~~~
Mark says that this is an extract from his ‘Diary of a Meph-Head’ which was composed in the secret dead of night, by the possessed.
Thursday 20 September 2012 8 am
Reveille
Andrea Payne
Salisbury North, SA
For Roberta and Jim, who shared this with me
A quiet, untravelled, lonely gravel road
winds slowly o’er the deserted canyon floor.
On each side, stretching ever up
the mountains reach to meet the sky above.
A hundred, hundred stunted ancient pines,
twisted by the cold, wild, vicious winds
cling desperately to those rocky heights
with strong, taut, clenching fingers.
Below these lonely heights, on every side
the sagebrush, and the dry sharp thorns
thrust upward from the sandy ground
and quietly wait to snare the unwary traveller.
No paths wind here, no shady place awaits
with outstretched arms to cool the weary. On every side
the jutting rocks lie wait, and every step
must be with care – here lies no level ground.
A wild, harsh place, this – it seems to me
that my step is the first. Who else would come?
What purpose in this lonely deserted road
so far from other trace of humankind?
No life here now, it seems – there’s nothing left
but if I search I’ll find the hidden ones
that now call this inhospitable place their home.
The ants, tarantulas, the scorpions and the snakes.
And then I see the tumbled concealed stones.
The walls that fell away so long ago,
that Nature’s claimed again, and swallowed up
to hide all sign, all trace of human hand.
Look there! Just there! Amongst the scrub,
hiding by these broken tumbled walls.
The spring that gives life to this quiet place.
Clear water, flowing from the desert’s heart.
Not ten feet from that ruined place
concealed amongst the bushes, jut
old, tumbled, timbers. Climbing, they slip and fall again.
Cry hopelessly for aid, that somehow they’ll escape
that deep, black, yawning pit. The shaft
that swallows them. The rock that leaves my hand
falls silently into that hungry maw, then splashes
screaming into the hidden, watery depths.
This quiet, deserted, lonely place
touches some deep chord within my heart.
At night, do these walls somehow rise again?
Does moonlight shine reflected from the hair
and faces of the forgotten? Those sad, nameless ones
who once walked this lonely place, who called it home.
Do their souls ever rise to walk again
the paths they trod, that too now leave no trace?
for me to go, to leave this place behind. Return it
to the wind and the desert sand that own it now. But I take
a small piece with me, locked within my heart.
And sometimes, deep in the quiet, lonely night
I will remember, and I too will walk
the forgotten paths, smell the mountain air, and see again
the place and the beauty that was, and is no more.
And as it once more lives within my mind,
will the moon in the canyon at Reveille bend to kiss
my hair? And will the shades that walk
those paths beside me see me, and wonder who I am?
Thursday 20 September 2012 4 pm
Untitled #18
Emma-Lee Scott
Callaghan, NSW
The pieces of the fallen,
Lay wasted on the earth,
A shapeless monster is brought
To birth,
Shadowing the war torn
The morphing blackness,
Follows the fragile,
The fearful begin to shudder
With askance,
Shaking their roughly stitched pieces
They try to freely scream,
Sending a warning out,
But the alarm remains frozen
In the stream,
They remain lying and suffering
The figure grasps them tight,
Ready to devour,
Clenching with a mouth wide open
Ready to bite,
Yet still they are too afraid to fight.
The broken are not free,
Scared to escape,
From those memories that require
A plea,
From nightmares of horror
The monster remains steady,
With grimy clasp,
Only wanting to release
When it is ready,
So the war torn suffer
They suffer with each breathe,
Each movement,
Every thought that
Is fresh,
Memories never to disappear
Emma-Lee says this poem is a remark on how, although we continue through life despite the occurrences we may experience, there will always be the lingering of terrible memories which we cannot escape.
Friday 21 September 2012 8 am
Eternal Devotion
Shannon Todd
Empire Bay, NSW
You are my beginning, I would give you my end,
For without you I’m nothing, I struggle, I cease.
And I can not contain and I can not pretend,
From this love that I cling to, I crave no release.
You are my mirror and I your reflection,
Neither exists in the absence of one.
You are my compass, my only direction,
Bound by the ropes that can not be undone.
And if I were lost and cast far from here,
I would never stop searching ’til I found your arms.
