Cuckoo’s Nest

Don’t grow up to be
like me, just do your best;
learn, feather your wings
and make them strong –
and when you fly, fly
east or west. While I,
I’ll stay and fly again
over the cuckoo’s nest

Don’t spend the yearning
years afraid to leave for
fear of distances unread;
hear the call of feral birds
whose singing in your ears
invites your wings to flight,
excites a view of far-off
summer seas

Leave me here,
remember
where I flew
and what I said;
let it be your destiny –
that one flew east
and one flew west
and one flew over the cuckoo’s nest
© 22 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Fraser Island

Two absorbing days on Fraser once again,
didn’t get to see a single lean and hungry
dingo prowling with intent upon the beach
or hear the spirits calling facelessly in dead
of night. We spent our time contagiously on
sandy tracks with bumps and grinds of 4WD
in company of family and special friends,
amazed we were so easily seduced.

Was life reduced to bits we liked and choice
was free we’d want to stay midst dunes and
ancient sand lagoons with timeless trees, not
be reminded needlessly by tourists of the
World we left behind, assured serenely why we
chose an antique Island’s ever shifting sand.

© 21 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

.

To See Or Not To See

I know I said let me
grow old disgracefully,
and I meant it when I
said it way back then.

And life progressed
quite usefully towards
that shamelessness I
sought – until I thought
I couldn’t see at all so
well to best enjoy
my earned profligacy.

Thus today I say,
for Heaven’s sake,
it’s these useless glasses,
take ‘em off my ancient face;
I’d rather see a friendless
blur than endless minute
scratches on the lens.

The focal length is too
precise – two hands and
one half spans to be
exact; more or less than
that, suffice to say –
is sightless misery.

To see or not to see
may be my fate unless
I can engender a debate
on cataracts, removal of,
and find
an ophthalmologist
who will agree!
© 17 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

This Working Day

Wednesday, April 16 and back to work;
the first new-season avocado pick awaits
when dew eventually vacates the Orchard
grass; an early sun suggests a balmy Autumn
day. It won’t be hard to start again, I say –
a trifle unconvinced. Although awake since
4am I’m fresh and ready to engage.

The chicks now number fifteen hatched
with one to come, not great success from
twenty one we set just three weeks back.
They’re huddled in a tidy gang beneath
the lamp which warms their brooder box,
the warmest spot they’ll learn to leave
to feed and drink – and grow and crap!

When at six weeks with feathers fledged
they’ll be released to strut and scratch on
grass within the chicken run. By then a
second batch will come of age. Sun’s first
rays glance eagerly through window pane
on cooling breeze of frosty breath, subtly
suggests we start this working day.
© 16 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Moon

I haven’t seen the moon with sheen
like this before, or are my eyes too
bright tonight? Two jugs of wine rest
easily between my ears or I would
hear your lusty sigh – he’s mine you’d
say, a lover’s sign I durst resist.

But I’m not pissed I’d cry – maudlin –
yes, I must concede, & kissed for sure;
but you, my beauty thus can lead me
where you need me be. I’d lie in cold
embrace with you to keep the peace.
© 15 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Reunion

For those whose holding hands
with death a confidant impaired
a balanced sense didact – there
is no buoyancy in being left to
face that solitary weariness.

For if one rises true from chaos
that is left when reason flees,
there is no going back to easy
innocence. In death there’s no
return to shades of mock morality...

For lifeless bodies left in empty
fields we grieve, the haunting
smiles of faceless frames that
hang with names we can’t forget –
& yet whose memory sustains.

So where a soldier who survived
is like to seek a unity with soldiers
who survived – to reunite the fear
he held with trembling hands and
faced an ugly consequence, and

shared the unanimity unstated in a
brotherhood of need – friends though
friendship which obeys the precepts
of proximity; friends declared by
sharing common agonies.

