements, kept alive
Administrations, jump and jive
while people talk – about the way we live.
Miners striking, unions banned
Students screaming, across the land
Teachers watching, rules have changed
Library shelves are rearranged
Watching children teach their teachers
teaching them how to forgive
while people talk – about the way we live.
I’m no longer here –
I’ve been in the papers, a “tragedy”, of sorts – when there is no other word
no longer able to breathe, the crash, others thrown clear –
words that mean nothing, the prayers and the thoughts – it all sounds so absurd
words from people who care just enough, trying to do their bit –
between their God, my Father, my Mother, picking up the threads
roles are reversed, their child, their child, their child is dead, there are no answers fit –
just remember, my parents, crying in their beds.
I was only four years old –
if you call that old, killed by disease
the doctors didn’t pick it, thought it was flu, or a cold –
turned, like the Atlantic, to fatal cough and wheeze
I don’t get to grow up, have a boyfriend, bake a cake –
or have friends who come around
play together, go to school, or to argue what’s at stake –
please do not forget me because they put me in the ground.
Fire breath in my throat as my father tried in vain –
him too, with me, buttressed for the fight
waiting, no longer now, the coming of the rain –
trying to hold it off, to try to make it through the night.
The men with their reports, with their advice designed to seize –
the day or just the moment, the instant thought, to run
or stay, to fight, to sleep, to rage against, or freeze –
please do not forget us, my father and his son.
I got caught, like a lot of us still do –
by a single bullet from the same authority’s gun
I was walking home, with a friend, just us two –
He’s white, I’m black so I decided I should run
Maybe if I’d stood still or put my hands into the air –
maybe if I’d just laid flat on the ground
maybe if they’d known what is right, or even what is fair –
if only they’d known that, there’s a chance I’d be around.
At three days old, I am not passed away, I’m dead –
So easy to count my days and insult my too short life
My mother who bore me, who no longer dreams, or forms a thought inside her head –
for the guilt, the shame by another name, the curses of a wife
the hole in my heart, the hole, the words not spoken –
or the brothers to come, who will never get to know me
my Father, my Mother and the family that is broken –
just remember I have lived and please find some love to show me.
You know me, from the news, I died in my cell –
I could take no more deprivation, bashings, hunger, loneliness, false claims, abuse
you seemed happy, someone did, for me to continue in this hell –
you can argue over my rights, as if it’s now of any use
the policies of the myopic, the righteous, with their shopworn, tired displays –
formulated on your television, as your leader, hmmm, explains
try not to forget me as you live out all your days –
I hope that someone remembers this when you lock the others up in chains.
Nowhere here is safe, especially at night but also during the day –
I was outside with my friends when a bomb came overhead
So, you will never know me, someone blew me up, as I went outside to play –
it first blew off my arms and then my legs, I’m twelve years old, I’m dead.
I wanted to go into medicine, to heal the sick and lame –
because I read about it, my teachers taught me, that it’s a good thing to grow up to do
but I’m the victim now, of ideals, someone’s strange political game –
so keep this in mind, when you hear people speak these things, who do not have a clue.
I’m twenty four years old, or was, I’m much younger than that now –
My friends say a better place, they say it such a lot, I’m kind of sick of hearing it
I couldn’t take it, or so I thought, the voices, I’d like to have stayed around for longer but I didn’t know how –
I couldn’t work out the difference between loving it and fearing it.
I’d like to say that love, such that it was, and is, was never far away from me –
I just couldn’t reach out and hold it, embrace it, or understand your simplistic far off theory
I’d like to think that you’d remember me and understand what it was that I could do, or be –
I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you, or need you, I just grew tired and weary.
I was ripped apart by lust, anger, by violent rage and hatred –
I was walking home, you know my name but now it’s far too late
walking home, nothing more, stumbling into something putrid –
society’s indifference, inconvenience, whistling a blind eye to my fate.
Remember, for the others, do not forget me, now just a photo in a locket –
And still you do nothing, leaving others to bring flowers and ideologies that sprout
but for the Grace of God, that moralising grace you carry in your pocket –
create a life now lost to me, as you casually go about.
I was riding my bike to buy ice cream, when a car took my breath from me –
it came from out of space and crushed my lungs, smashed my brain, in an instant, bloody death
blood seeped from my body, as he mumbled and stumbled free –
a passer by came running, to try and save me with his breath.
The driver wasn’t looking, in his alcoholic haze, thinking only of himself –
he won’t remember anything, I’m sure, when, if, he’s dragged away to jail
and if you let him drive again, show him my picture on your shelf –
I’m only twelve years old, I’m gone – yet again we fail.
Our parents used to love each other but then it turned to hate –
not for us, their children, for each other, anger, our family no more as one
my Father took us one day, dragged us out the gate –
he killed our Mother and then he took us from our home, at the barrel of his gun
We are no more, my sister, me and neither is my Father, I’d like to ask him why –
He turned it on himself when he realised we were dead
If he didn’t love his life, our Mother, why shoot us so we’d die –
why didn’t someone stop him, what was so wrong in his head?
We die, and then we are gone, to a long and quiet repose –
or a place to placate our longings, or yours, to make meaning of this end
in patronising soliloquy, in the words that you compose –
and by the way, who are they for, these flowers that you send?
Look out your window, will you, for this brotherhood of man –
Is there a scene you’re trying to catch, a face, a memory, a voice
can you remember who I was, in this grand heroic plan –
We are gone – we are gone – we did not have a choice.
The mattress is comfortable, our neighbours are kind –
they gave us some spare clothes to wear –
our Father went over to the promised land –
he told us he’d wait for us there.
We packed our bags, we gave all of our belongings –
to the people who lived in our street –
we prepared all our papers, our passports, some food –
with our clothes and the shoes on our feet.
He’d gone on before us, told us we’d start a new life –
he applied for asylum, and was accepted –
but an order came down, from someone high above –
it said “your application has now been rejected.”
They turned us around and they sent us back –
from the airport, where our papers were taken –
to my sister, I said “there is something wrong, –
perhaps our dear Pappa is mistaken.”
So now here we are, my sister is crying –
I am eight but she’s only five –
back in the country from where we were trying to flee –
with our neighbours, keeping us alive.
I am scared but my younger sister is worse –
she is banging her head on the wall –
there is no one to help us until my father succeeds –
in finding a safe place for us all.
Our neighbours, our friends, they want to come with us –
“Please take me with you,” my best friend has said –
my father reminded us, we cannot stay here –
if we do we will surely be dead.
“This country I’ve found means freedom”, he told us –
he showed us the flag he’d unfurled –
but we now cannot go there, we must find another place –
another place, somewhere in the world.
Why would you bother –
with any of it, with any of it at all –
with nowhere to lay your head –
with it spinning like a ball.
You say “I’m doing fine,”
when I know that it’s not true –
You write to your mother and tell her –
“I always think of you.”
What else to say except “don’t worry –
I’m always getting by.”
When no one gives you space to breathe –
why would they, even try.
