Last Edited Poems (1,141)

I start the year now nineteen eighty three,
In verse now strictly chronological,
If you want to know the plot just read and see,
In my life story, you will have it all.
I''ll try to tell of my strange destiny;
And hopefully my words will now enthrall;-
Poets must, (at least try), to be honest: -
To this I hope my verse will now attest.

T'was year nine, in school, (a long time back there);
A fourteen year old boy - quite innocent,
In this year of study some demands were,
Placed upon myself, who trusting went,
To the library to read with pleasure,
All things on the shelves, which were sent,
For our instruction (surely were intended);-
The world's wisdom - fully recommended.

Curiosity, (they say), it killed the cat,
(Well, in my case, I'm not entirely sure);-
Inquisitive, I was - and all of that;-
Though something else, I wanted - not censure.
Still in the library, reading, there I sat;-
An interested boy though still wants more;-
It is natural, in our adolescence,
To want the world, and it's experience.

Perfectly, I sat there uncorrupted**,
Young minds, they grow at such a rapid rate;
Teachers pleased? that I am now instructed,
To repeat such things, that I here relate,
And so I was by little now inducted,
As such it was, I tell you now my fate,
At fourteen and a half years of age;
P.N, a friend and I had Mary Jane.

We always want what we have never got,
This is true from man unto the infant,
Our human envy, that's our human lot;-
It seems this way since Adam first there went,
Into that sacred garden, and forgot,
What was at first a laudable intent;-***
Sometimes, it seems, that somethings never change;-
Only time, places, people re-arrange.

Carl Jung once said we have Collective Soul;
In this, I think, he wasn't far from wrong;
And in and age of Sex, Drugs Rock n Roll,
What was in books is now found in a song;
Such aural things do most of us enthrall;-
As teenagers - we must at first belong;-
Indeed before we do at first rebel;
We need our friends, who will do this as well.

P.N, P.N^ - Your'e so intelligent;
Of this I'm sure - (and could you tell me now);
Have you been living off the Government?
(I tell this story, as best as I know how);
The world's against us as an adolescent;
(I was not at that age holier than thou);
One thing I know is I will tell my story;
Not fearing now embarassment, or glory.

Where was I now my much detested Son?
(Though not that I do bear now any grudge);
The war that we were fighting could not be won
Though smoking grass at school was quite a bludge;^^
Now at fifteen years old in year nine;
We try a little worldliness to fudge;
Though truth be told - surely I must be joking;
(We were as green as the grass we were smoking!).

PN's place, 'twas when Spring was now through half;
We'd managed to find our selves a stick of pot,
Of course we'd only smoked it for a laugh;
And between ourselves, we soon had smoked the lot!
Although, (I thought), I might have had enough;
I was inclined to just that bit more scoff;-
For a while, (at first), nothing really happened;
Then all of a sudden the floodgates opened.

Where at this age, more innocent, I was;-
Although (it seems) not innocent enough;
Curious (more so) - and now because;
It seemed the going was now becoming rough;
Senses once dormant - now became aroused;-
To do with sex, and drugs, and all that stuff;
At Sixteen, I found my fist lay, in the Cross,
As they say, a rolling stone has no moss.^^^



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A mind's reflection casts a thought out wide
Something wherein the ego breaks its banks
Like a river in a flood or swelling tide
(As for that we do for love and not for thanks)
Forgetting P (my mentor), I went outside
On transports of delight - which now outranks
Any former feeling, that once I knew;-
Though I had a lot of growing up to do.

And so it was, I walked home in the sun
Feeling the kiss, Apollo's gentle rays
Wherein my mind all fancies newly ran
And my imagination did cascade.
The light of afternoon becoming wan
Ripples of thought now waves the mind has made
Exaggerating some, depressing others;-
Waves dash to the shore and wetness smothers.

Relishing at first this new sensation
Which opened up interesting new worlds
Subtle thought now held up for introspection
As fancy upon fancy now unfolds
I took the course for home (or rough direction)
The sun had now dipped low, and gilded golds
Sparkled in the soft whispering of trees
Phoebus' rays now dying with the breeze.

At Wentworth Falls* I now approached the station
For I had to go to Lawson* on the train
Though time had lengthened somehow in duration
The dying afternoon and it's refrain
Now sitting on a seat, my observation
Became acute - (though harder to explain)
And almost when I thought that time would stop
The train I waited for, at last, showed up.

