Nothing To Win

When seagull meets pigeon at the water’s edge
the fight begins,
for hungry stomachs and ruffled wings.
A wretched gathering desperate for gain
as they challenge for tossed scraps,
stale, full of sin,
And so continues the food chain,
A struggle of many with only one aim,
from the squalid bowels of a garbage bin.
How quick we are when there’s nothing to lose
But quick would we be if nothing to win?

Money

For many years,
Centuries...
Money was the great leveller.

Now
That the gap has grown wider
And corruption is rife
To fulfil the lavish dreams
Of lifestyles of the rich,
This is no longer the case.

Something new and unforeseen has come
To take the place of the ghost of lost money.
The new great leveller
Will be climate.

The Photo Taker

For now the results are beknown to but one.
His work is done. He captures in his craft a crowd,
Envelopes every feature, line and wrinkle of the individual,
And their involvement in events, unveiled in the group portrait.

For now there is one who caters for many.
His aim is to satisfy the subject itself,
Whose faces are shuffled, focussed and framed,
Whose lives are preserved in this time-honoured trade.

For now there is only one with forsworn insight,
Until all is revealed in black and white;
Only one mind with the gift to know all,
Only one eye with the skill to show all.

In the decades to come there will be but one,
Forgotten by those he chose to remember.
The only one without proof he was even present at the grand bash,
The ghost who is forever gone with a flash!

The Watery Prison

This dim cage.

Cold

Damp

Dark.


The iron bars fall like pellets of rain,
And surround me;

A prisoner of the law,
a prisoner of the pain.


In the grey clouds in the ceiling of my cell,
Occasional beams of sunlight,
peering through the cracks,

Enlighten me;
an inmate of Hell.


On the mouldy floor the water drops stain,
And wet me;

A prisoner of the law,
a prisoner of the rain.

Aspirin Over The Moon

How is it,
That on such a still evening,
With the slightest ruffle of warm breeze in the air,
With the softest frond of light radiating from the glow of distant planets,
And the fullest of bold yellow moons holding command over our horizon,
Against the deepest and darkest backdrop of true midnight sky,

How is it up here,
As we propose to drift silently through infinity in our hot air balloon,
Floating so effortlessly on unplotted course,
Where the complexity and majesty and absolute intricacy of the universe
Is unveiled and starts to reveal itself to our very conscience,
And the total extravagance of bearing witness to such a phenomenal privilege
Is brought a little closer into context,
Like a canvas taking form to the strokes of Van Gogh’s perfect mind,
That to try and even begin to fathom would bring lament to the most projected thought,
And cause the hairs on the surface of the back of one’s neck
To stand in unanswerable awe,

How is it up here,
In this theatre of timeless tranquillity,
In this orbit of wondrous reflection,
This picture of purest fertility,
In this presence of greatness,
In the absence of space,
Not ringed in by substance,
In this life altering spectacle,
This transcending, this blending, this melding of the worlds,
This expansion of the very meaning of the word beauty,
How is it up here,
That someone could ask for an aspirin?

UFO

The lunge is quick like an angry boar,
The launch is smooth and wind it draws,
A whirlpool of focus and immediate attention,
Circumstances forgotten while surroundings blur.
The body rises but the head goes first,
A shattering collision of reflex and nerve,
Shimmering decisions as the future unfolds,
The barrier broken, the army march forth.

Forgotten Dreams

Forgetting a dream or putting it on the shelf
is a slap in the face
That leaves a bruise that does not fade
(unlike the dream itself).
Storing it away in the back of your head or under the bed
is a waste of space
And once this process takes place
The power of making prosperity come true
is up to you
And letting your thoughts sleep it would seem
is just another forgotten dream.

The Running of the Machine

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Accomplishing goals it set out to achieve,
Reaching the targets for which we all strive,
Effecting profoundly every one of our lives.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Performing profusely with superlative speed,
Turning huge profits in relative time,
Keeping things moving all the way down the line.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Labouring intently to contend with our needs,
Presenting consumers an abundance of choice,
Allowing us all one individual voice.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Chiselling its own significant niche,
Absorbing the friction while gathering wear,
Slipping efficiently through synchromesh gears.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Permitting a piece of the globalised dream,
Paving the freeway for capital growth,
Lightening our lifestyle by lightening our load.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Driving progression, driven by greed.
Pedalling the wealth through the process of work,
Propelling the health of a material world.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Faith in the framework and faith in the scheme,
Providing incentive for endeavourous toil,
Rewarding immensely, dividing the spoils.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
That is what ethic will have us believe,
Evolving our species at phenomenal rate,
Good for the singular, good for the state.

