Beyond the voice

Travelling far from anywhere
The silent township it was reached
Thoughts were far from anything
Only to be found under feet.

'Waste not want not,' she doth cry
A whisper from a quiet voice
'Waste not want not,' before he died
Enduring be the summer sky.

The bright blue sky, the summer sun
The only real companion
Was the whisper merely a dream?
Had life stalled, was it really stagnant?

She went to the place her loved one was buried
Never afraid to walk with the dead, alone
She went to see the one she saw every day
He held in his hand the family stone.

As he came and as he went
It was never far away
But when he fell he fell afar
Ne'er to come back, with him it stayed.

It's distance always troubled her
For near, 'til now, had always been
Now distance sourced her own frustration
Never again would it be seen.

But seeing it wasn't everything
She still heard his voice beyond the grave
Like a bird's voice heard at sunrise
Like a lover's heart one can't see but craves.

Was this what one should take away
From this silent, distant land?
Would one learn from few what one could not from many
On a day when Yonder reached with single hand?

The sign said; 'Please minimise noise'
But no-one could be seen or heard
The traffic lights were covered over
Cattle was the only herd

Visitation of old friends
Always welcomed, set one straight
Locked out like danger, nearby, threatened
All to do was sit and wait.

Ought one stay the course that day?
Supposition being one's first approach
Is ignorance bliss if attention stifled?
Or should the subject, after all, be broached?

Always told to err on side of caution
Manners first and foremost yet
Behold societal intuition
Never hath it failed yet.

'Twasn't 'til I left the ground
That I felt in full control
'Twasn't 'til the fire burned
That I felt in air I could surely stroll

Through the valleys where the wine did grow
From up above it seemed surreal
Thinking sweet nothings, 'twas the season
All left to do from above was feel.

Flying high in calm of basket
Leaving grounded life away
At peace, and quiet, above the clouds
Sun rose to officially start the day.

Harvest reap, may it be sweet
Ignorance is never bliss
Only then can I walk away
The day being like one's first kiss.

Hark - do not dwell, do not fester
Look beyond and one will see
Above the clouds the day will dawn
May the sun that's rising shadow me.

you are my shadow

Hello shadow
Goodbye pain
Hello sunshine
Goodbye rain

Goodbye tram
Goodbye train
Goodbye car
Goodbye delay

Goodbye last night
Goodbye refrain
Goodbye poor mouth
Goodbye affray

Hello future
Hello soul-mate
Hello my shadow
Hello my fate

Hello music
Goodbye silence
Hello TV
Goodbye wireless

Goodbye hilltop
Goodbye mountain
Hello water
Hello fountain

Goodbye high-tech
Hello hard-cover
Goodbye Kindle
Hello lover

Goodbye anxiety
Goodbye despair
Goodbye alarmist
Goodbye depression

Hello true love
Hello sweet thing
Hello my precious
My diamond ring

Hello middle age
Goodbye youth
Hello Conservative
Goodbye uncouth

Hello togetherness
Goodbye alone
Hello my shadow
You set the the tone.

Dead, buried, cremated

Johnny met Ted at the local pub down the road

Where they’d talk of the issues and news of the day

After a few beers they’d chat with Des (and his hat)

Who’d tell them; “Don’t worry, it’ll all go away.”


Johnny was worried he’d lose his house quite at random

With rising sea levels and his house by the ocean

“Don’t talk such crap,” said Ted and Des (and his hat)

“All you’re doing is causing commotion.”


“Everyone needs something to believe in ya know,”

Said Johnny to Des, at the bar having a beer

“Mate, they just want their face to be seen, fifteen minutes on screen

They play on everyone’s fear.”


“But this summer, Des, it’s been so bloody hot,

I know it’s climate change, global warming that’s caused it.

It’s gotta be true, everyone’s sayin’ so too,

And I believe ‘em, for no-one abhors it.”


“It’s all sensational fury from Greenies like John & Deb Bury

They say every day will be forty degrees

They tell reporters we won’t survive, heat will kill us, we’ll die

And don’t forget about those rising seas.”


“I shoulda bought up the cliff,” poor Johnny retorted

“There was a warning in 1980.

Back then it was thwarted, thank God it aborted

But not before the drowning of old Tom Delaney.”


“There’s so much said,” Ted rejoined, “and not enough read

About where tax dollars are goin’, ya know what I mean?”

“Too right,” Des said from the bar, fillin’ up another beer jar

“Our money’s flowin’ down the river upstream.”


“Have ya read ‘bout that wind tree? They think it’s for free

In Paris it was out on display.

