Sunday, November 29, 2015


David Morisset's 'Unseen Poetry' collection is available at Amazon, Kindle, iBooks, Smashwords and other book sellers.   The poems explore the natural beauty of Australia's east coast, mental health issues, love and politics.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015


The hours dry out
Like used newspaper caps
Worn in the field
At school cricket matches
To keep the cancerous sun
From scorching skin,
While we politely clapped
Captains’ catches.
The days don’t come alive
‘Til after five,
As the phrase ‘close of business’
Slaps slack wrists,
And daylight saving lies
About the time.
Plaintiffs swear,
Thumping tables with clenched fists.
It comes like all torture –
Unexpected –
Bold black type
Staining the in-box column –
Announcing deadlines
No one else will heed.
It puts the defendant off,
Makes him numb.
For now the night’s trickery is thus set;
Only advocates eat, rest, and forget.

Saturday, November 14, 2015


All I want is a chance
At a better life,
I need refuge from evil men
Who oppress me and my wife.
All I want is my child's equal share
Of the riches you worked for,
That your fathers died for,
An equal portion, no more.
All I want is more for me
And more than you gave
When you took me in,
For it is more and more I crave.
All I want is to live in the ways
I left behind in my homeland,
But all of you racists
Claim this is your own land.
All I want is the death
Of you who oppose my god,
And I want what I once fled;
Why does that seem so odd?

Explanatory note:  This blog post is a poem.  It is not a news report and it is not a statement of opinion.  Rather it is an expression of bewilderment that seeks to highlight everyone’s vulnerability to manipulation by forces and events beyond our comprehension.  And, by the way, in my opinion, the agents of terror in our world are not all Muslims.

Friday, November 13, 2015


When I gave in to sleep,
And dreams, last night,
I had not expected
To rest with you;
And yet you were there,
Head on my shoulder,
Us, cuddled up,
Your hair black, almost blue.
You were not the young woman
I once knew -
Rages of age
Around your dark brown eyes,
Circles of sad defeat
That begged kisses -
And yet your beauty could still shock,
First I was shy,
Wishing for a disguise,
Much as I'd been back then
In paradise,
Then I heard your confession
From your mouth,
Your voice no longer laughing,
But so wise.
Then, ecstatic, I woke,
Reached out for you,
But you are in your grave,
And I am too.

Saturday, November 7, 2015


You can sue me
For the little money
I have left -
That tiny amount you missed
The last time
You had your hand
In my pocket.
But my memories
Are mine to keep.

Those little chairs in Sunday School,
Set in semi-circles.
A mother ironing on a cold night,
And giving flannelette pyjamas
A quick going over before
Her children put them on,
And she'd cook curried sausages
With steaming long grain rice -
Sending our minds
Somewhere hopelessly exotic
Where people ate this way everyday.
A father coming home
With T-bone steaks
For Saturday's barbecue;
And sheep’s hearts for the corgi,
Who ate them in one gulp.
Dozens of football fields,
Where the known world was conquered,
Except when we lost
That grand final at Windsor,
And we sobbed
In the visitors’ dressing sheds.
School teachers
Who knew about books
And how to open them
Just the right way.

And the tragedies,
And imagined remedies:
Two tiny boy babies,
Sluggish and slow,
Now starters
In Heaven's back row.
They'll have played
Thousands of matches
By the time their father arrives
To lock the (competitive) scrums;
And ten thousands more before
Their little brother slots in at dummy-half.

And hard lessons:
Learning to live with shame and disgust
When a lady discovered
That knights on white stallions
Were just as often cowards
Who could be replaced.
Burning out in a shattered career
When the crooks won.
Rejections and deceptions
Upon reaching out
From the flames.

But there were also times
Of silliness and laughter,
Learning her language,
And discovering our heartbeats
Sounded out the same dialect.
Marvelling at her speaking Spanish like a local
But mumbling French like a Spaniard.
A Scottish sword dance,
Her toes missing
The imaginary blades
By magic more than mere skill,
And the bagpipes playing their usual overkill.
Netballers who warmed up for their games
By braiding each other’s hair.
A happy little rugby player,
Scoring every time he touched the ball,
Joking that it was in his blood.
Debating teams and speeches,
And the praises of her teachers.
Seeing the world
Without being seen,
Exam marks and graduations,
New jobs and new places.
Talking about Shakespeare,
Discussing Rand and Friedman,
Puzzling over the Middle East,
Driving lessons and beach walks,
Cheering on our team -
So many losing seasons.

Yes, you can sue me,
But don't be surprised
If I thank you.

Thank you
For reminding me
What is really important.