From dossing down inside a church –
with a pillow and not much more –
and the aching legs, arthritis knees –
to bruise the polished floor.
Then out you go to the next day –
and look in vain and roam –
to sign the forms that rank you –
to find a place called Home.
And people ask their questions –
not to you, behind your back –
misguided, misplaced charity –
and all the things they claim you lack.
Woe that your waining contribution –
they ask themselves, “Where is it?” –
as if you don’t question it yourself –
like a country you don’t visit.
Most of the time, you tell yourself –
“I’m fine to get around.”
Other than wanting to just disappear –
no trace, no note, no sound.
Some work was organised, you said –
the hope of cash in hand –
and then the snide resistance –
flowed like blood let through the land.
Authorities, in settings magnified –
the anodyne alarm –
are, like loud hailers at a protest march –
turned up to do you harm.
Your friends, new, old, the ones you left –
resistant to your verse –
the lunatic assemblies –
trying to wash away the curse.
Members of the public –
behind the uniformed pavilion –
give thanks to have no chance –
less than one chance in a million.
They’re having bets these commissars –
these keepers of the flame –
float the odds on reprobation –
while they rally to your shame.
Your head peaks over parapets –
as you wonder what comes next –
and head bowed as expected –
so as not to sound perplexed.
When giving in seems justified –
to prove the doubters right.
“We knew all along,” they say,
that you weren’t up for the fight.
As if they’d ever know –
from their safe position’s seat –
from their leather and their fabrics –
tied in bundles at their feet.
The gates of Eden, locked at night –
keeps you peering in, in hope –
just in case the guards have left a key –
or even just a rope.
And given half a chance, to claim –
what birth has given preference –
who wouldn’t take it, in both hands –
to give us all a reference.
The education, learning –
they used to call it school –
the place to prepare your papers –
to prove you’re not a fool.
You never got to have it –
they never got to hear you –
as conformity is sanctified –
in the direction they would steer you.
I sat with my professors
philosophise as they teach
“be careful,” they said “clanging bells may drown out,
the conclusions that you reach.”
“There are reporters who stretch conspiracies,
to their fingers and their toes,
be careful what you say to them
and the idiot wind that blows.”
“Be mindful of the profiteers,” they said
“and the things they’re trying to tout,
there are fools who know everything
while the wise are filled with doubt.”
I listened to an old man in the street,
with his ancient polished prose
sing songs from his years of loneliness
where all things gold arose
“The rules have changed,” he whispered,
“there’s no revolution left to fight.”
“There is nothing left to say or do
except to walk quietly through the night.
You must question as your wise Uncle might
the truth and all about,
when fools know almost everything
while the wise are filled with doubt.”
Sophocles waits on the corner
talking to the King of Thebes,
he rummages through his pockets
to find them empty, the work of thieves.
“Perhaps we should ask Plato,
for he will have his purse.
He’s observing the masters of television
create their universe.”
The King reclines and mumbles
“Just let them twist and shout,
it’s the fool who knows most everything
while the wise are filled with doubt.”
To The Moor of Venice, Iago proclaims
“I wear my heart upon my sleeve.”
Othello cries, responding
“I cannot grant your leave.”
Desdemona sits by patiently
her reputation by her side
while the men accuse each other
as if they both have things to hide.
Desdemona then, appealing,
“Dear gentlemen, please sort this out.
Need I remind you, fools know everything,
it’s the wise who are filled with doubt.”
The Bell Ringer rings his Justice bells
while the Unicorn makes some notes
as money-men and tram conductors
count the takings, hand out quotes.
The Unicorn steps up to the podium
as the Colonel strikes up the band
to introduce his words of war and peace
just to be sure we understand.
“It helps me get elected,” said the Unicorn
“and when you carry this much clout,
you can fool the fools, they know everything
while the wise are filled with doubt.”
The Nazarene walks into town
to be confronted by the Mob
who try and trick him with their cleverness
and to remove him from his job.
“Your enquiry is a good one,” he said
“it’s important that we know”
he scratched the dirt, picked up a stone
and said “take good aim with your throw.”
They dragged him away from trouble,
they proved him quite the lout.
He cries out, as he’s crucified, “it’s the fool who knows everything,
it’s the wise who are filled with doubt.”
Dostoevsky closes the pages
on his darkly Russian books
searches his darkly Russian solitude
from behind his curtain looks,
for a righteous man or woman,
with a conscience to explain
how everything has come to this
and have it not explode inside his brain.
“I’d trudge through snow to find them,” he said
“if it wasn’t for this gout,
it’s the fool who knows everything,
it’s the wise who are filled with doubt.”
Orwell sits, in his prescience
mind bent over to our times
he warns the unsuspecting
in his mystic dystopian rhymes.
“Please don’t let it happen,” he cries,
as his pen falls to the floor.
“It depends on you, to redeem us,
from this writing on the wall.”
His eyes went dim, his words flung down
to the language that they flout
to the fools who know everything,
and to the wise who are filled with doubt.
And then the artists and the painters
publish musings from their labs
while the authorities quell division
knowing courage is up for grabs.
The little man who doth protest too much
arrested and dragged away
screams lungs dry in reflection
“We will soon get to have our say.”
“It’s alright to ask the question,” he howls,
“you don’t have to preen or pout,
why do fools know almost everything,
while the wise are filled with doubt?”
The road is filled with burning wood
people leaving, are told they should
grab some clothes and hit the road
hear the windows behind explode
strangers help with rattled tins
while others who will put out the bins
and stare ahead with Thoreau glances
resolve to fight, and take their chances
On the outskirts of the town
bottles filled, lines are down
while soporific, prattling fools
shout at us from atop their stools
trucks are rumbling up the hill
as warbling birds begin their shrill
marbled halls begin to shake
and argue over what’s at stake
Horses gallop at the sun
knowing that their race is run
the kangaroo who jumps the fence
suffocates in the smoking dense
koalas feet are singed to bone
sit and stare, confused, alone
sheep and cattle, scorched and dead
or mercy’s end, shot through the head
The sirens sound, smash through gates
to whatever hell they know awaits
the melting steel and alloy seeps
the mother of a missing child who weeps
who has no clothes, or place to rest
but has a story, she can attest
to the flames that ripped and scarred the earth
and questioned what the pain is worth
As heads are counted in consulting maps
hands are raised to point out traps
while embers pulse, in slumbered flight
beneath the feet trudged through the night
the wind that threatens, from the south
breath reaching shallow, dust in mouth
and catch the sleep they dare not embrace
and screw their courage to the sticking place
And fear, in its so-called primal scream
transmogrified to another dream
to stand by and watch the savage breeze
to not bring those who stand unto their knees.
