Waking One Gently

My friend calls them ‘pensioners’
naps’, these easy midday siestas I
indulge in now and again, he claims
they are necessary to maintain a

benign view of the World. Ok, it may
be true but I’ll bet he’s never been
wakened in the middle of one by
a mobile phone playing random tunes.

This time it was ‘All About Soul’ by
Billy Joel, not too bad a choice I might
digress. Of course the damn phone does
not have a sense of humour or any other

case to stand as an excuse; possessed
by demons is as near as I’d try to guess.
Sure, I’ll send the piece back – there has to be
a rational explanation; which I find is kind of

weird, I mean, I’m almost admitting I like its
quirky idiosyncrasy. Not too many people
can honestly say their phone is blessed by,
or possessed, with waking one gently.
© 17 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Soundless Words Expressed

Somewhere between the fascination waning
in an ageing moon and stages of awareness
this was more a stasis than an ending, you cast
your inhibitions in the winds of change. Selfless
affectation thus undressed – verdant beauty
rarely seen so bare, fragility with strength
imbued wherein a tenderness belies the sinews
stressed, desires expressed in thoughts arraigned.

Yes, we fell in love again – a luminosity that grew
beyond the narrow bed, the rumpled sheets and
fine caress; a gentleness where soundless words
were never said. An aching age away I dream the
soundless scream of lost appeal – hear the silent
bell resound, feel emptiness of nothing said.
© 28 December 2007, I. D. Carswell

There Will Be Questions To Follow

So how you view the travesty of
never being right or favoured in
vicissitudes which bolder souls
delight – as thus your living lie
remains; a case, you claim, sans
choices, a loser’s plight, game
less a contest, an uneven fight.

At tether’s end – a proper
phrase you ask? Whether
gratuitously less intelligent and
reminded of the fact – apt to act
imprudently when called by referee
to centre ring – blows too low,
use of head and knees illegally.

He, subsumed in one-way test
of wits; used to flaunt my tits to
win, still could do – he’s merely
mammary arraignment’s slave,
but not the way I want to win.
Beat him fair to the ground and
square, pull his trousers down.

Why ever say ‘you never listen’
as a fact; unless psychic, to hear
and understand are separate
deeds – he’s not intuitive, cannot
read allusion. Keep the message
short & sweet. Say read my lips –
there will be questions to follow.
© 1 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Quite Unprepared For This

Seldom had the spectre of an empty chair
echoed cruel and clear as did upon that
sombre morning. Now rarely does a day
begin where eyes are wary and resist the
hollow ache of emptiness, too chary lest
they rest again upon your empty chair.

‘Tis too sad a meeting; tears spring from
wounded depths before the mind insists –
composed belief that weans the eyes from
graven grief. The Wake, they said, put you
to proper rest but left your chair and we
who stayed quite unprepared for this.
© 26 December 2007, I. D. Carswell

True Test Of Citizenship

I wonder if we’d ever see those things
claimed as making us so different are, in
fact, ordinary and commonplace. We’re
free with theories why being Australian is
unique experience the rest of the World
envies – even if we say so ourselves! It’s
a belief we’re born with rather than gain
by meeting members of other the races.
But the only way we’d know was when
we came face to face with the evidence.

Recently a politically devious campaign to
express citizenship as a test of worthiness
to be Australian was put away. Most of us
wouldn’t pass – try it and see if you contain
what were touted the essential ingredients.
The stone cold truth is we’re different in the
way we care about our fellow man, give him
space to be himself, but offer aid when it’s
seen he needs a hand. When I read the words
of Inga Clendinnen I saw the light enhanced.

She told of getting stuck in the sand at an
Australian cultural icon – the beach, where
people watched and assessed whether she
needed a hand from a safe distance. The
message was, don’t interfere if they are okay,
but despair is easily accessed and when seen
help eventuates in a kindly but completely
abstract way. Inga has no fears of what tests
being Australian – it reveals simple sameness,
commonplace origins and shared beliefs.

