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WITHERED

Summer seasons
Bring back old lesions
And dubious reasoning.
It gets so humid,
It’s so hard to sleep,
Regrets theme dreary dreams.
The last of the blossoms
On jacaranda branches
Recall withered chances -
Countless changes in midstream.

Yet nothing stays the same
While the heat rolls in
And the afternoon promises
The pounding of pouring rain
That washes regret’s reminders
From the ponderous air
But fails to wipe away guilt
In the daylight saved for despair.

"IS THE WOMAN A RISK?"

Introducing Melchior, a central character in David Morisset’s dystopian novel, ‘The New Settlement’ … available from most online book retailers including here and here and here …

It was almost dusk and the shadows of the two men stretched many metres in front of them.  Their tailored charcoal suits and matching fedora hats seemed out of place in the seaside setting.

Melchior preferred to discuss sensitive matters in the open air away from prying technology and other potential eavesdroppers.  A walk along the beach was perfect on a cool day.  The sea talked and talked with itself as the waves massaged the wet sand.  Squawking birds filled any temporary silences.

Tall and slim, Melchior looked slightly younger than his alleged 70 years.  His face was thin, bordering on emaciated.  He had oversized dark eyes and always appeared to be looking over the prominent bridge of his aquiline nose.  This idiosyncrasy was a byproduct of Melchior’s habit of tilting his head back to find the sweet spots of his black-rimmed multifocal eyeglasses.  His platinum hair was surprisingly thick and he was clean-shaven except for a carefully trimmed dappled grey and white moustache that presented as if it was a series of milky smears across the edge of his thin upper lip.  He seldom if ever smiled and nobody had ever heard him laugh.

“Tell me, is the woman a risk?”  As he spoke, Melchior removed his glasses and studied one lens as if he suspected a flaw.  His eyes twinkled slightly as he peered into the transparency.

“His mother?  Of course not.”

“Not his mother.  The one that he left near the old capital.  Tell me, what was her name?”

GRANDFATHERED

It was always there

Above the kitchen cupboards

That decked the walls.

It dwarfed silly china

Ducks or swans

That I cannot remember now.

A bottle of Black and White –

Two little Scottie dogs

That enchanted me,

And they still do.

It was half full,

That’s how it seemed to me.

Half empty my grandmother said.

It was your grandfather’s tipple,

So it’s probably cold tea.

He’d surely have drained it

And disguised his crime.

Anyway, he’s not here to confess.

I was so small.

I could not reach it.

I’m still trying to climb

High enough to enjoy it.

POSTSCRIPTS

Up at five,

Barely alive,

Dangerous drive,

If I can park I'll survive

Another day,

Striving for pay.

My skin cancer scars

Often help my mind 

Remember sequences of events -

Like ancient texts

Curated by the blind,

Penned on parchment,

Once pristine,

In past tense.

I am sick of paddling in the shorebreak.

If only I was swimming way out there -

Beyond burbling white crests of wild waves' sets,

Where sea and sky blush in the sunset's glare.

BARKING

Sometimes I think

I died so long ago

That what I now know

Is nothing but dreams -

Remembrances,

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.

ALTERNATIVE FACTS

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.

SIREN

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.