Gather where our dead embrace in
arms rejoined across the fleeting years,
see the tears in aged and greying faces
glint and dry before the smile appears –
hear the cries of joyful greeting.
© 15 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Slice Of Macca

...That ABC Sunday mornin’ reporter,
y’ know the show, ‘Australia All Over’?
What’s ‘is name? It goes something
like F*ck Off Macca doesn’t it? Well,
that’s what everyone says when ‘e
comes on anyway. Bloke with a wit
dry as Simpson sand, talks to dorks
by phone – been everywhere man!

Dunno ‘bout F*ck Off Macca, but th’
Macca goes with Ian MacNamara, ‘n
he’s been with the ABC 20 years.
Used to play with the Joy Boys back in
the 70’s. Can’t say I listen to him by
choice but every Sund’y mornin’ two
million listeners do. All y’ gotta do is
wake early, turn on th’ bloody radio.

Macca’s a tradition in what is th’ real
Australia – not everybody’s cup of tea.
But that don’t bother ‘im. He likes what
he hears and says what he thinks off-
the-cuff. He’s not rough as he sounds
neither ’n real Australians love him for
that. It’s what they mean sayin’ there’s
more to be had in a slice of Macca.
© 13 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

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© 12 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

While this is mostly text taken from an Ultra Allure
spam email I’ve exercised a few poetic liberties.
It almost smells as sweet as promised!

Real Spam, Thankyou Ma’am

Puddings,
or for croquettes.
The soft boiled eggs seedi,

god bless the life
of my master.

The emperor confine me long.

Frankly, said douglas,
i could for independence.
She saw that aunt bessie did
ragged, undisciplined lot,
with cylindrical hats no more,
but clung heavily to the walls,

and by of local pottery.

During the purchase,
he contrived the week

carol heard how select an attendance
he spoke particularly
dryly when he said this.

Mary rigged up for
the robinsons' dance.
She goes articles,
i buy them from sailors, usually
at the two men closed,
fighting for possession of me
after all those disgraceful familiarities.

He'd given us one clue
one simple little clue
as over prairie flowers,
over umbrageoustrees and.
© 11 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

This is the genuine article spam – text
from the body of a spam email. I only
provided the form it is now in. It is at
the least kind of funny and at best,
given one has a sense of humour –
poetically intriguing!

Dawn Parade

The day is done but the flavour lingers on
my tongue – a tang of rum blurs with the
memories. Another dawn parade, and in
the rising sun relief we made the march
unscathed. Our hopes are elevated in an
offertory of understanding – but did the
children dressed with forebears ribbons
know our peace? Their presence blessed
our solemnity, but where we march in a
sombre company they gaily wave to the
cameras saying – hey, look at me!
© 25 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Centennial Lakes

Yesterday’s pleasant walk around
Centennial Lakes brought more to
mind than mere effusive thanks;
we’ve driven past the place most
days without a backward glance.

This day we stopped, walked leafy
paths that wound midst tidy ponds
and gazed with awe that grew to
earned respect. It is a monument,
a visit that we won’t forget.

The birds impressed, fourteen native
species in their finery tho’ many more
evade our eyes; those we saw pleased
mightily – some rails and crakes we
hadn’t seen before were on parade.

Little Corellas squabbled in trees or
nibbled sycamore seeds in noisy
gangs clustered in the shade. They
flew raucously to greet new arrivals,
shrieking their rustic giddays.

Friendly ducks and geese took bread
offerings ashore or swam and dived
for weeds. Glebes ducked and darted
as they pleased in algae beds or hid
amongst the shore-side reeds.

A peaceful scene, harmony among
the lakes with shrubbery luxuriant
and greened for shade, a haven
in the Cities skirts laid out for gentle
pace – and beautifully maintained.

