LOST FOR WORDS

How long had I known him?

Forty years I realised

sitting opposite at lunch.

His eyes stopped me:

I could not recall them

so bright, his skin so clear,

no trace of angst,

no evidence of his ambitions,

conversation diminished,

mini-twitches and adjustments,

his gaze, though happy,

time-lapsed as was his smile.

I was lost, though not shocked,

when two days later

I learned that he had died.

THE PROPRIETY OF DEATH

At 102, his death was judged
to be appropriate,
“The end of an era,”
one eulogust opined
and ancient listeners -
white-haired colleagues
albeit somewhat younger -
nodded yes, mmm,
trees bending
in a passing breeze.

His ashes were in a pint-sized casket
on the dais of the Great Hall
under distant gothic light.
Reductio ad absurdum, I thought,
as words lifted to the vault
on currents of warm air.

He’d outlived two wives:
his incapacity from a fall –
although his mind was sharp
and bright as the blade
of a Jerusalem sword –
suggested he should go.
“Time, gentlemen!” the barman said.
He had drunk his fill.

Organ, formality, no poetry,
no religion that winter afternoon.
When the curtain split
unadorned finality like his ashes
in the urn was distributed to us
 in metaphorical unmarked packets –
as appropriate – one for each to carry
as he or she was able.

THE BODY OF THE DEAD CHRIST IN THE TOMB - Hans Holbein 1521

The windows are opaque

in death and even

when the lids are open

whether the soul is inside

we cannot see to say.

And the mouth –

a sepulchre of missing teeth,

furred tongue –

we may have kissed it once,

but it is now

an alien tomb.

Blue-black face, punctured hands,

stabbed side; these are the attributes

of the deity –  living and dying

in this body – 

in all of us. 

HEADING WEST

In the hinterland of life

west of the coast

by 25km of traffic

dense as dust we must

confront the size

of the problem.

Since I arrived

thirty year ago

my brown shoes

have lost their shine

and their soles worn -

singular or plural, urban,

ethnic, aged or rural,

alcohol-obliviated,

club-dominated,

fast-food saturated,

Diet Coke burpurated:

is it any wonder?

Much has changed

but map 241, F13 still marks

the Mt Druitt of my soul,

suburbs built without amenities:

instead, misunderstandings,

sensitivities offended,

little attention to child care,

concrete poured and walls built

in haste against imaginary winds:

letters posted from here

and there give clues,

random roads and rusted gates:

public transport is still bad.

BLOOD BROTHERS AND SISTERS

The desert pea bursts red,

redder than the soil, red as blood,

bleeds its life into days during which

it seduces insects to take its seed

in exchange for that of others,

binds that gift close to build the pod,

the capsule inscribed

with its last grand message to the world,

green peas that soon will also fade

dropping their seeds to the whim of wind

and soil, a few finding a home

but many lost.

Last weekend I visited the desert pea:

it bequeathed to me this little piece of DNA

that contains in its helices

all our complexity -

our place, our blossom,

our seed, our death -

set against the millennia

that roll and roll

across the vast desert.