Out On Bail

Malcolm (The New Messiah) Turnbull
disavows his Merchant Banking days
made him a thief; ok, let’s say amoral
bandit then, pressed into self-service
for immediate relief, but those days are
done, the enemy now runs to errant
maladministers of government.

He ducks and weaves his past while
confidants and icons of those years are
tarred by reputations justly shared –
yet he jeers at efforts to abate a credit
squeeze as useless and naïve in view
of $US700 billion reasons to support
a very shaky status quo.

Question: who can we afford and who
must we believe? Can he chastely wear
the disapprobrium deserved by greedy
banks who led this merry chase? Recall,
he’s tainted by its taste – and though
he wears in innocence a comely veil
I’d say it’s he who’s out on bail.
© 25 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Spammed And Phished

being spammed, phished, solicited indeed
inures me so my sense of right and wrong
is strongly skewed – I’m wandering nude
thru email land as if consensus paradise
filtered tight by grand design. If ecstasy
is truth then fond belief’s a chronic World
of parasites & fleas in-filled with fattened
idiots to feed upon rapaciously.

I’ve had a change of heart & tell you true
fools and gold will only part by chance – 
unless you’ve lost your mind; so please
appease me, gratify your sense of Grande
Largesse with access details & full amounts
of all your bank accts returned by this email!
© 13 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Liberally Cleansed

While I don’t want to wake
with the same despair
there’s less than two sips
shy of a consensus here;
you drink your Perrier –
I’ll stay with The Glenlivet!

The hushing sound you hear
is the rain – I won’t be
needing another drink;
I am bathed inside and out
with the same pure waters,
liberally cleansed...
© 14 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Joining

hey, I’m new (...to this shit)
what’s the deal with
compliments?

don’t get me wrong, had ‘em before
(alright, implied...)
blew it, returned favours too eagerly –

rumour has it I told all the
wrong people
they were cool

then this well-meaning dude
explained patiently; nah, 
you don’t do it that way!

you wait for the
right people
invite you join and then you play it sweet

okay, so I’m waiting,
dubiously; WTF’s
this site like anyway – Facebook?
© 15 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

DUKW

Its hulk stood by inviting second glances
lightened in benevolence. A backyard toy I
never took the time to understand before –
back then a million thoughts had right of way
where only now a lonely few still stand the
day; a DUKW (pronounced – ‘duck’) built by
GMC and dressed in rust and olive green. 

Until today I wondered what it meant.
D proclaimed vehicle designed in 1941, U, a
utility (amphibious), K, all-wheel drive & W,
two powered rear axles. Went riding in the bay
$2 a trip – the kids who climbed aboard on sand
and sailed a shimmered sea were soldiers all
and brave as little innocents could only be.
© 15 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Last Night’s Dishes

little
fleeting
intimations of despair –
grimaces that chill in frigid breath
of winter ice-spawned
shivers brief

how hard is it to put
those things away?

last night’s dishes

okay – out-of-character remnants
yesterday’s lethargy
late late TV shows
long sleep-ins
– or are they?

don’t be drawn in –
leave them be...!
© 16 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Liberal Shenanigans

Boondoggle Boy is back – grazie mille from
Wentworth(ville) scorched in on a blinder
to sack ol’ pastry face as Liberal leader. Let
me say I’m pleased Malcolm Turnbull got
the nod and Dr Brendon Nelson the slap.

Remains to be seen how the new chap will
help Liberals regain pace – way behind in
the race thru droll dawdling and Parkinson’s
disease, stymied in popularity stakes; for
Malcolm’s sake we await new polls eagerly.

Punt up Joe Hockey, I’d say he’s worth a burst
of the finest invective to serve a new-look regime,
bury Abbott in the same plot as the (never-ran)
Costello, wipe the bloody slate clean with Julie
Bishop; hey, let’s have at it for real fun again!
© 16 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

 

Nobody’s Fool (but his own)

Robert Mugabe’s nobody’s fool –
but there the judgment ends
his fractured rhetoric is drooled
so constantly it wends a crooked
mile in fear that’s freed to bear
immodest marks on baited souls
victimised by farce – which he
alone did author, grieve and
unfortunately – still outlasts

it’s not too late to beat a warrior’s
retreat with honour and respect
intact; but the old snake lies curled
in shock and disbelief praying for
the last telling chance to strike a
craven blow & bring delusion to its
knees; please, he’s mad as a hatter,
its way past time ZANU cut him free

were I Morgan Tsangaris there’d
be no easy sleep if Robert freely
roams his manic paths delusory
© 17 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Heat Of The Hunt (rev)

blood-rich heat of the
hunt hunches down deep
beneath rank bowels
of bare bones belief

naive instinct steers in
instance-sensed challenges –
seeks reflex scent of fear
of quarries’ piss-release

sniffs air – avid eyes peer
in greedy need for flesh
rent and blood spilled by
rending teeth – for howl

and cheer of the kill
where corpse lies bent
beneath – where evolution
begins and ends
© 21 August 2007, I.D. Carswell