I have faith in the running of the machine,
Such is the benefit it has (yet) to be seen,
Shaping the market, supply and demand,
Powerful forces, a controlling hand.

I had faith in the running of the machine,
Until I saw the ways of men;
Deception, corruption and honour denied,
and so I decided to hide.

Envelope Window

Looking through ice into a citizen’s mirror,
Here’s who you are and here’s how you live,
And here in your hand the facts wait within,
Your destiny captured in paper and print.

This is official, certified mail,
Its contents are classified, its postage paid.
Transactions and transfers appear in detail,
Payment expected within seven days.

This is an offer you cannot refuse,
A courtesy letter (regarding bad news),
A final reminder of fines overdue,
A billet of credit composed just for you.

This is an invoice you cannot escape,
A personalised present wrapped in red tape.
Your mortgage repayments are falling behind,
That contract was binding we think you’ll find.

This is an audit for falsified claims,
You can’t cheat the system, just play the game.
A failed application, results of a test,
A bona fide warrant for your arrest.

This is a message not quite from a friend,
Purely a grievance we have to extend,
Just letting you know you’re out of luck,
We understand the situation completely
— really, we do — but we don’t give a fuck.

Opera on the Ocean

White sails cross the distant horizon,
Azure pristine meets aqua marine.
From here it is silent but movement is there
— of that you can be sure;
The whooshing of wind in the body of fabric,
The splashing and washing of wave off stern,
The bubbling of champagne in the wake of the bow,
Demonstrations in physics,
The combining of elements — it is all there,
Moving to the free will of the wind and the air.

The curvature of the Earth can be seen in wide screen,
Beyond only ocean and the meaning of space.
The pinpoints suspended reflecting the almighty
— an almost outer body experience;
Compulsion, coercion, surprising direction,
Emotions are vague but approaching perfect,
Reduced to the simplest, and yet most complex.

Water is velvet ruffled slight at the edges,
It fills a vast and majestic expanse.
A playground of nature open for all to attend,
Symphony, synergy, and gusterly salt;
Unbridled, spiritual,
Nothing is more beautiful than this crystal clear sight,
Endless, limitless in width and in height.

New players appear at the edge of the theatre,
Coverting the clifftops setting the stage,
Rolling and frolicking, the plot is unfolding,
Waltzing white figures in bounteous numbers,
Closer together then further apart,
Tacking and spinning I can watch them all day,
Using and wasting the afternoon away.

Soft waves lap the smooth hulls of sailboats,
Perfection in nature meets perfection in man.
The two join seamlessly together,
A sense of enlightenment, the smell of true freedom,
The sun glowing through an encroaching cloudscape
Worthy of the greatest Dutch masters
— to me it is like opera on the ocean.

Clock Radio

Perched above the bedside in all its morning glory,
A serial alterpiece dweller, a permanent guest,
Silently working, dull shine on its face,
Blazing red numbers, working their way...
T minus ten and counting,
T minus NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX...

You are a log, maimed and muted,
In pillows of slumber, unsuspecting, complete unawares,
Then all of a sudden it hits like a tray
Dropped down a staircase, all clamour and hail
— ZEEEP! ZEEEEEP! ZEEEEEEEP!
Jolting you sharply out of your sleep,
Your body is trembling,
Your hands are clutching your soft-boiled head
Still trying to comprehend what’s happening,
Your lungs are collapsing, your tentacles grasping,
Your mind is imploding, your heart stabbed with pain,
Your throat coughing and choking, you’re bridled in strain
And cursing the evil machine,
The tiny black box sounding the alarm
“Get up against the wall!” even though you are unarmed.
It dictates, commands your very soul,
You cannot resist it, the shrill peal echoes out
From window to window of every house.
It does not relent until all are awake,
They are led to their vehicles and taken away.

