Plantation

Open, closed,
wide spaces
closely focused trees
they stretch to sky
in singular array --
the pinegrove raised to fall
    to chop
      to hack
        to saw
          and grind
            and hit
              and pound
                and pierce
                  and build --

                        created beauty
                        From the violent end
                        of regal pine-tree flesh.

Nicotine

       It curls
      It floats -
     The smoky haze -
   It billows out her lips
  In sweetened scent
 and hangs in air, distraught,
Perhaps destroying, yet relaxing.
   She is aware of what it cost.
       She knows of those -- of some
           Who've paid the price
                 of pleasure.
                       "worth the pain," she claims,
                                             Sucking in
                                                     coughing,
                                                              breathing,
                                                                       Dying without need-
                                                                       Enjoying every breath.

Last Call

A wilting hand extends a blue reward,
as cracking voice floats o'er the oaken bench.
"A pot of Carlton sir," he asks, "the change
is yours; I've little need for silver'nd gold."

A youngster pulls the tap in frothy gold --
Behind him, pretty lass collecting drinks;
Tequila for another customer
Whose stronger gut can stand the fiery blaze

A weary gaze surveys the benches top
as aching eyes drink in the chilling brew
The wilting hand extends again and pulls
the glass to broken lips and drowns its voice

"Tomorrow, ask for me and you will find
that I've become a grave man" he says.
"Mercutio was ne'er as sad as I,
though Romeo may understand the line."

"Do tell?" asks younger barman as he pours
a glass of Jack infused with darkened coke.
"Your bourbon sir," he says aside and slides
the glass on oak towards a suited man.

The broken olden-timer sighs again,
and downs a final sip of Carlton's draught.
"She passed us by at last, and waking disappoints.
A shot of Jack here, cobber, please."

The night extends past final call and wizened
Older man sets foot on rain-washed street.
His greying hair and unshaved cheek are slicked
with winter cold and frost and wet, as lights

from cars on mainstreet shed to view his shape --
Too late. The rubber screech and slide and thud
so sickly renders psychic truth to life
and forces death, untimely, yet in time.

Our Place

It's our place, but you don't even know
Her quiet warmth, it harbours me
When hopeless pain becomes a mask
And unknown thoughts flow down the creek

Like the tree wherein I carved
Her name and mine three years apart
My heart betrays the stilted marks.
Where bark has fallen -- the lines remain.

And like the tree, I'll ne'er forget
The star-crossed hopes and dreams I shared;
The single heart, the only one.
The girl who meant the world to me

The cause of salt-drenched wandering
And bargaining with God on high
But I, I know in time she'll pass
And sink again beneath the bark

Ten years from now, with wife and child,
I can't expect to be content
But equalness in love is prime
What's good for her, I understand

Maryknoll in June

(for A. M. Grace)

Electric lights can barely pierce the mist;
Precipitation masking wholesomeness.
The streets of town, the Virgin's holy ground,
her streets, her shops and church and park and homes

A deer bolts across my path, still masked
in gloom. I pause to think - "Escapee deer
from where on earth was your abode, and why
do you now disrupt my peace?" The rain falls on

and on and on and my disjointed steps
progress again -- the cemetery nigh.
The bitter wind, the pin-prick drops of doom
That fall on howling winter's night
in Maryknoll in June.

The Yellow Rose

(for K. McCracken)

Ten roses rest in two pale hands,
and two pale hands surround the stems.
The stems will stretch to beautiful end,
with scented petals in golden tint.

The golden tint reflects the light
From lovely face and gentle heart;
Both elements of which I'm proud
To call you "friend"; a yellow rose

Mt. Bischoff Mine

(for A. Groza)

We clambered over auburn rocks,
avoiding trips and breaking falls
whilst contemplating  silver veins
That may still lie beneath the hill

We traveled back e'er we'd gone far,
as cloaking night exhumed the light
and ne'er did we approach again
that ancient mine, whose oxide slopes

and sparsely vegetated hills
will, to this day, my thoughts entrap

Spirit

Twenty-Oh-Four; the year of change
In June the sea wind blows my hair
Pale frost-flakes ride on air through salty
Spray and stinging sea-tang

The ocean scent of Bass Strait
Fills my land-bound nostrils, set
From Melborne's port to southern land,
To Devonport, Tasmania.