GARFIELD ROAD

Bitumen blisters,

Sun’s glare ripples the vistas,

Sky scans stone-washed blue.

Roll west down the hill

And the town waits standing still -

Sliding into view.

Some cars whisper by,

Others flash with roar and cry,

And soon they have flown.

The road evens out

Near churches for the devout;

Doors to zones unknown.

Shopfronts seem to weep

As if the town chooses sleep;

None spend money here.

The hotel corner -

Vaguely forlorn like a mourner -

Remnant of old cheer.

The station’s grand

Glimpse of yesterday’s slow hand

Rewards the alert.

Playing fields tell tales -

Tough tackles and falling bails;

Winners never hurt.

The creek winding beige -

Flooded in a long gone age -

Near the honoured dead.

Mountains seal the west,

Some soft curved like a warm breast;

Laced with late sun’s red.

CHIZAR

Of course, it was never my choice:

Could I have made a better one?

Someone before me chose the top

Of a sheltered kuche’s tight run

Beneath the nearby mountain slopes:

Each rear window’s craggy montage

That sprawled and took my breath away –

Arching like an electric charge.

At the kuche’s open ending

Stood the small shops – quaint enterprise –

Hire cars, general supplies, fresh fruit –

Not much that could excite my eyes.

Meanwhile, the swarming traffic swirled

Around narrow streets that converged

In this reclaimed village that housed

Big spenders all – hard won gains splurged –

On luxury homes that towered

Behind concrete walls’ marble facing

Hiding gardens for summer sport -

Pool parties that set hearts racing.

Swimming stopped when the snow fell thick

On flat black roofs and garden beds.

We stoked the furnace to stay warm

And set metal studs in tyre threads

So we could drive south to our work

In the frosty districts below

And look back north again to see

A lasting lustrous coat of snow.

The sun was soon back in our skies.

Chizar was high so it stayed cool

Compared to the dense heat below.

Still pale, we blushed into the pool.

Leaves once more graced tall poplar trees

And mad parties upset the night.

Is it any wonder our noise

Annoyed the force beyond our sight?

We failed to see the crowds at mosques

And overlooked new black chadors

Until the guards were in our streets -

Trained to settle a few old scores.

TWISTED BANNERS IN THE GRASS

David Morisett's latest publication is now available from Amazon and CreateSpace.

This collection presents both poetry and short stories previously published under separate covers.  There are also 15 new previously unpublished poems.

The phrase "Twisted Banners in the Grass" comes from a line in David Morisset's favourite Australian poem - Mary Lang's 'Tom Groggin'.

WHERE THE DEAD LOOK*

His stare is much too intense

To be pronounced primly vacant.

His eyelids are hunched by horrors

That slip, slimy, out of the nothingness.

His lips are latched so tight

That teeth must grind until they grate.

His forehead is knitted like a compound fracture –

One purl, one plain, one dropped, one lost.

He can hear all the hurts again –

The night cries of sorry and goodbye.

He can feel the loose lonely air

Lunge up like a glass fumbled on a marble floor.

He can smell the barley’s malted summons

And the stench of vaulted vomit.

He can taste the ale of acrid fury

And the brine of rotten tears.

But seeking nothingness is somehow sustaining

And almost more than he can manage.

Yet all the exit doors are clashed, closed,

And jammed too tight to jimmy.

But each day’s ripe reality still jars and scars

And keeps old poisons pure and primed.

Yet looking for nothingness houses hope,

For, hopefully, nothing can come of it.

* The title of this poem was inspired by Les Murray's "The Averted".  The last line is an allusion to the opening scenes of  Shakespeare's "King Lear".  The picture was found through a Google search for images associated with Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray".

MODERN TEHRAN

They are the first shock

To your perspective.

Charging at you but never moving;

Looking back at you

But never seeing you -

And never caring much.

The mountains rise like fire,

But they are already black –

Except for the tops of snow,

Brimming over mostly white,

Like ashy vanilla ice cream.

Then your eyes move lower;

And the city comes into view.

It is light brown and beige

And every colour in between.

But it pleases you

And makes you warm to it.

At ground level

You are always lost;

Until you see the mountains

And north is clearly defined.

And you feel almost secure,

But not quite safe.

And your blood rushes –

You are very much alive.

The local people

Never look lost.

They stride with a purpose;

Or loiter with unstated intentions.

Even the women,

With covered heads bent low,

Have a dignity

That surpasses

The cheap familiarity

That passes for freedom

In whatever home

You flew from

For the sake

Of sheer curiosity.

As a man,

You cannot help but admire

The beauty of the women -

And sense yourself

Becoming competitive

With the men –

As you unconsciously

Search feminine faces

For some sort of response,

In much the same way

As if you were at home.

But it is truly different

Somehow.

So you adjust

To the local pace.

You find yourself

Longing for the sheen

Of jet black tresses

Beneath each fetching scarf.

You marvel

At the shimmer

Of smooth olive skin;

And you smile at smiles

That herald wit and humor

You might never comprehend.

And you search

Each garment’s movement

For those hints

Of shapes and curves

That make a woman.

You drink in the smells –

For there is no other

Drinking to be had.

The sugary fumes

Of the roasting beet

Assail you with delight.

Then a hint of something

Much more earthy

Astounds your nose –

It is the nuts –

Fragrant pistachios

That make you wish

For a beer or two.

You notice the bold young men

And the vibrant young women

Sneaking a peek at each other.

And you cannot help

But wish them well

And wish them safety

And wish them a chance

To know the joys

That you have taken

For granted.

All the time

You hear the noise -

Car horns blare louder

Than faulty mufflers;

There are brakes screeching,

And motors humming.

Voices engage –

But your ear is untrained.

So even the calls of greeting

Sound like an argument.

But the expressions

On countless faces

Put you at ease.

At the very end you wonder:

Why are these handsome people

Still so proud

After so much

Disappointment

At the hands of recent history?

Then you remember:

Great Cyrus was called,

By Yahweh (no less),

A messiah (His anointed).