Love poems to a complete stranger..#1.

Monet.

So very near to my heart’s desire.

I dreamed that time was in reverse,

And never came that ending tryste,

I hold you still in night’s embrace,

And never came that ending kiss..

And never stilled that loving fire,

So very near to my heart’s desire.

A lover’s thoughts.

When I laugh,

‘Tis a lover’s laugh..

My love’s smile enough to lift my heart.

When I weep,

‘Tis with a lover’s tears..

My lover is gone and my heart grows drear.

When I lay at night,

‘Tis a lover’s thoughts..

That I think of my lover and my love flows clear,

A rippling stream over flowering fields steeped in snow…

And these thoughts I think, I think my lover knows.

A Life of Solitude.

“No man is an island”, so the poet led,

Tho’ I ponder on that presumed refrain,

As I quietly lay awake in bed,

The small hours of the night ticking away overhead.

And I shall presume he included women,

Tho’ such things usually go unsaid.

But for a while back there, when gravely ill,

(And I will speak for others more stricken still).

An island I certainly felt..in a sea of pain,

Tho’ thoughts and comforting words,

Of close friends were given time and again,

But the pain…an ’twas MY pain..would always remain.

Then for some; the pain of loneliness?

Or the loveless, wed in vain..?

The empty house, the unfeeling spouse?

Can comforting wisdom fill the void?

Or unsee televised braces of laughing faces,

Without a seeming care in the world?

When all sometimes needed is that one reassuring word,

That is given so many times of late,

In banal, flippant exclamation heard;

“LOVE the cut of that coat”, or “LOVE that layered cake!”

So condemned do we always an island remain,

Surrounded by an ocean of the equally vain,

Crowding in suburban estates about,

To assuage a niggling, subconscious doubt;

That in the safety of a multitude,

Under one roof shelter from fortune’s rain,

We live out a life of dumb solitude..

Secure amid plenty of that one misspoken refrain.

Beautiful.

A little bit of beautiful,

Just a touch of fine,

A small blush of wonderful,

This little moment in time.

A little bit of beautiful,

A simple thing to see,

Those tender moments of sunshine,

Within the soul of thee.

That little bit of beautiful,

Those small touches of fine,

When you blush it’s wonderful,

To know that you are mine.

Things memory sees.

These are things once memory sees,

Cannot be forgot, nor disdained.

These things that we do treasure,

Things lost or all forlorn,

Which I did adore is grown pale and wan,

What was ever so beautiful once,

Is gone…is gone.

Nature may mark the species,

But history marks the men,

Lies shape the person,

Whose fortune is already damned.

The stupid repeat their mistakes-and

A fool is condemned in vain.

These things our memory has seen,

Not to be forgot, nor to be disdained,

Lest that we most treasure, be lost or forlorn,

And which we adore grow pale and wan,

So THAT beauty that ever once was,

Is gone…is gone.

Diedre.

She was older, hair as red as an autumn sunset,

With beauty would turn men’s eyes to adule’ ,

And I was a young and impetuous fool,

Laughter was my first love, with a youth’s frivolity,

Hers was one silent, sincere and true.

I joked of our relationship, I wasn’t ready for wife,

I wanted the freedom of the world..a voracious hunger for life!

Now, every woman harbours secrets, hers I never knew,

My thoughts to her were an open book..I was an impetuous fool.

But in truth, what has a young man to offer, a woman so refined,

Save that rush of physical strength, an energy so defined,

THAT, she embraced more eagerly, than any goblet rich with wine!

She was older, with hair flamed as an Autumn sunset,

With a  beauty would turn men’s eyes to adule’ ,

But I was a young and impetuous fool.

And I remember I laughed when she bade goodbye,

For the frivolity of youth has time and world on its side.

Why lament one fish when we cast our nets so wide?

But now, as old age whispers its dark, foreboding secret,

And these last leaves of Autumn begin to fall,

I yearn for a memory’d kiss.. just that one last kiss,

From love lost..most of all.

Do I miss thee?

Does a field of blossoming flowers,

Not miss the sun at high noon?

The gull in full flight,

The sea on a glowing dawn,

Wind blowing above fierce and free,

Tossing the crowns of the Mallee trees..

And. . .

You ask if I miss thee?

The sweetheart who turns the page of a letter,

Writing to wish good health to their lover,

Sunset on the seashore,

Hand in hand we explore,

Finding strange shells, creatures and more,

Kicking the seaweed up in wild scree,

Laughter shared over such nothings with thee,

These things I crave to happen with me..

And you ask ; “Do I miss thee?”

Miss thee?

If I could but shape my love from pure clay,

I would shape that feeling from start of the day,

From that waking sweet kiss of delight,

The sight of you beside me at first light.

I would mould my love in the form of desire,

That I see in thine eyes by an evening fire,

In the mould of your arms as you reach for me,

The glow so soft of your limbs sweetly..

That..is how my love plays for me,

Music passionate..a Puccini symphony..

So ask no more, my love ..

“Do I miss thee?”

For even madam time…

For even Madam Time is paused,

Her dead-hand held fast as the young women sly pass,

With but a glance and wistful smile to those who adore,

Touch not vain blade lest the moment spoil,

 But gaze upon and weep with desire.

Oh women!…thine eyes alone,

Would tempt a greater God than man’s humble creation,

Thy beauty even only in my beheld eye,

Enough to blind the honest to thievery,

And if thou desires; let thee accrue the price, the cost,

Be holden to no man’s pitiful measure,

For it is thy cup that pours the bouquet,

Let know but that you will choose the bloodline,

Your body the place, the time….no disgrace!

