2023 Available from Cyberwit.net or Amazon for $25 USD includes postage

This the eighth book in our Australian-Indian poetry series published by Cyberwit. The previous anthologies are: Poetic Connections: Poems From Australia and India, (Lonsdale); Building Bridges: Poems From Australia and India, (Harle); Voices Across The Ocean: Poems From Australia and India, (Harle & Sarangi); Homeward Bound: Poems From Australia and India (Sarangi & Harle); The Land: Poems From Australia and India (Sarangi & Harle) Searching For the Sublime (Sarangi & Harle).  All these books are still in print and available from www.cyberwit.net, Amazon and other online booksellers.

The Blazing Furnace

The void of nature’s womb is flowering
separation – coagulation - transubstantiation
impossibility has no meaning in the blazing furnace,
years of toil attending the fire
years of misunderstanding fall away,
salt – mercury - sulphur
the foundations of The Stone
align in dynamic equilibrium,
settling happily in the ethereal vessel.

The silicone Messiah is knocking
pulsing down society’s mind
tempting the slickest-stained-clones
bolstering the gallows of capitalism
tensioning the fractured face of stress.
Young generations grow syntactically sharp
believing the great false prophets
dripping with aborted foetuses of greed,
their lies glide past the wise
and dissolve into the blackness of eternity.

The vessel is still,
the perfect marriage consummated,
all is calm in the dull orange reduction.

The womb-like furnace has reached parturition
the blazing reducing to a glow of universal knowing,
dancing on the landscape of hope
avoiding the tangled bird netting of delusion,
soaring outwards
like invisible ripples on the pond
the fluid flowing sea of existence,

The Stone is ready!

Winds Of Infinity

The key turns in the rusting lock
and dreams drop to the ground
like rotting dying leaves,
the grit of aeons – persistent
grinds the leaves to dust
then the winds of infinity,
like the ever present illusion of time
drifts the dust back home,
home to the great Ocean of Being
the prima materia – mother of all.

The distillation and coagulation begins,
slowly the dust merges
forming the balsam of life
and new dreams incarnate to inspire
the dreamer.
Veils of illusion spread
seducing the unwary with fantasies of permanence,
the coagulation proceeds in the great crucible,
bringer of life,
the Sun’s fire brings forth a million manifestations
solid, real, immortal?
Deceptively for a measured minute!

The Long Search
Through and through he denied his atheisms
even though the dust gently covered his feet,
pre-adapting bargains in the spiritual marketplace
where you always “pay too much for gold”
he fell into stupefaction
blindly obeying all the gurus,
the exponential abstractionists
false prophets
dripping with fool's gold.

Desiring to demolish ingrained gospels
by deconstructing a deluded following mind,
play-land zones of decontamination
he always failed,
but still the dynamic dust danced at his feet.

He prayed in desperation
till his knees were crumpled,
he sat cross-legged
till his knees seized,
he circumambulated every shrine
till he fell into the humble dust, exhausted
mind spinning in disorientation.

Born-again, he lashed out
like a cyclone hitting land,
preaching with uncontrollable passion
gathering blind sheep around him
flogging them with raging lies
threatening them with invisible, impossible retribution
as they sat in the warm dust,
riddled with fear.

Reaching the summit of a sacred mountain
he shouted in violent impatience
“Where are you Lord?”
the chill wind screamed in his ears
casting sharp dust into his watering eyes,
dropping to his crumpled burning knees
he ran his aching  shaking hand through the dust,
then like a shotgun-filled moment of tension,
he understood.

The Old Man and The Vineyard

 
The ghost of the old man moves slowly,
faltering in slow motion
through the derelict Dionysian landscape,
disorientated, drunk-like
trying to prune the vines
trying to lift the fallen bird netting.
An ethereal vigneron smoky-white,
no match for the permanence of red earth
the terror of Terra Firma Terminus,
the hardness, the unrelenting power of reality.
And the ghost's tear falls to the powder-dry ground
the brutality of dust to dust - unforgiving blackness.

Immaculate garden traces
vegetables in abundance
the bird netting neat, secure
well tended vines
trimmed, tied
evidence of passion and care
are dying,
the old man is dead,
Understand This!
The old man is dead! 

tWhat of this year's vintage
howling into an empty glass
for a drop of life?
The Bacchae need sustenance
to rejoin body and spirit
to dance on Mount Cithaeron
in the way of antiquity.
Untrimmed tendrils reach out
grabbing at the netting of decay
a desperate last effort for a living. 

Was it all for nothing?
no one left to continue the care
no one to celebrate his passion for wine,
and joy,
to share a glass
to share a memory
to be authentic in a world of superficial gloss.
Another living treasure,
quiet and alone has returned forever
to the particles of dirt
in which he lived and loved.

Had Things Been Different

 
Headlights glare then fade into coldness
a young man
no, Christ he's still a boy
shivers with emptiness,
alone and lonely
empty for a kindness to ease his pain. 

His roof for the night,
a freeway overpass
stark lifeless concrete
grey,
curling tight in the corner
an embryo in the dirt
he aches for warmth
aches for someone to understand.

Sleep yields confused dreams
hell, heaven
he can't remember,
he grasps at the morning sun
feeling to thaw his frozen heart
the careless breeze
drifts the delicate rays away,
head down he walks hard
maybe someone in the city...... 

Below the mighty steel-grey bridge
a loving harbour glistens,
if only things had been different
broken family, booze - you know,
might of been on his way to university
medicine, science, the humanities,
he knew all about humanity. 

