CULTURE SHOCK

Nobody looks remotely like me
But the ladies' dark eyes are lovely,
And tresses so sleek and skin so smooth -

Gold ranging through to black-like blue.

And I can't understand a word
In the cascade of conversations -
Foreign face to face, almond eye to eye -
And loudmouth tones
On smart mobile phones.

Signs slide by in swirling scripts
I cannot decipher at all;
And alien blurs flash by foggy glass,
Waiting just to ride like those of us inside.

But then a voice breaks into my state,
Steered by static and strange accent,
And yet still clear enough to give the gist
That guides expectation:
'Strathfield next station'.

WHITE SWAN

You sailed into the creek

Of my muddy life

Like a sweet white swan

Looking for a lake of lavender

That was serene enough

To bear your beauty

And secure enough

To greet your gracefulness.

But I knew all the time

That you would paddle onwards –

Another body of turquoise water

Was always beckoning you.

Its conceit made me seem sickly,

Bereft of cerulean sparkles,

And deadly dank with rank remains

Of ruined possibilities.

So I am left at a loss

As if I’d been dredged dry;

But the remnants of ripples

And gentle wet waves

Of your perfect presence

Are still lingering -

They will finally splash one day

On a shocked shore of rock and rubble.

PRANCING GRAVEDIGGERS

It’s impossible to make meaning of it
When you’re reduced to the lowly status
Of untrustworthy collateral damage
And the old joys of life slip into sick hiatus.

The glee of the gravediggers seems objectionably obscene
And a gross distortion of the heartbreak of accidental death.
While the decisions of state make nothing like sense
And greedy perpetrators barely stop for breath.

There were friendships lost and good names spoiled,
All because of a hijack that careened into a crash,
Leaving more wounds than anyone will ever want to treat -
Various victims were violated, compacted like tins of trash.

So the months become years as dull despair destroys rare resolve,
Until there are no lingering leftovers of life on which to advance –
All because the bad and ugly chose to loot and steal and lie and cheat.
But why, pray tell, did the self-righteous good opt to pose and preen and prance?

CYRUS

Born to a king and Mandana,
Bright shining like sunlight he rode,
Conquered, and then set free captives,
Justice and love freely bestowed.

False kings all fell to great Kourosh;
He saved, rebuilt and truly reigned,
Gave rights to all who sought his peace –
Persia’s empire of freedoms gained.

People across the ancient world
Called him “Father”, and called him “great”;
Cassandana called him beloved –
To his glory he fought vain hate.

But now the beard of great Kourosh
Must be drenched hot by each scorched tear,
He sees his wisdom cast aside -
His homeland wrecked, riddled with fear.