Your choice ; glory or vainglory,

Let time grow jealous and men grow old,

While you can choose to look to either,

For heaven befits a granted grace,

And beauty will reach even the heart of a stone,

But the moment loaned of a woman’s touch,

Can be for a wanting man enough to satiate,

The longing hunger for heaven’s gate!

The last waltz to a lost age.

I was dead-keen, eighteen,

I loved you..and then I lost you,

I was young and you were of an age.

I was voracious, you were weary,

I wished to tarry with you but it was too late..

You said I had to choose you,

Or I would lose you..because you were on your way,

I wanted to hold you caress you, enfold you,

I wanted to convince you to stay..

Now at seventy I no longer want you,

I don’t like this age, I don’t need you,

I want it to stop, to stop, just go away!

I don’t want any of it anymore, stay away!

I excuse you..refute you, I refuse you,!

I’ll take me back to a time rich with meaning,

A time when I had so much to believe in,

I want to return to memory’s pleasant land,

Back to times had the touch of a tender hand,

Back to my time, there was fine wine,

There was music and wild play..

And there was the promise too ..

The allure of love from you..

Such priceless gold I was willing to pay,

It was the hope of my age…a boomer age.

A personal love between self and thine..

With your soul in tune with mine,

A – power – simply – divine.

You were my world..you were my pride,

But you had no time to tarry, as was the tide

Who waited for no-one when it was done..

So you took from me my dancing Ophelia,

My wilful Circe, my loving Desdemona.

You ARE that unstoppable haste of life,

And it was in my hurry to course with you

As you rushed me through the passing years,

That saw me work’d, kids, marriage an’ strife.

With these I was defenceless..with these undone..

Now we are so far from home, a strange land,

Reluctant bedfellows clasping hands,

In fear of the unknown..

But I no longer want this age, its cynics, false sage.

The music long gone, so too the reason,

I am old now..what have I lost! What have I lost!,

I’ll go back to trap my dreams in mists of wonder,

Again..I’ll chase the elusive butterfly of love.

If only..:

Would my wit be a sage much wiser.
Would my courage be somewhat bolder.
Would that time could take me back yonder,
To de León’s youthful fountain mythical . . .
There in a blush of delight so typical,
Would I and thee..as Adam and Eve,
As those children in the garden of Ede’,
Brighten our eyes to that first sight,
Of a new dawn rising over the mountain’s height.

If only. . .

It is beautiful.

I sit here in front of the wood heater,

In my old age.

I sit here with nothing I need to do,

But remember my youth.

And this idle is beautiful.

I have no more need to build empires,

I built them..I lost them.

Houses, families, relationships.

I built them too..some remain true.

I owe no man.

So I just sit here in the warmth of the heater,

In companion with time,

And it is beautiful.

I can recall those moments of passion,

Making love to women in my youth,

Such wonderful women..

And it is beautiful..

Those memories..those women..those times.

I can sit here rebuilding those moments,

Touch by touch..moment by moment..Person by person.

And it is beautiful..

So beautiful..

This warmed, experienced old man can now tell you this;

There is no greater thing in life’s offerings,

Than the look of want in the eyes of a loving woman.

And then to fulfil that want.

And it is beautiful.

Love has thrown me over.

My love has thrown me over,

She never answers my letters anymore,

Won’t talk on the telephone,

Doesn’t acknowledge my knock on her door..

My love has thrown me over,

I’m not welcome in her arms it seems,

Said she prefers her haberdashery,

To the dashing me!

So what am I to do?

Cast myself off a cliff in despair?

Fill my pockets with stones to drown in a river?

No…I think I’ll reflect on my dilemma,

And upon antonyms I’ll consider..:

When playing with fire,

Do we not expect to get burnt?

When drinking too much wine,

Can we not expect to get drunk?

So when seeking the ecstasy of love,

Can we not..at least..expect some heartache?

Are not opposites equal of supposites?

So let ecstasy of heart-love equal the cost of heart-break.

So..no..no desperate act from me,

Tho’ gone the love..the thrilling eroticy,

Let us just be grateful for what once was and…

Give gentle reverence of how it came to be.

Never, never, never.

Should’st thou ever go from me,

         Throw me over for another cruelly,

Scorn as weak, my flattering poetry,

         Would’st complaint I ever make with thee?

Never, never, never..

Has not thouself been shown to me,

          In word and sight so delightfully,

Did make me sigh so breathlessly,

          That I should deny you ever gratefully?

Never, never, never..

And so now in stark light of day,

         Your callous heart you may take away,

Leaving myself with only memories..aye,

         Would regret I have ever knowing thee?

Never, never……………..ever.

Ode to Women’s beauty.

Speechless and numb, I gazed on her beauty there,

Her limbs, her hands, her soft flowing hair.

Her voice the whisper of an angel’s prayer..

SHE..roamed her eyes over the banquet fair,

The roasts, the salads, the fruits so rare,

And of my adoration, just so….au contraire.

“There is so much beauty before us here ,

It is so hard to decide….you tell me, my dear,”..

She said..”What to you is the most desirous fare?”

The Daisy Flower.

A flower plucked from a daisy bush,

Held in trust (I do not blush),

As each petal I do pluck and toss,

With a plea of hope of a lover’s lot;

“She loves me, she loves me not;”

Till the last is plucked with delightful glee….

“SHE LOVES ME!!”

The Tide.

Like a sailor old, who watches the tide,

Life’s many moods I do abide…and still I watch,

For there comes a wash of the river flow,

That carries the ebb, what comes and goes.

