VICTIMS

Today the air was flawless and the rain held off,

So I could see the mountains and the monsoon sky,

And the humidity made me sweat as I walked

And my old bones creaked and my mouth was dry.

So I remembered some other mountains of my life —

Those snow-capped peaks and razor sharp ridges,

And the cold air that cut through me like a knife

When I was primed to revolt and burn my bridges.

I am sitting in a kitchen and it is winter outside,

Snow is falling and it slaps against the window

Before it slides into nothing and no more,

And a song is playing on a transistor radio.

The singer is in love and he wants his love to know

How love might be if they are ever free to be alone;

And so I long for you and I yearn to be where you are

On the other side of a city that I have scarcely known.

That was fifty years ago and you are gone, long dead.

You were a victim of the demons who reign even now,

And I was a victim of you and the spell you cast on me

And yet the fault was all mine and I broke my vow.

EVERY PURPOSE

David Morisset's novel — Every Purpose — is available for purchase as an eBook or as a paperback at Kindle and Amazon.  The back cover blurb reads as follows:

Many people believe that humanity’s very existence is an outcome of chance and, yet, ancient wisdom literature insists that our lives have meaning and there is a time for every purpose. David Morisset’s novel tells the life story of Duncan Gashford, an Australian baby boomer. The narrative mimics some of the characteristics of a biography but it adopts as its chapter sequence the times of a famous passage in the book of Ecclesiastes — birth, death, love, hate, war, peace, laughter, weeping, and the rest. Duncan is transformed by the cumulative impacts of his times and by his reactions to people and events. His metamorphosis sees a hard-working family man become someone else entirely.

ETERNITY

I’m going back

To a place I’ve never been

In the countryside

Where the trees are evergreen.

I won’t live there

But it’s where I’ll always be,

Watching sunsets

And hearing the sounds of the sea.

It doesn’t know me,

Yet it sees my real worth.

There is nothing there,

Just a moment of rebirth.

THE SONG OF THE MAGPIES

Today I heard the song of the magpies

And the sun flared like brilliant firelight.

The sky was as blue as fair maidens’ eyes.

A zephyr, delicate like butterflies,

Kissed my face and fled like a cheeky sprite.

Today I heard the song of the magpies.

The grass was as green as gods might devise

And recently mowed to a sporting height.

The sky was as blue as fair maidens’ eyes.

Shops on the hill stocked tourists’ merchandise

And youngsters sipped sweetened coffee on site.

Today I heard the song of the magpies.

Cars jostled and beeped — compact and kingsize —

Silver metal shone like an armoured knight.

The sky was as blue as fair maidens’ eyes.

The birds warbled with piping and faint cries,

Their plumage was stark — tailored black and white.

Today I heard the song of the magpies.

The sky was as blue as fair maidens’ eyes.

ODYSSEUS

I am a man not allowed to be proud

And I am sure I do not want to be;

I am at my ease apart from the crowd

And at rest in private humility.

There is much that I do not understand

Because I am from a now vanished time.

I was not made for this enlightened land

Where hypocrisy is the perfect crime.

I hear only the loudest vile voices

And their chants say that I am always wrong

In my convictions and in my choices,

Though they shout verses of a Siren’s song.

Like Ithaca’s king when tied to the mast,

I will surmount what tempts my naked ears

And I will stay who I am to the last

Of what remains of my precarious years.

THE WRONG SIDE OF HISTORY

You’ll say I’m on the wrong side of history.

Why does it matter and why should I care?

For you, my future must be a mystery.

In your eyes I’m old; my face is whiskery;

My outlook’s square — a two thousand year stare.

You’ll say I’m on the wrong side of history.

You’re so pure and yet my skin is blistery

And it shrivels beside your virtue’s blare.

For you, my future must be a mystery.

I know the source of stars all glittery,

One whose rule you see as quaintly unfair.

You’ll say I’m on the wrong side of history.

It is me who believes in His story

While your faith is in the latest glib scare.

For you, my future must be a mystery.

You think there’s no more to life than victory,

As you chant your slogans and scream and swear.

You’ll say I’m on the wrong side of history.

For you, my future must be a mystery.

IF I WAS A CAR

I’d be sold for scrap if I was a car,

My thoughts don't make sense and my body’s weak

And my brain’s so damaged it’s one deep scar.

There’s no future nor hope; I’m a memoir.

My past accuses when it dares to speak.

I’d be sold for scrap if I was a car.