How Utterly You Beguile (rev)

oh so familiar the smile
on your face – it is no surprise
your lips narrate a fulsomeness
which radiates from graceful
ardent eyes

there is no space for angst or
cracking discontent, your smile
was meant for mending fences
where raw anger rendered
saddened states of disrepair

again I am consumed with it,
a love attuned to it, the air of
and the wear of it etched
unrepentantly in the sheer
magnanimity of you

how utterly you beguile!
© 17 January 2007, I. D. Carswell

The Next Phase

wallet filled with Spartan
charity and remand school
gifts – a head of perplexity
it’s as good as it gets when
we begin the next phase

life should be easy as a
pocketful of promises in
a warm Spring – less said
of character for one thing
too many expectations

being content is the aim
what else placates a full
bellied gratification and
a dry place to sleep with
magnificent dreams

‘tho it seems too much
to take if you aren’t there –
all things become trivial
without the unstinting
patronage of your being
© 12 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

The Same, Unrelenting Radiation (rev)

The heat creeps on you
stealing your sweat
feeding the beads that form
in nooks and crannies you
forget when the cool stills
your brow.

Now in the cruel haze of
a merciless sun the same
crevices run rivers and
your breath creaks through
scaled lips reeking of day-old
body odours aching eyes
shrink to pin-pricks of
painfully perceived light.

No respite in close of day
night brings more of the same
unrelenting radiation while we
vibrate to a slow mournful
resonance – watching our
body fluids boil away.
© 1 January 2007, I.D. Carswell

Whose Truth

am I old enough?
honestly I don’t know
truth to me is an
inescapable succession
of facts

I don’t have to like it
may not want it to be true
but
the facts
remain

if whatever else I believe
is under attack
I am not ameliorated a bit
by being older
– and that sucks...
© 12 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

A Serious Cluck Impediment (rev)

“Puck”, she says, “puck”; it is as
close as she can get to articulating
“cluck”. At least I take it that way –
in an amused appreciation rather than
ominous and obvious connotation
that I have a young, Sussex hen
with a serious cluck impediment.

A charmer she is, hunched at hatch
but now an elegant hen with clearly
defined black and white markings of
her handsome kin, making her winsome
way in the pen with outrageous one-liners;
‘Puck’ means a lot to me but I’ve
relented and named her ‘Hunch’.

I await the day she claims centre stage
with a pealing acclamation on her first
egg; I know it won’t have the musical
qualities of her peers but I am sure she
will surprise. Hunch is practising, put
together four “pucks” this morning in the
most complete speech I’ve ever heard
her make.
© 19 April 2007, I.D. Carswell

A Monument In Words (rev)

And so I had a glaring revelation, I couldn’t find the
poet in the man although I read his life composed by
writers true disposed to tell it with veracity. They
built a monument in words and deeds, a shrine of
writers’ reeds inlaid with fine  and proper quotes.
Those motes were hardly real; I couldn’t find the poet
in the man they wrote, but when I found alone the man
within the Poet reading from his poetry I was replete.

Perhaps they can’t compete those dry and dusty
counters of the grains of sand, there’s more evoked
within a ball of dimpled clay on any day a sculptor
lends his hands to shape a face; I’m pleased to read
the poet rather than the man and will not place my
future faith in such abstruse ingrained scatology.
© 2007, I.D. Carswell

A Haven In A Craven World (rev)

Give to me your children he beseeched, I
cannot save your souls of the disease that
anchors you to paths astray – I’ve tried to
teach the error of your ways and failed.
Your children I can save as innocents in
reach of true salvation; let me take them
to a safer place. And where would be a
sanctuary with guarantees the sceptics

asked, a haven in a craven World – whom
do you admit you answer to with licence
to prevaricate? Not the same pontificate?
Why yes indeed, there is but one, he says.
You’ll see reflections of his face in all the
children’s smiles come Christmas day.
© 23 December 2007, I. D. Carswell

Dawn

crows call starkly in
the gathering light as
dawn blushes before
today’s mirror – a
pure white goose
on the dam floats
quiet – will she fly
or will she stay ...
© 11 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Plea To Demand

Well, it WAS ‘The Australian’ – that may well explain
why ‘plea’ became ‘demand’ in the article’s first line

a loose coalition of media organisations
made a plea seeking interpretative guarantees
to ease the potential impact of Queensland’s
severe media laws

it seems refusal to answer any CMC* query
during a Queensland commission hearing
has the potential to carry a maximum
sentence of twelve months jail