It’s quiet on the road, as uniforms wait
to quell the fire in its frenzied state
the choking, quelling breathing fumes
transposes days in lyric tunes
And birds, felled by burning flailing wings
swept away by fire’s grande opera that whistles, sings
silent, the birds wash up in easy reach
as tourists huddle on the beach
the fire it snarls, and then it yields
but not before it strips the fields
for the owners, who return to find
the irony in their peace of mind
The irony, the empty tank
as subversives talk of breaking rank
and access to the roads is blocked
where no-one is surprised, outraged or shocked
His Master’s Voice proclaims the thoughts
and disappears within his Courts
while water arrives from overhead
and rains on the living and the dead
While beneath the helmets, the weathered beats
exhausted, the weary, slump in their seats
there is food enough to go around
no one talks or makes a sound
While leaders hide or smile through grins
and reflect a while on subverted sins
and remind us of what we all hold sacred
appear before us, standing naked.
The Poetry Accordion (2019)
My neighbour, with his driveway entrance,
hardwood double doors
and the multi-level rooms,
over gleaming, silk-screen shores
his castle, his mansion,
his glory, clearly signed
while I sit in silent splendour in,
the castle in my mind
I approach them in the evenings,
these castles, in their rows
past the windows peering down,
past their pretexts and their shows
as I walk I sometimes wonder,
at being left behind
and settle my contemplation in,
the castle in my mind
The porous, stifled memories
of what might, or could have been
the gentlemen, I greet them,
as I watch them wash and preen
Their castles, in extension,
with no waste of any kind
But I can find no great pretension within,
the castle in my mind
The principles of decadence
in the measure of success
where wealth is institutionalised,
above the heads of those with less
and lonely beat up commodores,
in the club for the refined
wave away the fortune housed inside,
the castle in my mind
If I listen to the preachers
who watch the pledge placed on the plate
as if the weight of it determines,
somehow, my fortune and my fate
I search my pockets for currency,
measured by the blind
and recline in repose and dance my way through,
the castle in my mind
Gratitude, this word again,
it jangles and repeats
inside the castle’s grandeur,
reclining in its seats
I search for explanations,
for a fate I may yet find
I retreat to the farthest corner,
the castle in my mind
This freedom of speech, how do you defend it
is it so close to your heart that you need to befriend it
dignified silence, jettisoned, forgotten
views contrary, sullied, putrid and rotten
It’s true, everyone has their own secret sadness
for you to have to explain all you see in this madness
to philosophise this disgrace that you need off your chest
and put down or shout out all those views you detest
This freedom to confirm the oppositions you hold
does it make you feel vindicated, righteous or bold
does it trouble you so deeply, that others don’t see it
for what you see clearly, to make you decree it
What is it exactly, that you wish to espouse
I don’t understand, this insight you house
perhaps for us both, in this freedom you quote
please write it down for me, in a kind, friendly note
Can you help me define what this freedom means
so that I can walk safely through the various scenes
I’d like to be guided lest I stumble on hate
so that I am confident to one day approach heaven’s gate
If I read it right there’s no freedom at all
in making others look short so you can make yourself tall
I’m seeing freedom in letting others just be
and what they believe don’t much matter to me.
In Dante’s Inferno, when trying to describe,
the houses of Hell’s lamentations
the torments, the trials, laid quick to ascribe
amidst the curses and blessings of nations
Where above good St. Peter looks on from afar
with the Righteous who have given their life
their path it is lit by the Bright Morning Star
who keeps at bay all their trouble and strife.
What then is this Hell, the unpitying flood
from the banks and the ditches of pain
with the splinters from hawthorns, the flesh and the blood
cries for comfort, for comfort, in vain
so what is this Hell, but a Syrian child
playing with friends, in a city, or town
whose legs are blown off, by a war raging wild
as the bombs and the missiles rain down.
This Hell, that guides the tongues of the rich
who proclaim from the pulpits and stage
through the eye of a needle, a flick of the switch,
as this Hell is spelled out on the page
Meanwhile, in another place, to the West and the South
in Civilisation’s Crucible’s dust
another child lays starving, with wide open mouth
where this Hell is in want of a crust.
In Dante’s Meridian, the voiceless and quiet
where the summit is reached with his eyes
and false gods stand angry, most ready to riot
where the tiny flames buzz round like flies
Yet Hell here, defined as a line to a pit
where destinations are summarised in sentence
and the walls built to protect those determined most fit
are paid with wages of sin and repentance.
Where is this Hell, we’re most eager to find
if in the Book we can determine or measure
the disgruntled, the outraged, all one of a kind
find succour in life’s juicy pleasure
For Dante, he searched and stretched his mind’s eye
while his feet sought to gain final entry
for the Righteous, the Pure, they need not hear the cry
of the children who starve by the century.
The children, the children, the children you say,
playing games while the Earth is parlaying
who will fulfil their own calling as guileless they play
while rulers count fortunes delaying
This Hell that awaits is already here,
for the children who can’t see tomorrow
the trafficked, the stolen, their eyes filled with fear,
who yearn for a life they can borrow.
And finally Dante, with his glorious rhymes
while the greats subjugate to his stature
sallies forth from the torment of his turbulent times
and scrapes his fingers at his first fallen nature
While Hell, such as it is, neatly tied in a knot,
while the children of nations, implore us
as we look away, to view all that we’ve got
and ignore what is dying before us.
I was only trying to be sensitive, my Mother always said
be mindful of others, offending
but she was good at it, she didn’t hold back
lived a life she did and if others
well, if others couldn’t cope, keep up,
Not her concern.
I was only trying to be helpful, thinking you’d need some help
wasn’t to know you didn’t want any, even though you said
you weren’t lying, you just were, just needing,
needing is not a mortal sin any more than
being conservative, if you can’t help it,
you can’t help it.
I was only trying to be creative, showing you what I had
you don’t have to like it, you don’t have to get it
you can like it without getting it, you can get it without liking it,
there is no scale, no measure and if you don’t want to read,
or look, or listen.
I was only trying to be useful, although who for
who knows, I don’t but I was told,
that to be so, is to be like him, or her, or you
so I tried, for a time, didn’t work,
Can’t help it.
I was only trying to be truthful,
telling you what you wanted to hear, is that what truth is,
yours maybe, not mine, so that we can all get along,
get by, read the news, look away, look back,
for the weather, in the sky, in my eyes, the truth
look hard, what you see, it’s a question
For now, for later.
I was only trying to be careful,
told to look, not bend the wrong way, offend the powers,
that be, crossing the street, or crossing your heart,
break it, being careful does that, or something else,
compels you for a moment,
The light is green, you can walk.
Where were we?
That’s right, yesterday, you made me stay away,
reined me in, stopped me calling,
not that you could hear me,
know me, have told me, to scold me,
for forgetting, there was much to do,
I told myself , held from myself, firm in thinking,
about my my blinking, challenging the sinking, feeling that,
my stalling, from my calling, in my reports, your retorts,
contortions, the waste of time it showed, you, crowed,
not interested to know, the blow, it might instil,
as you took your righteous fill,
as the imaginary, temporary interruption to my living,
prevented my giving you, forgiving you, or bothering,
to flee from thanking you, thinking you,
might either wage, rage, set the stage,
for being more than no one.