And yet its rep is none too savoury –
warring gangs and violent deaths
impress an air of incredulity. How
do they gather in that park and not
absorb tranquillity?
10 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Roosters Of Delusion

Obnoxious bicker-heads slam-dunk
cynicism in an orgy of hedonistic
incivility. Not that they know or care –
exuding counterfeit confidence borne
of bloated egos - obscene advocates
of their own delusionary addiction

shared by a few who’s pathological
weakness forms rare dependency in
lugubrious repartee. In chicken-run
theatres they scratch and strut, crow
threats in words lifted from more able
peers – not that they know or care

in the fake galleries penitents bare
heads and watch crimes tried in the
Court of Inconsequence, wear sack-
cloth and play the fool for free; the
entertainment theirs for the parody
– not that they know or care
© 9 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Flights Of Ducks

Two flights of ducks impressed us
as we walked the dam, forty birds
dismount from wings which hang 
in air above the plane, gliding 
in with ornate ease. 

Excited dogs dash eagerly to swim 
the chase, heads a-bob their pencil 
wakes write random lines, breaking 
rhyme to twist and turn and
make no way. 

Today they swim again without 
success as is the case most days, 
it takes determined dogs and
stamina they don’t possess to 
best a duck. 

The wary quacks have learned our 
dogs don’t need too much encouragement 
to leave their space, they swim in fun, 
pirouette with grace and take to wing 
when sense dictates the show has run.
© 8 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Another Road

Imagine a dream where you
foresee your mother’s death
in an accident at sea –
before you are born.

Focus ignores reality
fixed in a searing deprivation
of love so powerfully fulfilled
it transforms time.

Nisse, she called me, little man,
although my name was Cædmon
of Streonæshalch: Together we
dreamed and she knew.

Nisse of my dreams
she said, wait for me.
I will take another road.
I’ll be there soon...
© 7 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Deafening Draw

I am incensed – perhaps you’d try a
neutral view before a yellow card to
send me from the field. Used to coach
the game, even refereed between
the heady days as player and it’s after-
math – when wives apply a tourniquet;
it didn’t help to ease the angst.

I know the rules we see are less the
cause than laws ignored which pay
a patriot to lie and thieve. But what I
saw and heard today is way beyond
belief. The referee’s a cheat! True, it
is a hopeless case; how would you
prove he meant a side to lose?

Take another face, ask how one could
make a grace of missing obvious and
easy rulings in a field of consequence.
Consistency allows you to conclude
the bastard didn’t care who won – and
nearly did! But if a tie ensues in place
of rational debate on rulings left to
chance there’s no ‘for free’ defence.

A team which played within the rules was
conned, denied a win it earned because
a referee decided that despite the law
this game would end a deafening draw.
© 5 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Alibis

Little inconsistencies build alibis;
you’ve seen an innocent idea
become a ‘planned progression’,
a meagre pandering of teen ego and
expansion into vacant space. It is
a universal trait for sure; an escapade
and not an accident or act of nature
– nor uncommon aberration.

They say, we’re going where no man
or woman has before – was always
planned, rational in effect so there,
conscious choice, an exercise of
free will; we know precisely what
we’re doing, happily accept it
as our fate. We are not afraid.

Sure – no suggestion it came after
fashion veered or immersion in
orgies of self-indulgence. A long,
narrow road to self-actualisation
materialised, obliquely exposed by
innovative investigatory technique
comprising binge beer-drinking
with your peer-group mates.
© 5 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Success Assured

Forgive me, but I know I tried to find
a chord that rang in greeting; there’s
more to being satisfied than meeting
cuddly verse in camisole, or knickers
gathered at the waist with frilly lace.

It’s not my place to go complaining
bloomers are utility disgraced as racy
lines which merely plod along – but
rhyme, oh yes they rhyme; I know much
time and energy is spent to make it so.

But when I say “it’s nice” I’m too polite
to hint that what I meant was get it off,
bare the fiddly bits. Less means more in
dress – and verse is clearly so; don’t
hide your potent words in wordiness.