I saw the sun's last rays were dying now
And mirrored in that thinnest sheet of gold
The windows of the train reflects its glow
A transport for the passage of my soul
Something that time much later would avow
When I could bring back reason to its fold;-
The train now creaked, and made a lurching sound;-
With carriages in twilight girdled round.

I found a seat on that conveyance and
Thus seated, tried then, to my thoughts, to follow;-
Like the hourglass with its tiny grains of sand
That trickle down through time to find their hollow
In that inverted vessel, wherein they land
And with their neighbors countless now do wallow
Marking mounds of time on shifting hills;-
Heaped and sliding down those little rills.

My train of thought was a train off the rails
(Something I thought I could at first contain)
To smoke this dr*g, and all that that entails
No longer I a virgin could remain;-
Like a plane in flight - its white contrails
Unfold now in the vortex of my brain;-
I felt like an explorer - such as Mawson
When off that train I did alight at Lawson.



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In this soft woven skein; - a chrysalis,
Nests the close-swaddled fabric of her young;-
As life grows ripe with Nature's catalyst,
In a soft downy womb - that's silken-spun;-
Now with the dew of morn is crystal kiss'd,
The young worms glow, as first rays from the Sun,
Bathes each swelling grub in morning light;-
Caterpillar gold, from the depths of night.



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She's my confidant;-
In the mirror image,
Of a dream;-

Reflected on a screen,
Through CS.

The virtual touch;-
Digital caress;

As I confess;-
She will always,
Write to me.

Which must be,
The soft caress;-

Of stellar destiny.


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Oh the joys of being a Heathen,
To be free of religious Brethren.

To see things as they really are,
And to not see God in ev'ry star.

The Cosmos is vast (that is true);-
But religion makes the mind askew.

So it is this: (I humbly ask);-
Please see things as they are.

Do away with Wishful Thinking,
Which makes you stupid (like you're drinking).

Kick that Opiate; Religious Smack;
Kick it down to Hell and back!

Kick that Habit - Religious Smack;
Get that Monkey off your back!

There's probably Life (apart from us);
As we sit on our Speck of Dust.

There's likely Life (apart from you);
So respect this - as I do.

To lift the Veil, to see things clear,
Is all I ask - in this life so dear.

You will have a new capacity,
To see the truth, in its veracity.

And aliens likely have their God,
For me, I'd rather have a dog!

What makes you think God cares for thee;-
On this Earth - with all its cruelty?

For me, I think there's Nothing There;
There's just a Void - not even air.

And so I do not fear Oblivion;-
It would be nice to have no worries then.

Oblivion, then, does have no worry;-
So why then, to the Bible scurry?

If Aliens have Gods, they're not the same;
As our Earth one - hence end of game.

Is there one God, or maybe two?
Or even several - is this true?

How can there be only one True God?
I think it's all a load of schmod.

There's a possibility of Reincarnation;-
Another life's encore/ovation.

If this is true, then there's Karma;-
So don't do a thing to ever harm her.



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Now my love, a little bit co-mingles;
In that wide and deep digital sea;
I'm just another guy - Connecting Singles;
Is enough social media for me.
My heart is lonely - yet my body tingles;
With some love past, or future destiny;
As through the clouds, I see the Moon break cover;
And I wish and hope for a new lover.

My wide reflection on a life been lived;
In a dozen ways, with many people;
I've always found - yet never could forgive;
The aloof side of me - just like a steeple;
And these lines of verse that will survive;
Myself, and so unlike many sheeple;
I'll write my life, as best as I remember;
Gee, to think it is already now December!

Twenty twenty-one - how Time does race!
And no love I've had, since 'twas Covid;
The world has changed, has changed its very face;
(Although I don't intend to be this morbid);
So where is love, amidst this new disgrace?
Where's love in my poems? - I'd write "ibid"
Which means "look above" (at older Poetry);
Now I'm fifty-three, nothing happens, and I'm lonely.

Shortly to my story - I digress;
In speculation purely metaphysical;
I let in a little light, to now ingress;
Into the darker shadows of the mythical;
My Soul's Odessey must now confess;
The ruin of the passion of the animal;
That was 'oft myself, as a younger man;-
Temptation led me, where ever tempting can.

Beauty, like the world - it's often true;
Is mixed with cruelty, ugliness, and vice;
Sometimes good hearts and souls must go askew;
Before we realize we should be nice;
My chequered path in life, I must review;
And so I have, and so it will suffice;
To give here, so much, ample material;
(I relate each vignette, as a serial).

