Tuesday, 25 July 2017

A year on, the man gone.


It’s the smile I miss, the simplicity of acceptance
without the need for speech, his eyes
that cut to the soul and still his smile came -
the way the sun rises each day
or promised rainbows for the pact that things will be better
than we may let ourselves believe.

I miss his faith in me,
his interest and assistance
no matter the project.

I miss the conversations
that often rolled into arguments, like shadows
and sunshine across the paddocks he and Lee painted;
He gave as good as he got, did Kev
and then would put another thought on top
so that when I think of him
it’s his mind that follows the smile
the way he knew so much about so many damn things
yet remained humble so people, if they did not pay heed,
might miss the insight his words gifted.

I miss the shared coffee (milk on the side) and wine,
the way he finished our meals for us
and his cheerful greeting
after I would hear the bike roll up the driveway
with Nelson’s tail thumping ‘Kev’s here” on the tiles -
it occurred to me today I had not heard Nelson’s tail thump
in a year and isn’t that the measure of all our pain,
our hearts beat but where is the thump?

He is the gap now
that I must fill with my own thoughts,
the provocateur my mind must supply to myself
to propel me forward,
the smile hidden in every cloud
calling for rain and blue skies and all the in-betweens;
reminding me that life is about the palette
and not the preferred hue.

Sunday, 9 April 2017

Goodbyes:


Star-man sits securely strapped, the weight of no weight
pushes him upwards as if his mother’s aged and firm hand
still held its familiar place in the small of his adolescent back,
her insistence his actions propel him forward. Star-man’s eyes
stare into the void, at the edge of vision, between his visor
and the metal, he catches sight of his family in the stars,
distantly they beckon,  star-man remembers words, he wishes
he could sever ties with, send them spinning, end over end,
into oblivion. The thrust of it all is that somewhere behind his family
remain, moving on their own path forward into a future without
his input, his future has become a journey to leave them further
behind, watching them grow smaller and smaller, like comets,
once close, now a million miles, and growing, away, they recede
with every overused thought he has as he tries to forget them.

Monday, 3 April 2017

an Alzheimer's evening sonnet: (edit 1)


Childhood, early sixties, less populated times, less a flurry
for all that could be got, more a psychedelic dance as night skies
bewildered the innocent mind as if each twinkling star,
each marauding nebulae, was a whisper from gods,
long lost in time’s contacting funnel, to follow them, discover
the source of light; my sister and I, dizzy from whirling
because the atoms in our bodies demanded movement,
would fall to the grass, the crickets serenading the summer nights,
and stare up at numerous stars so bright: now I have lost the gods
and so many humans fill this city, the stars appear to have shrunk
into themselves, old star-men and old star-women who twitch
as they scramble for memories of those faraway days
while fearful, lost in the terror of the bewildering present
and above their grey heads the stars fade further from view.

Sunday, 2 April 2017

The Call:

Star-men ride on solar winds, arms stretched
wide even though they remain inside,
not the spider look and feel, held by the fake
umbilical while around them distant stars
sing songs with words no star-man can understand,
yet they feel them, deep within, suited or naked,
floating in the lack of gravity or earthed, feet planted,
the weight they were born to hold giving them time
to stand and listen, to feel within the pulse that makes
the heart quicken ‑ yes star-men long for the hyper drive,
seek often the craziness of the wormhole, that elongation
of the mind and dreaming, time lost then re-found,
but nothing matches the wide-legged stance, unhelmeted
head thrown back, arms on the hips and the eyes, the eyes
for that certain sun’s light,  open to capture in sunrise
and at dusk, the first and last rites of stars, their light
like strands of hair, flickering in the solar wind as they beckon,
shyly as Sirens and the Odysseus post called Earth
must lose the battle as star-men seek  ever to answer
that unrelenting call, return, leaving again the planet home.

Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Star-people spinning through the universe: (edit 2)

Take the super strings strung (not “up”
 like a failed god, Odin in cosmic attire) as stage lights —
they dangle; decorations for the universe,
an eccentric design that calls to mind an intelligence
so sense can be made — throughout the obscurity
of spread matter (what knife, what hand, what majesty
 covered the cosmic bread with the dark butter?)
mysteriously strumming with mathematical tunes
none understand, though we dance,  we mortal
marionettes on the playground’s whirling stage.