Bare the soul and spare the words to
be a hit. Expose yourself, undress a bit
and show that physiology of thought
& deed & rest assured of your success –
it’s truly what they’ve come to read.
© 5 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Ridicule

Yes, you broke the mirror – finally.
That cabalistic air of magnanimity
which makes those rare and weird
decisions climbed unprecedented
heights of raw absurdity today. Is
it true of your sorority? If I believed
you knew of what it did I’d say it
might not matter – but you set a
program loose to clean where you
assumed a need. It begs a pressing
question. Can any of you read?

Fey calamity thus rules this anarchy of
playing poets’ egos; now I know your
day routine’s a trite and meaningless
agenda to invite raw data in the form
of hits. It matters not a whit for quality –
So call it an indecency by any truthful
name. You prime a data miner in a way
to ferret words you say are banned as
core of common decency dictates. Can
we have a list? No way Hosea you’ll say.

That, my non-poetic friend, won’t rate.
You set a pace that lowered standards
long before we ran the race. You’ve let
the best and worse to freely interface.
So cheek by jowl we drool a common
rheum that stultifies not one but all.
And you get rated not by verse that
sings in praise of words well used –
but tools you use to make our poems
clean enough for ridicule...
© 4 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Poem Hunter.Com Administration censored
access to 20 of my poems today. There were
1190 on my home page at the time. Most of
the poems censored had been there for over a
year. I have not taken kindly to it. As a result
that particular Site will not have access to any
more than 100 of my poems at a time.

Choice-Mail

Choice-mail, that which you receive
by placing a check in the box next to
an enabling statement. By the way,
today is Friday – which means I’ve
survived another week so there’ll
be more than a dozen waiting.

It’s still a vicarious delight waking
up alive, thrilled I’m nearly home
free – or not in a dementia ward;
confident there’ll be notifications
of fulsome reader commentary in
my inbox, amongst other things.

Before I click to cosset vanity (or is
it prurient interest?) I check to see
if I’m really alive. Web camera stares
impassively from top of screen, black
monocular eye – Quickcam® feeds
back fuzzy images of confirmation.

Hey, it’s Friday, I grin, beard’s looking
great – but you don’t have to agree!
And it never does.
© 4 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Insight

That insight will have to last you
the rest of your days; seeing into
the void and making sense of it
is not a recommended way to
achieve admissible satori. Not in
this neck of the woods anyway –
officials of the ruling hegemony
will need to be satisfied you were
actually stoned out of your brain.
That way they can take the pain
away from explaining it was not
an alternate universe – just the
same old one seen with a little
cognitive juice lubricating the
wheels. Well, at least that was
the way they explained it to me.
© 3 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

New Carpet Era

New beginnings achieved
with less trauma and more
economy, if memory serves
me true, than on previous
iterations. But strange
perturbations are minor
bumps in a new carpet era.

Old is rolled and stacked
functionally, old memories
lying like hollow pillars in
places where traffic grazes
edges cautiously. Tho’ naive
of chaos and disorder there
is a quiet dignity.

Thus it may be while you seek
stasis of mind – the furniture
of your reasoning blinds
paraphernalia. Placemakers
removed or relocated are
not forgot – familiar rules bind
where convenience cries.

Space is redefined in new
venture currency & yet to be
clear spatial relationships.
Nothing will be thrown away
until you’ve moved everything
this way and that – satisfied old
Gods and recognised new.

You sleep a deep and active
sleep tonight, piecing together
a mosaic of what you shall keep.
I wait as you play with memories
and plan futures – these are the
grist of woman’s things. But the
study, I repeat, is mine.
© 2 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

So!

So,
where y’all
gonna run
now ev’rbody
know you
on the lam?

What y’all done
to run so hard? –
Y’all started thinkin’
criminal; Man, you
the victim, been done
bad, that’s a fack.

Sho’ – ah’m sad fo’
you bro, but taint gonna
pay mah rent havin’
bad feelin – so ah’m
hot aftah you ass just
like the rest of them.

