David Barnes, Perth Western Australia David Barnes, began writing at age 18,  as a songwriter, playing folk guitar and performing around Australia. David began writng Poetry full-time in 1996. He has been widely e-published in USA, Australia and Europe and most recently was published in the Paris / Atlantic, an International Journal of creative work. David is the editor of Poetry Downunder, and EMPOWA (Emerging Poets of Western Australia). David fosters development of new writers and established writers by providing safe and supportive webspace to writers/poets. Blackmail Press acknowledges the huge contribution to electronic poetry in Australia, David has made.  David is currently redesigning Poetry Downunder to become a quarterly journal. Past monthly issues are on-line @ www.aceonline.com.au/~db/ , we highly recommend this publication.

Leave Taking When you gathered me in, there was no night there was no day, just never ending sunrise, and sunsets; and when our lips burned, ravenous in ascendancy, souls blazing the frenzied tides: I remember the ecstasy cascading from your eyes, that single tear glistening, when you said you loved me. And I begged you there in the darkness for forgiveness, for all the little things taken for granted, without thinking. You said you were sorry too and we talked, till dawn. Since you were taken before our time was fulfilled, there are no subsequent endless nights... or days. In the silence of dawn I gaze at the rainbow bonded in my being, from all precious moments you gave to me. Without your love, your wisdom, I would not, could not have endured, when we said goodbye, and I was left alone in silence. Things Happen When I wake in the mornings not wishing to rise longing for the liveliness of yesterday, not this back-broken being snared by daily confines, where you imagine the ony things that dance anymore are your eyelashes. What will happen when I can no longer walk: when my steel will power    yields and my legs abruptly collapse and I fall mind-wounded an insect trying to claw back up the wall at 3 am burning, not knowing if my shout will be heard by my sleeping son. It's a stone yet to be turned. All quiet at 3am I have spent years perfecting my surrender. Searching for the one love to fill my old wound, after all these years I feel dissolution. My loneliness is a recurring nightmare scene pain it seems - prefers you awakened from your sleep; "I didn't recognize you                                                   in my tea leaves at 3: am..." I have sent years perfecting my surrender. Now my body obeys its own variable patterns at times I think I am too old for lightening to happen; pain it seems - prefers you awakened from your sleep and my dry old tears                                                   will not bring back a life. I have spent years perfecting my surrender. You said find another, that I need a woman by my side, has your death coloured my eyes blurring my mind. If this is so I will be forever invisible in the night pain it seems - prefers you awakened from your sleep; drinking warm tea or coffee                                                   looking up for her - as I write. Lilies Wild           for Leonard Cohen What I will give you since you asked, lilies wild midst seas of grass shining lights all your days. This is what I give, what I ask of you is nothing. I am blessed by the smallest... of lifes attentions. Six days a week In the dusk a sea of flesh seethes the streets, pavements of Northbridge night-life seeking diversion her masque and delights A young woman chats a young man fervent for a price; tortuous spaghetti Italian slithers on an endless queue of forks, chilli mussel taste of heaven, open mouths. A lad strolls alone, lovers kiss side walk tables, chairs weighted gasp, the aroma of cappacinos permeates nostrils, restaurants talk on, on about their lives: transient revellers hold hands throbs abate, nightclubs roar on until dawn down main street. The Wall Came The drizzling sky was ominous as the couple crossed the Todd river causeway unaware of the distended ferocity surging swiftly nearer, towards them down from the hills. They were tourists their Holden Ute's wheels , pushing slowly through the low waters its dirty-white froth an ancient warning. Suddenly, all too real a rabid wall of water and debris, six feet high struck. The couples Ute swiftly swept away. It was days before the rivers power subsided, and the ute found wedged eight feet up a gum tree, twisted in the branches. The town searched long hard down-river over thirty miles along the banks, from Alice Springs causeway and thier bodies were never found. Two weeks later white sands were bone-dry ghost gums stark in the sandy bed. The midday sun scorching hot, the long dry drought ended. Rarely will the red-centre give up its concealed secrets, and perhaps it never will perhaps that is what the desert-river had in mind. Beyond the Walls Here on the inside where the walls isolate create boundaries our barriers, twin orbed suns angled downwards splay shadows, seen unseen across flaking layers of dust and jaded paint; randomly on the ceilings , unmoving, graffiti cobwebs cling. The place is like a morgue and I its occupant am not ready for it. "All is quiet..." a deep deep queitness - lingers; I never knew that silence could ache. I thought walls were to keep headhunters out, hold the elements at bay. Perhaps they wish to keep me in watch over me perhaps... Over coffee I dreamt I heard the murmur of angels, the beating hearts of all the loves who once slept beside me, and I know outside somewhere the air is alive with words, whispers of the night, beautiful eyes skin on skin. I never thought I could bleed again. The Pathway Since our roads are far-flung I have wished to be a traveler of old roads to the unknown where only dark may enter where                     golden suns merge, how long I stood between our worlds I do not know seasons hammered flaking layers within, without; wild storms burst forth and I could find no rest release, although we had agreed that the pathways left behind                     must fall from need; And I must grow into the future with our seed nurture him into an oak. Should I write of this now or when                     gray is like snow, I do not know. leaves drift, wild creepers climb unkempt trees,                     so much overgrown: Sometimes I feel the roots of the house move about, and I sit waiting for fulfillment; is it my ailment that I write now, if so to what purpose; I have sought I have yet to find. All I know is doorways into the dark. The Mating game I saw two Willy Wagtails today a simple thing. watching these small birds boogie, flaunting, wagging their tails undisturbed by passer-by's. I think of the woman who contentedly walked past them a young mans arm draped across her shoulder's hips moving in tandem, flirting. Parkinson's Workshop           dedicated to Dennis Greene short stanzas potent in meaning need no biography, no explaination. fingers tremble slowly moving through pages, yet with certainty the pen moves through imposed restrictions, shifting language in precision, words come; go by the way, discarded, painting the colours of expression. Seasons flow through him pass, return, stimulating mind, implants; hands retrieve the balancing case, coloured pills ingested, a semblance of respite from unwanted burdens. I have learned much about Parkinson's disease from hesitant poetic hands. I listen to criticisms as he lacerates my words, moving black pigment on crisp white pages. We didn't ask for this his disease, my infirmity, though we know the broken road, word - for - word. And he would be the first to say, short stanzas potent in meaning need no biography, no explaination. All works copyright .

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