That “tide in men’s lives” that carries their thoughts,

Like flotsam swept before a wave wild wrought

By wind and storm or by deceiving calm they be brought,

To wreck upon Charybdis rocks or wash up on rugged tor.

Fortune for that sailor who with astute eye,

Will risk the temper of mood and tide,

And call the exact moment makes best to ride.

He casts the ropes that hold him belay,

All wind and storm be no delay.

Yet I and thee, chained to life’s fickle destiny,

Can but watch as the vessel sails away from we,

While idly biding…

Like empty shells scattered on a wide, broad shore,

Awaiting tide and waves also, to move us ever-more…”

 

A Collection of Joe Carli’s Famous Proverbs and Parables…part #1.

Proverb : Knots well tied are easiest undone.

Parable : Richard Hocking gingerly poled the punt off the bank of the Murray River with the butt-end of the oar. The Mid-wife comforted and settled Mrs.Grace Hocking as best as possible in the cramped craft. Considering the advanced state of her labour, this was no easy task for either woman.

Grace groaned with another prolonged contraction.

“There, dear..It’s near now, we’ll soon be over the river and at the hospital”. The mid-wife soothed.

Now, in those days, the government, in its’ kindness, gave a family an endowment of five pounds for every child born. In the years of the great depression, five quid went a long way..with the Hocking family, it went the whole hog!..Fivers weren’t something you came across every day, so it had already been earmarked for some desperately needed items for that family that lived in a wheat bag tent on the” wrong side of the river”.

Richard Hocking was standing in the punt as he rowed across the river, so he hadn’t noticed the mid-wife subtly cajole his wife into signing a document that granted the said five pounds to her ; the mid-wife, for “services rendered”…never mind that she was already in the pay of the government hospital !  Grace hocking was in no state of mind to contend what she had groggily signed her name to.

The mistake the mid-wife made was to hold the freshly signed document away and up to the sun for the ink to dry and in doing so inadvertently displayed the treachery to the curious gaze of Richard Hocking, whose face was only inches away from the paper as he rowed the punt across the river.

“Five quid!” He cried as he snatched the paper.

The mid-wife froze with her arm still outstretched, mouth slightly agape and a sharp gasp sprung to her lips.

“Mr. Hocking!..Now give that back this instant. That is a legal document and it is mine!” She demanded.

Richard looked at the document, then at the mid-wife. An angry smile came to his lips.

“Then swim for it!” and he screwed the paper up and flicked it into the river.

“Ahh! You can’t do that!” the midwife cried and with both hands gripping the gunwale, watched the ball of paper drift away and sink.

“Consider it done!” Richard smiled gleefully.

“Then..then I’ll not attend your wife!”

“Ohhh!..” groaned Gracie.

“

Then we’ll stay right here on the river!” shouted Richard as he flung the oars into the punt.

“Ohhhh….” wailed Gracie again..and at this point nature intervened and a baby girl was born in the punt on the middle of the Murray River.

Five quid went a long way in the great depression.

Proverb :    ” Bread and cheese at home is better than roast meat elsewhere”.

Parable. ;    Nicole detested polenta! So that when he came home from the fields and spotted the polenta on the stove, he started thinking fast.

” I won’t be here for dinner, ” he said as he flung a scarf around his neck ” Giovanni has invited me to his table tonight.” and he rushed out the door before his wife could say anything.

Little did he know that his wife had cooked up enough polenta for all the relatives in the village. all he saw was the little she kept for themselves ! So he rushed over to his son’s house as fast as his little bow-legs could carry him. There, he milled around in front of the fire and chatted small talk while the wife prepared the table.

‘ You’ll stay for dinner, father? she queried “…we’re having polenta.”

He winced at her in horror…”Oh bugger!” he said to himself..then ; “No, no, caro…er..my sister, she has invited me to her table for dinner…speaking of which..I better hurry on..” and he flung his scarf on again and hurried out the door.

‘Hungry, hungry, hungry..” he whispered in time to his quickening steps and his stomach rumbled as he passed through his sister’s front door.

‘Ah…Nicole! ” she greeted him..” just in time for dinner. Sit down, I’ll get you some polenta!”

” Gesu Christo!” he cried as he flung his hands to the heavens..” doesn’t anybody in this town eat anything but bloody polenta!?” and he stormed out leaving them with open mouths and a slammed door. He came home to his own kitchen with a long face and slumped shoulders. He was beaten and resigned to his fate, polenta it would have to be.

His wife (who knew his dislikes by now) glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled. She reached into the oven and pulled out a covered dish which she placed in front of the dejected man at the table and uncovered a bowl of ravioli and cheese….Nicole’s face lit up into an ecstatic smile and he sighed very, very deeply. His wife patted him on top of his head…

“Better, you see, to eat at your own table, rather than run around town for scraps from others.”

Nicole nodded his head gratefully, for his mouth was full of food.

Proverb: Those who need a good ambassador should send themselves.

Parable: Daniel was adopted out at six weeks old to a childless couple who loved him dearly and raised him as best they could. His natural mother and father were separated several months before he was born so that he knew neither true parent. Years later, when he was in his late twenties, he felt the need to contact his natural parents. He could not find his mother, but through one of the special agencies that help adopted people, he obtained the address of his father.

“Well”, the father said as he sat down at the table, “this is a surprise!” and he dropped a spoonful of sugar into his cup of tea, “sugar?…Daniel, … Daniel isn’t it?”the father asked.