That this is rough and ready - perhaps I've told you;
That I'm Australian, (and so I must be frank);
Good reader, I would never mean to scold you;
For reading this, I must then you now thank;
On the wings of Poesy, I'll uphold you;
Tall tales, and true, right from the memory bank;
I thus continue this poetic story:
Despite the odds, I've lived life in its glory.

This is a type of internal monologue;-
An anecdote to sketch a wasted life;-
I'm sober - finally lifts the mind's long fog;-
Now clarity can shine amidst the strife;-
With renewed poetic force my thoughts I log;-
For this, my muse, my muse it is my wife!
Through some Arcady, where I may yet travel;-
As from the pen, my story does unravel.


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She holds relief;
In her hand;-
A few white grains of rice.

And down that river,
Now she flows;-
Forgetting all her vice.

Just half a minute;-
(Now before),
Her pain;-
It was so real.

Then the soft rose,
A plume of blood;-
And nothing now is sore.

She once believed in Castles,
And of fairies, and of Princes.

Now all she has,
Is this hot rush;-
And a dirty rented room.



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To write more verse, before the Impulse dies,
To find a way to live out what life's left,
And let my mind free in the bluest skies,
Before I gasp and take my final breath;-
To find that heart where we are best allies,
Before the Reaper's sickle means sure death;
So when it's finally over - this life's game;-
I shoot my soul into the sky as Spirit Flame.*

To tell of what has happened - best I can,
To remember fleeting beauty when she came;
And tell of every girl to whom I ran;
(Even though I can't recall each name);
Well most I can, (when I was a younger man);-
And in my kismet, I will feel no shame;
Well, where's the shame in a person's destiny?
When we should live out what was meant to be.

And so I'll entertain with more vignettes,
To keep all poems honest -(like before);
One more time, I'll say this: "there are no regrets";-
Many's the women, and many were the whore;
With whom I've slept - (that is aiding and abets);
I've been to strange places, been through many a door;-
I count my self lucky, to now survive;-
So I'll write myself dry - while I'm alive.



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When I was young; - though no longer a youth,
At twenty nine, where does this scene find me?
Well, I'll tell you, and I will speak my truth;
T'was Banksia*, near Rockdale*, near the sea;
And this stories true; - you'll have it's proof:
(T'is as sure as I write this verse for thee);
Her name was Kirsten (that was her working name);
And I'll write my truth, without fear, or shame.

Why in this age, do we still make our art?
When, probably, robots could do it better;**
As ghosts quite old, and shackled in the past,
Now raise up, and demand a fiery letter;-
And conquests (if you call them that) are cast,
Into stark relief, as they're unfettered;
Secrets, intimate, about which poets rave;-
Well, it's either this, or I take them to my grave.

Working on the railway, at Wolli Creek*,
Building a tunnel, for the trains to go;
Working hard, and working six days a week,
In the middle of a Winter, long ago.
When fixing steel for concrete earned my keep,
Where first the days, and then the nights, were slow;
It was hard work, at strange unwelcome hours,
Though through this work, my story now bears flowers.

So, in mid-Winter, Nineteen Ninety Eight;
(The twenty first of June, to be precise;
After having worked, from morning, until late,
(I'd got good pay, and so I had love's price).
A change of clothes; the pub that night my fate;
A few beers later, I had the taste for vice;
Before (and since) I had done much worse then,
When I came, saw, and conquered lovely Kirsten.

A nearby brothel, nothing quite so flash;
(I won't say where, but nearby is enough);
And luckily for me, I had the cash;
(For I was desperate, for a bit of muff).
So, on a cold Winter's evening, h*rny, rash,
I did now, set sail, for my bit of rough.
Soon, reception, and now the old Madam;
I paid the price; she said: "choose and have 'em".

Now five girls appeared in the reception,
The Madam; she told me to choose my girl;
Five dolled up ladies, now for my inspection,
(I saw a blonde one standing near the hall);
I asked her name, the Madam told me "Kirsten"
"Then she's for you, and may, she you, enthrall",
I chose her then, (as custom then would have it);
Another girl;- another costly habit.

So in a clap-board room, I turned the dimmer,
Of the light, on the ceiling, down a shade;
Our bodies, in soft shadow, now did shimmer,
And made our troubles seem to shy and fade.
Two figures, in half light, did softly glimmer,
(Like Venus and Adonis in a glade).
Then going down, into her secret place;
And all because she had a pretty face.

