The Cry

A lonely ape sat on the highest rock,
beneath the circling stars and wondered why,
but then forgot what it was that moved him
to emit the dreadful cry that echoed
down the chasms beneath the darkening sky.

At rivers end there is no rhythmic sea,
just a muddy hole bounded by salt marsh
where thirsty beasts huddle in steaming mire
and baleful raptors circle patiently,
waiting for one to stumble and expire.

The city's glittering organ pipes rise up,
self reflecting in narcissistic prayer,
they sing silently of wealth and power,
swaying a foot or two in mourning air,
to Mammon's strains of infinite despair.

Red, green and amber, the congregation's
conga snakes below, exhaling foul airs.
Within, the informatics screens glow blue,
counting up the souls of commodities,
in mockery of ozone's failing hue.

High in the boardroom the ape screams again,
feeling the vertigo of falling stocks
as pain, but conquers fear with bonus plans.
Beyond, the desert and the mountains wear
that calm expression that was always there.

Mystere

She will not reveal her identity,
or show her face to a curious world,
except for a brief glimpse, in a mirror
or a fragmented image here and there.

The lone suitor must prowl among the trees,
praying for a flash of bright clothing that
would signify his prey is moving near,
gracefully on foot or astride her horse.

Lying in wait, telephoto lens bared,
a sudden crunch of gravel and white flash
flushes him from his hide as Mercedes
clad, she wings by to some assignation.

Darkness falls, and worried night-jars chatter;
the stars peep out, soon to be covered by
moonlit clouds drifting over chimney pots,
where a few lights gleam behind ancient glass.

Waking to dawn's fog filtered misery,
a car door clunks and the house doors bang shut,
too late for even the slightest glimpse of
his elusive quarry who remains discrete.

Where the noble cheek and the merry eye
that struck the errant heart with deadly fire?
That convex geometry of beauty glimpsed
but once must now remain a mystery.

Dream City

Living within the riotous realm of flesh
we forget duties owed to gravity,
until we stumble and fall to soft earth,
or sharp flinty ground, unexpectedly.

Even within our own teeming city,
our rule is slight, where breath and beating heart,
autonomous and true, make us forget
that their feigned allegiance is fleeting too.

Each motion of limbs seems to follow will,
another name for doing what seems right,
in seeking to satisfy appetite
and dark desiring of the inner ghost.

All our senses tell us in unison:
'this is real, this is you, they are other,
total strangers, outside your city gates,
not to be admitted, at least not yet'.

What goes on within is more alien
than those companions  of our social life;
fellow images on our inner screens
where life's dark drama flickers fitfully.

Geometries of plants and animals
speak convincingly of law and design
but beneath all flows an endless river
of seething chaos so much more malign.

Our weighty substance is forged from pleasure
and increasing pains: the I is dancing
alone in delusion's bright theatre,
treading its treacherous, subconscious boards.

And when the curtain's drawn, sleep lulls us too
into some nebulous remembrance of
a world that never was and cannot be
those unknown canyons of reality.

Waiting Room

The future is a doorway with no door
and the present a room where no waiting
is possible, unless it is the last
room, hospital ward or mortuary.
Of course, it might not be a room at all:
a pavement, hard and cold upon the cheek,
a patch of damp grass, bedewed by morning,
or a sandy beach with driftwood and shells,
a library, perhaps, sudden collapse,
from a chair or through an open window,
falling, half surprised by quick gravity.
Not now, no, never now but later on,
when there has been some warning of the end,
an announcement of probability.
Meanwhile, pass again through all those old doors
preserved in memory: Doors to those rooms
with their promises of desires fulfilled
or sanctuaries from danger or despair.
Wander alone in deserted mansions,
among the dusty splendour of lost lives,
or sit here and now in life's anteroom.

Oleander

The avenue of oleanders ran

from the hollow of the suburban sprawls

to the gum tree lined road which once began

as forest track between the rocky walls

of a much eroded volcanic range.

A sea rose bound path of shady bushes

rose in stately clumps of gothic foliage

waving in the breeze like giant rushes

as bloomed on attic shores in Hero's Age,

those blossoms clutched in drowned Leander's hand.

Glorious masses of flowers pink and red

lifted the spirits of kids off to school,

gave joy to lovers with blooms overhead, 

soon to be downcast by a Council rule,

writ by fools in antipodean Thule.

Foreign, toxic, too fatal to allow,

oleander was added to the list

of dangerous pests that councils must not grow

in public parks or nooks where lovers tryst:

and the order was given, "root them out".

Brown stubbled gnomes in green livery came

quickly with chain saws, spades and loam filler,

and slashed down the blooming lot with no shame,

gouged out roots or sprayed them with weed killer,

and planted the native lilly pilly.

Now order has been restored to nature

and insurance companies' fears assuaged

we must wait some years for lilly's stature

to rival oleander's when she's aged:

vain hope for such a vapid little bush.

A few green shoots of oleander thrust

up hopefully from the earth after rain,

fatal signals to those who feel they must

with diligent hate mow them down again:

beauty sacrificed to bureaucracy.

Death Note

One more small death will hardly move our hearts
beyond their customary heartlessness:
inured to claims of second hand distress
they soon return to a steadier beat.
Far away, the chaos and screams of death
and misery must become attuned to
our habits of compassionate response.
The Earth moved, but you did not die, Fabienne,
There was work to be done and family
relying on your daily heroism.
You did not falter or fail when they came
to protect the rights of private property,
and the unseen masters whose laws they serve.
Your last thoughts were for your small possessions,
and their importance to your family,
when the bullets spread your blood upon the street.
In your name, then, let those who caused your death
suffer the most awful torments of Hell.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/jan/26/haiti-earthquake-shooting-girl-story

Fortune's Rules

Our wandering home is a dangerous place:
now and then the Earth adjusts its mantle,
or takes breath and lets loose a hurricane
upon our carefully protected lives.

Falling walls, burning ash, or creeping floods
remind us of our small stock of fortune
when forced to play in nature's casino
where the house rules are hard to determine.

Mostly we feel safe inside our boxes,
watching the fate of others on flat screens,
shadow beings guarding against our fears
until misfortune crashes through the door.

The hungry and the poor cry out for help:
often there is none, or when aid comes
it gives only temporary relief that
is followed by a lesser misery.

The mangled and torn struggle in the dust
but we are too distant to hear their cries
until their tortured images appear
on our ubiquitous computer screens.

Our mirrored pain or pity soon abates
as ten thousand words beat upon our brains,
depleting shallow wells of empathy,
dulling compassion's broad but arid plains.

In our safe and comfortable havens
we cannot feel the surging agonies
of the snapped bones, the pulverised flesh or
the awful fear that death is drawing near.

We see the incident occur and hear
the reporter's rational tone explaining
the situation, while the camera's eye
picks out the highlights of the tragic scene.

Broken buildings and belongings are mixed
with the tattered remnants of human life,
stunned zombies circumambulate a road
as flies converge upon fresh breeding grounds.

In a while, weighty misery may prick
our conscience just enough to overcome
the inertia of will divorced from pain
to find and type that credit card number.