What was it, were you afraid?
or I, with my heavy set agenda, to surrender,
neither borrower or lender, so you said,
did you offer me your seat, stoop to feel the heat,
at my feet, in the moment of conceit, the story that you sheet,
reminding me of what you have,
without a word to impress, not allowing for egress,
from this extraordinary mess,
this trudge through the great descending haze, the malaise,
of your desperation, or your clarification,
stay true so you say, to the evidence you find,
in the limits in your mind,
nothing to unwind, your preservations, reservations,
of wanting to wake you so you’d hear me.
I’m not as rich as you, Palm Beach with a view,
motor, scooter for the run,
to buy the wine, dine, and refine
over your memberships and payslips, your aphoristic quips,
regularly arriving, not for striving,
auto-cliving the struggles of the others,
your brothers, their mothers, if you’d just had your druthers,
no wait, that’s not right, you must continue,
as you review your retinue, the landscape before you,
eschew those who deplore you,
as others who adore you, would I call you,
so you’d finally hear and find a small inspiration,
in my perspiration, exasperation, your quiet desperation.
What was it? Ah, of course, your celebrations,
the permutations of all that you’ve achieved,
so relieved to have believed what was right under your feet,
to beat, to eat, the leavened bread of conquest,
thoughts to suppress, to please,
or perhaps appease, the Master’s beseeching
while they were teaching, the rules, the game,
the whistling up of fame, of sorts, to hide your little rorts,
respected in the sun, the monthly shopping run,
as you look behind, while you find,
the feelings that you left, the people, the people, the people,
left behind,
through the smoke ring of your mind,
to prevent you falling, satiate the feeling,
of your stealing,
while you placate, await, the ceiling of your stalling.
What was it? your yearning for respect,
to cover for neglect, inspect, the reject pile,
of tossed away from where, you left behind your care,
with them you’re in cahoots,
the roots of trodden boots, to not give two bloody hoots,
on the place you left your mark, so you’d,
find a place to park, and hustle after dark,
among your friends, who watched you enter in,
devoid of sin, in the bin,
of your shining bright career, well,
have another beer, fine wine, champagne, extend the noble cheer,
kind of now we know, onto another show,
flash your ready smile, for a mile, in your pile,
the family farm awaits, close the gates, the goats,
the moats, to keep away the threats, regrets, the bets,
on whether you would win, and pour another gin,
oh where do I begin,
to show you, know you, as you crow, laugh, or die.
Now where were we? The grinding of the pain,
oh listen to that rain, to wash away the stain,
a relief to finally have it, to feel it, conceal it,
your secret, don’t reveal it, not yet,
one day, if I pay, the price tag on the garment,
the deferment, your confinement, in retirement,
you deserve it, what ever it is you have,
the faces, tie the laces of the Chav,
who’ll look you up one day,
and ask that you might pay, without further delay,
wave him right away,
a tenner, he can spend it, tell him you will send it, or pretend that it,
can buy some of your hors d’oeurve, the dinner that you serve,
the days that you observe, the carnage that you swerve,
to keep your little nerve,
the medals that you’ve earned, to never be returned,
will I ever learn, burn, to see, or flee, for you, to see me,
in the mirror.
My days are numbered I know that well
it is why I’m stuck here, in this living hell
the biscuits, stale, the tinkle of tea
and the nurses told not to bother with me
This home of mine, so barren and cold
while I lay awake, wondering, “Why would you want to be old?”
A memo went round, a snigger from the lads
there is to be a limit on incontinence pads
Worlds best practice, the limit is three
so be mindful of this when you need to pee
I turned to Vera, my neighbour, not to be too bold
I shouted “This is no place at all to be growing old.”
“Hurry up, old woman, if you want to be fed”
they shouted at me as I lay in my bed
There are others who live here, loosely defined
The solution is clear, the procedure refined
But I will not be laughed at, I won’t be cajoled
This is not the sort of place in which to be old
Taking a walk outside was always a joy
but cutbacks mean there are none to employ
who have the time, or the energy
to spend some time outside, walking with me
There are rumours this place is going to be sold
like this lot, who put a price on this growing old
These filthy, infested, soiled from the weeks
awaiting replacements, fresh, clean bed sheets
I won’t hold my breath, I’d expire right away
waiting for someone to make my day
A premium on sheets too, or so I am told
While I mumble again, “Why would you want to be old?”
There is a nurse who left, she just couldn’t cope
I used to tell her “While there’s life, there’s hope”
But I’m beginning to wonder, if my words mean a jot
as I wait for the completion of life, of my lot
This is not what I hoped for, to die in this mould
shallow in breathing, asking “Why would you want to be old?”
The government tells us they are rolling out help
their words, worthless, dribble, they hang like kelp
Their promises, empty, while I stir in this waste
in the bitter miasma, the lips yearning taste
the nonsense, the clipboard, the promise of gold
stripped of my dignity, as I die growing old
Why is it so difficult, it all seems so wrong
to make it this far deserves a dance, or a song
But instead we are curtained, we’re told to be quiet
denied of our story, forced to deny it
to celebrate life, this life that we hold
it’s not too much to ask for being this old
Some call it abuse, or a slight on neglect
as growing to be old dispatches respect
I’m poked and I’m prodded, as the tray comes around
while love is beseeched but none can be found
This hand I am holding, I’m ready to fold
as I ask the same question, “Why would you want to be old?”
The truck stops, smelling inconvenient in the striving street
the weekly run, the regular collect
stock piles of baby puke and waste convenience
and plastic worn deliveries, slit and thrown
away, if there is such a place, a far off land, to hold such affection
to the men, flint, in orange vest and dignity
investiture of the noble and strong
in the tidy streets, the fast lanes, the weaving, heaving perfection.
The truck stops, about time, beside the fancy, flanneled men
and suited chameleon mavens preening, on their way out
while Schubert like they glide, poor Schubert, not like him, scheming
and mock the ties, the suits, the ear pieced gallimaufry
time wasted while the baby pram and the soft morning shoe
mannequin blows the kisses against the perfect morning lawn
while the streets, narrow, wide, in perfect morning hue
oil against the silk screen handmaid leaning into her perfect morning yawn.
The truck again, has been away but lo
the doggy do and baby puke that waits
for it’s timely arrival,
in time, just in time to flog and flag their importance, in their rightful proportions
the Neville’s and Tony’s, not required for this, waltz away, to not Schubert or Proust
or anyone like them, would they be away, where that is
if not for the truck, the one with their slit goods of plastic and overdue arrivals,
and the doggy do, baby puke and the mannequin’s expedient contortions.
The truck, for us, not them, we, us, we pay
and they bring, and they take
the carriage, carrion of mid-weeks burping spill
and what was cast aside, in haste
but well thought out, planned and trolleyed to oblivion,
the car park, the well parked car and boot and back seat rebellion
while the meter runs and the orange vests plan their visit
about time you say, and yet to spring the waste.
The Neville’s and Tony’s arrive at their station
safe knowing, the truck has come and baby safe
that thrown away, where is it again, somewhere away
a place, a time, a prefecture of clean, green, never seen
why how the water cooler love, the perfect suburbia, the plastic now safe,
gone, not here, there, where that is
and the mannequin, ruffled, tidy, spent and licked
to a new place where the truck will never go, has never been.