And moaning now, she parts her legs so softly;
She offers now her self,- there is no shame;
I kiss her mount of Venus - then so quickly,
Feel my passion rise and rise, as if aflame.
I'm on my back; she straddles me then slowly;
Rhythm builds, - me and my girl whose on the game;
And still now, I remember how she trembled;
As climax shook us both; on sheets we tumbled.

Afterwards, we had a shower together,
And water flowed upon us hotly, how;
She told me that I'd be one she'd remember;
(As I wonder to myself,- where is she now?).
This year's near gone, and soon, will be November;
So, I must write, while time, it does allow.
I tell of this, reader, need you ask why?
T'is been my life; that,- and tonnes of ennui.

So, now you've had it all; - I've set the scene,
The time and tide of passion - it is true;
And like a torrent onward, young love's dream,
Is but a bend in a river flowing through.
Where in my life, it's been a common theme;
More memories, which none can now undo;
I weave these stories, through my posy's bars;-
Such as they are;- beneath the fateful stars.



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The cherubic boy, with arrow, will strike;
Let the grog flow, so the self-obsessed;
May each then reel - and perhaps find delight;
(Then forget the way in which they have transgressed);
With each drink, become as high as a kite;
It's all because a young lad, half-undressed;
Decided to join in the bright festivities;-
(Reflecting badly on cherub proclivities).

The cherubic imp's as invisible as air;
Flutt'ring on pinions, with bow, and with arrow;
When you've thought you've seen him, he isn't there;
Though you may hear his wings swish like a sparrow;
Close to your ear, or to ruffle your hair; -
(No need to read your fortune with tarot); -
Of Venus and Mars, he may have been born; -
But tonight, he's an imp - in modern form.

And his work is so tiring in this nightclub;
The heat, the noise, the crowd, and the music;
Cupid needs refreshment - and here's the rub;
He's not meant to drink, or he'll become sick;
Last time, at a dinner party, he fell into a bathtub;-
After drinking a cocktail, he fell like a brick;-
(Before this, he'd used the drink's swizzle stick;-
As an arrow, to shoot at the cat, the dumb prick!)*

Cupid's developed a taste for the booze;
(He thought it gave his flight extra verve);
Romantic liaisons were now his to choose;
(So long as he flies, and can keep his nerve);
And for this reason the grog he would use;
To keep his arrows true - for them not to swerve;
Though he doesn't fly too well when he's liquored;
And on this night, our Cupid
gets shickered!

For the first few drinks, the boy kept his eye;
Steadfastly on a man across the room;
Through angelic peepers, he did espy;
Subversive conduct going on all too soon;
The man with bad thoughts, well now he did try;
To spike a ladies drink - (the bloody goon);
Cupid shoots an arrow (before he is pissed);
A damn good shot! - It hits the man on the wrist!

This "gentleman", well, he lets out a howl;
The drug meant for her, is now on the floor;
And despite being as pissed as an owl;
He feels pain in his arm, like nothing before;
The girl now sees his hideous scowl;
She gathers her things, then bolts for the door;
Well that's quite nice - a crisis averted;
The boy saves a lady who would have been skirted.

Well, being a boy of very high virtue;
Cupid does not hang around for too long;
He's busy tonight, and there is much to do;
On gossamer wings, powered by angel's song;
He flits 'cross the room, (after stopping this snafu);
But stops on the way - to drink some more grog;
As well as cocktails, the imp likes champagne;
(And sadly for him, again, and again).

Though just as a sylph, and angel in flight;
(The baby-faced cherub is pretty far gone);
He's conscious enough, to now find delight;
In promoting the odd drunken liaison;
(If he knows in the morning, at the first light;
Lasting love will come from reckless passion);-
The cherubic rouge's old, despite his young years;
He sees all the girls, through veils of their tears.

The coquettish boy - (harbinger of doom);
Is out of his mind, and in no fit state;
To do much after this, now that the room;
Is spinning and giddy, and the hour late;
The debauchery, and moral vacuum;
Increases; (and all the more insensate;
Grows the cherubic mind, with each drink taken);-
Well, so I despair!;- poor Cupid's forsaken!

And so, our Cupid's really on a bender;
Now all he has left, is but ersatz love;
Then they all say: "the kid's a pretender";
(With flight no more graceful, like a dove);
He loses his gyros, and thus bends a fender;
When he falls like a stone, from his high perch above;
Now, it's an inverted aspect, for Cupid;-
He's stunned, and c*ck eye'd, and lying there stupid.


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