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?