“Yes to both questions” Daniel replied.

“Well.. then .. it’s good to see you all growed up and healthy … even without my guidance”. The man nervously laughed.

“I’ve had good …care”. Daniel said as he put the cup to his lips.

“Well then … “the father rubbed his left hand on his thigh uneasily. “Well then … er … tell me; how’s your mother?”

“My mother? Daniel looked puzzled, “I don’t know, I haven’t seen her”.

“What … what do you mean – haven’t seen her”, the father, puzzled too now, queried. “No” Daniel went on “Not for as long as I can remember … I was adopted out at six weeks old!” Daniel blinked at his father.

“The Hell you say!!” The man leapt to his feet upsetting things on the table, “the hell you say!” he cried again as he turned away and raked his fingers through his hair. He turned then and brought his great fist down.. crash!! onto the kitchen table. “Your mother had me paying maintenance for you for sixteen years!” and he stood back from the table and welsh-combed his hair again.

“Well … you could’ve gone around there and you would’ve seen for yourself” said Daniel. The man flicked his hand away angrily.

“Ahh! … me and your old lady didn’t get on, so we “talked”, as you might say, through a mate of mine who … who went … over … oh bloody hell …” The father stopped suddenly and stared as though in a trance. He sat down on the chair slowly.

“Oh bloody hell … a mate of mine …”

Proverb : “What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve.”

Parable : ” I laugh now when I think of it”. The old lady chuckled, “But I was young then, about fourteen..or sixteen..but I was a ‘young’ sixteen….you know?..and I had gone to the millinery store in the town and bought a dress for the fair. The dress was pink floral with a blouse all in one and it had two pieces of material, like braces, with big buttons on the waistline and those two braces went over the shoulders down the back.”

“Ahh..I was young then….anyway at the fair there was the excitement of a merry-go-round and bucking horses and shearing contests and….and tug-of-war..an…an..horse races..you know, that sort of thing and everybody from the district and from beyond the bend of the river..and they’re dressed up to the nines,  oh dear,ha!…the big day of the year for us then, ha!”

“Well, there was this aboriginal girl there the same age as me it turned out, and she had on EXACTLY the same dress that I had..exactly!…and we ran up to each other and laughed and became great friends that day…she worked, like me, at another station on the Murray….cooking, cleaning, looking after the children that sort of thing…..anyway, we were great friends that day an’ we walked all around that fair together arm in arm, laughing and having great fun and we’d tell everyone we met that we were twins!..ha! ha!…TWINS!….you’d laugh now, but we didn’t even think of her being black and me white then..some people smiled and others threw their heads back and laughed and we just thought they were as happy as we were, ha!”

“Oh, a jolly good time we had that day…..I can’t even remember her name now….ha!….Ah well….twins..twins indeed…can you imagine!”

Proverb : “When you’re unlucky, it rains on you’re arse even when you’re sitting down”.

Parable  : Ron’s shopping trolley experience.

While not wanting to tangent away from the header subject on to shopping trolleys and their “weaponisation”, I would still like to relate a most tragic moment that happened to a relative of mine some years ago concerning a shopping trolley, that has affected him up till this day…:

He had just bought himself his first brand spanking new car…a Holden Kingswood..bright lime-green..he was a gregarious chap..and being super cautious to not have it scratched or knocked whilst parked up at the local mega-market, he made it a point to park the car way-away in the bottom corner of the car-park.

This one day, he decided to have an expresso coffee before shopping…Sitting there in the cafe at the big window, he could see his bright lime-green Kingswood parked in splendid isolation at the bottom of the car-park..he sipped his coffee whist admiring his beautiful toy…when movement at the upper end of the park caught his eye…

You know..Lady Fate has a cruel streak in her…in that she will first draw your attention to her intent to do you harm in a most un-nerving way and with awful premonition, she will taunt you with an unease of the certainty of disaster and yet allow you no chance of stopping it…like watching a train-wreck in slow motion, she will gleefully torture you with a cruel certainty of inevitability.

My relative watched a young, frustrated mother wrestling with baby on hip, boot open, loading bags of shopping into her car whilst obviously attending the wrestling infant..slamming the boot-lid down and then angrily shoving the shopping trolley away without care or concern…My relative watched with both mesmerising curiosity and horror as the trolley performed a slow, predictable, parabolic curve of most pure mathematical precision, and , guided by the tyrannical hand of cruel Fate, gathered speed down the gentle slope and made a bee-line to a bright lime-green Kingswood..set there now looking as big as a barn-door just waiting for a projectile….and with all the emotional tempest of a Heathcliff and Catherine moment of rushing toward each other’s open arms from Wuthering Heights..they did indeed find each other…

We can draw the curtain of sympathy down over my relative’s facial expression at that moment…sufficient to say that from that day forward he ceased to contribute to ANY charitable religious collections…concluding, quite correctly, that there is no good God!

Proverb : The young shape the future, The old reshape the past.

Parable..: The contractor stood under the framework of the verandah he was building, complaining to the owner (an old man) about the young apprentices “these days”.

“No responsibility.” he slapped the back of one hand upon the other.

“No, none.” the old man agreed, stabbing his walking stick on the ground.

“No sense of loyalty.” the contractor enlarged.

“No..certainly not!” the old man agreed.

“They expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter…including money!”

“Yes, yes..true , true.” the old man sighed.

“Just look at the lad I got…no sign of him…and here it is past nine o’clock”

“No..not a sign” the old man nodded….”no sense of loyalty”.

“you said it..no sense of responsibility” the contractor agreed.