We’re different because we’re the same.
© 9 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Inga Clendinnen is a multi-award-winning historian whose books include Tiger's Eye, Reading the Holocaust (a New York Times "Best Book of the Year") and Dancing with Strangers (all from Text Publishing). In 2006, she was awarded an AO. She divides her year between Melbourne and far north Queensland, but never strays too far from the beach.

Time’s Eccentric Stamp

If I could read – the mottled markings back of either
hand are Time’s eccentric stamp revealing right-of-
access phrases, use-by-dates for scanning at an entry
door – fingers with erratic angles sing as quavers in a
music score I vaguely orchestrate, yet I can see them
there with utter clarity. I still hear the World a-breathing
sweet between its choking bouts – seething with
indifference, impersonally elite and I misunderstand,
I know I’m much too small to take sincerely!

The thought sustains me She’s the mother of our
being, maternal feelings richly flow through all of
Time’s meanderings. Her love grew in a mother’s
touch of whom from breast to breast I knew, whose
lips caressed and arms embraced. Was I graced less
I would not love without a reservation. Nor see such
love munificent given in unending apathy. Love me
if you must, She says, it’s all I am, will ever be, for I am
all of you – while you are merely part of me.

She wakes me every day with messages the same; I
see the text in symbols of earthiness, silence is the
key to long and deeper meaning. She reflects a quiet
of greater depth expecting understanding. Succour
me with feeling’s all she asks, be less yourself and
more of me. This I understand. Her University has no
favourites in the learning game, there is no secret to
our origins or whence we came, truth is Time’s
eccentric stamp on back of ageing hands.
© 27 December 2007, I. D. Carswell

Therefore Guilty End To End

Here’s a case for you to cogitate; imagine,
you are drunk – that’s over 0.05% BAC
in this tipsy State and a good Samaritan.
Your sister’s car has died, battery expired.
Like any brother would I guess, you feel
obliged to volunteer and fix it for the lass.

Aha, your first mistake. You don’t need the
keys, just a battery but her sorry car resides
besides the road. You’re busy fixing things.
A canny cop stops to be a kindly bloke – at
best a bloody pest, and says, you’ve had a
few, I think, I’ll have to nick you for the drink.

You expostulate, Hey – but! Too late, you’re
nicked and charged. No time to blink. The test
suggests you’re far too drunk to drive; you may
have said you couldn’t anyway – look, no keys!
Protesting proves you might have done, sorry
son, at least that’s what the copper says!

Is this then a travesty, a joke upon humanity or
just a turd? The case was heard, appealed and
won by Queensland Cops when Law regressed;
the Judge’s view suggests – if near a car, vicinity
allowed and pissed but likely to intend to drive,
you’re therefore guilty end to end.
© 28 December 2007, I. D. Carswell

Resolution 2008

My New Year resolution
will be to NOT make a resolution;
on the surface it seems
sincere and legitimate,
something real I can
take a crack at.

But honestly, what
does it mean? Can
there somehow be more
resolve in making a resolution
to not make
a resolution?

Do I break troth
I haven’t made,
demean myself
without putting a
so-to-speak foot into
the water?

If so, then
being two-faced
and saying I will do it
by not doing it
surely doesn’t
rate.

I mean
when the tally-man
counts coup in 366 days
will he say,
Wow man –
you’re clean!
© 31 December 2007, I. D. Carswell

Seeks Favour Of Your Dreams

Your love is contained in a battered but still
functional suitcase, packed and ready to be
despatched to the next war zone. Mine flits
like a moth lost to the light enclosed within.
I am reconciled to that – not ecstatic about
it but a whole lot happier knowing the facts.

It was real emotion, no method acting this
iteration, no tame admission. The kiss and
forgive remission of hostilities a passionate
decision – absolute ending in simpler truth
too cruel to contemplate, too raw a vision;
sense of self gratified – we gladly embrace.

