Very Special Guest: David Barnes

Central station

They say

most of the brain closes down,

under stress.

Hearing

Beethoven’s ninth,

taking back streets in your mind:

and it’s arduous

facing reality, hunters nearby, impassive,

at Central Station;

listening for the clatter on tracks,

at midnight,

unnerved …

Aware

clockwork orange, ticks close at hand,

hovering to strike.

The brain

kicks into survival mode, tense on the platform,

waiting,

hoping,

the Samaritan on the road to Jerusalem

is around, after midnight.

Footsteps

In living- have I lived before?

been absolved-purified of sin for renaissance;

was I aware of the unearthly connection, conception.

Of love’s sanctity:

Did I await the right moment,

waiting- poised on the edge of a ten-ten-

thousand-thousand-trillion foot abyss;

a song in my heart?

And in that moment,

did I plummet in to the appointed union, a spark?

untainted as Greek fire, oblivious

of external- internal tides:-

Sound and silence indistinguishable;

a fresh form afloat, dividing multiplying

attaining purpose:-

listen

the drum beats hard harder, faster;

and blood & waters break.

Bodily flesh crosses the bloody river divide,

& there was light.

I know there was light at Calvary,

who cries out this bloody day, night?

Newly born.

A brother poet's resurrection

(For Dennis Greene)

He didn't come here for this;

Come here for Parkinson disease

to afflict his body - affect his

family.

He didn't come for this;

this switching on and off--

carrying multi-coloured pills

waiting on the correct time

to ingest.

He didn't come here to have his motor wired

rewired - technician's fine-tuning

his brain.

No! He didn't come here for this.

Yet he transcends adversity

and his words resonate in all

who listen.

Is this not resurrection.

On the edge

If you could hear me screaming;

not being heard, invisible

in this world I did not shape:

an ageing man,

eyes looking for shadows

of where I have been-where I am now.

If you could see the shrunken soul

curled up in solitude.

Incapable.

Crows would delight in my delicacy.

I must close the windows-pull the drapes

lock doors: two legged crows are

what you are.

Kalbarri fishermen

Sunset

chameleon skyline

wind-carved - aflame

jagged cliffs

sculptured,

bent twisted skeletal

trees defy gravity

with tendon claws

in the rock face.

High-tide

waves climb, surge

across the coastline

goat gulch ledge

skeletons rise on

white stallions warning

rod and reel in hands

stark fishermen swept away

King waves

harbingers - sudden

death.

Low-tide

names plaques

screwed to coastline cliffs

shoreline

serrated rock outcrops

I felt you

I heard you last night

as I fished.

I search flotsam

hooks lines sinkers

lobster ropes, buoy's,

captured by exposed

knife sharp fingers,

tangled pieces

of lives

souls.

For Libby

I have known

your touch, through the fissures

in dreams;

know

that I have loved you, from

outside in,

flesh to soul, beginning to end.

When our son

matures an oak, strong in storms,

our time shall be.

An old man ruminates

I have never underestimated

the power of circumstance --

or the perverse power of everything

that can go wrong when you least expect it.

And always problems that occur - eventually

seem to come from within.

When it seems there is little left

is it possible that more can be taken.

Thin as I am, my other looks up at me

playing cards with himself.

He offers the deck to me, the game of chance.

It is useless to make guesses.

Maybe he is my ghost and the dead

are coming to greet me.

I wonder what waits hidden

from my eyes; it's enough to grind your bones.

I we myself, have argued all our life.

Have I finally become cynical in our discussions;

is it from the dawn

of old age?

What will become of my world?

When I nova.

The Picture On My Wall

Strange,

how a picture hanging on a wall,

seems to dip at one corner

for no reason.

Flowers

blooming in a sea of green;

mist, floating gentle-soft,

above the ground:

grass glistening,

with autumn's morning.

A stranger

walks towards me.

I reach for her- but she is not there.

She calls,

yet I do not hear her voice.

The tree's

rich autumn leaves drift,

settle on the earth:

as I strive to belong.

I hear her now,

a sweet sound to my ear;

a harp gently stroked enfolds me.

“Where are you my love?

where are you?”

“I am here”,

yet she does not hear me.

Enclosed in a sea of color,

within the picture- hanging

on my wall.

Shadows alive in sun

In solitude my nights are a failure

but then, so what -?

long I have been damaged

crippled:

unsure that I can continue to fight;

unsure if I will be able to persevere all day,

days, typical tomorrows.

I am the bloodless battlefield of life;

and I weep like a child

for the past.

One thing I fight for,

is my little bit of inward peace.

Although desire maybe dead

I am still a man,

weather-beaten- windswept,

out-waiting pain.

Yet sunlight continues to filter on;

drizzle creeps down clothes forming puddles

beneath my shoes;

I must confess,

I have become fatigued over the years

my autumn-love.

It is enough you are within- as often

I am beaten.

In May

Winter's penetrating wind

deflects against the window --

extends a cool finger

to ease the curtains:

a gentle chill strokes night

our naked flesh.

No release - No connection

Like light in a bottle of stone;

Like the lotus eater I will lose my dream

lose myself - yet I am the door,

knock and be open.

Love beyond- love beyond;

a paradox is dark and light.

To live I die.

Am I not I, who is anybody?

A luminous being carked in frail flesh- bone:

waiting for the light's release

to be tested.

To live utterly without fear

is a fearsome thing.

To live

is a terrible thing.

The whole world magnifies.

And you who burn so bright- in the dark

of all nights- when I am tested,

Will I burn like a star?

Unspoken-wordless - words

Young lovers wipe wet hair away

from their ears and eyes,

lips cool kiss:

oh how -

we combine words, crave for inspiration

and we like to let possibilities roll

like pebbles down a slope.

Sometimes the pebbles come to rest

create nothing:

when the vision

sparks an avalanche inside - endless

possibilities scribbled on a beer coaster,

any scrap of paper.

I don't know what I would have done

had I not captured the moment.

The Baptist & his beard

It’s all one -- beyond the skin

creation of

chaos & perfection:

inside and out God is there --

look -

the bearded man

his head

set on silver as a gift -

ate locusts & wild-honey

madness?

And God was there --

his countenance on the platter.