Test the theory that if a hand moves up and down
(like a cello player’s fingers plucking cosmic jazz)
the sounds are dimensions of possible outcomes
meaning mistakes happened once and once they didn’t
or they did differently or they weren’t mistakes at all.

Next, take the quantum leaps – the vaulting fields
that are waves that are particles that aren’t
even there just a potential or a probability
and probably
when I look here something else happens there
and when I look there I have no idea of what happened here.
(As for the cat; who is counting that purring time bomb
offering us an infinite number of only one life?)

With all this going on and we star-men and women
brimming with the need of each other (if only
so we revisit all the things we wished we weren’t) is it
any wonder we all choose to travel into the wild dark wonder
where stars Morse our names as we attempt to forget
that we have nemesis Time to defeat before we ourselves
are irrevocably defeated (monsters rejected
by unseen, unheard creators already off plundering
new experiments in dimensions forever closed to us)?

(And really, thinking about it, we are just
that damn cat anyway, a pet, caged and forgotten,
dead and living, the ying and yang of us all.)

And for those that believe, waiting for a Cosmic God
to cast His baleful eye our way (or is it
the damning universal devil nova
that flips the lid, delivers judgment upon us)
truth is, the strings can make order out of chaos
but only for the fleetest of moments
before the next chaos comes casually along
and firmly plants us in the middle of it all –
a singularity of impossible, giddying movement
as if we all ride wild stallion rocket ships
through the wastelands of space, managing
(every so often) to discover new, innovative ways
of smashing our tiny tin cans into each other,
thus ending, or starting ,what had just begun
or inversely, finished (Schrodinger’s cat put out
and brought in at the same time ‑ ad infinitum).

Tuesday, 28 March 2017

An Alzheimer's evening sonnet:

Childhood, early sixties, less populated times, less a flurry
of all that could be got, more a dance, a release, the night skies
bewildered the innocent mind as if each twinkling star,
each marauding nebulae, was a whisper from gods long lost
in time’s funnel to follow them into the dark and discover
the source of light; my sister and I, dizzy from whirling
because the atoms in our bodies demanded movement,
would fall to the grass, the crickets serenading the whole night,
and stare up at numerous stars so bright: now I have lost the gods
and so many humans fill this city, the stars appear less, dwindled,
shrunken into themselves, old star-men and old star- women
twitching, scrambling for memories of those faraway days
while fearful, lost in the terror of the bewildering present
and above their grey heads the stars fade further from view.

Monday, 27 March 2017

Star-people spinning through the universe: (edit 1)


Take the super strings strung (not “up” like a failed god
but dangling, decorating the universe in a strange manner)
through the darkest of spread matter (what knife, what hand,
what majestic intent covered the cosmic bread with the dark butter?)
mysteriously strumming with tunes none of us understand,
though we dance, marionettes on the playground’s stage.

Test the theory that if a hand moves up and down
(like a cello player’s fingers plucking the cosmic jazz)
the sounds are dimensions of possible outcomes
meaning mistakes happened once and once they didn’t
or they did differently or they weren’t mistakes at all.

Next, take the quantum leaps – the vaulting fields
that are waves that are particles that aren’t even there
just a potential or a probability and probably
when I look here something else happens there
and when I look there I have no idea of what happened here.
(As for the cat; who is counting that purring time bomb
of an infinite number of only one life?)

With all this going on and we star-men and women
brimming with the need of each other (if only
so we can revisit all the things we wished we weren’t) is it
any wonder we all choose to travel into the wild dark wonder
where stars blink our names and we have nemesis time to defeat
before we ourselves are irrevocably defeated (monsters rejected
by unseen, unheard creators already off plundering
new experiments in dimensions forever closed to us?)

(And really, thinking about it, we are just
that damn cat anyway, a pet caged and forgotten.)

And for those that believe
we’re all waiting for Cosmic God to cast His baleful eye
our way (or is it the damning universal devil
that flips the lid, delivers judgment upon us)
truth is, the strings can make order out of chaos
but only for the fleetest of moments
before the next chaos comes casually along
and firmly plants us in the middle of it all –
a singularity of impossible, giddying movement
as if we all ride wild stallion rocket ships
through the wastelands of space, managing
(every so often) to discover new, innovative ways
of smashing our tiny tin cans into each other,
thus ending, or starting ,what had just begun
or inversely, finished (the Flintstones cat
put out and brought in at the same time).