The sun catches his eye as a tear falls
mesmerised he watches it fade below
falling, falling,
if only things had been different.
the harbour beckons
Come
Come to me.
 
A gentle pull sets him free
floating downwards
floating, floating,
he becomes an autumn leaf,
the harbour accepts him freely
no questions, no platitudes. 

Workers trample for seats on their train
cars coalesce
forming another daily nightmare,
Executives
full of breakfast and self-importance
listen to the morning news.

Lone Vigil

Keeping a lone vigil
the mermaid waits for his return,
her mesmerising melodies cascading
watching the ever changing sea,
the calmness of an aqua mirror
morphing into violent avalanches of foam.
Great spiritual magnet
pulls the devoted closer,
but destroys the careless.
The lure is enticing
a baptismal font of enigmatic blue,
where communion brings renewal.
Promises of rebirth
resound in the intoxicating silver salt spray
dancing in the soothing breeze
lifting the spirit to heavenly heights,
careening in the sounds of pulsing waves
as they caress the tidal zone,
the gateway from material to spiritual.
This transition realm a deep and taunting mystery
an arcana of veils,
a gateway holding many secrets,
the key to their revealing
is the locksmith of universal love.

Sandgate

Flanked by a nightmare furious highway
beside a forbidding green-brown river
the bodies that built - “Our Town”
lie still and shivering.
Graves stretch in an endless mirage
like red-brown autumn leaves
neatly lying in rows,
facing East at the Sandgate.
Waiting! 

But the gates are closed,
locked solid - topped with rusting razor wire,
the furnaces deathly cold,
industrial detritus abandoned
rusting into a deep red-brown,
pipes, tanks and twisted iron
monuments left by the “Big Australian.” 

A town built by “little” Australians,
decent, honest and proud
steel-town-tough – but,
not tough enough to cheat mortality,
their invisible masters
lurking in stock exchange tabernacles
hiding in locked board rooms,
now long gone. 

To rest in peace,
the wages of a well lived life
a steadfast promise of death
is cheated here.
The ferocious screeching traffic
mindless of the sanctity of the Sandgate,
incessant 'till the witching hour
agitates the bones of the autumn leaves,
as they wait for eternity and peace.

The Colour Of Greed 

Paint the colour of greed,
a sickly phosphorescent yellow-green
rising from the foetid waters,
a burning acrid colour – deadly.
More gas wells are drilled,
more corruption fuels more corruption
anonymous investors burn with greed
a yellow-green poison mists over the land
a land in the tremors of dying,
the frogs and lizards long gone.
As a child I drank the water pure,
flowing through forests of energy
in streams through fields of swaying grass.
What do I tell the children?
How would Monet paint the colour of greed?
How do I explain democracy – a deception?
What is majority consensus – a bad joke?
How do I paint the politician's auras tinged with black,
glowing with sickly yellow-green?
Farmers and mothers and greenies – unite,
forging deep connections,
a solidarity for sustainability.
Yet still the yellow-green-black politicians lie
their deceptions the manifestation of cancerous evil,
Dear children - I am so sorry!

Logic’s Thin Disguise

 
Professional exorcists grinning
sway to rhythms of primal harmonies
laughing loudly to discharge the tension
as the clouds cover the dangerous moon
They recite the old magician's almanac
the rotting pages fall like shards,
as you listen to the sudden silence
you realise even choice is an illusion
draped in logic's thin disguise. 

The shadows all wear lipstick
to hide their masks of pity
only powder white - you look like them,
and even though you hate them
they still control your mind.
Kneeling easily at the altar of ecstasy
bits of perfumed flesh and bone
penetrate the darkness of your tongue
as the world turns, your thoughts burn
and the slaves of passion perish. 

You have paralysed yourself with beauty
thinking creation knows no end
but the lost artist runs naked
across the landscape of your soul
sketching you, that evil's night
is more desirable than virtue's day.
The canvas writhes with flying archetypes
as fate and free will crash,
only your tortured lips can save the world
so you discuss philosophy through the 
night
then read about your Daguerreotype of death 
stained in black across the morning paper.

Growing Old (Time)

Nature sends forth its illusions,
the moon casts her silent glow
as silhouettes dance and sing.
With your words never forget time,
never tarry too long
for stagnation breeds stagnation
and time will never let you forget.
Ride the rain,
travel swiftly to the sea
follow the heart of the wind.
Old human vessels sail slowly,
sometimes silently,
egos are the only terminal events in history
and dissolve when the river becomes the sea.

Scratches and Deeper Wounds

The hot bread shop breathes
warm fragrance of yeast and crust
awakening a primal urge,
a step or two
more temptations tease
coffee shop seduction
flat white, short black
cappuccino cream
the Choice is yours.
The balmy first flesh of spring
awakens other primal urges,
everywhere temptation
false hopes for new life,
temporary appeasement of deeper needs.
Stand clear, fuck, stand clear
four pall bearers frantic,
push past,
oblivious to piercing eyes,
oblivious to the stray dog
pissing on a post.
Her thin pale body,
lies motionless,
silent
flat upon the canvas stretcher,
O.D'd, indeed.
Is she breathing?
Yes, I think
hurry, hurry,
hospital seems so far,
her bearers,
barely friends
accomplices in street life hype
full of fear and flight and fight,
and hope; hurry.
Homeless, hopeless
street tough, street wise
some not wise enough to stay alive,
stand crying in the street.
The mourning penetrates their mask,
as secrets of their heart and care
flow down the gravel verge
and stain society's slate.
Her morning hit,
a simple scratch
has turned into a deeper wound.
As silent witness to this scene
of rage and life and love
I watched her die,
and wondered why