"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

NUSAKAMBANGAN

They must come for you at night
For deceit detests the light
That exposes the day
And makes motives
No longer politic grey
But dreadful darkest black.

Some say the families
Could hear the shots
Fired at eight of them,
Tortured and tired
And tied to a plank
With eyes wide open.
A churlish end
To a malicious plan
Of cheap deceptions
And sordid trickery.
So the police smiled
Because it went well.

Today a weak man will wake
In the propped-up palace.
He will drink again
From the callous challis,
Frothy with foul poison
Distilled from corruption
That defines his frailty.

Has he not heard,
Does he not know
The words of his prophet?
Life for life,
Wounds equal for equal,
Mercy for men
Who show mercy.

One night they might come for him.


The painting is by Myuran Sukumaran, one of eight men executed in Indonesia this morning.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

DIGGERS

So many distractions;
But can you stop awhile?
Stare at the ocean,
Imagine it lapping
On coasts far away
In other places
And, even, long ago.

On that narrow beach -
A fortress cove,
Impregnable.
Across the channel -
Trenches in the mud,
Ballets by Spandau.
Fickle waters
That fail to drench
The dreaded deserts
Of a once holy land.
And ports and harbours
Throughout old empires -
Now benighted lands of other gods.
Warm tropical streams
That wind around
The islands to our north
And the jungles
And cities
Beyond their beaches.

A hundred years?
Where have they gone?
All the men are gone -
Some then and some,
It seems, only yesterday.
Sentenced to death,
Or life in a prison
Of melancholy,
Memories
And late friends
Missing from the march -
Men sacrificed for us.
They can protest
No more
When we recast
Their history.

Best not to glorify
With postmodern words
That actually belittle
Their spirits
And fling false motives
Into the restless sea
Of history refined.

Best only to be
Thankful, humble, silent,
And stare at the ocean,
Imagine it lapping
On coasts far away
In other places
And, even, long ago.


The painting is one of Ben Quilty's depictions of veterans of the war in Afghanistan.

Friday, April 24, 2015

PICTURES - KURTZ IN TOOWOON

David Morisset's latest collection of poetry is available through Amazon and iBooks.




Sunday, April 19, 2015

GOLD GHOSTS

Stars streaked with bullion,
All gone now,
In bribes,
Telltale trinkets,
Cocaine and shards of ice.
All that glistens now are Japanese brides -
Passengers on cheap planes to paradise.
The streets are strained to the borders of trust,
While the highways wail
And whine with the weight
Of cars bent on a circuitous rush
And trucks stacked with scraps,
Chronically late.
The noise never ceases,
Heavy metal raging
Even at dawn,
Mocking the peace
Unknown by these natives of middle hell,
Boiling alive in molten gold’s caprice.
False promises ever entice the fall,
Above the din –
Gilt sand,
Glitter's waves call.
The artwork is by John Dahlsen, an environmental painter.
It is entitled 'Gold Coast' and made from plastic objects collected on Australian beaches.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

MY LAST POEM

Lately I am tiring of the conquests,
Showing up and pitching in the contests.
Knowing that I'm only growing older,
And should give way to younger and bolder.
For they have no respect for ancient ways,
They spurn and deride my warm fiery blaze,
And cast aside rhymes and rhythmic phrases,
Laughing at meanings hidden in mazes.
So I will put aside my feathered quill,
And sail away into my old age chill,
Where I will find a hollowed hermit's home;
But I will never write another poem.