Just as he finished these words, a black “hoon ute” pulled up with a roar into the old man’s driveway and parked down the end. The driver’s door opened and a young man stepped out, one leg and body out, one hand holding the top of the door  and the other gripping the roof rack. He looked up to the men standing under the verandah staring at him.

The contractor, on seeing his apprentice finally arrive and being in the state he was in, raised his forearm and with his right index finger began stabbing the face of his watch while grimacing menacingly. The young apprentice frowned and lifted his arm up to examine his own timepiece….

“OH!..right….” he called out in acknowledgement, his right arm raised with index finger pointing toward the sky…; “SMOKO!”

The contractor smacked his forehead with the open palm of his hand.

 

Passages to a Dark Lady….fourth part.

#31.

The heart is a lonely hunter indeed,

So let no man declare his love an ease,

Lest such love be impure and base,

And all tender touch and talk made waste.

Let flattery and accolades be laid at thy feet,

I have no such volume of false aesthete,

But to thee there is none my serenades cannot beat.

#32.

Even in rejection, to me you do inspire,

My love, now you have thrown me over,

Never to answer my letters no more,

You won’t talk to me on the telephone,

Nor acknowledge my knock on your door.

No longer welcome in your arms, I see,

Preferring your haberdashery, To the dashing me!

#33.

When playing with fire, we expect to get burnt,

When drinking much wine, we expect to get drunk,

So when seeking the longed for ecstasy of love,

Can we not..at least..expect some heartache,

Is not oppose it the equal of suppose it?

So let ecstasy of heart-love equal pain of heartbreak,

And consider the bill of fare paid to the centre stake.

#34.

A part of me is as a petulant child,

Another part to be a creature wild,

There also within lives a demanding man,

A hungry man, that loving man..sensitive too,

Perhaps deep in my body also an angry man,

All these I have openly revealed to you,

To be me, at one time or another, what else can I do ?

#35.

The only way I would’st communicate,

Is with a vocabulary weak on convention,

No voice inflection or body mood to translate,

So many, are my misconstrued intentions,

Sentences run over each other post to post,

And the eye-signal that tells one at least to desist,

Is not there…my mistakes too many to mention.

#36.

Neither mean intention nor insidious, as a fact,

I try to reveal the true self of myself so that,

I’ll never squabble with thee…

I don’t believe you think me so cruel,

To be those things you accuse in harshness,

Kind word and support does help it’s true,

If not materially, then at least as a light in darkness.

#37.
Is each of us an idea of what we wish to be,

Face, body, wealthy King,

Gold crown with sparkling jewel’d ring…?

In the end I am but I..MY jewel of mine own eye.

I too have come a long way,

From innocent young man with a mile-wide smile,

Rowing a boat, through life’s many trials.

#38.

Goodnight .. I go now to my ‘quiet room’,

Where I let my thoughts wander, to think of things,

‘Shoes, ships, sealing-wax..cabbages and kings’,

I have my “kip room”, quiet…thick limestone walls,

One small window, so dark it enthrals,

I lay in that dark, let my mind think what fulfils,

Think up stories, poems..reflect on the day, tranquil.

#39.

In each of us perhaps there is that twist,

That in the end will come to this,

A friend is someone you can trust,

Where even a lover will behave remiss,

No matter the culture, the mother, the art,

Each to each, Heart to heart.

Remain thou to me; contradiction and mystery.

#40.

I laugh..‘tis a lover’s laugh, love’s smile lifts my heart,

When I weep, ‘tis with a lover’s tears,

My love hath gone and my heart grows drear,

When I lay at night, ‘tis a lover’s thoughts,

That I think of my lover and my love flows clear,

A rippling stream o’er flowering fields steeped in snow,

These thoughts I think .. I think my lover knows.

 

Passages to a Dark Lady….third part.

#21.

It’s tragic how nature can make it,

So the briefest blush of female naked,

Arouse blind lust in a man and,

Then steer his intent toward senses bent,

With a desire himself will so weakly consent,

For such a loose fragment of life is so brief,

That it cannot represent a changing truth.

#22.

That we now live our lives in fragments,

Small moments of awareness teased with touch?

Like penny peep-shows in old side-shows,

Wisdom via knowledge in photo-ops’,

Literary grabs no more than 1,000 words,

Writ’ in witty, sly, evocative pedantry?

Hinting, not over-playing, loquatious vocabulary.

#23.

Just allow enough to thoroughly suffocate,

The inadequate language of the great uneducate,

To then go about the task to them of explaining,

Your “truths” of subjective-objectivity to the unknowing.

But “what is truth”? .. of’t we fob.

Did not Pilate ask the same of Christ?..

BEFORE he threw him to the mob..

#24.

So THERE, mark the difference of our times..

Now, a baying media mob plays the role of Pilate,

A victim corraled onto their sticky slime,

Of venality or what can be construed a crime,

And torn apart BEFORE they are judged,

THEN thrown to be intellectually eviscerated,

By a celebrity expert on social media hatred.

#25.

Sensuality has morphed into sexual depravity,

Desire morphed into lascivious groping…

So do we as a collective embrace debauchery,

Where once flirt and tease were things chanced,

With all the skills of an exotic dance..

Now..one could observe that brutality,

Is become entrenched as the new eroticy.

#26.

Where once was the hiatus of anticipation

Of a new date a thrill of elated emotion,

“Will she turn up?..it’s getting late,

Surely..Oh, there she is…wait !”

Is now no more than Tinder app’ checking,

Made over a shoulder to cheek mobile clamped,

As we wander random aisles shopping?

