"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)

Friday, March 17, 2017


Sometimes I think
I died so long ago
That what I now know
Is nothing but dreams -
Reminders of deep woe,
Authored by black dogs
Barking vicious schemes.
So why should I fear
Bodily decay
When it's my mind
That's mucked up by disease?
And sweet oblivion
Could end my day
With flights beyond
The bounds of life's meek breeze.

Friday, March 10, 2017


I am bound,
Stretched naked on an ant hill,
Tethered so tight,
The insects pity me,
Yet they must torment me,
They have no will,
Unlike corrupt men
Who bite for a fee.
Over lifetimes ill winds blow
Every week,
Poisoned sometimes
And sometimes merely foul.
They bring pestilence
And grey skies so bleak
They encourage
Horrid black dogs to howl.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017


When I awake from my nightmarish sleep
I'm reminded of times when truth flowed deep
And all people drank from honesty's wells -
Now they swallow liars' potions and spells.

And what we can sell
Is all and everything,
Yet most are fed well
So few see the scheme -
By which cash cascades from springs
Spoiled beyond extreme.

Now I'm hung on a hook, thumb-tacked by themes
Rumbling through my slumber's thunderstruck dreams.
Before, when darkness seldom survived light,
The great and good were still up for the fight.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017


Your old picture morphed into multichrome 
And then your voice became a Siren's sound -
A diva singing love's perfect poem,
Backed by summer rain's patter on parched ground.
You were a text on sensuality
Written on my blinded youthful vision;
Bonny and blithe, tempting me to be me,
But I walked away to life in prison.
Now I'm here skewered, wriggling on a pin,
Accused, yet not remotely criminal,
Kafkaesque, lost, and wondering where you've been,
Wishing reality subliminal.
In dreams your face lights up and says 'hello' -
Old knowledge that I wish I did not know.

Tuesday, January 24, 2017


In my mind I still see those shining rails,
Parallel up close, joined at a slight crest,
Invisible beyond that spearhead point,
Expressing workers worldwards from the west.
Before carriages came out of the east
I sensed their rickety rhythmic rattle;
I felt the diesel motor's vibrations;
I heard cries of freight cars' sheep and cattle.
And I recall smoky locomotives,
Vapour spirals whirling like Dervishes,
Soot defiling my then tender nostrils,
Steam hissing like snakes locked in skirmishes.
Always the antique station waited still -
Gateway to the flood plains near Richmond Hill.*

* The first British settlers in eastern Australia referred to the Sydney hinterland town of Richmond as Richmond Hill.
The picture shows a 1960s steam train descending the gentle incline from Schofields as it approached Riverstone.

Sunday, January 22, 2017


When you talk to me
You’ll look over my shoulder
Because I'm nothing.
When I disappear
You'll never discover me
Because you won't search.
When I stagger
On pathetic ill-lit paths,
Because I was crushed
When the blue sky fell,
You'll look away and snigger
Because you are safe.
When I die mistimed
You'll ignore my messy plight
Because I was wrong.
When the flames fade out
You'll despise my drowned ashes
Because I'm worthless.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017


I believed in God
Before you said He was dead,
So I'm sure He lives.
I became a man
Before men were obsolete,
So I'm still a man.
I kissed your sweet mouth
Before your heart was shattered,
So I weep for you.
I lived through the floods
Before droughts brought pestilence,
So I'm surviving.
I was taught to learn
Before most of you were born,
So I know nothing.
I recall the world
Before you said I was dead,
So memory's enough.

Saturday, January 7, 2017


Sounds of surf at night,
Innocent, signalling peace,
Whispering delight,
Rolling on wet sands,
Ever reshaping the shore,
Employed as God's hands.

Moonlight's creamy streaks
Make little liquid lanterns -
Mystical antiques.
Stars glide behind clouds
That slide across the blackness,
Fleeting, fickle shrouds.

Or do we hear sighs
Of people gone long before,
Enduring death's guise?
Are they twinkling eyes
That dapple the seaside tide
'Til the new sun's rise?