You sleep at ease, aware who seeks favour
of your dreams; I stare into light streaming
from unconditional reality – where you are
is where I want to be. If I journeyed blind to
our origins – remembering the well from
which our love springs, I’ll regain my sight.
© 2 January 2006, I. D. Carswell

Nothing Will Be The Same Again

Leastways they made less sense taken as
they meant themselves to be taken – an
essence of the incongruous stirred with
clotted cream, served in a pole-less tent.

Nothing was ever plain – bizarre seemed
tame applied to excessive behaviour, a
shame when you think they carried the
weight of our homelessly late disposed.

Yet eccentricity quietly left when they
met face to face in an ordinary instance,
bullshit blurred with makeup paste,
plastic shrouds became good grace.

We’re shamed in shallow views of modern
phenomenology – amused at the way they
played with fame, sadly believe, too late it
seems, nothing will be the same again.
© 2 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Meant To Leave Us Wondering

It might have been the alarm blurring empty air
with raucous nonsense, or the semi-comatose
guests seemingly unruffled, unimpressed by a
fuss they cared less about than taking morning
showers - dressing for a day that took primacy.
But a strange dissonance descended.

Call it surreal if you must but there was
nothing to suggest we were moments
away from a fate we may have deserved.
No footsteps running or calls of fear, no
widespread foment; instead the sound
filled in where we took no heed.

Eventually it ceased; just as abruptly as it
had begun it disappeared. Silence had no
use for the vague sense of unease which
reclaimed space without relief. Perhaps we
survived something we never could understand.
Or perhaps it was meant to leave us wondering.
© 11 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

We Live In Nature’s Space

Reminded, casually, of how we live in Nature’s
space. A branch flung from a tall gum stands
upright, buried deep in soil soft from days of
rain – cautioning unwary travellers. A forest
of dead twigs surrounds the same – all erect,
each pays homage to a greater limb torn from
grander heights than this uneven plane.

A sinuous litter of thin bark blown in strips
from trunks swollen rare in ample pleasures
of sweet water lies discarded, alliterations of
shed snake skins curl venomously on gentle
green, deign a sense of order evilly. The wind
soars and spins in avid leaf gleefully, rushing in
from the east, fractious with haste.

This branch is buried 200cm deep, speared in
with nonchalance that raises hair. We steer
clear and look to the trees where we know it
came. There’s more deadfall up there you say,
see how it sways in the wind? Leaf descends
in a shower of rain, gums bend to wind’s roar.
Up there I say respectfully, there’s always more.
© 2 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Saying Why In Ways

Saying why in ways that leave no strained
associations yet implies to whom, quite
clearly, blame applies - would be the classic
case. No feelings hurt, no egos dragged in
dirt or trampled in a rush to flee the tragic
scene. Surreal it seems, especially when a
point of view exists there is no image of a
broken dream, relationship or link between
your feelings and the face disgraced. You’d
leave with only mild regret if that was true,
expecting them to soon forget you anyway.

You know that wasn’t what took place upon
the fateful day – it was a frank exchange of
trust; beauty glimpsed by hearts that lust for
brighter hues enhanced in artist’s eyes – a
fragile clutch of sharing minds. But that was
then, such yesterdays do not return. So move
along, your term’s expired – you’re free to
leave. If someone wants to grieve no doubt
they’ll find a way to tear out hair, beat their
breasts in thespian mourning expressed
with dramatic thanks and great respect.

But for egos sake you need to be chaired to
the door by a coterie of neo-sybarites, to
pay homage – placate your sense of worth.
You dream their fawning adulation. It is a
farewell tryst with worst debauchery forsaken
in a lifelong search for purest glory. This is
who you blame. You’ve sold out to ideas of
your own infallibility – with good reason, if
worthy souls remain they would no doubt be
there to cheer your passage on, line the walls
respectfully, shed a seasoned tear.
© 18 February 2008, I. D. Carswell

WHOGABRRA?