Right to Know (the media coalition’s name),
headed by News Limited (yes, it’s the same
‘limited news’ crew again) sought dispensations
to avoid any prospect of incarceration

if potential exists for charges to be brought
they ‘demand’ exemption from sentencing
through a tacit journalistic privilege of
non-disclosure of news source

how ironic - they’ve been foisting their
versions of spurious and/or blatantly biased
news reports forever anyway – are they
now afraid they’ll be caught out of hand?
© 10 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

*CMC: Crime and Misconduct Commission

Rites Of Spring (and virgin poetry)(rev)

This older poet sits astride a mound of
ringing compliments – a monument in
passive style, a massive pile of eager
words derived from easy, simple scenes

discretely varied verse to verse, pastoral
hearse of poetry in royal carriage themes
with flowers that burst in gaudy showers
of gleaming gossamer, flesh for eyes,

take sinuses by wild surprise, blur senses
openness with stunning wealth, a trance-
like feat polite of stalker’s feline stealth,
---and leave the reader short of breath.

She’s good; a legendary way with words
is still alive today, though she rarely writes
per se her thoughts are free, scattered in
the rites of spring and virgin poetry.
© 2007, I.D. Carswell

The Same Embrace (rev)

We talked by phone with family last night,
not mine or yours specifically but ours, the ones
who’re overseas, the ones we love familiarly.

When little Jake (though not so little now) was heard
to say, “G’bye, I gotta go,” our hearts were breaking;
he’ll always be our baby too – as each of you

are children of our spirit-making, each of you
are keenly sought and brought to mind and
claimed within the same embrace.

We heard the families depart, the handsome faces
animate, alive with energy and radiating charm,
banter racing at a frantic pace.

We could surmise the subtle smiles on parents’ faces,
smiles disguised in patient parents’ graces checked
and balanced, saintly satisfaction chaste

forbearance ushered to the fore, the conversations
at the door, the knowing though you’re going you’ll
be seeing all again real soon.

For now we’re happy just to share that joy with you,
relaxed, fulfilled and tethered sweet by bonds which
make the same embrace within the arms of family.
© 2006, I.D. Carswell

Abandoned, But Not Alone (rev)

Abandoned, but not alone
in a carnival kaleidoscope
where the beat goes on – sure
and steady with rhythms strong
tho’ the dance is not the same.

Abandoned in a frame
of fractal shapes unfolding
fern-like fronds debasing the rigid plan
of our sometimes strained but
still amiable relationship.

Abandoned by the ways
this late growth has gained
credence, taking precedence
over the ambient years of
benign, untutored friendship.

Abandoned, but not alone
with my memories – where you
remain a flower in bloom,
the renaissance of spring,
the scent of my dreams.
© 2006, I.D. Carswell

Hearts Affliction

an unshakeable
sickness this heart’s affliction
where perversity flies free
of wisdom’s wings

separation of linked
entities weighed in their
degree of long association
cannot be reversed so easily

this sweet affair fell alone
upon its knees; a late
change viewed mutuality
as being too one-way

a dead-end street for the
journeys you wish to
make but a tomb and
a gravestone for me
© 26 December 2008, I. D. Carswell

Stealing From Dreams

thoughts of
you were agony
intertwined
with utter bliss

no noble calm
resists where
vagrant emptiness
invades

relief is sought
a reverie, moments
bought with Bacchus gold
for peace of mind

I steal from dreams
a pilferer who clings
to vines of memory
climbs again where

blossoms sing – they
seed a scent with
redolent imaginings
on which I feed
© 5 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Seven Cockerels

seven cockerels combed and plumed –
wattled bright in morning sun
– except for one

as others strut this one demurs apart
and shy suspiciously – I wonder why
perhaps a pullet in disguise – picked by
youthful size and culled to rear apart

it’s time to make amends and right
the wrong before the hen asserts
(or egg is laid) she’ll be removed, join
laying hens beyond the cockerel’s run –
back where we raised the brood

we’ll be repaid a thousand times if
she reverts to stable ways; her peers
reduced to six are barely phased
© 9 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Shirley of Serendipity (rev)

where were you Shirley
of the Sanguine Lake
where did you disappear 
the echoes of your empty
house were all but stilled
yet held to bear the ache
quaver in a hollow fear

we raked the mirrored water's
edge and poled the willow
shrouded brakes we plumbed
the deep and darked ledge
traced dimensions of despair
and waked in light to fete
your coming home –
a home revered

who are you
Shirley of the Mall
who will you be
when you walk the
shifting shingle banks
that line the random riverside
who will you be with your red
red hair – where will you be
Shirley of Serendipity
are you there – already there
© 2006, I.D. Carswell

Do You Know Who Is Thinking Of You? (rev)

If you start out every day
in the same old gloomy way
it’s little wonder what other people think of you
but the ones who matter most
are the ones who hold you close
in their hearts who’re always thinking of you

do you know, do you know,
do you know who is thinking of you?