And then the Truck, rumbling, gathers up the clippings of suburbia,
the noisy necessary nuisance of perfection
no slum here, glum, earnest to a tee
where the chainsaw, blower the winds, quick to blows itself
and the tea cosy, the pot, the straightened hedges and gleaming bench tops
while the orange vests, not caring for what the mannequin requests
if not for her, if not for them, they sidle up and tip
as if the favour, the eternal favour, heaving, shows itself, and stops.
It’s not our fault, we’re not to blame
we’re just trying to maintain our freedom
we mine the dark materials till we’re blind and lame
because there are other poor people who need ‘em
we do this to keep our country strong
We’re not to blame, we’ve done nothing wrong
We’re not to blame, it can’t be us
We have principles adopted to guide us
We can mount a protest, we can cause a fuss
or continue as our values provide us
Misguided idealism only lasts so long
We’re not to blame, we’ve done nothing wrong
It’s not our fault that we make the most of the land
that our forefathers kindly bequeathed us
We’ve worked hard for decades and extended our hand
to the point where most people believe us
For the ones who want us to join the throng
It needn’t be us, we’ve done nothing wrong
We’re not to blame for what goes awry
with the things we design for protection
while others may suffer, or perhaps even die
to give us cause for remorse or reflection
we don’t mean to divide , we must all get along
We’re not to blame, we’ve done nothing wrong
We are proud to be part of the willing
as our weapons protect the oppressed
it’s not our fault if there is ancillary killing
that keeps orphans and widows distressed
But it helps our country to stay on song
it’s not our fault, we’ve done nothing wrong
We’re not to blame when the economy tanks
we have policies in place to protect it
we really would appreciate a little more thanks
and if the others get in they’ll neglect it
We’re honing our message, it’s as sharp as a prong
we’re not to blame, we’ve done nothing wrong
It’s not our fault if our particular views
are contrary to considered opinion
We don’t need a sermon about our dues
or a challenge to our sovereign dominion
for those inclined to quote Erica Jong
how good is a country that does nothing wrong.
I don’t do it for you , so your thoughts can rest easy
as you nod in your pleasant agreement
while you sip on your drink , peculiar and queasy
at my anticipated long due achievement
I don’t do it so that you , in your tuxedo blouse
can regale us about your refinement
as you so easily fling those opinions espoused
by explaining your rules of assignment
I don’t do it for now , so that riches may come
so the house in the suburbs is purchased
I do it for later , when my years and then some
have passed into dust and resurfaced
Why do you claim theories about such a life
while you queue in the night for your ticket
knowing nothing of the blood drip from the end of the knife
and the verbiage cut free from the thicket
Do you count all my long dark hours lost of sleep
while the whirlpool of thoughts overwhelms me
for you to appear around corners to peep
so you can issue your words to befriend me
I know you so love to guffaw at the thought
of reviewing the work I present
before stringing together words , perfect and taut
and return to the life you resent
You call me over to say you love what I do
You lean your head down and grin
You say what a talent , tell me you knew I’d come through
and tell others you knew that I’d win
Well I don’t do it for you , I do it for me
it’s the only way I know how to
make sense of the mess , and get myself free
an’ point the finger at those you kowtow to
Not the masses, not the torments, not the nightmares of our longing
Not the grasslands, not the homelands, not the roads to our belonging
Not the mortgage, not the storage where our things are kept for later
Not the governed, not the owners, not a Priest to set us straighter
Not the meetings, nor the greetings, so designed to calm depressions
Not the courts, not the gowns, not the wigs of petty sessions
Not the flavours of the artists who draw and paint our every breathing
Not the architects of fashion who have us all believing
Not the rulers, no not them, they’re just trying to represent us
Not their wives who devise a smile and inwardly resent us
Not their minders who stand in line, not the shirts who seek rebellion
Not the children on the swings, not the things we try to sell them
Not the trains, not the roads, not the cycleways or highways
Not the note left in the bathroom, saying “I will love you always.”
Not the trip down memory lane as the morning breaks for freedom
Not the coffee, not the tea, not the lazy news that feeds them
Not to finger, not to fault for failure in ambition
Not the principle at stake, not the mistake of an omission
Not the envy, not the jealousy, in the paragraphs of knowledge
Not the schools, not the teachers, not the university or college
Not the interview in prime-time, not the clumsy explanations
Not the progress, not the hope to reach the heights of expectations
Not the treaty, not the signing, not the colours wrought of meaning
Not the rock on which we stand, not the ones who kill the dreaming
Not the agent, nor the landlord, not the worker on the street
Not the collector of our garbage, not the cold, or rain, or heat
Not the arbiters of style, not the magistrates of taste
Not the headlines, not the markets, not the food since gone to waste
Not the pain, the anxiety, not the teaching the insufferable
Not the diagnosis sought for a tumour thought inoperable
Not the sickness, not the treatment, not the efforts of our charity
Not the judgements, not the medicine, to offer any clarity
Not the child, not the playground, not the laughter, not the suffering
Not the benefits of television, the offerings, the buffering
Not the latest, not the oldest, not the single highest bid
Not the Sage or the Philosopher trying to understand their id
Not the handshakes, not the taxes, not the plea for some redemption
Not the platitudes or punishments that shout for our attention
Not the promise, no announcements, not until we’re all aligned
Not the phone call, not the papers that are waiting to be signed
Not the bank, nor the money, not the gains, not the losses
Not the old man sitting quietly bearing all life’s dirty crosses
Not the lessons, not the marks, not the difference that makes us all the same
Not the sign scrawled in the window saying there is no one left to blame
Not the reasons given air time shouting “That’s just plainly wrong”
Not the press release that follows, not the news to quiet the throng
Not the publishers who print, not the landowners who shout
Not the children heard round corners, screaming “What’s all this about?”
Not the beginning, it’s not the end, where there’s nothing left to see
Not the friends, not the neighbours, not the bonded, not the free
Not the groundswell of a movement, not a quiver or a shake
Not the birds, not the singing, not the tale of what’s at stake
Not the bleatings, not the boasts, not the triumphs of the few
Not the beatings, not the protests, not an inkling, not a clue
Not the slavery in thought, as some kind of gauche bon mot
It’s the weeping heart who questions “If it is not this, then what?”
Sheep droop jaw and hooves split in the stumble for the hay,
eager grey teeth picking at the stubble and the crust
Knees buckle, their hollow eyes, humble, stare down and absorb what was mud
is now unsullied deep red dust
The rain gauge says eight inches, it does nothing more than tease
While a friend brings a cup of tea, some cake, to say hello,
to try and put his mind at ease
“Thought I’d bring you this, tea’s strong, cake’s homemade,”
there’s not much more to say
“Yeah, gotta keep going, that’s the thing,
we’re one day closer every day.”
