This Reality

I am not blind
but I see nothing
about you that
I recognise

Features wear the
same familiar smile
when freed
of its veneer

But there is no
passage of intimacy
no bonding with
the past

It is where I
languish in words
said with passion
lost for meaning

Your care-worn
eyes stare distant
toughened by
this reality
© 27 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Okay, Good Neighbours

Faced with a choice of
either ‘good neighbourship’
or scrupulous honesty I
admit I will fail
I always thought they were
states of mutual exclusivity
in an hierarchy of untenable
confluence
My neighbour, portrayed as
a shiftless lowlife actually fits
the ascription with uncanny
accuracy – but doesn’t wait
for gratuitous greetings,
gestures of goodwill or even
time of the day from me
– and doesn’t get them
but I respect his not setting
expectations and continuing
to be my neighbour without
actually being good at it
Others claim friendship, invite
reciprocal behaviours beyond
the reach of my nobility but
fail a scrupulous honesty test
They set standards, make
judgements day by day which
define good neighbours – but
do not live next to them
© 22 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Platonic Glory

Impassioned
accusations come
short-breathed though
clinically reasoned;
where does worthy
praise arise?

If self-esteem fails
idiosyncratic trade
of give-and-take
homilies saves lives.
But not uneasily
disguised as praise!

Addendums of
oddly loquacious
circumlocution say,
‘Hey, look at me! See
my worthiness – and oh,
take a bow yourself...’

It is an unavoidably
obvious consideration –
but do you see disparity
between what I say and
what I might really
mean?

Moot point I guess,
it eases self-serving
pursuit of iconic dreams
where platonic glory
and adulation savour
much less...
© 22 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

No Substitute

Food eaten on the maimed edge
of fragility; cold, sacramental
offerings seven days delayed

prepared with pizzazz in joy 
for buoyant flavours blending
pure epicurean suspense 

greeted impassively – barely 
praised and not enjoyed on this
grey-tinged maleficent day

there is no savour for 
emotional malnourishment no
sustenance for emptiness
© 21 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Her Covenant

To stay away so long
implies a vagrancy of pain
surmised, an ache that still
legitimates concupiscence; feelings
have a way to tell the truth
without a weighted guise.

If you were truly free my love
my presence couldn’t harbour ill
or lie in structured self-defence
whereas the lengths you take
avoiding me denies what is
proclaimed by commonsense.

Believing time will break
the spell of forty years belies
whose spell it was and why it
shakes you well – yours is the
magic still enchanting me
and keeping me in thrall.

Perhaps a rediscovery of
selves we left behind to grieve
can light a way to your return – or
pave a wider path between the
selves estranged; narrowness
of this estate is shamed.

I’ll wait another forty years
if needs, the ache’s relief a
telling compliment – no surrogate
placates a heart and soul
enslaved to She who made
herself a Covenant.
© 20 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Slave Views

A solitary existence should mean less
time is wasted – there’s no confusion
created by mixed messages or intent
of believed hidden agendas. Or so it
would seem; could misunderstanding
originate on only your reflection? 

Yet a clever idea’s inception gives birth
to delusion; not the progenitor’s per se,
just wry recognition of canny insight
seemingly accompanied by counterfeit
patents of originator propriety. So –
who’s going to do the work then? 

It is a garrulous voice spaced between
a healthy vision and what is now a hard
place; when the euphoria fades reality’s
where slave views know no conciliation –
Like its your idea, you want it done your 
way regardless - so why look at me?
© 20 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

In Fatuous Praise

Trading bits of bullshit
may well fill your day
you’ll play the game
with energy renewed
quite satisfied you’ll
make a merry mark

but hark at humours
ring along the way –
of barfing marks in
piles quite evident, of
rumours disabusing
friendly fantasies

Rhymester you may
want to be but lyricist
as yet you’re not and
poet – well, whatever,
but you’ve got a way
to go to get to there

In trading platitudes of
grandiose and artless
praise for crap you’ve
made a case defacing
your implied integrity –
you never get it back
© 19 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

The Bell Rang Clarity

On the brighter side
there’s a guarantee
mediocrity isn’t patented

‘tho creative ideas claims
to graceful innocence and
fame weigh awkwardly

in believing there is only
you and no-one understands
except through words –

you could ask would there
be a more disabling phase
to live through again

learning exclusivity takes
years of classroom faith yet
you survive on the evidence

they are still alive out there
revelling in stale figments
of playground imagination

and you are saved by the
bell that rang clarity – called
you in from the play
© 19 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Constrained

You may have left
but never gone – it seems
much more than less
the case; in scary ways
your prescience still
lingers strong

It has repaid an
onus earned through
suffering – a presence
best explained in
terms of agonies
suppressed