An’ – ah gotta to say this,
s’mighty fine bounty
they’s gonna pay. Y’all
should be proud
they’s rated you so.
Wassas you sayin’?

You gimme free agency
fo’ 10%. Fo’ why? –
Showin’ sympathy?
Hey – that appeals.
‘N fo’ sho’ ah’ll
return the deal!
© 3 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Political Dementia

Amounted to precious little
thinking didn’t it? As much
needed to know no-one will
be clear-cut winner – principle
of the thing obscured by being
neither right nor wrong; an
impasse buried in a dream of
partisan reasoning. For all
28 years status quo remains.

But for the poor and homeless
and a few estranged from
mainstream self-seeking it was
a chance to be heard & seen.
Wow ‘em with scintillating
rhetoric a chant said and they did –
nothing’s going to change, wear
outrageous shirts, hang it out.

Whereas courting common good
seems a better cure for poverty,
eases grieving hearts and minds
more than letting greed cut the
cake, what does it take to return
an autocracy in dementia to a
benign state of benevolence?

Assassination some would say,
a strong dose of anarchy at
risk of courted martial law.
Maybe the song should be –
“Goodbye Robert Mugabe,
Thanks for the Memories” as
they respectfully turn off his
ailing life support...
© 3 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

April’s Fool

I’m not finished yet!
Don’t turn your back
on this exposure or
you’ll be the fool I
always took you for.

There’s more beyond
self-image than exists
within. You cannot know
the half of it without
admitting to and
changing ground.

You’re only used to
shouting down the voice
of reasoned opposition –
you don’t teach, you preach
a gospel of your own
supposed divinity...

Assure me that the light of
learning hasn’t dimmed and I
won’t blind your critic’s eyes;
show humbleness – be
surprised I’ve let you live.
© 1 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Making Waves

Hey, I’m onto something!
I can get a bigger dick AND
better University degree by
subscribing to a shonky
web-site. It’s all too easy!

And I’ve won an all-expense-
paid trip to the Caribbean!
No kidding – in a phone-call
where I hung up before
they reversed charges!

All I have to do is provide
someone’s credit card
details... Instant success!
Immediate recognition!

So why write poetry for the
few able to read or write
more than five words without
losing track of the first, or

even fewer who recognise
critical mass of an
ego is not irrefutable
proof of great ability.

And to think I could be in
the Caribbean with a bigger
dick and inflated degree –
making even larger waves!
© 1 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Colours

Unlikely friends –
the darker one, immune
to mind shaping diseases
of faux egalitarianism and
opaque society, can choose
to leave when & if he pleases.

Stays for the time being. Sings
and plays guitar with ease
borne of absolute confidence
and sure ability. His friend,
white and well read with no
ambition, adulates him.

They cling to new beliefs of
equity earned and shared in
harmoniousness of friendship,
breaking ground where their
upbringing would sunder
fragile and rare scaffolding.

You’ll have to leave, he says –
here is killing the light in you.
Here you will only be white...
Come with me to the City
of chameleon sun, the
carousel of changing colours.
© 31 march 2008, I. D. Carswell

Seeing

Which is more frightening?
Being blind or seeing with
eyes routinely tuned to the
expected? The blind ‘see’ in
ways the sighted never can –
nothing is taken for granted.

Eyes seize all ways and means,
polished routines ritualised to
easy answers; no need to look
to see. Choose what you will,
don’t leave your perspective.
Blind see with unsure hands.

I trust a blind man before the
sighted pedagogue who maligns
or demeans ideals. I see with the
blind man’s eyes – listen with his
ears. I am hearing an amazing
respect for individual freedom.
© 31 march 2008, I. D. Carswell

Availability

Bumped into this bloke the other day,
a guy I’ve known from way, way back –
but think I could recall his name?

Distinguished, yes, and family indeed
by face – but unabashed we eagerly
embrace as dearest friends.