Cattles ribs are showing, with the tongue that hangs in sorrow
while the market closes down
Weekly shopping is put on hold but it’s still worth catching up
with the auctioneer in town
“You’ll get less than what you paid for ‘em,” he’s told with all due care
And looks up at him from under his wide grey brim
with his empty thoughtful stare
“It’s the best that I can do, the price is low
but it’s the most that anyone will pay”
“Yeah, we’ll just keep going, it’s what we do,
we’re one day closer every day.”
The horse she’s lame but she’ll keep on working,
the Vet says the feet need some attention
“She needs a spell” is his advice,
it’ll save his intervention
“I’ll give her the best that I have, you can pay me later,” he says,
something for the arthritis and the pain
Thanks Doc I owe you one, or two, you’ll have the cash
as soon as we get this rain
He pokes his head out of the window as he leaves
and sighs at the clouds that waft away
“Yep, just keep going, he always tells me,
they’re one day closer every day.”
The girls need new shoes for school so we asked them
if they could get by with some repairs
“Of course,” they said but we know what girls are like,
we’d like to prevent the comments and the stares
“We’re all in this together,” they shouted, they want to do their bit
“If not having new shoes means the cattle get their feed,” they said,
“we’ll gladly take the hit.”
“We should all be recycling anyway,” they said,
“we’ll cope, come what may”
“Besides, we know that we’re just one day closer every day.”
The bank is making noises about the need to talk about arrangements
before they can consider a consolidation
The question swirls inside my head but I don’t dare ask it
about what this says about our nation
He stares across his desk and tries a smile as best he can,
it dislodges as he glances
into his ledger, then asks me to give him a plan
so that he can properly rate our chances
“We want to help, you’re a family we need in the community,
if you feel you want to stay.”
A smile, a plead for immunity, we’ll just keep telling ourselves,
we’re one day closer every day.
The creek that last year put boots under water
is a dry cracked brown sun baked cake
He can hardly bare to look at it, kick his heels at it
and wonder how much more a man can take
There’s another one laying dead next to an old tree on the crumbling bank
that he didn’t need to shoot
and the Kangaroo who collapsed in the heat
while trying to dig up a root
Mrs Owens called, she’s made some bread, biscuits for the kids,
she’ll do her bit to keep the wolves at bay
Good people everywhere keep telling us
we’re one day closer every day.
There’s a sweet sweet sound moving across the settled ground
it whispers in my ear in the morning
like a solitary breeze, whistling through the trees
it summons the birds to cease their yawning
It soothes my pain with the gentle drop of rain
the songbirds far off start their crying
while the howls and screams, the breaking of the seams
tells me he not being born must be dying
The train moves out as the Conductor begins to shout
no one appears to be listening
young women pout with with their blouses hanging out
while the lonely men they cease their whistling
There are people left behind for being poor or being blind
while these thoughts run at angles in my thinking
the rain’s being kind to my ceaseless raging mind
as the Sun’s fading glow is slowly sinking
The sound is in tune as I bathe in its afternoon
the tables and chairs are being shifted
the couples leaving soon hold hands beneath the moon
while they wait for the evening clouds to be lifted
The sweet sound leaves its gifts as the music gently shifts
the rhythm of the drum beat it grows stronger
the sound maintains it’s dance, it offers up it’s chance
to soothe my brain a little longer
And the birds they chime with their imaginary rhyme
while the voice in my head maintains it’s striving
the rain it descends as if to make amends
it offers no regrets with its arriving
The angels stare at me as my eyes they struggle free
from the binds that want to try and keep me
from the names being protected by the ones whom we elected
while under the rug they try and sweep me
What are we made of? asks the child who cries
who just wants a toy she can play with
or to ask most politely before she dies
“is there someone out there I can stay with?”
What are we made of? the question burns
as dark shirts mass at the door
the question is answered by various turns
while the Minister lays down the law
What are we made of? letting others conceal
with meaningful dialogues lessened
what desperation compels us to feel
that all we have fought for is threatened
What are we made of? are we afraid?
of another’s holy communion
the book we were reading is lost or way laid
there appears little hope of reunion
What are we made of? in our brand new suit
with our fresh renovations by the water
what keeps us placid, compliant and mute
to the perfectly choreographed slaughter
What are we made of? kept under wraps
to shelve it amongst our convictions
sprung from ideas disguised as maps
as we draw up a list of evictions
What are we made of? can we pin down the phrase
and tell those weary souls we hold hostage
as we meander through our bright lazy days
and define the ideas that are vestige
Who is to blame when the house blows down?
when the windows and walls break or rattle
who drives us into the dark cold town
to corner and herd us like cattle
What has gone wrong since our bold declarations
on our victorious, glorious shorelines
lining up images amidst loud protestations
and rehearsing our most tragic of song lines
What are we made of? are we too tired to try
to rouse our collective rebellion
while the well dressed, double pressed, trill tongued lie
flails in its indignation
What are we made of? it hangs in the air
a pathétique of rhetorical reflections
while the masters spring forth and brush back their hair
and remind us of their recollections
What are we made of? can we lend it a hand
can we give it some sort of asylum
can we wake it from slumber and help it stand
and give it a new coat to try on
What are we made of? is the mournful request
as others make notes in observing
as those who remember pass by those who know best
and despair at what we’re preserving
What are we made of? the question remains
as if by disturbing the embers
of our quiet desperation and all it sustains
so that somehow our conscience remembers
What are we made of? what is it indeed
that the question requires such an airing
if nothing is left but corruptible seed
it tells us just how we are fairing.
My, what a lovely place you have, you must be very proud
I love your modern furniture and the space that you’ve allowed
the kitchen is so stylish, are these appliances new?