As if you never knew
who was thinking just of you
and held it close and never shared a bit of it
there’s no-one else to blame
you had your youthful fame 
played it close and didn’t think about it

did you know, did you know,
did you know you didn’t think about it?

And now you are depressed
even when you’re sorely blessed
with rewards of unexpected gravity
you’re seated on a throne
and so very much alone
cannot see the glint of tender irony 

cannot see, cannot to see,
cannot see the bitter-sweet of irony.

The ones who matter most
are the ones who hold you close
and in our hearts we’re always thinking of you
our love is given free as love
is meant to be and we know
you’ll shine again in light of it

will shine again, will shine again,
you’ll shine again in light of it.
© 2006, I.D. Carswell

Appeared Defenceless (rev)

They were small and
appeared defenceless –
until their first altercation.

Even their mother kept clear
of slashing teeth
the macerating snarls.

They shrieked vehemence,
tore at each other, sisters
who slept cosily together

cocooned in a hug of
sibling benevolence –
yet here they would kill.

Five little girls, angels until
jealousy triggered this scene
of inflamed madness,

too bizarre to reason from
their good looks, too well
concealed in their genes.

The Vet explained; these
are real animals once removed
from their origins –

not lap dogs trembling at the feet
of indulgence. But they will
make great companions;

keep them apart, you will
see them become stable
personalities, and he laughed –

that is,
if they survive the depths
of your anxiety.

Cleo and Jane, Ticket
and Lil’ became the best
pals ever,

but Mariette rests still and
lonely beneath the trees.

She never forgave.
© 1 January 2007, I.D. Carswell

Birthday Reflections

Turned sixty three today –
still the same wee
boy ashamed to confess
he’d peed his pants

sat in ‘em in silence forever
in the rear seat
adamant to keep
the peace –

the teacher’s fond gaze less
a panacea for forgiveness
than the ‘free for the asking’
false sense of sanctuary

bigger than a baby but too
small to see the light
of her modest wisdom
too scared to cry
© 6 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Aphrodisiacal

Bremelanotide will no doubt
enhance Aphrodite’s splendid
reputation – you may not need
it yet but it will change what you
think of commodity sex anyway

first named PT-141 – late of the
melanocortin agonist’s family it’s
less rooted in bookish mythology
and more the tortuous depths of
contemporary ‘pay for view’ psyche

‘passion on-demand’ should not
equate to a ‘McNooky’ take-away
for a fee – but need we think again 
perhaps PT-141 nasal spray can
mend broken gustatory dreams

it is not to say we don’t need to
spend time connected in tactile
bonds of intimacy ‘tween events
or that real intimacy has a lusty
placebo – so say the randy rats

the damn thing works – as sure
as evidence displays – but if you
feel and know the need for it
then you won’t need the spray
– if you know what I mean...
©5 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Emancipation

began with “kiss my butt cheeks”
more an expression than demand
suggestive that having lowered
oneself so far makes it tolerable

in a sense knowing what it meant
makes you an adept although that
reflects poorly – you’re epitome
of the laissez cognoscenti

you’re free to joyously swing in
the avocado trees as and when
an urge becomes uncontainable
we would all enjoy that...
© 4 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

Member Of The Pack

that manic defence of a
boot you stole from the
rack imparts significance
in your canine hierarchy

to be feared for your
doggedness earns more
kudos than a salutary pat –
keeps lesser dogs at bay

but the boot's abandoned
in a heartbeat when “walkies”
rings and your sheer relief
barks hysterically

it goes without saying –
limits to the fun to be had
alone are repaid gratefully
as a member of the pack
© 3 September 2008, I. D. Carswell

To Let Them Die Peace (rev)

There wasn’t time for sympathy,
the epicentre moved too rapidly
for that and even when we knew
the anger of the dispossessed
the storm had passed.

It blew into their lives already
stressed by large events with
precedents that rose from dark
and baleful incidents beyond
the wildest stretch of their
naïve imagination.

Ululation for the recent dead
resounded through the canvas
tents that formed in ragged lines
amongst the devastation, the
remnants of their island nation.

Piled upon a shattered beach
the living dead had listened
listlessly to those who preach,
their eyeless faces turned to seek
the truth, a worthy explanation,
but none would come and lift
them in their desolation.

We left them to their solitude,
we left them to pursue another foe
whose spoor we’d seen descending,
we left them promising that we’d
return but knew the truth without
them comprehending.

The storm that passed had
killed the earth they sat upon
and soon would kill them too,
it mattered not what we could
do except to let them die in peace –
and never tell them why.
© 2005, I.D. Carswell