DOWN ON BLAME STREET

There’s a parade every day:

Eyes shifty and agog,

Heads of empires

Built like Gog and Magog,

Matters they can’t recall,

Unless it helps to pin

A rival to the wall.

There might be among them

Some who are innocent,

Who don’t deserve

Guilt by being present.

How it must hurt

To be blamed

For crimes never

Even entertained.

How it must kill

All sense of self-worth,

Any remaining goodwill

For justice on this earth.

But some of them

Must be the ghouls

They seem to be

As they lick the smile of fools

Or exit in a plastic rage

Or sneak around the back -

Experts all it seems

At playing the media pack.

They have bought their wealth

With malfeasance and craft.

They have taken the shortcut

While the rest of us must graft.

We know only one fact;

One we cannot redraft -

The ones who got away with it,

How they must have laughed.

LONG JETTY

The old jetty sleeps like a snake all straight,

Stretched out to catch the warmth of sunny streams.

New planks tell lies about its true birth date,

Antique timber piles splash in water’s gleams.

It once welcomed the city’s men of name,

Who trawled for prawns and hooked fish in the flows

And slept on lush green banks that soon became

The parks that housed plush caravans in rows.

This lake sprawls sparkling in the summer ‘s height

When breezes fan hot houses on the hills

That loom like blue clouds in timeless twilight

And bend at dusk to showcase sunset’s thrills.

Then hunting birds glide tired to their rests

In lakeside reeds that simulate safe nests.

CENTURION

We hung three men on trees that day -

Two brutes who killed for murderous thrill

And one for some absurd offense

Priests begged Pilate kill.

The bankers too wanted him dead

And they financed the filthy bribe

That brought him to the governor’s court,

Lashed by cat and jibe.

I watched him die and heard his words

I swear he prayed his god forgive

Those who had nailed his body there

Where no man could live.

Then as the sky turned dark he cried

A cry from Sheol that shook my soul.

I knew he truly was the one

Jewish scrolls extol.

This knowledge came to me by gift.

Somehow he chose a man of war

To see the truth and grasp its grace,

Freed and blamed no more.

That night I slept only in fits

His face shining in dreams of flight.

The night after was much, much worse;

I rose before light.

I walked a dark and winding mile

To gardens of the richest dead.

The servants of the priest stood guard

Where was laid his head.

I had to see him one more time -

They listened to my sombre plea.

So we rolled back the awkward stone -

Those servants and me.

Then brilliant lights were all around;

I heard voices from heaven above.

He rose and walked out of that pit,

Eyes abounding love.

He handed to the priest’s servant

Linen cloths that once bound him tight.

The guard took them and turned to run

Out into the night.

The man who was the son of god -

As I believed him sure to be -

Opened the gardener’s shed and dressed,

Masking his glory.

I watched him walk out of my sight

And stood in awe by that cold slab

Where he had spent two hellish nights

In that cave so drab.

Then in the first streams of day’s light

I saw a woman’s face so fair.

And she, shocked by the sight of me,

Backed into the air.

Where have you put my lord she asked,

Her gaze upon the gardener’s shed

Where stood a man ready for work.

Mary was all he said.

She ran in haste to his embrace

But he gently refused her kiss.

Go and gather them all he said,

Tell them about this.

He cast his eyes on me and smiled.

And I cannot forget that face;

And I cannot forget his words:

I’ll prepare your place.

I was young then in that strange land

And yet it still disturbs my rest

To know that god’s own son chose me -

Damned pagan so blessed.

GOOD FRIDAY

I was the pious priest who wished you dead.

I tendered silver pieces for the coup.

I was the thug who thorny crowned your head.

I was the terrorist who taunted you.

I was the guard who speared your helpless flank.

I gambled, drawing lots to steal your clothes.

I wrote the sign that ridiculed your rank.

I called out from the crowd in vulgar prose.

But there was one, Simon, who bore your cross

And thunderous young John who ran beside.

The contrite thief shared in the grief and loss

While countless faithful women moaned and cried.

Even Judas regretted sin’s demands,

Yet I avert my eyes and wash my hands.

Note: The picture is a portion of Arthur Boyd's

painting of 'The Mockers'.

FILM NOIR BEACH

The sea was grey today, the sky was black,

Like backdrop stills on fifties film noir reels.

Dark clouds hovered ‘round sea gulls on attack,

Swollen waves rolled heavy like iron wheels.

No fishermen dared test the coarse wet sand

And downcast walkers trudged their way back home,

While watchers sat in cars parked on the strand,

Counting the sets and pointing at the foam.

As brine fizzed frothy on each curling crest

In failing light an eagle cut the air,

Swooping through every swirl to catch its quest,

Before it soared on wind-fired wings with flare.

And then the freezing gusts cried out like prey

While rain pelted the shore around the bay.