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.