Thursday, February 25, 2016

Final solution

Raised across the parapet of mind,
words frowned in distant gathering,
horizon-huddled holding to the edge
of possibility defined, waiting for

release upon the brooding ledge of
endless misunderstandings, restless
as they honed edges to deadly shine,
ready to cut without mercy; wielded

in a winnowing of mechanical fear,
compressing dry, cracked stalks of
hope into bales, tied for distant, ever
imagined Winters where life could

chew listlessly at  dried remnants
of what had once been lush, ebullient
green salvation, thrust from fallow
earth, reaching always for the distant

anxious sky where sullen blues held
court for scattered sunbeams, tripping
through realities which danced slowly
at the bidding of bestial breeze, and

delicate, whispering winds which
rattled hollow husks, bereft of fertile
grains, abandoned, sterile, grieving
in those fields of futures known,

and unknown, where Occam thoughts
spread like scythes, laying waste,
rendering, reducing potential harvest
in death knells of dusty, dirty dying;

so did the paddocks sigh piteously,
deprived of all which had been
promised, before the war within
demanded one last, final solution.


Tuesday, February 16, 2016


Through the ancient landscape,
dust did slurry songs, calling
through the smooth, rubbed
hills - beckoning us on.

Scrabbled were the eucalypts,
raddled were the stones,
sucking heat from destiny as
demons danced and sang.

Footsteps fell in slow silence,
dressed in powdered years,
drawing through the soil unknown,
truths the heart could feel.

Bequeathed in endless images,
stories trailed through earth,
clay clenched drowning water -
painted face and breasts.

Distant was the inner yearning,
mournful was time's cry,
joyful was life's great promise-
no sound, but sandy sighs.

Lost in aching age of meaning,
driven deep beyond the cities,
so we walk with shuttered eyes,
curse and bless as we do grieve.

Through the ancient landscape,
back out beyond fear and dreams,
world's soul beats in rhythm-
truth licks lips and seals.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Watching me

Watching me. Did I see those eyes,
holding deep in bitter iris, the word
' yes,' as if they promised something
I did not deserve, forming only to

mock, as if betrayal were a badge
I wore, unseen only by me, marker
made invisible by denial; disguised
tattoo, carved, curled, stabbed ink

into flesh, waiting, desperate, for
a sign, a symbol that I existed,
even if only in the arms of pain,
even if only in shallow hurting;

slicing flesh as I had done myself,
so many times, nicking and then
cutting deep through bursting blood
and patient flesh, searching down,

down, down, hoping to find in
the roil of bleeding, a surge of
life which would tell me I was
real - made manifest in and of

material being, formed solid so
a hand could touch, hold and
know truth of Self, surely enough
for heart to whisper: 'This is me.'

And yet, in those times of sullen
sleep, those dark days and bright
nights, where all blurs in deadly
weeping, the voice calls ever

louder, that the heart too can lie,
that nothing can be believed in
any certain way; that I am only
real when I am watching me.