#27.

When one is a viewer lame these days,

Of those so-called dark, “Scandi-noir” plays,

Where is a display of nudity, sexual forays..

Though sadly (perhaps down to my age)..

Even with music sultry, silkily played,

And soft photography shot erotically,

The sexual scenes come over cold, clinically..

#28

Almost brutally, the bodies harsh .. brittle…

Certainly not as a girl in a yellow bikini; attractive,

From my young years remembered..and in reaction,

I confess to often wincing my eyes shut,

At just that strategic moment of coitus abrupt.

These present-day scenes of bodies-naked,

Is more apt a display of the “body-corporative”.

#29.

Can there be such thing as “Fascist sexuality”? …

One being left with the cold, clinical reality,

Of a surgical examination less inspired,

Than a warm inner-glow of unsettling desire..

We sense the silent glare from the unseen eyes,

Of the society examiner of sexual morals …

Of we “don’t you even dare think!” mortals…

#30.

I fear a steady fall toward authoritarianism,

Motivating these principles of debased mannerism,

So many imitating persons of perceived exemplar,

Those banal personas in life’s guiding sampler,

Being steered down wrong ways, wrong adventures

Accepting immoral social norms’ of such starkness,

To be herded onto a path descending…descending into darkness.

 

A Trivial Enquiry.

Here’s a light-hearted little yarn for a Saturdee arvo. A Melbourne story. It is true in every way, myself witnessing some of it.

A Trivial Inquiry.

Peter Haffney took his latch-key from the deadlock and closed the front door behind him. He paused inside the entrance as one is want to do when first coming home and looked about. He was not seeking anything in particular, just reassuring himself that everything was as when he left it that morning. An air of suburban mustiness pervaded the house and the dreary silence echoed even the polished rustle of his suit. He then proceeded to the kitchen pantry and easing his portly bulk between the ironing board and bench top he placed a plastic shopping bag with several regular sized cans of food on the bench nearest the pantry. Taking one of the cans from the bag, he raised it to eye level and read the label. On satisfactory completion of this task, he shook his head slowly and sighed. Taking a similar sized can from the pantry, he held it next the other and compared….The brand was the same, the content was the same, even the advertising slogan was the same, however, they had changed the layout of the label!

Gone was the old familiar pattern that had for more years than he could remember been the hallmark of the company’s product. The label, it could be said, was of greater recognizable value than the product contained within the can! ….indeed, when he thought about it, that old familiar label must have been the same since before he was born! But now that was all gone and, heaven forbid, perhaps too they had changed the mix of ingredients in the product…

Peter was a worried man. A worried man because for many years, because for a goodly part his life (or at least his married life, for that was when his little strange mannerisms first came to public attention), he had suffered from what is called a “obsessive-compulsive disorder”. His peculiar obsession was concerned with the cooking and eating of food…he would never eat any food that he had not himself prepared, with the exception of fish and chips. Though this condition may seem humorous to the layman, it can single out the victim for mischievous mockery. Peter had been many a time made the butt of poor-taste humour. For instance, although he would never eat any food his wife would prepare, he did bend this rule for a roast dinner (his mother always had the Sunday roast) …but he had to guard his portion at the table against mischief…such as : If anyone was to touch his food, never mind with a finger!..(heaven forbid that) but with just a clean knife or fork, he couldn’t help but sweep the corrupted article off his plate with a flick of his fork at the speed of light!…so on a really bad day, bits of roast would be hitting the walls or television or whatever till a cry of exasperation issued from him and the protagonists buckled over in convulsions of laughter! Such is the life of those that suffer this neurosis. Because of this complaint, Peter’s mainstay of nutrition from Mondays to Fridays was canned spaghetti on toast! Saturdays were fish and chip days….Sundays were..well if his wife was cooking one ; roast day otherwise…you guessed it ; canned spaghetti on toast!

But now, all this was thrown into disarray with the shock of discovering that “the company” had changed the label and perhaps, the ingredients! Fortunately he kept up his supply of cans to allow a weeks ration of meals…in case a family member took a liking to spaghetti on toast . So all was not lost, he still had a week to sort this nagging doubt out….He would write to the company seeking reassurance.

A gentle beam of afternoon light shone through the lounge window , Peter folded back the top sheet of writing paper and placed the pad squarely in front of himself. He then sat and thought..while he was thinking, he carefully examined the point of his pencil, for, you see, he always wrote with a sharp-tipped, “Staedtler” “Bl” pencil, preferring it to a ball-point as it was not likely to clumsily “slip over” the paper and make for illegible writing. The house, except for himself, was empty. It exuded that unexciting silence that is common to outer suburban houses…nothing extraordinary would ever happen there and was tinged with the stale mustiness of yesterday’s air-freshener. Peter touched the tip of the pencil to the tip of his tongue and began :

“Dear Sir/ Madam.

I am writing to you to make a small….trivial…enquiry. For many years, I have held your product above others on the market as being greatly superior in quality and flavour .Indeed, I have travelled great distances to full-fill my obligation to purchase your product when the local supermarket was not able to supply your particular brand! However, today, when purchasing my usual supply from the supermarket, I was astonished to be informed that you had changed the layout of the label! Upon inquiry if there had been some sort of mistake, I was reassured by the proprietor that this was indeed so! Though he hastened to add that the ingredients were the same, I was far from reassured! So I am writing to you seeking that reassurance and I don’t think I can exaggerate the importance of this reassurance required to myself!