I’d love one of those in our place, I’ll bet that cost a few
The family room is so tidy, how do you keep it clean
We have a lady come each week, we call her Mrs Sheen
The paintings are from Milan and Rome, we got them on the way
with a brief sojourn in Florence where we have a place we stay
I noticed they’re not from here but this one is local art
Yes, that one’s Aboriginal, we thought we’d make a start
I love what you’ve done with the hallway, it simply is divine
It’s marble yes? or slate perhaps, it has a lovely subtle shine
We’re going hiking in Alaska, once all this is over
it’s always been a goal of ours, to trek amongst the tussocks and the clover
That sounds like fun, it will provide you some perspective
Yes, one must be careful where one treads, one needs to be selective
We have some friends in Aspen, we’ll drop in for a week
we’ll do some business if there’s time, some advice, a tip, a tweak
The architraves we thought we’d add, to give the hallway style
I can see that, you’ve succeeded, I can see for a country mile
Well, we thought we’d add an extra room but we managed to add two
You never know who’ll come to stay, there’s room for quite a few
I’ll show you around the garden if you have a little time
We’ve planted some Gardenias, some hedges and a Lime
I must say, the view you have is something to behold
I’d imagine when you took this in you straight away were sold
Yes, the water’s lovely isn’t it, it soothes me when I’m here
and the neighbours can’t see over, in case they want to leer
The driveway’s unpretentious but there’s lots of room to park
The garage was built to incorporate safe ingress after dark
Was the total renovation costly? I do not wish to pry
these things can blow out needlessly if we don’t keep an eagle eye
Oh it certainly went beyond but it’s what we both expected
we covered it rather easily after my fees were all collected
I’ll show you the master bedroom, and my study if you like
We’ve added a gym, a theatre and a place to ride my bike
We’ll be dining on the balcony, there’s a very pleasant breeze
Would you like another glass of wine and perhaps a little cheese
Is that an elevator, does it go to every floor
Of course, the spiral stairway can always exercise the core
Yes, it goes down to the basement where we’ve had the cellar built
There are hundreds resting, ageing well, amongst the rock and silt
Where do you entertain the most, is it inside or is it out
It doesn’t really matter, we like to move about
The children seem to like it, they park themselves downstairs
their friends they come and go, they don’t put on any airs
besides, when we’re away, the Nanny holds the fort
go easy on that wine, after dinner there is Port
It must be gratifying to know that your hard work is rewarded
Ah, yes indeed, our Summer home as well, we’re glad to have afforded
It’s also satisfying to collect the things that all that life can offer
Can’t say we don’t deserve it, is all that I will proffer
You’re to be congratulated but it’s time for me to leave
Your house it is magnificent but I need a place to breathe
The lifestyle you ordered is currently out of stock
our warehouse has been stripped of supplies
our people are working around the clock
be sure to remember your size
The lifestyle you ordered has had a slight change
we’ve just had to hike up the price
Unfortunately we are unable to exchange
before purchase you should always check twice
The lifestyle you ordered is experiencing delays
There’s nothing more we can do
We’ll try and alert you in a couple of days
when we’ll all have much more of a clue
The lifestyle you ordered is waiting on parts
The supplier can’t give us a date
Your warranty excludes these stops and these starts
we’re sorry if your lifestyle is late
The lifestyle you ordered has hit a bit of a glitch
it appears that the edges are frayed
We have our experts checking every stitch
please be patient if you’ve already paid
The lifestyle you ordered seems to have hit a snag
our schedule has fallen behind
We’d just like to assure you, though we don’t like to brag
That this lifestyle is the best you will find
The lifestyle you ordered has just run aground
we’re launching a rescue tonight
we’d really appreciate you not hanging around
just in case things get awkward or tight
The lifestyle you ordered appears to have expired
It unfortunately ran out of hope
Our plan was to have it before you retired
we’re sorry you’ll just have to cope.
I remembered yesterday the times that I have with you
And visions of the grateful days and all that I have wished for you
I’d stand out in the wind and cold and meet you in the rain
and offer no patronising words to beat us up or take away our pain
I profess my tongue you turned it round from darkness into light
I’d confess to hold you till the world does end and kiss you in the night.
I remembered yesterday when all we had was this
to hold your hand and wait for worlds – to collide and reminisce
The whispers from those who wondered about our contented, yearned for mystery
it does not matter, nothing does – as we author our own history
I’ll gather up my longings and with them I will bring to you
all that I have summoned – and all that I can sing to you.
I remembered yesterday about today, your eyes of flint and steel
I remembered how you won the war of knowing how I’d feel
My fire it burns and aches in me that I cannot give you more
but in your eyes I see that what I have is is all that I adore
So in the morning when I can see – that you give me what is best
I lean my frame towards you and say “it’s time for you to rest.”
There’s a ghost selling memories down by the shore
as a jury decides its fate
there’s a man of religion knocking at my door
I need to lie down, he can wait
There’s a hustler on Easy Street shaking up the town
as a night Nurse finishes her shift
An expert is saying the times will bring us down
as an old man in rags thumbs a lift
There are men who can’t smile protecting the elect
their commission is simple and clear
to repel any threat and to guide and protect
all the things to which we hold dear
A black fella stares down the barrel of a gun
a bus driver flicks his cigarette
no one is sure where the bullet came from
at least we are told just not yet
A young street offender is locked away in a cell
He’s turning fifteen today
There’s no one to talk to, no one he can tell
or ask for how long he’ll stay
There’s a young woman bashed to within an inch of her life
being sprayed with the words of disdain
She has nowhere to run from the tongue and the knife
except into the wind and the rain
There’s an old woman given to stealing to eat
and her children who can’t really see
There’s a gentleman of means who gives up his seat
and reminds us that nothing is free
We have to take action, there’s no time remaining
shout the people building the signs
you go ahead, I am abstaining
say the authorities who practice their lines
There’s a man coming out from behind the shades
as a band it strikes up a tune
he’s carrying his backpack full of hand grenades
walking in the hot afternoon
There’s a man counting zeroes on his stocks and his shares
While a boy shines a torch in his eye
He throws him a dollar and shouts from the stairs
all the truth in the world is a lie
A smile slowly grows on a grandmother’s chin
as her breakfast is replaced by her pills
She recalls how she’s coped with the times that have been
with a promise to conquer her ills
There are people in cars wanting more to be done
on their highway of talk back and rage
a convoy, a meeting, a movement for some
for others birds in a cage
There’s a young man who is older now leaning on a pole
his broken teeth they need fixing
He was going so well till he fell in a hole
for reasons we all find perplexing
There’s a senator talking her way through the mist
her constituents are stopping to think
a preacher’s saying the righteous must surely resist
while I search for a quiet place to drink
There’s a child staring out from her window at night
wishing for a dress she can wear
Her bed is too small and her shoes are too tight
but her hopes are filling the air
There’s another young girl getting lost in her books
as her mother fights to get clean
she kneels in the corner with her smile as she looks
for a father who she’s never seen
In a gentleman’s garden he looks at some plans
he wants to grow some trees
he feels a numbness in his head and his hands
as it brings him to his knees
There’s a woman with a mirror but she can’t comb her hair
There’s a man with a scar that won’t heal
She looks away and into his stare
as she searches for something to feel
There’s a soliloquy for abandoned love down along the Quay
and some women enjoying the sun
A Shaman extends his hands for a fee
while the captains of industry run
There’s a placard in the square telling us about the light
while the soup kitchen hands out some bread
to a man with the knuckles that know how to fight
beside a woman who kisses his head
There’s a boy of twelve who’d like to play