I cannot find a way
to easing angst lest
matters thus disgrace
and dare not use a brush
to flense away the
precious dust

Some solace sings
as suffering adjusts
a captive view – I know
I’m meant to be
constrained by
memories of you
© 18 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Confusion

Abed the possibilities that disabuse
conspire to swindle me; should I arise
to find confusion reigns I’ll know
its yesterday – which
rings a mote of truth

And yet in notes of clarity
with random roots as deep ingrained
as incredulity there is a chance
it may, if I could open eyes preferring
saner company, become today

A safer bet would be a place
somewhere between; a sanctuary
with views both ways for me to borrow
somewhat chaste relief – and yet
abstain from claiming its tomorrow
© 18 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Admission

Is this reek of boredom or
the stink of backed-up dishes
awaiting a pang of conscience?

The sink has no claim on it more
than a bucket & mop in need
of a soiled floor. I see them daily
aware it may get out of hand
but I too am victim.

A year’s delusion is the
consequence of keeping things
unchanged – it had to be this
or my ashamed admission.

‘Tho assuaged in pristine
continuity it pays a leery
bonus in despair. Absence
merely maketh hearts grow
heavier.

Now if I did admit you’re gone
would anything have changed?
© 17 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Storm

At least some comfort was expressed in
distant thunder; overhead the rumbles
stir discordancy as hollow sonic booms
that race across a greying firmament.
And then a flash which strikes with white
deceit and rips the ozone from the air.

It is no wonder why the power supply
has failed – there is an anarchy afoot
in ruthless acts of static fury one can
see as well as hear, there it strikes
actinically upon a solitary tower a
mere 400 yards away from here.

My safety would be feared were I naïve
to this display, the thunder in my ears
reserving energy replayed from times
of war; I am assured an enemy would
compliment my feelings rather more
than I would gladly give to be afraid.

The thunder rumbles distantly off out
to sea; the closure of the show begins
in dimming lights and voices awed
relaying words of comfort querying – 
In growing quiet I will begin resetting
clocks and timers for the night.
© 16 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Benson’s Got It Made

Me mate Benson sez 
they’re not fleas just
anxieties translated
by a bunch a sissies
whose Worldly views
are pretty dumb 

Now while Benson’s
never been further
than 30k from his
birth place – what
he says makes an
awful lot of sense 

It’s not too difficult to
rationalise; you’re still
trading adages you’ve
played for bucks since
Adam was a lamb and
yet we’re all stuffed 

But Benson’s got it
made – we’re far too
easily the bait for what
we think, fleas replace
anxieties we treat and
yet they never go away 

I live with fleas as my
reality he says, the thing
is you’re too traumatised
by what you think you
missed or never knew
instead of facing facts 

They’re not fleas in any
way unless you scratch
‘em Benson sez – and
then you have to use
hind paws or teeth
which you don’t have.
© 15 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Late Great

that was the last late great
whatever the Hell it was
I had to contemplate today
and I’m glad it’s done

like making a commitment to stay
silent when all Hell breaks loose
and you’re sure everyone’s
having fun except you

– and even if you were
you’d likely be doing it
insufferably, probably
because it suits

which is what the
last late great consideration
was all about anyway – and you still
don’t have a clue
© 14 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Paid In Full

 
think wickedly she says and claim
your wayward wages with delight
I’ll be your sensual slave in ways
that might appeal – supply a
greediness to match and beat you
could you sate a lusty fete that
preys upon a wantonness in me

for peace of me engage your sage-
like lave in aching nooks and
crannies just to please, I need your
breath blow sweet and hot with
raw inflated scent, hear urgency
compete for breath’s entanglement,
heed energies untamed belatedly

I need your length and breadth of
firmness checked and balanced by
a measured rhythm tightly paced;
this fluid madness oozing dreams
lascivious and swelling urges takes
me where I bloom and break into
a rash of shrieking shamelessness

come die for me and live again with
ecstasy of misted eyes – breathe
fabled words you conquered me in
need, a famished soul with appetite
expunged by your capacity, plunged
and spent of fiery liquors with intent
and paid in full without apostasy
© 14 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Gum Tree Nobility

Kookaburra sits in
an old gum tree with
the means to maybe a
few lazy millions through
a fortuitous flute riff

There is no shame arguing
Gum Tree Nobility paid
Down Under and Men At Work
a heady compliment
with much deserved 

World-wide acclaim
and we bathed in the
glow of it – not just its
folk-legend notoriety
but a witty, highly
original song with a
great, catchy tune

Until Federal Court
judge Peter Jacobson
disagreed

He says the flute riff shares
the same few bars as those
from a ‘Kookaburra sits’
written by Marion Sinclair
back in 1932 – undeniably
true but she only wrote words
to the music of a Welsh folk song 