This term’s inauspicious origins
arose amongst Grade II Staff &
Tactics students thirty years ago.
Back then and likely still the same,
soldiers were prone to accidental
acronyms. Prof Walker is acclaimed
as the author of this one – framed
as a useful reminder to students
whose priorities became confused.
When expanded the term says:
“Who Gives A Big Red Rat’s Arse.”

I know of one other more poignant
and fitting than the Prof’s, a lift
from his stable – but WHOGABBA
is still able to jerk all the right chords
with me. His wasn’t classy and mine
neither but both keep priorities in
view, reminding us of aims with a
greater personal meaning. My own
aphorism translates to “Who gives
a black bat’s arse” – which of course
I do – meaning I really care.

I refer to a tiny bat we saw in the
packing shed today (dare I mention it
in polite company?) – a Little Pied Bat
who lives in caves or empty dwellings.
He’s found a great place to settle in
here with us, if willing. I guarantee
it will be his home for as long as he
convinces the dogs he’s resident
caretaker and not a guest. I mean to
say, who else proudly claims to have
bats in their (packing shed) belfry?
© 4 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Versatility, It Is The Key

Versatility, it is the key to poets writing verse;
there can be no simple substitute to finding
words – no easy games to play that tease a
verb, raise a pregnant noun, find rhythms
bound in rhyme to lift a page. To write is work,
I say it with a chaliced grin; my daily grind is
done before the dawn begins to smile its
welcoming at break of day. Rhythms wake me
in a way which chases sleep, rhymes complete
an earnest call to write; I have a line impressed
when I arise which leads to greater things and
write it down. And then I am at ease and rest.

That I play with words
it is not an idle boast
or refrigerated arrogance;
somewhere inside
odd connections are made
and previously disparate entities
form glowing relationships.

My part in it is the least understood.

I merely write them down
to read. And reading is the
key which, occasionally,
makes it poetry.

They are not fields filled
with free-ranging ideas,
they are flat plains with
no hills and barrenness
as consummate as an
empty conscience. The
morality of me comes
from living in the fringe
of your reality – you will
never care less while I
grieve wilfully for us all.
© 5 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

The Physics Of Sedentary Wisdom

I caught their fleeting movement through
myopic lens – two indistinct shadows seen
swooping in an arc over trees, a silhouette
briefly against the grizzled morning grey.

They vanished as soon as I saw them. But
my eyes lingered, hungry for a feast that
broke this fast of eerie stillness. In drear
distance a lone crow cries, “Ark, ark, ark.”

Without glasses the PC screen I face is in-
distinct – the words I write shimmer in a
dizzy haze; yet beyond the window pane
I clearly see distances without their aid.

Is there a way to take a vision complete,
an unpretentious sweep that sees into
unrecognised futures while seated, lost
to the physics of sedentary wisdom?

Insight drifts condensed in ephemeral
pillars of mist rising in still air, they are
momentarily timeless, connected into
rare consciousness blessed in all things.

I join the crows in free flight, swoop and
soar delighting in their vision; where they
see is sheer bliss for eyes strained by the
slow crawl of characters on pallid screen.
© 9 January 2008, I. D. Carswell.

Waimango Rain

We dip our paddles deep in rolling green of
ocean swells and sing our names across the
seas. We hold the shape in memory of loving
lands from whence we came, joining hands
upon this day – where every hand is clasped
in hands of warmth and friendly greeting.

We sing in harmony of their sure love. Were
better voices joined we’d still be lesser gods
to wear serenity that brings us calm, soothes
the raging beast beneath our ages past, asks
forbearance of our ancestry – pays the piper’s
fee to tunes in which we all will freely dance.

She holds his heart within her clever hands,
hands which whisper words in ancient grace,
waiata poi embraced in rhythmic swing. He
sees her face in every wave and hears on wings
her voice in winds which bring Waimango rain.
Together thus, forevermore may they remain.
© 16 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

For Donna & Andrew.