his callipers mean he can watch
his mother must go but he’ll sit there all day
to satisfy his itch
There’s a ten year old girl reaching hard for her breath
as she runs a lap of the park
her Father watches, till she has nothing more left
they’ll stay there until it gets dark
There’s a whip-snapping kid shining her own light
and the teacher who doesn’t mince words
the Alice of the classroom is itching for a fight
and the others, they draw their own worlds
There’s a girl on a bus in need of a seat
as her mother brushes her hair
Two kids with skateboards get to their feet
to lay their society bare
A blonde passes out with her needle in a ditch
A suit drops a grand at the track
The Transport Department, the temporary glitch
The suit’s not worried, he’ll win it back
There’s a microphone shouting there’s too much crime
while a baby cries in the street
The legislators say they need more time
while the diplomats carve up the meat
There is ringing of bells and a man in a coat
who wanders the streets on his own
Where teardrops fall from the letter he wrote
to his brother of flesh, blood and bone
There are sailors in town on shore leave of sorts
as consultants work on their brief
An abandoned mother is before the courts
as her child hangs his head in his grief
There are protesting students not being schooled
they’re being told to conform
they’re taking no notice, they refuse to be fooled
as the rain gathers into a storm
There’s a busker singing the ‘Statesboro’ Blues’
the harmonica peels paint from the walls
The gentlemen of style buy Italian shoes
as the powerful draw up the laws
There’s a mute, there’s a drunk, there’s a spirit in the air
there’s a foreigner clearing the mess
There’s a wandering minstrel laying it all bare
about something he needs to confess
These are glorious days shouts the minister’s voice
your dreams are going to come true
There’s the single mother who has no choice
pleading with a bill overdue
Down along the Cove there’s a boat pulling out
it’s stocked well for the day and the night
There’s a punter who thinks his bet is in with a shout
while the doctor turns out the light
There’s an old woman rummaging she’s looking for food
from the bins at the back of the store
she could ask for a blanket to do her some good
before she goes to sleep on the floor
There’s sin in the boardroom there are deals in the hall
there’s a stain on the image perverted
The managers claim they knew nothing at all
so any and all blame is diverted
There are holes being dug, there are pits for the waste
There are workers bearing the load
The renovated land and the after-taste
lays sweltering by the side of the road
There’s a raid at the factory and phones out of order
the editors are scratching their heads
There’s commotion contained, at the border
while we’re all asleep in our beds
There’s a feeling making me sick to my guts
a brown family is turned around
their last night together is a night in the ruts
after they escaped being drowned
The wind makes its speeches and tells us never to hide
for we all have a voice in the end
except those who don’t and are shuffled aside
left to patch up their wounds and to mend
There’s a young man who is old, he’s worn out from trying
he can no longer pay his rent
he’s rejected again, no use in applying
Please, spare me some change Sir, I’m spent
There’s a hint of rebellion, there’s word on the street
that the unfortunate few have a chance
the mighty they gather and the mighty they meet
to quell such a thought, and to dance
The land is so young and the land is so free
as I stand to my stolid attention
the words that are sung with a smug tuneless glee
lay siege to future retention
While all this is happening I’m asleep in my bed
my brain is trying to rest
if I didn’t know better I’d be sick or be dead
and wondering what to say next.
The Poetry Accordion (… 2018)
Stooping down and listless still
the rain, the pavement scarried
the men they took my food and oil
and all that I had carried
They robbed me with a fountain pen
they left me in the rain
they said they’d come back God knows when
just to add more to my pain
I pushed my umbrella into the hail
I watched it rip and tear
onlookers sneered as they saw me fail
sideways with a glare
I begged for bread with steely eyes
my plate I wiped it clean
“the Government” they said “is telling lies”
it’s always ever been
My friends I found them, some up, some down
in rooms of soft fine leather
but I had business back in town
and stepped out into the weather
I know I’m welcome any time
to share the common bread
where fault is lost for any crime
‘cept what’s on in my head
If I could realise just one thing
that all is not at end
I have a verse, a song to sing
I am my own best friend
I have no room on my leaning frame
The seed that’s planted, in the ground
I have no mind for what lays behind
I put no weight on what others find
On the houses filled and so neatly lined
But to reach for the limits
of what I’ve found.
I have no way to explain the times
Or to exchange my lips for your breasts sweet rise
I cannot reason my heart’s own heat
I do not listen to another’s beat
I do not hasten to another’s seat
But kneel to your breath
and my own sweet sighs.
I have no hope to match the range
Of what your unspoken words have told
to repeat the words of the birdsong rhymes
to hang on the mantles or the chimes
to eat the bread and to drink the wines
to rage against the sheet metal crimes
but to hope to have
your heart, to hold.
I cannot seal my tongue of fire
Or the twisted lyrics of greater men
I cannot hope that the cloudless days
Shall come and go
Be fast or slow
Shall fade or glow
But that all the feted lungs so filled
Shall come back to love you again, again.
Wisdom cries in the street, the humble rise to their feet
to kick their shoes off, before they hit the road
The politics of sin, the times we are living in
reveal the times, before the times explode
Businessmen in suits, sordid new recruits
Trading places, across the marbled halls
Managers in drag, recite the lunch time brag
Put on makeup, and kiss the corporate whores
Wisdom gets up from its bed, makes sure we’re all fed
wipes its mouth, and leaves without a sound
It takes its heavy load, down the long and winding road
and whispers softly, just to show its still around
The rich and poor alight, with the same old appetite
they check their tickets, and wipe their faces clean
The many blame the few, the old they blame the new
and fix the news, so Wisdom’s never seen
Wisdom’s bloodied head, it makes sure it’s not dead
twirls around, to read the daily news
It scratches the itch not seen, remembers where it’s been
and yells to men, who offer up their views
The greats of literature, they summon him for her
and jot down thoughts that jangle in their bones
The spectacles and shows, deliver mighty blows
and whisper secrets, in muted overtones
Wisdom stands on the grave deciding who to save
and racks its brain for a simple word to use
Killing fields of the soul, democracy in a bowl
the people say, the people have to choose
The words of poets lost, the tragic holocaust
speaks in prose, that no one understands
The Lion lays down with the Lamb, it’s true it ain’t a scam
scowls at rulers, who sit back on their hands
Wisdom stands at the gate, checking out who’s late
Taking notes for the good of all concerned
I’m standing within range of the hungry and the strange
whose love has died whose hopes have crashed and burned.
All sorts of things
thoughts tied like lengths of strings
Run through my mind.
Like winding anxiety waiting on her fate
At the watch of hope I wait
From one day to next always the same
Not one mention of her name.
Purpose of caring for what society sees
Collected by charities well earned fees
Say nothing of her beauty.
Silently she speaks and swears at your gaze
Unable to wind through your mental maze
Look not for guilt, look not for shame
But you still will not mention her name.
The snarl of independence carved within her glance
Asking for a second chance
Speak like a child.
Grasp the nettle and stand alone
Stand while the cold wind chills your bone
as the winner’s posted in the frame
You still can’t even say her name.
Reality creeping as time becomes your guide
Fortunate to have people in which to confide
My challenge cannot move you.
Humour’s strength collides with sorrow’s ache
Honest caring can’t waste or fake
Her name, I know you’ll not defame
So why don’t you ever mention her name.
Cruel invasion of life’s comfort
Information on her told as seen fit
Her power is not diminished.
But wait, you tell me of your plans
That include her not, but lonely strands
Expedient expressions make your efforts tame
In making mention of her name.
Peoples actions, peoples words
Isolated by faiths institutionalised lords
Prepare me for her awakening.
Keep her safe and keep her warm
In her red flamed stately form
She’ll push asunder heaven’s gate
Doubt’s high priests head on a plate
In profit or in loss, it’s all the same
Stand aside while I shout her name.