"A Ei Di'r 'Deryn Du"
Larrikin Music who owns
‘Kookaburra’ copyright ignores
all that and claims unpaid royalties
with avariciousness out of character
with the old Kookaburra
considering it’s a bloody
Welsh tune anyway
© 14 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Men At Work Down Under Lyrics
Songwriters: Ron Strykert, Colin Hay
Traveling in a fried-out combie
On a hippie trail, head full of zombie
I met a strange lady, she made me nervous
She took me in and gave me breakfast
And she said,
"Do you come from a land down under?
Where women glow and men plunder?
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover."
Buying bread from a man in Brussels
He was six-foot-four and full of muscles
I said, "Do you speak-a my language?"
He just smiled and gave me a vegemite sandwich
And he said,
"I come from a land down under
Where beer does flow and men chunder
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover."
Lyin' in a den in Bombay
With a slack jaw, and not much to say
I said to the man, "Are you trying to tempt me
Because I come from the land of plenty?"
And he said,
"Do you come from a land down under?
Where women glow and men plunder?
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover."
Yeah!
Living in a land down under
Where women glow and men plunder
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover!
Living in a land down under
Where women glow and men plunder
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover!

Kookaburra
Written By: Marion Sinclair
Copyright © Larrikin Music Publishing Pty Ltd.
International Copyright Secured.
All Rights Reserved.
Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree
Merry, merry king of the bush is he
Laugh, Kookaburra! Laugh, Kookaburra!
Gay your life must be
Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree
Eating all the gum drops he can see
Stop, Kookaburra! Stop, Kookaburra!
Leave some there for me
Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree
Counting all the monkeys he can see
Stop, Kookaburra! Stop, Kookaburra!
That's not a monkey that's me
Kookaburra sits on a rusty nail
Gets a boo-boo in his tail
Cry, Kookaburra! Cry, kookaburra!
Oh how life can be

If Words Rhyme

An ‘almost’ decision in this instance is
as full and as final as the real thing;
fast as my fingers can type it I’m into
agreeing something’s there – if I can
stop being too corporeal to see it.

You’d say six shots of vodka from the
freezer at midday normally wouldn’t give
clarity but I’m making pizza while midst
decision – and who’s to say inspiration
isn’t pending public recognition?

I’m not a nuisance as my social graces
affirm and there is no liability extant –
except for decadent traits too passé even
for my own taste but pizza explains it isn’t
malignant or particularly unsavoury.

This is an expression of where I’d like
to be if someone comes to eat; like
saying this is me at midday today – in
the middle of a decision. I agree you
shouldn’t really care if words rhyme.
© 13 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Orchard Weeds

there’s no denying
loving you produces
agonies – where We could
easily defuse the growth of
Orchard weeds I find that
I’m not able to alone

Things still done the same
with sprays applied as if
you’d aimed the wand
within my hand – but
silence steers a course
too far estranged

Without your presence
here the task becomes
a senseless chore
demanding more of me
than I can give and
still be sure

Too many things to do
in keeping eyes appraised
and hands aligned – the
cone of spray adjusted
to the speed I move
avoiding trees

Anathema to think like
this before you left me
on my tragic own – certainty
collapses in the face of me
which visions of the We
we were too easily disowns
© 12 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Poetic Messages

if it pours out ceaselessly
you’re likely freed of
what you couldn’t
safely keep contained

a homily which brightly
says ‘better out than in’
explains your rogue impasse
in purely personal terms

and ‘getting rid of’ it is
closer to reality we mostly
shun for fear of shameful
compromise – but that

isn’t to say there’s no
message inherent in a
seemly pile of heave
beyond its fluent delivery
© 12 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Mossies

they bite to survive
there’s no finesse
you exhale CO2 and they’ll
find your flesh in thousands

repellents work a bit but
the pests perversely
zero in on the
stink of it

and then buzz agitated
insanely ravenous until
hunger drives them to
the wall and suicide

sheer numbers produce
efficacies which defy our
reasoning but think of it,
we’re not the species they’d
choose first anyway
© 11 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

The Damn Difference

no amount of perspicacity will
liberate the guilt clinging; three
hours of time-wasting runs a
course leaving fewer options
than complete admission to an
abject lack of motivation – or
release by plea of insanity

you can hear machines in the
fields denying claims it is too
wet to work – since the rain
ceased yesterday its an excuse
you mollify by wrapping in an
implacable sheathe of obdurate
Churchillian defined authority

not doing anything because it
is your choice and you are at
least capable of it says nothing
about wisdom going to waste;
and there, you say, is the nub
of it – but I’m too smart to
know the damn difference
© 11 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Rot Of Anarchy

it grows more
fractious day by day
patience is a waste
for reasons I
cannot explain