Utterly Australian!

On 26 January 1788 Captain Arthur Phillip took
formal possession of the Colony of New South
Wales – without infamy. Perhaps this is the day
to celebrate instead of a flaky ‘Rum Rebellion’.

Well, whether you like it or nay we celebrate
Australia Day on an iniquitous anniversary, the
day Major George Johnston, sword drawn and
arm in sling, deposed the legitimate authority.

26 January 1808, a coup said to better interests
of the rich and famous First Settlers, led by 102
Regt of the New South Wales Corps, British Army,
against the dour fourth governor William Bligh.

Rum wasn’t the reason why, ‘though teetotal
wowsers would have it said grog brought the
Colony to its knees – instead it was greed. For
the record, blustering Bligh hid under a bed.

John Macarthur seized that moment with both
hands, an entrepreneur less criminal than an
eager opportunist blessed with foresight and
baffled by Bligh’s oddball intransigence.

Be that as it may, the day presents a case where
Law regained its proper place, imposed per se by
Macquarie, but none-the-less retains a flavour of
our forebears in their haste to make a Nation.

It’s where we are today. There’s no escape
from History, infamous or great, and the late
players played their parts for good or ill to
make us what we are. Utterly Australian!
© 24 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

The Breeze Whispered Salty Promises

Getting there was half the fun, Whale Beach
on a Saturday and a Son's wedding - the Bride
a dream in bare feet on sand and a ceremony
to leave you gasping. I kissed Celebrant Deidre
before it began, an omen to vows as simple as
the sea, to love as love is meant to be.

We came dressed like suburban seaside
Bedouins, met in the sand and stood shoulder
to shoulder facing the sea. The best Versace
were words worn chic telling tales of our simple
sameness, an urbanity which neatly proclaimed
who we were and why we were here.

Even the tall Lanark men stood comfortably
in tartan, smiling in clothes beachgoers eyes
played games with - tho' as the Bride walked
through rose petals to give herself away the
sighs of the fledgling surf stole the beach and
the breeze whispered salty promises.
© 13 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

An Experience Worth Waiting For

Russell’s the man for all seasons, he alone
stands fearlessly in no man’s land; fecklessly
some would say – dismissively missing the point,
demeaning a virtuoso performance.

That day he led the way in light-hearted banter,
handed out iced drinks from the front seat esky
on request, provided wisdom, commentary and
largesse as he commanded the narrow aisles.

Perhaps the rest of the guests were less than
amused by the way he made light of the labours
of an ancient bus and equally creaky driver, but
no one could say they were not entertained.

He who prances like a fool is just that, they say,
claiming a grain of truth, but it won’t wash with
folks whose fears were allayed as we were lost
or misplaced and saved on the way to the wedding.

In the event his cheery grin was saving grace imbued
with an impish geniality. We arrived late but the bride
ensured our dignity – she made the bus trip a tasty
entrée to a wedding and a dinner worth waiting for.
© 17 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Survival Room

Old ‘Ironbar’ – Wilson Tuckey, MP, disgraced
himself again today; when asked to stand and
face the Stolen Generation in Australia-wide
apology said he wouldn’t and he wasn’t sorry
in the least! Wasn’t wishy-washy bi-partisan,
contrite or gave a damn about their plight.

The Federal Member for O’Connor (WA) is a
hard act to swallow – indeed, representing
callowness and the reddest of redneck ideas
ever seen in a long-serving politician. Yet he
is the last of the Mohicans, a dour survivor
of a soured and grimly chequered past.

Still, it makes a nice change from inveterate
liars who populate his party. Ironbar earned
his laurels with a piece of steel cable and an
assault on an Aborigine. Convicted but not
mortified, free to symbolize reprehensible
behaviour – representation larger than life.