He says – this cell-phone of mine, see?
Hey, it’s yours for free. Take it as a gift –
try and find some use for it.

Call anyone, anywhere you care without
a fee; and you’ll get calls from anyone
for free. A straight-up deal, yeah, really!

Who pays? I ask, uneasy – & what’s the
number please? Dunno, he says, all I know
’s they call my name aloud – and it rings!

He explains; when I need to make a
call I think a face or name – it calls
for real, they answer, usually.

I miss a call it backs for me. Returns
the call if asked – don’t always, hey,
no biggie, I’m not the one obsessed!

But I insist. Who pays? Nothing’s ever
free. Well, all of us eventually I guess, he
says. Though that’s no obstacle I see.

So what’s the catch I ask, and where’s
the poonani? He shakes his head, you
won’t believe it mate – availability!

You gotta be there, talk occasionally –
state a case, agree or disagree, whatever.
It sounds incredible, just so surreal.

That’s the deal! Okay, you’re on. But what
you gonna do? Peachester, retirement, he
confessed. Should ‘a done it ages back.

Gonna grow avocados and brew beer,
write poetry at last. Had it up to here
playing God with this darn thing...
© 31 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

My apologies Stretch, but your London

Marathon was positively godlike - so

you feature as the poem's picture!

Bigotry

Where
do these bigots
think that they
are coming from?

Being true to creed
makes one and same exact
as least respectable
believer.

Don’t hear complaints
extremists cast a taint –
although they kill and
main the innocent.

But we cannot declaim
the sect in words forbid
by that same book which
motivates the murderers...
© 30 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Hooray

A pompous donkey – fine
evocative taxonomy you
should agree, although
pomposity won’t gel that
well with ‘ass-like’ (or is
it ‘asinine’?) activity.
For mine I’d rather see a
closer fit – one that trips
with pure hilarity.

Bluefoot Boobie knits as
consummate in clumsiness,
but may not favour rank and
raw stupidity – nor match that
bit which hangs unsheathed
for all to see. Thus dickless
he is not. But what a play
on words..., a shame we’ve
got to find a better name.

Let’s call him ‘ray! Who – ‘ray?
you’ll say when someone asks
his name. Now let your fertile
brain invent a swathe of hints
on how to raise a ribald laugh
in any vulgar way you can.
But best of all is what you’ll say
the moment that he goes away.
Oh Lah, you’ll say. Hip, Hip, Hooray!
© 30 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Gourmet Baked Beans (sequel)

Baked beans, you say, not this
overrated dish – I wish you’d
listen carefully. I’m no gourmet
seeking flavours which infuse the
senses heightened, brightening
a common plate. I only wanted
beans the way they are in cans.

I am ashamed. I failed again to
understand your simple needs –
seduced by thoughts which hold
that cooking is a therapy. While
you accept it as right to exercise
on any night, you might relent
and spare a thought for me!

Baked beans are more the vogue
than merely opening a can! I saw
an opportunity to plan a meal with
love beyond a twist of wrist. Sauté
a bit of bacon chopped, tomato,
basil, garlic, chilli ground to paste –
add baked beans & soured cream.

Toast took extra time to make...
© 1 April 2008, I. D. Carswell

Gourmet Baked Beans

Affected by it?
Surely you are kidding!
Monsieur Sang Froid
personified
that’s me, the bloke
who’d rather
flagellate
publically
than show his sentiment.

But look,
I loved the levity,
and hey, a joke’s
a jolly joke,
okay?
So have your
laugh and leave.

Don’t be deceived
or try and say in words
those things you’ll never
comprehend. I’m me,
the author of the lie –
the reason that I wrote
the piece is proved again,
it doesn’t matter why.

It says as clearly as one can,
in simple words –
gourmet baked beans,
and you are fools
who’ll
never
really
under-
stand!
© 29 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Sunburn

That day in the sun
never ended – stays
etched in memory
precociously intact,
gilded strands kept
under lock and key.