I now see things
you’d rectify or ask
of me – effects I’d
never seen before
the change

cobwebs spread
and dust affects in
ceaseless gathering
plants despair in pots
aggrieved

where your signature
is writ a test begins
on unanimity
once always
sure in you

inadequate to cure
the status quo
without your counselling
I cannot stem this
rot of anarchy
© 10 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Nearly

almost made it
that is nearly succeeded
tidying the mess where I write

it is an ordered chaos
I know what is there like
a window in my mind

those are not loose papers
trailing but ideas in free-form
with connecting loops

nothing I haven’t seen yet
exists and this is subtlety
awaiting good judgment

it lies there in innocence
the core of it is where one
files findings yet to be agreed
© 9 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Wet Sunday

a shaker of margaritas sipped
slow after a whimpered Sunday’s
soaking no pain evident yet he
says to the swathe of damp
clothes hanging – grins at
Saturday’s sanguine effigy
how bloody little you knew he
muses – like anyone can read
weather maps but you when
we could have philosophically
stayed in bed listening to the
rain instead of being in it
I suppose the cockatoos got a
laugh – but today even they
were less vociferous which had
me thinking maybe they suffered
too and that made up for a
damp and dismal ending
© 8 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

In-Between

you caught me in-between
those things I didn’t start
and a few
that simply got away

the dozen red ensconced 
on dining table doesn’t 
mean commencement of 
a monumental drunk 

it’s rather the intent
to read each label
carefully before they're
neatly laid to rest but 

somewhere between a
sandwich planned for lunch
& need to bake tomorrow’s
bread - plus a made-to-order 

espresso elite - events 
went off-beam; I should 
explain I do not see these 
things as jobs to do as such 

but mood effects
which gladly seize the day;
and yes those are Xmas cards
maybe two (or three or four) 

year’s worth – 
they kept 
arriving as it were
out of the blue...
© 8 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

A Sense Of Worth

Barely concealing emotion and tentative as
if mutely accusing me of complicity she asks 
if I had seen her little dog. I’ve known her all 
her eleven years; while she displays at times 
an artifice beyond her age I knew that this 
was tender-raw and real. 

Grudgingly explained of 6 dogs disabusing
inept ‘trainers’ at home it's a tan and white
Jack Russell male, cheeky nature, disposed
to truculence. I agreed I had; a week ago he
came into the back yard, sniffed and peed
assertively on flowers then ran away. 

Missing since morning, looked everywhere
she said. The pout and rising lilt suggests a
sentiment suppressed by doubt concerning
my veracity. If I did - I’d let her know - I say 
sincere, unless he went near chooks who 
survived the last calamitous event. 

Her plucky innocence conspired to make 
me sad. This dog was raised in anarchy, a
barefaced terrorist, untrained or leashed or 
made obey commands. If there was to be 
a grim prognosis then for sure, for both of 
them, it would be bad. 

Tho' guiltless of the act my view protected 

her and stays my rectitude; she'll never see 

her dog again or know its fate. Blameless in 

herself by flaws of parenting too skewed to 

bare one's sense of worth to ugly truth. 

© 8 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Market In The Rain

Bob’s view was we couldn’t run 
away, rain didn’t demand unilateral
surrender; we were men-at-arms
used at least to deprivation and
where was impending danger?

Didn’t stop the weak and gutless
leaving but not many came. The
wimps parade to exits gave us
strength in a belief that we were
made of steely sterner stuff.

We fooled no-one but us I had to
say; in pouring rain who came to
buy our goods? True undeniably
it was, and if it ever stopped or
eased we’d likely get to see.

In the event it didn’t and I packed
to leave; I know he envied me but
stayed to sell his dragon fruit. The
pilgrims earned his doggedness he
said by being resolute.
© 7 February 2010, I. D. Carswell

Nowhere To Run

I had wanted to say scathing words
about ideology germane to female
genital mutilation; I could not see
justification pertains for an act only
inimitable as barbarous. In diffuse
debate I learned how little I knew.

If preservation of innocence is taken
to extremes there are ways I couldn’t
dream to perpetuate that blissful
state; clitoridectomy is just one which
screams the loudest distaste to my
hormonally challenged ears.

I did the reading, looked up diagrams
saw pictures of unsightly scarring too
horrendous to accept as imperatives
of racially deemed social distinction.
Innocence isn’t preserved by cutting
pre-pubescents’ non-consenting flesh.

I rested my case. Then in an easy
afternoon I learned of circumcision and
a host of procedures utilised to raise
breasts and reduce wrinkles including
genital modification not too dissimilar.
And there was nowhere to run...
© 6 February 2010, I. D. Carswell