Wilson’s views may be too extreme and anti
indigene for some but at least you know what
you get. Although it does suggest O’Connor
might not be all that nice a place to live in.
There wouldn’t be survival room enough for
all of him and the least Liberal part of me.
© 13 February 2008, I. D. Carswell

Being In Our Other Home

A wet week of it and we’re
about tuckered out from a
face to face confrontation
with less than public selves.

The dogs smell vaguely of a
dampness, tho’ less a reek
with background nuance
than malodorous scent.

It permeates closeness in a
shared space & nose now
rebels; packed & weighed
I’m ready to escape – soon

to leave for Sydney care of
Virgin Air, a lightness in the
step and eyes brightening
with sure prospects of seeing

smiling faces, hands reaching,
the embrace of arms familiar, of
voices greeting, of knowing care &
being in our other home again.
© 10 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Eyes Which Wept

Eyes which wept with sobbless tears
are dry today – not cured, just gone
away – not cured, but not inflamed
with vision’s painful emptiness.

You tamed the flow in kiss and dare
of joyful night, of warm caress-arrested
fears, toyed with passion-lessened tears
that playfulness soon dried.

It rose again in skin on skin, in touch which
ended loneliness, in touch of gracious
elegance, embracing mind in tactile sense,
defending games you made for life.
© 3 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Hear Me Cry My Eulogy

Stay within the warmth of me
and lie at rest – I won’t deny I
feed upon your strength. Lest
you forget I hunger more along
your length and breadth than
orphaned eyes seek succour
from their loneliness. Stay for-
ever meshed, entrained inside
the fluid flow of movements
slow & languorous – blessed
are we to share this trancelike
closeness, caressing moments
infinite without regret. Stay a
while – I’ll drain the venom of
your vigour and digest your
offering. Hold me tight in arms
afraid and breathe my name
in wonderment. Wait a while
and hear me cry my eulogy.
© 10 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Closeness Paid The Price

It is a loneliness you alone can best redress
I am lost to vacant space, powerless and
afraid. Closeness paid the price you made a
tithe of keeping company. I am plagued by
glass relationships – this penance to an arm’s
length austerity disgraces me.

I know you care; I see the pity in your face. You
stare amazed in places far too vast to hold with
eyes despising loneliness; do you want for this?
I ask for changes bold – admitting my defeat,
take me back and write the psalms; for mine I’d
gladly die at peace enfolded in your arms.
© 29 December 2007, I. D. Carswell

Diff’s A Bloody Hero

Diff’s no ordinary mutt who saved his
owner’s life, he’s a bloody hero – and
at 65 kilos a Bull Mastiff gets respect
he’s due with less anxiety than, say, a

Jack Russell or Shi Tzu. Diff took it in
his stride, so to speak, hung out on a
precipice by a tree for a couple days.
Mark, his owner, felt obliged to see

to Diff’s dilemma, took a risk, rescued
him from Mount Maroon by abseiling
in when rescue helicopters wouldn’t
fly – winds too fierce, while the RSPCA

remained adrift. It began when Mark,
a friend and Diff hiked to see the New
Year’s sunrise in Mt Barney National
Park. Diff stumbled clumsily and fell

off the cliff, Mark & friend tried to
rescue him, became aware they too
were in difficulty, could neither climb
nor descend safely and quit. Next day

Diff’s barking drew the rescue effort in,
they were saved, winched to safety,
but lousy weather put paid to chances
of saving Diff. Mark and Diff’s reunion

made great evening TV, an interview or
three raised the tone but as dogs are
banned from national parks, the issue
will, no doubt, be raised some stage. For

the record though, Diff’s a bloody hero.
© 4 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Her Fragile Spell

Another day of dreary rain; we’re
blessed of course – to think it less a
beggar’s debt to fortune’s smile.

She beams largesse in gentle clouds
of misted showers; drought’s arid pain
is put aside – we watch thru’ panes

of frosted glass to clearly hear the echoes
lilt in mutual happiness. The Orchard
sings its melodies expressed as shades

of rampant green, in growing grass,
in ringing bird-calls conquering the
open air – insects teem beneath the

feet of grazing bird, some to feed their
growing broods. With less to do and more
to see my avid eyes are aching tired.