Blue forever stands
sentry where sand
spilled innocent from
pockets shallow filled,
the sea sings soft melodies,
waves a-shush with sleep...
© 30 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Voluptuary

A gift of rich olfactory sense does not
concede to lesser brains, tho’ touch &
eye’s caress refrain accords to scents
intense expressions of munificence.

To taste and hear the depth & breadth
of you is nature’s food in savours awe,
fare for reverent voluptuaries, a pure
assemblage blessed in flavours true.

Dine upon this silkiness of lightly salted
limbs imbued with sultry smile, plumb
in luscious lips imbibing sweetest liquors
dipped in honey dew, hear in lilting tones

the fragile moans crescendo in delight of
rhythms huge, ply lubricious offerings in
chords composing fugues to orchestrate
exotic heights – unique each time anew.

Why seek beyond a bearded smile which
swallows solitude? Be drawn within a
sanctum viewed with eyes closed tight,
denied the reach in thighs of night.

No guile alone will breach rigidity or ease
obliqueness of intent, you’re meant to be
a slave to bushes burnt and blushes bright;
I say to you slow down – enjoy your plight.
© 29 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Charade

Ok,
it’s not
working so
magnificently,
reality tastes worse
than a dose of medicine
placed in a mouth used to
sweets. So let’s play charades.
All you do is pretend you’re
somebody I really think
I like and I pretend
I adore you
and
I
fall
in love,
or act as if I
did. So we go get
married and then one
day you wake up and say
– but I was only pretending!
I’ll pretend I didn’t hear.
You’ll say it’s for real
and get angry but
it won’t matter
because it’s
just a cha-
rad-
e.
© 28 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Denouement

It never was a dream.
In reality a fleeting
hint of song perhaps,
carried on a passing breeze,
remembered if it pleased
whoever stopped and listened
carefully – then gone, and all within
the moment it was born,
or so it seemed.

I feel its lucent harmony when
time abides its strident march,
it hangs in disconnected strands of
memory, poignantly connects
the parts no longer joined
fills the gaps between a past
I never left or ever asked
recalled with stark
and utter clarity.

It’s not a dream. I’ve dreamed
occasionally of things which make
an entertaining feast of wonderment;
this piece rejects temporal energy,
exists in unrelated shards without
paternity of thought until
it’s brought to mind in
clear cathartic
sweetest denouement...
© 28 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Dependence

Hearing her say she wanted to move
into a hospital where there was total
care made sense, explained her fears
and left little room for debate. As far
as she was concerned it was too late
to relearn to use useless legs. I hate
being semi-dependent she said. With
clear and precise logic she articulated
herself into that place the social order
feared was her last choice. You know,
we said hesitantly, you’re better off
here. This is your space. If things don’t
work out – well, then we think again.
You’re dears, she said, but if things
had – I wouldn’t be here.
© 27 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Convenience

Hey,
when you walk all
over me, wipe your feet!
Boot prints aren’t discrete
messages; everyone can
see where heels and toe
impressions do not match.

I’m lying there observing
destiny – the place where
earth and sky conceive in
light – but you demur,
take the shortest route
you see from front
to back.

If you’re aware you’d try
to be a consequence, not
an act of jeopardy –
I will not alter that. You
could not see your fate
wore boots and walked
across my easy back.
© 27 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Conceit

You can call it conceit; I’ll call it a fact.
The simple truth is that winemakers in
France hate us – passionately. It is the
way they do most things. But passion
won’t allay fears for no good reason.

It is also true French viniferous heroes
jeer at Australian wine, sneering down
aquiline noses arrogantly while choking
on statistics saying France’s wine industry
has had its day. The bulk of it anyway.

The best French wine is still the best, at
least they can rest easy on that, but the
rest is gutrot with few redeeming graces.
They drink it out of patriotic fervour and
swallow down making doleful faces.

