DINKUM

Some day we'll all be in competition.
Some day there won't be nothing but pain -
No time for holidays and no fishin' -
Every day drained out like the rain.

When did we all get so damn greedy?
When did we start to laugh at the lame?
Why are we so hateful and needy?
Everyone bears some of the blame.

Why are politicians so wealthy?
How did they store up so much gain?
For us it's just so hard to stay healthy,
And most of us are lashed with disdain.

We long for lives that are dinkum,
With love to keep us strong and aflame.
The ones who rule now better start thinkin'
Or get out and let others take aim.

POLITICIANS

They swooped like plovers
And landed on the backseat of brilliance;
Never doubting their drive
And fortified with resilience.

We danced like cheer girls
And marvelled at their intentions;
While the sky began to skid
And they planned graceless inventions.

Now it has come to nothing
Except a long road of rebuilding;
Even true believers are gutted
And golden streets require regilding.

ANZAC

No one spoke of immortality
And few gave it even a thought.
The world was awash with blood
But the brave stood up first and fought.

No one disputes the brutal truth
Of wasted men and innocence lost
In failures fanned by major mistakes,
While battles raged and orders crossed.

Myths and stories can never lie,
But truth remains too hard
For postmodern thugs to grasp,
While censorial goons stand guard.

So today no one can agree the meaning -
And hypocrites haggle and arch -
When those who respect our past
Wear justified pride to the march.

SOMAYYEH'S SLEEP

The following is an excerpt from early drafts of David Morisset's latest story.  It remains very much a work in progress.

Sohrab watched Somayyeh sleep.  Her face twitched and she mumbled repeatedly.  It was obvious that she was reliving some nightmare from a benighted life.  He wondered at her involuntary flinches and expected that her restlessness would wake her at any moment.

Before Sohrab had covered her with his tattered sarong, he had seen that her naked body was badly bruised and covered with abrasions; but her face was almost untouched except by the weathering of time.  Sohrab guessed that she could be no more than 25 years old but her figure was waif-like, as if she had never fully become a woman.  He had noticed that her breasts were small and firm, with tiny nipples unprepared for nursing a greedy infant.  And yet her hips were agreeably sculpted and must have attracted the attention of many men.

However, it was her face that had set his blood racing to activate his instinctive interest in her.  It was shaped like a child’s caricature of a heart.  Here eyes were big and brown, with heavy lids that fluttered as she slept.  High cheekbones pulled her mouth into a pleasant expression that bordered on a wicked smile.  Sadly, her nose appeared to have been broken some time ago; but its unnaturalness somehow added to her allure.  Her hair was thick and black and curled in waves that seemed to challenge gravity.  It matched perfectly her olive skin.

On the other hand, it was evident that life had been hard for her.  Her hands were wretched and dry and the soles of her feet were hard.  Some of her fingers were so crooked that they must have been broken.  There were small scars on the backs of her hands.  The rest of her body showed ample evidence of a recent beating but, Sohrab noted, her tormentor – or tormentors - had avoided her face and had acted with some restraint, as if they were intent on keeping her alive.  He conjectured that she might have been tortured as a prelude to execution and had escaped naked into the night.  Inevitably, he thought that would have involved torrents of sexual abuse and countless humiliations.

Sohrab expected he would soon have to deal with her fractured state of mind.  For now though, he kept watch over her, as she slept through a visit to a hell in her mind that he could not even imagine.  Then she awoke with a scream, which propelled her to an upright position.  Her eyes were wild but, at the same time, wonderful.  Before a full second could pass, her expression changed.  She seemed lost and confused by the locale and the man who had moved into her line of vision.  Then she pulled the sarong, which had slipped to her waist, high enough to cover her breasts, and eyed Sohrab with a worldly expression that startled him into reluctant speech.

FUTURE MEMORIES

Tonal whispers

From lips like syrup,

Creamed with laughter,

Dripping like honey

Into my being.

Skin smoky and smooth -

A maiden’s musky shield -

Strained before

The stretch of time;

And folded into clefts

And curves

That invite caresses

And insist upon kisses.

