CHIMERA

Left cheek

dimple right mole

left smile crinkle

left hand grasps right:

one writes while

other plays bass.

Rogue singer of songs

of love, charmer,

iron temper, tenacity,

high achiever and mollifier.

Sinatra sinister wrecked furniture

in tantrums, enthused

Frank dexter caressed,

caroused all night

every night till the blue light

of dawn announced.

Binary but three or four

dimensional. Rubik’s cube

more than jigsaw. Jekyll

hiding or Hyde jeckling?

Two sides of the mask,

alternative dancing,

sad capriciousness

of the wholeness

our truth.

Fiftieth Reunion

From this distance the old city on the hill

looks now as it did back then,

gold in the slanting sun of the afternoon,

its honeycomb walls standing strong.

As we approach we see a breach

or two we missed before,

signs in its masonry,

in its gates and gargoyles

of the wear of history.

For six years we lived

behind the battlements and portcullis,

compelled to recite the doctrines of medicine

the rigid orthodoxy of anatomy

the poetic excursions of psychiatry

the catechisms of surgical belief,

soundly indoctrinated

until we were deemed safe

to go forth, steady in our conduct,

observant despite accumulating doubts,

until our time was past.

Today we are back and we see faces

that gain in familiarity as we talk,

the wrinkle and sag of age erased as if

by magic not of our making.

Within an hour the intervening years

have slipped away

into an implausible past.

Implausible but not impossible:

something must have happened

between now and then

something that has made us old

that has cracked the city walls

that has chiselled and smoothed

the faces of the gargoyles

that has caused the solid iron gates to rust

and hang, rather as I feel some days,

limp and slow with crepitus

and diminished clang.

We know a lot but understand so little

about what happened.

Soon we will be sent away again:

this time we will not be leaving as emissaries.

It's getting late: the afternoon is nearly gone

and the sun is moving, creating new horizons,

seeking new cities beyond to illuminate.

Taking care

"It's time for me to go,

little horsey," she whispered

as he stood beside her bed.

"Where are you going?" he asked,

with the innocence of six.

He'd come to know what being sick

was like. Nine months she'd gradually

run down, her illness feasting on her body

like a fool, a glutton at her bones,

gnawing at muscle, loosening skin

making her too weak to play -

the occasional bedtime story

was all that she could do.

"Daddy will still be here

and Grandma too," she said.

Then through breaking tears he asked,

"But who will take care of you?"

IMPERIAL WARDROBE

Let me see –

What shall I wear today?

Which suit will suit my purpose

when meeting the director general?

Not this grey one

a decade out of date

that no longer fits.

But in its pockets I find

Notes of my anxieties and ideas

that I nurtured and discussed back then,

which framework, which stakeholder

will lead to more efficient operation,

how to cut the budget,

eliminate waste and maintain

industrial peace in our time.

The notes are there:

unlike the suit

they’ll feature fresh

In today’s discussion,

It’s not the suits per se

rather the treasured madnesses

of what’s written in their pockets

that leads me to retain them.

THE ESCALATING EXHAUSTION OF UNCERTAINTY

Refugees at Munich central railway station – Thanksgiving Day 2015  (Ken MacWilliams)

We have come this far

thanks to the grace of god

and to the provision of our dear father

and our two older sons

whom we hope to meet

in the next city –

but can’t be sure. 

If we go up the escalator

to the next floor

to catch a train

where will we go? 

Many are poorer.

For them, is there anyone?

They can’t be sure.

Our neighbourhood was bombed

and many friends killed.

Our sisters died

None is safe.

Why does humanity tear its soul –

for power, glory, peace?

What is it for?

We can’t be sure.

HOPE

The billboard at St. John’s in Glebe

exhibits two cadaveric upturned hands

holding Scrabble letters –

H and O right, P and E left –

background washed

in Prussian venous blood.

What’s the score for

the single mum this morning

reading the board as two kids hang on

to her en route to preschool?

No double letter square for her:

the dream dried up

a year ago

when he left the game.

Why offer what you cannot give

she wonders?  She crosses the street:

much better this jacaranda

she thinks, free of letters  

and promises but generous

in its carpet of lilac sacrifice.

PENINSULA

On this leeward beach

serrated coast

we’ve been cast ashore.

‘Enjoy the last of summer,’ 

they said, as they sailed for home.

Old people –

crinkled smiles,

chatter of the deaf,

500 hens in a cage,

the occasional strutting male,

rooster of the brood.

‘Tomorrow night’s the raffle,’

one grandma croaks,

shrugging off impending death

raising trivial sums

for wives of drought-wracked farmers

in the hinterland.

‘Do you make or write or paint?’ I ask.

‘No.  We’re resting,’ I am told.

Does anyone escape?