Never Never Tomorrow’s Yesterday

 

Deny if it’s ya want

Don’t because ya can

You’ll fail in mere want

Because we rarely can

 

Forsake simple value form

Form ideas from simple value

Recalls values in simple form

Truths form in ideas of value.

 

Whitman and Dickenson

True red white and blue

Individuals not true blue

Where heroes narrow focus

Simple rhyme and in Ballard

Defined rather than described

In sheds of sharing knowledge

Etched on dusty red dry wall

Out where the dead men lie

Silent since slaughtered

On a bloody hillside cove

All buried unbloody known

In a common bloody outback

 

Ever to overcome another adoption

Of foreign collective bleating

Despite a prison of death despair

Roaring days live unstill within

 

True hearts of flint and granite

Squatting upon alluvial river plains

On queenly downs of verdant gold

In harbours of imprisoned history

Amid islands beautiful of holocaust

Echoes no longer blind granite hearts

Nor bind living flint stone spirits

 

 

A new dreamtime in a mindset web

Simply recall a shared stony past

Amid Eureka’s peace filled glory

 

A simple complex people

Replete respect in difference

Truth one only should repeat

The dreaming of the values

Of sharing uncommon ideas

Of ancient and not so ancient pasts

 

Form never long defines

Truth in a misshaped hand

Of ideas lost in literal foreign fog

A senseless literary complex crime

All foreignness a new cultural cringe

Feigned applause acclaim disguised

Still in common ancient resentment

In silently silenced song lines

Surviving cultural genocides

 

Antipodeans speak

Aloud in a quiet voice

Unless the footys on says Sarah

Not true at all contradicts her laconic Ben

 

Attuned to the ear

Of those who understand

Of stranger tongues unknown

Of a complex and simple mind

In a straight and complex way

In a voice that’s not corrupted

Nor intent upon alien domination

Nor diverted into foreign view

 

Ever asking simple answers

How we are the way we are

Custodians in a land that shapes us

Wanting no revisit into darker ages

All adapting to a true vision grand

In our future of 40,000 years ago.

 

 

The Free Pour of Latte Art

 

In cafes of furious consumption

Arise amid exclusive dalliance

Hasty undisciplined cousins

Of the rebellious poet Poe.

 

Over done strangled metaphor

Disdainfully all too pure prose

Yelling no grating pleasure

To the internal eye of the ear

 

Against one poet Poe

Socialist in criticism

Over one century today

Rise singular champions

Walt and Emily glow

 

Modern poets of yesterday

Added an Aussie critique

Modern conflicted poets

Flee two of the tea party

Neither at all confused

Short two centuries ago

 

Karl’s poets in individual ideology

Intent tear down conservative shape

Simple bowed aim an obscure stake

Denialist denial deconstructed truth

Recognisably all unconsciously fake.

 

The American shell liberty

In warring centuries trolls

Now imitate dark and drear

Flail limp clappers of plastic

 

Attacked hearts corruptly mired

Antebellum of murky mediocrity

Now newly murders equality

Misrepresents egalitarianism.

 

Written with heart true

Words sweet as acid

Varied in poetry too

As the oldest cynic did

Diogenes asks can you?

 

A daughter grand a simple two

An Aussie po poet of ballad

Few kens her content brew

But freest desultory judges

Rate her endeavours metaphoric

 

Unconflicted sincerity within

No bully mob of navel focus

Of the You Too Must Do

And I Know Best brigades

Her mere Aussie purpose

Defining straight and singular.

 

Manly All Manly By the Sea

 

Many came to this shady place from across the open sea.

Many flown by boat and plane, but none had actually swum.

Arriving in ancient aim, born or as a pure economic refugee,

Most with no invite or visa, and none to the beat of a drum.

 

This cool shadowy place, in afternoon’s sleepy comfort,

Stolen from each before, in humpy, in tent or apartment.

Their silent echoes, containing a long forgotten thought,

Thriving trade breezes, authority couldn’t tax or prevent.

 

Why we keep returning, all after an absence of years,

None really fathom and the yachtsmen least of all.

It’s likely the weather but few among us really cares,

More likely the ambience, more a mood we all enthral.

 

Gatherer, hunter, fisherman, farmer or bludger,

In all a fearsome custodial tribe yet to emerge.

Except one borrowing a berth or at bay’s anchor,

In his dream, a vast ownerless home of converge.