Guv’ment subsidies fund it, the pollies are for it

But it energises nothin’ and no-one today.”


“Just seems to me they say lots but do little

While spendin’ wads of taxpayers’ cash

Cash I could use to take my wife on a cruise,

Have a bit of the old splash and dash.”


Six months later Johnny met Ted and Des at the local again

To discuss news of the how and the why and the when

The sea levels were down, but Johnny came with a frown

Greenpeace had joined up his 18 year-old son, Ben.


“If ya not red at eighteen you’re not part of the scene

Ya can’t join the protesters when marching

But if ya Liberal by fifty you’re seen to be swifty

The obscenities can be quite disarming.”


That summer Johnny measured the tide, but it failed to rise

He’d worried for no reason at all

Then he got the call, to give some, give all

But declined with a smugness of sorts

It was time to retort what the Greenies had thought

Next election he’d watch their vote fall.


Twelve months later, temperatures, they had abated

Officially, or so we were told

But the lefties maintained the rage, no matter their age

Like the Revolutionaries of old


Forty-five years passed by, and with good reason why

Climate change was carried away in a coffin

The science proven wrong, a hoax, no longer attracting a throng

Like the boy who cried wolf once too often.


As warming the planet had faded (activists now feeling jaded)

Political correctness, it didn’t survive

It was finally over, as hard as finding that four-leaf clover

If only Johnny, Ted and Des were alive.


How happy they’d be, or so it would seem

To see lefties flowin’ down river upstream

They felt detested, the anti-argument festered

Uncared for, untidy, unclean.


As the story began, a new page (a new fan)

The old story could no longer offend

Though climate change had been swarming, without any warning

It was dead, buried, cremated! The end.

Postscript: Please read this as it’s intended, as satire.

The Salesman

Hubris reflected in the mirror
As he saw himself adorned in splendor
Facial hair needed trimming
Body mass needed thinning
Be he good, or better, or at his best
Serious he be, don't speak in jest
The speech of success to be given now
To young ones yet to know why, when or how
His life, not for nothing, may it be
Pass on to others, to all of thee
Some fall by the wayside, others succeed
But first he can, he must, plant the seed
His seed grew into a bud
The bud grew into a flower
Hard work the secret to success
From flower, garden grows, enter, ingress
Once inside his secret garden
The sky it is the limit
Build on what he taught so well
The secret’s out – sell, sell, sell.

I walk the path.

I walk the solemn pathway all alone

Others care to join me

Engage in careless conversation

As we pass the foreshore, by the sea

More join our walk along the way

As we continue down the road

We talk sweet nothings, ‘hello how are you?’

We pass a frog by lake, or toad

But as they walk the road less travelled

They talk about news of the day

Freedom’s glare is fading from us

Will we confront or turn away?

The pathway comes to its first bend

Some walkers find it hard to counter

A storm following a sunny day

A drought follows storm, brings empty fountain

Questions arise as to the bend

Is it too large a turn to fathom?

Some pursue it, others fail

Turning back, can’t walk the trail

Those left on the path take the turn

The bend being not the journey’s end

Those left on the path, they protect

Their challenge rises, they defend

Safety, security, our foremost thoughts

Freedom pure for our sisters, brothers

Can we have our cake and eat it too?

Or must we have one without the other?

The walkers share thoughts, an expression

‘Freedom under threat,’ they think

Those willing stand to protect

No-one’s bettered freedom yet

Even so some shy away

Their feet, their body, can’t take the heat

They wrestle with what they ought defend

But feel the challenge too high for them to beat

Now few are left to walk the walk

Their voice it need be loud

The few left talking defend and fight

Will the voice of the few be drowned by crowd?

A crowd that will not walk the path

A crowd that will not share the stage

A crowd that takes free thought for granted

Is this the coming of freedom’s age?

Will freedom rise above, beyond?

The call of duty has no roar

Duty comes from heart and mind

Freedom is worth fighting for.


knife and fork

Knife arrived, table set

Fork left in the drawer

Waitress counting placements

“One, two, three,…twenty-four.”


Serviette placed near to Knife

Resplendent, pristine, neat

Desert left in chef’s fridge

First course? Three veg and roast beef


Waitress, eyes viewing the room

Beautiful place setting

Chef sparkled, winked at her, so tender

Amatory, like a netting


Arrivals in suit, wearing tie

Chic, in Windsor knot

Arm in arm leading her

To table, dear begot


Knife, pent up anger had

Value poor without Fork

Chop-sticks, one instead of two

Wine bottle without the cork


Hand in glove, foot and mouth

Husband and his wife

Fingers were made before the Fork

Hands before the Knife.


the true story of Santa…

Once upon a time there was a man with a very big beard. He was a very jolly man. One day in his older years he thought it an idea to wear only red and white at Christmas time. And with it came a very big black belt.