My eyes are wrecked; I can’t see very far —

Grim dimness is a friend who’s cold and bleak —

And my brain’s so damaged it’s one deep scar.

There were seasons when I travelled afar

And I earned gold coins and my face was sleek.

I’d be sold for scrap if I was a car.

The world I once knew died like a failed star.

Now nothing makes sense to a worn-out freak

And my brain’s so damaged it’s one deep scar.

Acute sadness is a capricious czar,

Terminating every small joy I seek.

I’d be sold for scrap if I was a car

And my brain’s so damaged it’s one deep scar.

HARBOUR VIEWS

There are snipers on the opera house sails

While affluence enjoys a spending spree

And the winds of change are howling like gales.

It’s time for aperitifs and cocktails

For random heirs of inequality.

There are snipers on the opera house sails.

Yellow windows behind balcony rails

Make the northern shore look like a marquee

And the winds of change are howling like gales.

Trains cross the bridge like tethered silver snails,

Carrying day workers lately set free.

There are snipers on the opera house sails.

Night workers work at all their toil entails,

Servers serve pinot noir and chic chablis,

And the winds of change are howling like gales.

Those called great and good spin magical tales;

But who can write an accurate précis?

There are snipers on the opera house sails,

And the winds of change are howling like gales.

SECOND SECRETARY

David Morisset's newest novel is now available as a paperback or an ebook via Amazon and Kindle.  ‘Second Secretary’ is about ambiguity and uncertainty and how and why we curate our memories. Propped up in a bed in an end-of-life care facility in a suburb of Australia’s capital city, Clive Livesey taps away at his laptop’s keyboard. He is writing about his experiences as a diplomat in Tanzania in the early 1980s. The unvarnished narrative is part memoir and part travel guide and at its heart is Livesey’s romantic involvement with Hermione Somercotes, who works in the commercial section of the British High Commission. Various confusing incidents suggest that there might be more to his lover than meets the eye but in Livesey’s hazy account, which is marred by failing recall and the side-effects of medication, some possible explanations are never accepted.

SENESCENCE

When autumn swells

And leaves turn red and yellow,

We say ‘how beautiful’

And we photograph the mellow;

But when people age

And they start to fade and sway,

We say ‘how miserable’

And we turn away.

A LOVE LIKE THAT

“Even after all this time

The sun never says to the earth, ‘You owe me.’

Look what happens with a love like that,

It lights the whole sky.” (Hafez)

“He makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good.” (Matthew 5 : 45 NKJV)

Sending its beams between rooftops and trees,

The morning sun bobs like an amber blob

With rays of love for all our lands and seas.

Our skies are thus lit with a selfless ease

As galactic fire heats up like a hob,

Sending its beams between rooftops and trees.

Our earth offers neither ‘thank you’ nor ‘please’.

Humankind just expects blessings to lob

From rays of love for all our lands and seas.

Without warmth we would surely wilt and wheeze,

And there would be no wealth for fiends to rob,

If not for beams sent ‘tween rooftops and trees.

We act as if all of our luxuries

Come from the hands and the minds of the mob,

Not rays of love for all our lands and seas.

We extract life’s riches by vile decrees

And fail to see the source of every throb,

Sending its beams between rooftops and trees

With rays of love for all our lands and seas.

PURPLE SKIRTS AND PINSTRIPED SHIRTS

I still see you in that short purple skirt,

With leather boots that came up to your knees,

And me in a blue and white pinstriped shirt.

I think of you dancing — blithe extrovert.

I recall songs about juniper trees.

I still see you in that short purple skirt.

It was our world then — our own rock concert —

A flower land with butterflies and bees,

And me in a blue and white pinstriped shirt.

I remember how you would laugh and flirt

And how you’d jest and joke and test and tease.

I still see you in that short purple skirt.

I often dream of you — my just desert? —

Periwinkle eyes, blonde hair styled to please,

And me in a blue and white pinstriped shirt.

When the memories fade there will be more hurt

And I will forget our shared histories.

I won’t see you in that short purple skirt,

Nor me in a blue and white pinstriped shirt.

LOTS OF LIES

Do they not know that they are telling lies

As they spin their stories and plot their plots?

How can they trust the frauds they publicise?

Can you not see dollar signs in their eyes

As they promote their bogus Camelots?

Do they not know that they are telling lies?

They brook no quarrels and reject replies,

Because their venal shams buy patrons’ yachts.

How can they trust the frauds they publicise?

All their schemes are devious pies in skies —

No widespread gains, only donors’ jackpots.

Do they not know that they are telling lies?

