The Way To Dusty Death

 

I asked the mountain to move

and a rock landed on me,

transfixing me to the desert sands;

a mill-stone of my own making.

 

Parched, I cannot move;

the weight of yesterdays sink deeply

deeply to my soul.

If motionless, I find relief.

I relax and let go.

 

A distant cloud bursts

and a gentle zephyr brings the text

“In you I am well pleased”.

Is this the way to dusty death?

The Journey of An Icicle

Startled little sparkle
Oozing in the morning sun,
Captivating clouds, cliffs and spotted green
you drop
Silently flop
Onto a heather-down of fresh winter snow.
You seep through moss and cobble slush to the brink.
Transformed, you slip into a sparking gush
of perfect clarity;
Down
down to a sun-filled valley,
Gurgling as you go
Leisurely reminiscing
familiar clouds, craggy cliffs and spotted canopy of green.

A Flinders Street Ditty

Propped up by Young and Jackson

sits, this denizen of Flinders Street,

Watching the passing parade of commutes

in ray-banned glasses and protective business suits;

Protected from the elements and chance infection.

In shaggy beard and knotted hair

he shrugs off dust and itching from his thread-bare gear.

Non-descript.

Arching an eye brow, with a twinkle of the eye,

He rummages for his ukulele,

And strums,

Strums to the filing parade;

“Yo-de-le-hihi, Yo-de-li-hi-e,

You, with the shaded glasses, what do you see?

Yo-de-le-hihi,

What do you feel through the armour of your suit?

Yo-de-le-hihi,

Is there any music from that din?

Yo-de-le-hihi;

I, I see a burst of colours this September Morn,

The warmth embraces my bare arms,

Hear too foraging pigeons that fly

from that tall spire.

Lord.

How great you are! How great you are.”

A Hymn To The Psyche

I swoop
into the dampening mists
of a rock-studded stream,
gulping lungs-full of joyous
rapture.

Turning,
in pure serenity,
I climb with a whoosh over a cliff
to ride uplifting currents
from a wondrous space
of dappled woods
and
ancient rockeries
on a craggy face.

My eyes thump correlatives of the scene
to a heart
that thumps, thumps, thumps
to a befuddled brain,
a riddle,
“This is paradise, where is the Lord”?

To My Beloved 1

I journeyed to your dwelling my Beloved.

Evening was nestling among the trees,

As a curlew called

At the first twinkle of the evening star,

And incense filled the gloom,

I carried my tray of sweetmeats

(A heart cake steeped in wine).

In the dulled courtyard

One appeared.

In a sharp swoop

My offering

He swallowed up,

And  with a toothless grin

Spat it out again,

Crazed in a crackling laugh.

There it lay,

By the barren wayside,

Wayfarers crushing it underfoot;

Never to meet your sweet lips

Or, to multiply with fruitfulness.

But, I can smile

Swooning each day

In the fragrance of your courtyard.

Poems

 

Sweetest Mother

From your favoured seat behind the most exalted throne,
Whisper gently to your son
“He has no wine”.
And, I will do his bidding –
Petty piece of pottery!
Now stained
From
Rings of long neglected watermarks
Of the first flushing out
Of earthly dregs and grime.

I’ll fill to the brim
From Jacob’s well
True
Sparking waters that give life.
And,
Wait breathlessly for his command
To turn the water into wine.

Little Spec of Dust

Little spec of dust
Whence came you?

“O I blew in
On the last gust of wind
That wantonly carried me
This way, that and in a swoon.

Again it rolls me up,
Spins me back to whence I came.

So, I go round and round
Awaiting
When the great gust
Will blow me far far
Into the Sun’s blinding darkness.”

The Way To Dusty Death

I asked the mountain to move
and a rock landed on me,
transfixing me to the desert sands;
a mill-stone of my own making.

Parched, I cannot move;
the weight of yesterdays sink deeply
deeply to my soul.
If motionless, I find relief.
I relax and let go.

A distant cloud bursts
and a gentle zephyr brings the text
“In you I am well pleased”.
Is this the way to dusty death?

Contemplating My Prostate

The prostate is ego-bloated.
It restricts flow;
Voidance that should rinse and purge
Limbs and members of that one vine.

Placed for one purpose,
But it grows!
Disproportionate to its first intent;
Imperiously determining
What should shut and what may go.
Oblivious to all,
It turns, cogitates, and issues sparks
Of delusion.

This agent of the spectre of darkness
Must be suppressed at once!
Bring tacks
Make incisions,
Reduce the size of this bloatedness.
Be cruel but kind
And save from implosions and descent to hell.