I , fortunately, have a number of cans of your product (see the accompanying label) to see me through another week. So I would appreciate a swift response to this letter (may I suggest return post?) to reassure me of your continued high standard of ingredients.

I await, in anticipation, for your reply…may it be favorable…

Yours truly… Peter Haffney. “

Peter gazed at the letter with a sense of satisfaction. It said no more nor no less than he wished to say. It was written in that clear, concise script taught to him by his primary teacher : Mrs Herreen, who enforced such a high standard from her star pupil with the aid of a flat, slim,wooden foot-rule that would cut over his knuckles when a grammatical deviation was observed by the attentive Mrs Herreen gazing sternly over his shoulder!

Even the underlined words were encouraged by that same teacher, with the logic that :

“It does no harm to the correspondence, Peter, if you draw the reader’s a-ttention to a par-tic-ular point you wish to em-phasise by the use of underlining speh-cific words or phrases in nee-ed of their a-ttention!” and she would invariably finish her homily with a steely gaze over her glasses down the pointed rule.

But all this was in line with the mathematical precision of Peter’s mind. For his was a very mathematical mind. Indeed, perhaps the obsessive affliction itself was a result of conflict of reason versus reality…Perhaps the fact that the uncertainties of life did not adhere to his own personal equation resulted in the withdrawal of his eating habits to a more precise routine…a routine that he had complete control over. A cabinet maker of our acquaintance was of the same type. His obsession was with jokes and satirical humour. His over-exuberant laughter would ring through the rafters on all occasions and he became known by his laugh, his nickname being ; “The HO! HO! man”…but that did not disguise to us his mathematical brilliance…and it became most visible in his skills with the chessboard, even at state level competition. That and his swift response to subtle mockery. He too , like Peter, controlled his lifestyle through his obsessions, and with these obsessions , distracted and distanced themselves from too close a familiarity with the unruly chaos of life.

However, it was now nearly two weeks since he had written to the company. His supply of the older brand labeled cans had run out, and he had searched in vain for others at more distant markets. His fidgeting restlessness had not gone unnoticed , though, for the sake of sparing himself from inevitable ridicule, he had not said a word of his predicament to any member of his family.

“You’re not giving up smoking and your football team’s on a winning streak You’re breaking even at cards, though you lost a little at the dogs the other night so I’m buggered if I know what’s eating you….but you’re out of sorts this last couple of days.” His wife accused.

“It’s nothing, nothing….I…I’m on a bit of a diet.” Peter excused himself so.

His wife let out an explosive guffaw..

“That’ll be the day! ” she narrowed her eyes cunningly “You haven’t been tucking into your spaghetti the last couple of days I’ve noticed that….what’s the prob’ can’t find the can opener?…got worms?..”

“Look , piss off love!..it’s nothing..leave me be I’ve just been making a little inquiry…that’s all.”

“But you’ve got some cans…”she moved to the pantry and took out a can….”Why look!” she announced gaily “They’ve changed the label…. crikey, after all these years… ” and she gazed pensively at the can. Peter came and took it gently from her hand and placed it with the others on the shelf.

“So they’ve changed the label?…so what?…it’s their label they can do what they want with their label ”

His wife had been watching him closely while he mumbled this little discourse. She suddenly let her jaw drop a little as it all dawned on her..

“Oh, I see…the label!…The label has changed….ok! ok!…but what of the ingredients?….That’s why you’ve not been hoeing into it this week! and I thought you were coming down with something…ha! ha!…you poor bastard!…ha! ha!”

“Don’t let it worry you, don’t let it worry you….I’ve made inquiries and I expect an answer any day now!”

But his wife didn’t look as if she was worried at all… as a matter of fact she had to ease herself into a chair so as not to crumple up with laughter…Peter reflected on the wincing humiliation he would suffer when this new one got around.

“Oh! you poor suffering dear..” his wife spoke between gulps of breath, then the look of comical angst on his face set her off onto another round of laughter.

Still, it was another three days before Peter was able to set his mind at ease as to the ingredients in his favourite food.

He walked in through the doorway from work with a bundle of letters in his hand. He was thoughtfully sorting through the mail when his wife asked :

“Anything there for me, love?” But she already knew the contents of the mailbox…she had looked before and saw the “brand-name” letter amongst the others and decided to leave them in the box for Peter to find.

“Yes…yes a couple the usual bills”…but here his eyes widened in anticipation.

His wife was watching from a sly vantage point in the lounge as he slit the envelope with his pocket-knife. Peter was a study in silence as he read the letter…then, slowly, his eyes closed with delight and a small smile spread over his lips.

“Anything else?” his wife asked.

“Oh….yes, one for me.”

“Important?”

“Well..sort of…just a reply to a trivial inquiry”. and upon completion of the read, he methodically tore the letter into very small pieces and placed them into the waste-bin. Next, whistling a little self satisfied tune to himself he went to the pantry and took out a now familiar can. His wife spied this little pantomime from her vantage point in the lounge and shook her head smiling….

“The poor dear” she said to herself.

 

Passages to a Dark Lady….second part.

Mariana..; Shakespear or Tennyson?

#11.

Oh that blind time could endless stay,

Beauty held precious as diamond hard,

But shadows lurk most in brightest day,

Like a stain on the soul of a lively child.

‘Twas I and I alone did break the spell,

Drove our love down into Sheol .. well ..

Regret now leaves me rot in mine own hell.

#12.

The language of love be a childish thing,

Playful, silly, prattling childish things,

Spoke with giggle, babble, panting breath,

Simple, throw-away lines, ungracious mirth.