You are my reason, my purpose, my dear,
You shelter and hold me, protect me from harm.
And if death’s hand tried to steal you from me,
It may take your body but never your soul.
For your essence, it is both immortal and free,
Your half to my half, to make us a whole.
To say that I need you falls short of the mark,
To say that I love you derides the emotion.
You are my life, my metaphorical heart,
Take it, you own my eternal devotion.
Friday 21 September 2012 4 pm
You Were Gone
Crystal Lee
Salisbury Downs, SA
Leave your sympathy
And your pity
I only closed my eyes for a second
I wonder if your mind is ever occupied
With thoughts of me
Or if it ever was
I wonder if she makes you happy
whole, or all those other things
Does she inspire you like the summer waves
Do you live inside a fairytale
Is it perfectly bittersweet
Has your life been complete
Since you left me
Save your sympathy
And your anger
I only closed my eyes for a second
And I wonder if you wrapped yourself
Around her
While I slept in my tears
you a better man for knowing her
Are you wiser than your years
Do you hold her like the summer rain
Do you whisper in her ear
The things I wish you’d said to me
The things that caused my pain
Leave your pity
And your excuses
I only closed my eyes for a second
Save your sympathy
And your lies
Don’t bother trying to apologise
I only closed my eyes for a second
And you were gone
Saturday 22 September 2012 8 am
Would You Like (F)lies With That?
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Since light travels faster than sound, some wealthy people appear bright – prior to you hear them speak.
Verily they shall inherit the earth for they have the money; hence the power, whilst we the meek …
Remain not impassive: now there’s a missive for us all. I used to be indecisive, now I’m not so sure?
Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be! I’m told to respect my elders, but it’s getting harder to find one more
Elder than me; except of course those fresh faced young ‘elders’ from the church of latter day saints;
Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than holding an artist’s brush says you can paint.
To steal ideas from one person is called plagiarism, but to steal from many is known as research.
I’ve discovered, to my embarrassment, you’re never too old to learn something stupid and what is worse:
Just messing about in a garage or a shed at large doesn’t necessarily make you a carpenter or mechanic.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it makes melancholy easier to endure; reduces stress and quells the panic.
Society is forever evolving: change is inevitable ... except perhaps from a vending or gaming machine.
A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory, nonetheless you should do as I say not do as I mean.
Now you might say that I’m a hollow man but actually this reality is a hologram; you should not doubt it!
Don’t you think that if I was wrong, there would be an almighty throng in protest and I’d know about it?
Clearly, if I agreed with you we’d both be wrong: this being the perennial song that I sing to you.
I remember a teacher, who looked like a tortoise, who taught us don’t bite off more than you can chew.
I didn’t say it was your fault; I said I was blaming you: it’s the infamous tradition of the whipping boy charter.
Tempted to fight fire with fire? Keep in mind when dealing in kind, you can’t beat the smell of a burning martyr.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness: for they will be satisfied – when the cheque has cleared.
In exchange the scientologists will clear your head; Old Mother Hubbard must dread that L. Ron was so queer.
Madman or Messiah: who knows the difference? It’s all bunkum brethren, fair dinkum you should listen to me,
I’m a Presbyterian: we believe in Frisbees! When you die your soul goes up on the roof and doesn’t return to thee.
True knowledge is being aware a tomato is a fruit and astutely not putting it in a fruit salad; the difference is subtle.
We never really grow up we only learn how to act in public. Of course I’m perfect; disagree and there’ll be trouble!
So now you perceive I have my own beatitudes … with attitude; not to mention paraprosdokians* – have no fears,
Luckily, I can read minds … alas I’m illiterate. The voices in my skull may not be valid, but they’ve some great ideas.
Such as: fortunate are the pure in heart: for they shall start to see that there are none as blind as … oh, never mind!
Do not argue with idiots. They’ll pull you down to their level and beat you with experience for theirs is the best kind.
According to Catholic legend, the magi cast their learned eyes and followed the brightest star or was it Venus?
In these enlightened, scientific, politically correct, gluten free days; it doesn’t always take a Rasputin like genius …
To be sceptical as regards the schism from profound to profane: allegedly there are four billion stars, yet;
People accept this implicitly; but, intriguingly most will always check when you state that a painted wall is wet!