Eyes like shards

Of the blackest diamonds

Shining beyond shining -

Shimmers and facets

Of your essence inside -

An eternal enigma.

But above all:

Your smile,

Which broke me down

And brokered our love;

And made such mischief

With my haughty heart

That I was never

The same again.

A TIME TO LEARN

This article was originally posted in December 2012 and then removed.  There have been many requests to repost it.

This might turn out to be a foolish blog posting.  Nevertheless, I have to say something.

The sadness I feel at the death of a nurse in London this week is overwhelming.  I know nothing about this woman other than that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and doing her best to do her job.

The media reaction has been predictable and disheartening.  I expect journalists and media personalities will learn nothing from the episode. This calamity will soon be superseded by another outrage.

From 2006 to 2009 I was in the wrong place at the wrong time while I was trying my best to do a difficult job.  Australia’s biggest superannuation fraud made headline news and provided “grabs” for electronic media coverage for many months in late 2009 and 2010.  I had the misfortune to be Chairman of the trustee board overseeing the investment fund that turned out to be the structure underlying the fraud.

There are many details of the fraud that are still a mystery to me.  The main perpetrator is in prison mainly because he misled investors and lied repeatedly to me and the other Directors.  Those of us who were still Directors at the end of 2009 voluntarily excluded ourselves from the financial services industry under enormous pressure and in line with legal advice.  In other words, we acknowledged supposed sins of omission – with the benefit of hindsight it is possibly arguable we could have asked more questions.  We were examined at length in court hearings and by the regulators.  Perhaps there will be more examinations.  Who can say?  Nowadays I take nothing for granted.

The media coverage of these events was lamentable.  The charge was led by a journalist for a major daily and a blogger with an international following.  Most articles exhibited a lack of attention to research and an inability to understand the full set of facts in play.  The voluntary undertakings entered into by the Directors were quite inaccurately labeled “bans”.  At no point was it acknowledged that the regulators had not attributed any dishonest acts or benefits to me or any of the other non-executive Directors.

However, the writings of the journalist and blogger both took a personal turn.  Because I am a writer, they chose to lampoon me in a series of articles and blog postings.  One of the journalist’s colleagues also wrote about me.  I have no idea whether they worked together.  The outcome was my public humiliation.  What else could they have expected?

For his efforts the journalist won an award.  The blogger became a media celebrity and gained great advantage for his investment business.

As for me there were rather less palatable results.  My career of 35 years was over – ended by the criminal acts of others and the parallel publicity.  My reputation was ruined with consequent deleterious implications for my confidence and self-esteem.  People in the financial services industry started to avoid me – to the extent of crossing the street if they saw me approaching.  I lost almost all of my so-called friends.  My personal finances were demolished.  I lost my house.  Today my focus is on directing my limited cash flow to pay interest on massive debts.  (I should add that the Directors’ insurance was denied by the providers on spurious grounds and we footed our own legal bills.  None of us can afford to fund a challenge of the insurer's decision).  The saga contributed to the end of my marriage.  It became unwise for me to advise my children on their careers and life choices.  I found myself unable to attend services at my church.  One former employer – an influential man of the church – provided damning quotes for articles about me.  His only motivation seems to have been his personal amusement.

At the same time, I was gutted by the plight of the investors who lost their money.  Thankfully, many have now been compensated.  Others have not been so lucky and there is not an hour goes by when I do not think about them and the way that crime has affected their lives.

My health has deteriorated sharply.  I am on multiple medications.  I rent a tiny, dilapidated flat.  However, I am now able spend my days working – for which I am truly grateful – after a very long stretch without a full time position.   I have no hopes for retirement.  Most of my spare time I am alone.  I probably drink too much.

Writing is my solace and I prize sleep as an escape – although nightmares are frequent.  I have planned suicide several times – more times than I can count.  I have been so low that I have called LifeLine.  But I am still here because, like Hamlet and many others, I am afraid.