They swarm around sponsors like greedy flies

That love the garbage heaps of vacant lots.

How can they trust the frauds they publicise?

We few, who know their world view falsifies,

Crave the day when their conspiracy rots.

Do they not know that they are telling lies?

How can they trust the frauds they publicise?

SORROW

On most days my tears are ready to flow,

I hold them back with earnest distractions.

My eyes are soon wet with my timeworn woe.

Whether the skies are grey or all aglow,

I see nought that might be called attractions.

On most days my tears are ready to flow.

The world spins round and makes a baffling show,

Dancing to songs of dissonant factions.

My eyes are soon wet with my timeworn woe.

Hurts come and stay and are so slow to go —

Some tangible but others abstractions.

On most days my tears are ready to flow.

Loneliness is part of the fiasco —

No one sees my dull dissatisfactions.

My eyes are soon wet with my timeworn woe.

When did I come to this rotten borough?

How did I lose all in all transactions?

On most days my tears are ready to flow,

My eyes are soon wet with my timeworn woe.

JUNGLE

Beware of elephants the road signs said,

Beneath hills crowned with temples of strange gods,

Near jungles where soldiers’ blood once was shed.

The weathered cuttings crumbled dirty red,

Unseen breezes inspired trees’ sways and nods,

Beware of elephants the road signs said.

An access path wound like a silken thread

Around the slopes farmed in recurring quads,

Near jungles where soldiers’ blood once was shed.

Somewhere were trenches dug by foes now dead,

Freedom fighters, loyalist army squads,

Beware of elephants the road signs said.

A high peak pierced blue sky like a spearhead,

Verdure painted the same green as peapods,

Near jungles where soldiers’ blood once was shed.

How many raw youths were cruelly misled

And tricked into battles against all odds?

Beware of elephants the road signs said,

Near jungles where soldiers’ blood once was shed.

SCOTCH VILLAINY

I love the crack of whisky breaking ice

And the whisper of this water of life,

Staining glass with burnished gold once, twice, thrice.

It moves me to a place so cool and nice

Where calm replaces misfortune and strife;

I love the crack of whisky breaking ice.

I know some wowsers see it as a vice

But they know nought of this substitute wife,

Staining glass with burnished gold once, twice, thrice.

I am addicted to the malt and spice

And peat that chants of pipes and drums and fife;

I love the crack of whisky breaking ice.

There are times when I would pay any price

For this elixir of the afterlife,

Staining glass with burnished gold once, twice, thrice.

But I’m not fussy, nor am I precise;

I’ll drink cheap and common and rough and rife.

I love the crack of whisky breaking ice,

Staining glass with burnished gold once, twice, thrice.

MONSOON

It's hottest just before the rain comes down

From the mountains of clouds stacked grey and black,

A gift from heaven’s skies to this parched town.

Forecasts are framed by faux experts who frown,

Describing nothing but the past come back,

It’s hottest just before the rain comes down.

Thunder sounds alarums like a loud clown,

And drops explode on the roof of our shack,

A gift from heaven’s skies to this parched town.

The sun vanishes fearing it might drown

And the shade sheds respite from heat’s hard rack,

It’s hottest just before the rain comes down.

Rivers swell and swerve and swirl khaki brown

Like camouflaged armies on the attack,

A gift from heaven’s skies to this parched town.

Like verses by a poet of renown

Nature’s cycle wheels on a rhythmic track;

It’s hottest just before the rain comes down,

A gift from heaven’s skies to this parched town.

CHILDHOOD BLUES

The blue of the sky reflected blue sea

And pure white foam floated in both the blues.

That was the way it seemed to younger me.

We had pleasure in being us and we

And there was much to see in two-blued views.

The blue of the sky reflected blue sea.

The mornings were clean and lit up with glee

And never knew a warring world’s worst news.

That was the way it seemed to younger me.

The sunsets were as red as red could be

And grey days were as rare as wearing shoes.

The blue of the sky reflected blue sea.

At night the heavens were spangled starry

And waters flickered flaming yellow hues.

That was the way it seemed to younger me.

As children we knew only how to be

And we believed we had freedom to choose.

The blue of the sky reflected blue sea,

That was the way it seemed to younger me.

THE WRITER

I am a teller of stories.

I live between a keyboard

And a screen lit blue,

Thinking about sagas

That do not matter

And none of them are true.

I am a composer of poems.

I live in a word-filled world

Where imaginings rhyme

And sometimes play tunes

Backed by ancient rhythms

And loves of another time.

PARADISE