As time had passed, his beard had grown and as he got older it turned white and fluffy. He thought it a good idea to grow his beard long and bushy, and as he did his moustache grew too.

Children in his village said ‘hello’ to him as he passed them by in town. Sometimes he would even stop and chat with them, especially during holidays. He brought a smile to their faces and good cheer to their homes and families.

The village was cold during the holiday period, and so he felt the need to wear a big, warm, woolly jacket, with matching trousers, of course, for fashion was important to him as warmth. He soon began to wear his woolly jacket everywhere he went. He even bought one for his wife. One Christmas she bought him big black boots, just to finish off his fashion ensemble.

‘Wear these when you go out,’ she said, giving him a big kiss on his cheek. ‘It makes perfect sense and will keep you from cold.’ ‘Thank you Mother,’ he said to his wife, for that is what he called her. He kissed her, and as he did his wife was tickled by his bushy, snowy beard. His new boots fitted perfectly, and as he walked through the village spreading Christmas cheer, he did so safe in the knowledge he would always be warm and cosy, inside and out.

The jolly old man kept a reindeer in his back yard. He lived at the North Pole and rode the reindeer through town. His back was mildly arthritic and his feet didn’t carry him as far as they used to.

Soon, the reindeer was as well-known as the jolly old man and people would cry out; ‘Hello, Rudolph,’ as he rode through Town Square.

Due to the cold weather, Rudolph developed a red nose and the villagers started referring to him as ‘Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer.’ It became a sign of affection in the village, and Rudolph seemed to like it, as he tilted his head to the left or right and accepted with warmth the strokes the young villagers would give him.

After more cold winters the jolly old man decided to share his good cheer with the villagers by climbing roof-tops on Christmas Eve. How he got up there nobody knew, as they never saw him climbing and they never saw him come back down, but word around town was that he climbed down the chimneys of the cottages in the village and left presents for the villagers to open on Christmas Day.

He gained a reputation throughout the village as a kind of Robin Hood with a difference, for he gave to all, whether rich or poor. Only those who had behaved poorly in the village would miss out on his kind-heartedness.

Some heard he gave only to children and that may well have been so to start, but as time went by it became clear he gave to their parents too, because he would leave them a note with the present he left – a card at Christmas, with an inscription wishing them a ‘Merry Christmas.’ Some of the well-behaved children’s parents would leave something for him in return, like eggnog or milk, with a whiff of something stronger, to say ‘thank you’ and give him the energy to keep going all through the night.

The jolly old man became a ‘father’ of sorts to the villagers and as his good cheer spread further, to neighbouring villages, the villagers from his home town started to give him a name – they would call him ‘Father Christmas.’

There was a great deal of love amongst the villagers for Mr. And Mrs. Claus, they were like the elder statesman (and woman) of the town. Yes, Father Christmas’ real name was Claus – Nicholas Claus in fact. The religious amongst the villagers thought he was a saint so they called him ‘Saint Nicholas.’

But for those who rarely went to church but still loved to take part in Christmas celebrations, they simply called him ‘Santa.’

And so began the story of Santa Claus, a story of a man whose kindness knows no bounds.


stand and deliver

Ask not what others can do for you

But what you can do for others

Be afraid of calm nonchalance

Be it from sisters or from brothers


Liberate from behind the veil

Abide by me, your soulful friendship

Ever welcome, desirous, cherished

In times material, narcissistic


Never one to fold the page of challenge

Or walk from discernment either

One may turn away if one desires

Or stay the course, stand, and then…,



the prophet

A leader to be followed,
A man to judge the dead
He stands on the pulpit preaching
‘The Kingdom of Heaven is near,’ he said.

A movement, small to start,
Followers, chosen, whence did come,
A story to develop,
Apostles, on his death, they doth become.

To him not all stay loyal,
A disciple, mendacious, will betray.
He preaches great things, in abundance be,
Such as ‘feed the people,’ come what may.

He gives a fish, man prospers,
Enough for one, enough for all.
He walks on water, others follow,
Enticed, enriched, enthralled.

The prophet, from death he does return,
His soul arises from this earth.
Meagre mortals prey, have mercy be,
Those once blind, now they can see.