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.