I can no longer bring myself easily to trust people.  I hate journalists, lawyers and insurance companies.  I also hate a man in prison and his unpunished accomplices overseas.

Today’s newspapers say that there is concern for the health and wellbeing of the radio personalities involved in the prank that has become linked to a tragedy.  This is probably a time to learn and a time to forgive.  My heart goes out to the family and friends of a woman in London.

SOMAYYEH

The following is an excerpt from David Morisset's newest story.

She sank to the ground beside him and leaned back against the stone edifice.  Fighting fatigue she stretched out her legs and placed his head on her thighs in nothing more than an act of blind instinct directed to a fellow sufferer.  Blood dripped from the poorly dressed stump that was his left arm but she was too tired to give it any remedial attention.  Besides, she thought, she had no medical materials.  She had, indeed, nothing.

The desert air was cool and she was wet with perspiration.  Her skin began to tingle as the impact of the cold and the proximity of a man took over her senses.  The darkness hid her nakedness.  He was either in a coma or sleeping.  So she did not feel ashamed or embarrassed.  But there was enough light from the stars for her to study his face.

He had chiseled features.  A high forehead was topped with wavy black hair that was long enough to hang in strands on his temples and ears.  Beneath his thick eyebrows, his eyelids hid his eyes and so she wondered about them to distract herself from her predicament.  His nose was aristocratic and his jawline was defined by a closely trimmed beard that was black like his hair.  A cropped moustache defined his mouth.  He was, she thought, handsome.  Perhaps, she thought again, he was too handsome.  Could he be one of the sons of God?  If so, there would be no point in her having anything to do with him and he would soon see that she was executed.

As she speculated she shivered with the cold and, yet, drips of sweat ran into her wounds like salty lotions.  The multi-faceted pain of repeated rapes had never left her in her flight but now it was almost unhindered by other emergencies and it set itself free to play havoc with her.  Her husband had never been a gentle lover and he had even raped her when he had been drunk or she had dared to deny him his rights out of spite or dissent.  On several occasions he had given her to his inebriated friends.  To be violated by men, she had long known, was just part of being a woman.  How thankful she was that she had never become pregnant.

Her grandmother had told her of better days.  In the times of kings and queens young girls could be educated and could earn enough to make their own decisions without the direction of men.  There was no need to hide behind a man and dress in a tent that concealed femininity and reinforced shame.

“Dearest Somayyeh, people were happy then.  They danced to music and picnicked in the green foothills of the mountains.  My husband chose me because of my beauty and my intelligence.  He wrote poetry to me and called me his princess.  But the sons of God sent him to fight in the war against the great Satan and I was alone.  Still, Somayyeh dear, I have my memories and I pray that, by the time you are old like me, there will be good times again.  I pray that the sons of God will be dead and the kings and queens will return.  And the people will be happy once more.”  Her grandmother never wavered from this nostalgic theme and, when she died, she passed away peacefully, with a smile curling her lips and creasing the skin around her dark eyes.  It was if she had travelled back in time to retrieve her memories of the days of kings and queens.

As she thought of her grandmother, Somayyeh shivered herself to sleep.  There were still several hours of black sky and minimal light to come before the morning star would invade the heavens and begin to expose Somayyeh's nakedness and tease her injuries.

Somayyeh woke just before the full light of day was to be realized.  Someone had moved her.  Then she remembered the man with one arm.  Gradually, like the new day, Somayyeh’s physical reality dawned on her.  Every muscle and joint in her lithe body ached in rebellion.  Her private parts screamed protests of agony at the extent of their torture.

She realised she was lying on coarse material that was folded over her to hide her nudity.  From its shape Someyyeh guessed it was a sarong and its geometric pattern suggested it had been worn by a man from another region.  There was a smell of salt and some of her wounds were reacting to the sting of it.  Soon, a long human shadow was cast by the morning sun, which heated the horizon where it met the sky behind her.  As Somayyeh turned her head in the direction of the silhouette’s source, her body’s distressed state overwhelmed her.  She passed out with a ghastly grimace on her face and a crude curse on her lips.