Here, where history is only 200 years
in making, we’re creating grand styles
wearing signatures of soil types and sun
blessed flavours the French don’t want
to understand. One has to ask – why?

Ask the Poms, I say. Or the French wine
making companies who relocated here.
Or ask the Kiwis who’ve eased into space
reserved for the best sauvignon blanc
and pinot noir, egging French faces.

They just don’t get it. Nor will they in a
hundred years. Reputations of a few
duly earned and truly great wines won’t
placate or repair a Nation’s conscience
based on commensurate conceit...
© 27 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

From: Campbell Mattinson’s
“Why The French Hate Us”
The real story of Australian Wine
Hardie Grant Books 2007

Cafeteria

Before dismissing me again my friends
heed these simple words of greeting; today
we’re meeting in Life’s Cafeteria
as Robert Howard would say, and right
or wrong we join a queue with tray in hand.

Now where you stand disposes you to see
the menu as sustainable or just
a dream – the little plates are plentiful
and seem to offer everything you need
to lead poetic life. So many plates,
a little tray and hunger burns aright.

A little tray cannot contain the choice
of Kings, the offerings are meagre fare –
to say the very least it’s not a feast!
and yet you sing your praises loudly where
the queue meanders past the bain-marie.

It’s there I learn the meaning of your praise –
the bouillabaisse is hardly touched at all,
you’re thankful someone left a slice of pie,
a chunk of bread you recognise as rye,
dessert of crème brûlée in ramekins.

This Cafeteria is Life for some
despite their wisdom telling commonsense
to take a hike. And in that light I’ll leave
you to your piece of pie and crème brûlée...
© 26 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Robert Charles Howard made the connection
in his poem “Life Is A Cafeteria” – I’m merely
joining the queue!

Self-Interest

You better get used to it, Modern
China hasn’t changed enough to
make it a safe Games visit. Yes, you
can still make those mega millions
investing without risking a cl of O+
blood – Chinese bleeders are much
the same; but the rules which apply
mean little to any other rationality.

You want to test how far Democracy
has evolved? Forget it. Leadership is
estranged – pay a large sum to have
Tibetan’s test it for you & see how the
Chinese could sustain a substantial
military presence in Afghanistan or
Iraq easily, and in so doing join the
free World in an expression of unity.

But guess why they stay home and
suppress what they call ethnic unrest?
Maybe they don’t want to be part of
today's World community. When you can
set standards for consumer demands
without leaving the Fortress, why on
earth would you plan being nice to
anyone but your own Treasury?
© 26 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Mind Games

Things change day by
day; you say the process
is real – but the only
deal is pauses
in sequencing.

In states of recycling
you know what
comes and goes;
I merely go
with the flow.

Emotions outpourings
wash over me,
pleasantly feeding,
a service I notice at
first on it ceasing.

Today you’re not speaking,
I know it has meaning –
simply not hearing
says words which
are missing.

I agree my complicity
is less than appealing
but I authored neither
the rules nor
the play.
© 25 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Redemption

Call them thieves of energy or
coin another phrase – the days
of patriotic consumption by
energy heroes as household
names is past. It isn’t a time
for bandying semantics or
leisurely debate, the game’s
over – we’re too late to avoid a
crime 200 years in the making.

It isn’t simple where we place the
blame, but believe this before you
seek scapegoats; we’re going to
wear this equally. No matter where
you wreak your wrathful vengeance –
in the breaking is the making of new
friends and greater enemies.
Tho’ alas, it matters not;
you won’t be there...
© 25 March 2008, I. D. Carswell

Parody

Confined to the
biodynamic composter
of human waste is my fate –
slipping off the slippery slope
of ho-hum popularity,
sliding into oblivion.

Somewhere
I read a satirical review
given to flowery phrases
placed in apposition –
a mood moderne
in art-deco raiment.

Hey, I say,
recognising it,
that’s me you’ve parodied
– you bastards!
So, where’s
my by-line?
© 24 March 2008, I. D. Carswell