The rest has left me lethargy I can’t dispel
or better shake, I dare not make a restless
move lest it would break her fragile spell.
© 3 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

In This Case Of Self Interest

When Rational Discourse rides atop
a stubborn mule called Belief, fault
lights begin to flicker as neon signs
of inevitability in alarm sequence.

Why, you ask, doesn’t it work? You’ve
slavishly obeyed The Book’s peculiar
dictates, measured exact amounts of
ingredients in order, wet first, dry last.

Left nothing to chance, instructions
read and re-read until they jumbled as
monotonously as recited gibberish in a
brainless liturgy to sure class silliness.

I see God’s hand in this, you say, as if it
excuses fundamentally irreconcilable
differences between mule and rider. He
works, you sigh, in mysterious ways.

Indeed. Were Rational Discourse freed of
1st C bread recipes for baking in an oven
of 21st C design, it might abandon mule
and mine a wealth of open conversation.

Alas, doggerel dogs the heel of all dialogue
intended to free Rational Discourse from a
tyranny of goaded Belief. In this case of
self interest, we call it The Human Race.
© 7 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Interchangeable Commodities

Why yes, he explained, I desire to be
acclaimed amongst the idiots of our
contemporary times. Why, I asked,
intrigued, to me he was enlightened.

Notoriety/fame are interchangeable
commodities these days, take that
girl who pees in taxis, Paris what’s-
her-name, the rich celebrity, she’s

got it right. Be the bitch – hang it
out, shout disdain for social rules;
you gain nothing being demure or
quaintly pure at heart. The Press

won’t rate behaviour that conforms
to ancient norms – won’t have a bar
of it! Controversy sells ad space & we
live on the grace of surplus trade.

I believe the God of humankind is
best expressed in economies that
grow on goods exchanged at rates
left to free market influence & fate.

What of democracy and individual
freedoms I protest? What of dignity?
Can’t afford it, he explained, at best
it’s unsustainable...
© 8 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Left Hand Left Brain

Try living left-handed with the pain
of being left-brain and years used to
right digits controlling where tight

calligraphy was at – a wholly new
perspective on frustration; easy to
succumb to mood & transfer back.

Pinched nerve fatigue (really, is that
what it is?) renders refined right-
hand mousing insufferable agony.

Writing is decidedly unpleasant –
themes reflect maudlin moods when
misery rides an aching shoulder.

Rationally the only ordered change
reverses right to left; practically its
chaos – frustration eventuates.

Autonomic right responds reflexively
but not the anarchy of left which
dithers, ponders – equivocates.

Primacy of index is perhaps the key,
reassign critical mass of first finger-ness
to digital processing.

Try again, right button on now left-
handed mouse redefined as primary key.
But a doggedly right-abated co-user

of this PC – who doesn’t suffer
neuromotor muscular strain, will likely
be the more frustrated...
© 4 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Let Me Grow Old Disgracefully

Please let me grow old disgracefully.
I don’t intend conforming to the gentle
ways of carers paid to bless a kindly
atmosphere; I dread them hence
in uniforms of muted shades
as beacons of benevolence.

I wonder where the notion came I
need the peace and quiet they claim
will dignify my latter days. Perhaps
I want to rant and rave with passion
borne of yesteryear, hold a moment
by the ears, shout a plastic rage aloud.

Perhaps I want to preen and prance,
woo the ladies to the dance – cavort,
sashay, bop to rhythms my own way
in ballet tights and sing off-key – oh
woe is me! I’d never pass an entry test,
be welcomed as an honoured guest.

I care nought for dignity, it doesn’t pay,
yet arrogance and happenstance allay
the fears they really care – I think, okay,
it’s just their job but not for me. The thing
I want appeased per se remains unchanged.
Let me grow old disgracefully.
© 29 December 2007, I. D. Carswell