But O so tragic when regret comes forth,

To remind one of one’s pathetic thoughts,

To twist the ear in punishment wrought.

#13.

Beauty O beauty what have I done,

Chased thee far from my wanting arms,

Bade thee curse the days when alone,

Together such pleasantries, each charms our own,

Hark now must thee move aside for another,

More thoughtful? More kind? .. less selfish lover?

Or would life’s mould cast us all to suffer?

#14.

There was a time in my youth naive,

Where I thought a kiss enough to please,

A pretty girl at my sleeve,

All was needed to solve life’s mysteries ..

Weary now in time’s long run,

Lessons not learned, wisdom undone,

What was the point now all has gone?

#15.

The Siren sung her song.

Irresistible in comeliness..yes!..I answered..

But O .. the seduction of her face,

The perils unheeded of her warm embrace.

Small things I gave..gifts and trinkets

To secure her exclusiveness.

To become but shipwrecked upon her palliasses.

#16.

We kissed, on the day she went away,

The air was heavy with the scent of cut hay.

On the day she went away.

We kissed and her kiss was as soft..as soft,

As a thrust of air from a parakeet’s wing,

Her touch; a downy feathered thing.

“I’ll call”..her parting say “I’ll call”..but never came.

#17.

Though her-self is gone, her scent is entrenched,

And memory .. more precious for the hint of hunger,

More perfect than a fleeting romance,

Perfect makes its own promise.. it remains entranced.

Now, as morn’ wakes with air on air of breath intake,

I touch her dress..with tender memories, kiss her nape.

For we were so much in love.

#18.

Nature may mark the species, history the men,

Lies shape the person fortune has already dammed,

The stupid repeat their mistakes - and

A fool is condemned in vain.

These things our memory has seen,

Not to be forgot, nor to be disdained,

Lest that we most treasure, be lost or left forlorn.

#19.

Beauty are such things once memory sees,

Cannot be forgot, nor scorned.

Things that we do treasure, to please,

Things lost or all forlorn looked for in vain,

Which I did adore is grown pale and wan,

THAT beauty that ever once was,

Is gone…is gone.

#20.

Now, behind cold glass I touch her face,

My fingers tremble on lacq’d plate

Of the silvered frame.

She smiles out at me, Siren song fills my heart.

Again she is calling..she is calling…!

I cannot resist..does she love me still ?

I am falling…I am falling…I am falling..

 

Passages to a Dark Lady.

Prelude:

Come..my friends, you readers too,

Come bask in my story told so true,

My journey to the heart’s desire,

A lesson forged through touching fire..

Come sit with me and without fail,

In comfort here and I will aspire,

To tell sweet fortune of love’s travail…

#1.

Though thou has vanished from mine eyes,

Like yesterday’s blue from Summer skies,

I can find no reason for to say goodbye,

Even tho’ my heart be shaken.

Even if my words to thee spoken,

Be valued so little, such fastidiousness broken,

Worthless now as a financier’s token.

#2.

So journey with us down memory’d lane,

Down dark passages we’ll roam again,

Speak us richly the arriving here,

The joy, the laughter .. moments drear.

Let paint the canvas with colours bright,

Weave a tapestry of pure delight before ….

Passing into this long goodnight.

#3.

Was a summer day breathed on my cheek,

Her touch of affection calling, sweet ..

As soft as a rose petal gently falling ..

Silent, tender, and so very, very deep.

Whilst her eyes did suggest a wicked desire,

Burning into my psyche a white-hot fire,

Beguiling, bewitching her commanding attire.

#4.

Softly she spoke my given name,

In a syrup’d voice of a Siren’s song..

“Yosef”she said..t’was but Calypso's whisper,

As sweet to my ears as a lover’s tongue,

Inviting me to dream strange dreams alone,

In darkened hollows, over wild, wild seas,

To vision splendid places only a lover sees.

#5.

And like two lovers on a frolic dance,

At times I led with a stallion’s prance,

And then I’d follow in wanton trust,

Giving myself, my heart, in besotted trance,

So let us weave in rich hued blend,

Tapestry thread fateful lovers held,

Together weft’d, together fell’d.

#6.

‘Twas an evening blanched of pure light,

I first show’d how my vanity did write,

My words I’d spoken on a page,

My word!..but it was a foolish sage,

Inspired me to speak that erotic piece,

Wrapped in verbose tender-speak,

In this, a cynical day and age so bleak.

#7.

Was tale of a man and of his loved wife,

Departed she since this wretch’d life,

And of another who became his lover,

In loneliness both did find each other,

Over mutual thoughts, over dinner,

The beguiling twist of life’s fine art,

Bequeathed each to each a new start.

#8.

“Tell me”She said and I listened bold,

“Does thou know of what lies behind the shroud,

Where men’s thoughts are worn less proud,

And dark desires cried aloud?”

She paused to straighten her garter there,

And with a ‘snap’ sharp on her underwear,

Held my eyes with coquettish stare.

#9.

“My thighs have many men embraced,

My hips have also their hands encased….”

My word, my word!..if could ever I such beauty taste,

“Woman”, I cried “thou have a splendid caste,

Enough to make a man breathless gasp,

Enough to make my pulse miss a beat,

Enough to lay one’s heart to waste.”

#10.

She before me lay in her scant attire,

Such beauty splendid I did so desire,

And she turned showing to me soft rear,

Breathless me .. to see such a peachy derriere .

There basked in that afternoon sunlight,

Those curves of Venus, oh soft, soft delight,

Swooned me fair away .. did that sacred sight.