A Man's Garage is His Cave

A Man’s garage is his cave
And this is one thing that will not change,
From the dawn of time to the iron age,
He has held this theatre forever his stage.
You may witness the found youth of sparkling eyes,
Or see satisfaction in hard earned sighs,
After a long day of slow steady toil,
From inside and under a softened glow,
The hammering of dull repetitive blows,
Up ancient hillsides, down valley floors,
Out through the windows and roller doors.

A Man’s garage is his cave
And this is one thing that will not change.
Alas can you hear the joining of shapes and driving of nails,
The bringing to life what the imagination holds,
The creation of something from salvaged scrap,
The brilliance of metal as man works hard to please it,
The emergence of instinct in this most human lore,
Of recycling, providing, re-inventing the form.
From throwaway offcuts come the framework of dreams,
To keep one from going insane it seems.

Can you make out the mind of a great intellect ticking,
Through drawers and shelves his fingers go fossicking,
Of nuts and bolts and washers and screws,
Taming his patience for just the right use,
Sifting through memories of long treasured heirlooms,
He has carefully stowed away in the full flame of knowledge
That they would be needed one day;
And with an almighty heave he brings it to life,
As Excalibur was raised straight from the stone,
But behold,
Where is it? It has to be here,
Surely it’s here, it was here somewhere...

A Man’s garage is his cave
And this is one thing that will not change.
Can you see the hunched figure, a weary old soul,
Assessing tactics he sets about his task,
Filing his subject clamped tight in a vice,
Failing to even acknowledge advice,
Coughing and spluttering in a realm of sawdust,
Stumbling and tinkering, admiring his hoard —
Museum pieces, given over only to rust,
Like his own body, corroding away.
...Calls from the kitchen, “Come in dear...”
As he considers for a moment, winds down his work,
And is forced to blow out the light
and lock up the doors on his life for yet another day.

Losing a Friend

My thoughts are like fish, divided and deep,
They swim through the sea, a distance they keep.
I am the fool who follows their trail,
While others around me keep theirs in a bowl.

My thoughts are like fish, from the Earth they are freed,
But I am tossed by the tide like a weed,
In search of some answer, idea or belief,
Before I return to the surface to breathe.

My thoughts are like fish, they hide behind rock,
Evading my vision, escaping my net,
Leading me under to a sunken shipwreck,
Like the ruins of life and choices I regret.

A dolphin appears, resplendent and still,
Such beauty, such grace, so close to my reach.
We stare for a second, a lifetime it seems,
I feel in that instant I’ve discovered my dreams.

Line of White

See the line, the line of white,
Above the heads, infinite.
Stretching out a single strand,
Spreading its tail overland.

See the line, the line of white,
Rising through the winter’s night.
Watch it climb up from the ground,
Soaring skyward, horizon bound.

See how clean it cuts through fields,
Surging forth while others yield,
Evolving from its central force,
In line and length a natural course.

See it gliding through the air,
A freeway bridge from there to there.
Watch it slowly disappear,
Dissolving into the atmosphere.

Hear a silence, nothing more,
Then crackling of the jetstream’s roar,
Fading in the heavens high,
Across the sky and who knows why.

Crusades & Crossroads

Four men at the traffic lights,
Each in a different car,
One European, one Korean, and two Japanese
— the cars I mean
Until lights turn green
And each proceeds on his way.

Two turn right, two go straight,
None are late.
Each driving home to their own family tree;
A hot dinner on the table,
Or a child in the cradle,
Far removed from the other three.

Never again may their paths cross.
Their time together was not long,
The bond between them was not strong,
But their cause was common,
And for a moment they were united.

Sunset View Over Suburban Somewhere

Our social metropolis, masquerading as a tropical paradise,
From behind a local building site, the sun’s orange anchorage,
Beckoning goodbye, trawling with it a navy blue sky,
Compelling a constellation of carefully sprinkled white lights,
Unfolding in silent theatre through the comb of branches and floral brushing,
As a cuddly domestic creature scampers swiftly underfoot with four furry feet
rushing, Unblooded by the far off yahoo of a bulmastif someone owns;
The knocking of neighbours’ doors, the ringing of friends’ phones.
The crickety-chirp of resident bugs, the wavering in the wind of native shrubs,
And constant mournful moaning of four-laned traffic trucks,
On concrete cracked years ago crossing the zebra somewhere near Tanzania,
A jumbo jet goes drilling through some primitive science fiction
Of terracotta pots in sub-divided lots on our suburban island.