Poems 1

JUST LISTEN
(written after Lifeline course)

Listen with an open mind,
Judge me not, and you will find,
My words becoming loud and clear,
Portraying thoughts and deepest fear,
Guilt and shame I’ve had to bear,
Now perhaps, with you I’ll share,
And that in turn will ease the pain,
So I can see the sun again.

Listen till you gain my trust,
Let me feel that you’re not just,
Another friend advising me,
Such clear solutions, they can see.
I must know you understand,
Reach out, and gently take my hand,
Only when I’m really sure,
Can I reveal what I endure.

Listen with your beating heart,
Then together we can start,
Exploring demons deep within,
Identify them, and begin,
To look way back to times gone by,
Those fearful times that made me cry,
Down those murky lanes we’ll walk,
And you will sense, that as I talk,
This poison that is drowning me,
Will seep away, and I can be,
Less frightened by the world I see,
At peace with my reality.

Poetalan

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PIANO TUNER

In the peaceful surround of the coffee lounge,
Sitting in comfortable chair,
I’m due at the bookshop at half past one,
So there’s more than an hour to spare.

At the end of the lounge, there’s a bookshelf,
Where many red books, on mahogany stand,
Framed pictures of horses, strategically placed,
And gem studded dagger, from some distant land.

In front of the bookshelf, a beautiful sight,
Many coats of French polish, so shiny and bright,
White ivory keys, that can play a soft tune,
As sweet and romantic, as any full moon.

And there stands the tuner, with spanner in hand,
Carefully nursing piano so grand,
Meticulous, as she checks voltage and sound,
Adjusting a string, if perfection’s not found.

How deeply she concentrates, checking each chord,
I watch for an hour, and never feel bored,
Starting at low note, and works towards high,
Enlisting experience, mind, ear, and eye.

Nothing distracts her, she’s deeply engrossed,
Each string must be perfect, she tries her utmost,
I watch her cool face, almost feel what she’s thinking,
No time for eating, no time for drinking,
Maestro will come soon, with his hands so steady,
Lounge will be full, so all must be ready,
His ear will pick up, the most minute defect,
That all those who listen, might never detect,
And after each melody, he’ll take a pause,
At the end he will bow, and accept the applause,
And as they shout “Encore”, and see Maestro smile,
Let us just think of the tuner a while,
She’s very important, but audience won’t see,
Who will sing her praise? Perhaps none but me.

Poetalan

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THE GAMBLER

He lives alone.
For who on earth could ever bear,
The heartache, grief & sheer despair,
That his addiction brings.

He sleeps alone.
A woman loved, and she did care,
But never quite enough to share,
Her life with one so unaware,
Of her deep feelings.

He cries alone.
Teardrops fall by unpaid bills,
Coffee and depression pills,
Cannot hear the bird that sings,
Or antique phone that never rings,
Long since disconnected.

He walks alone.
But never to the bush or sea,
So quickly to the T.A.B.
Or ticket for the lottery,
Such easy money, can’t you see,
Just one big win will set him free,
Then people will respect him.

He dreams alone.
If only his bad luck would change,
All the things he’d rearrange,
Nice big house and prestige car,
Wife that looks like movie star,
Then those who used to turn away,
Would stoop & bow and say G’day,
And try to be his friend.

He dies alone.
Not one friend to call his own,
Pill bottles empty by antique phone,
Long since disconnected.

Poetalan

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USE YOUR LOAF

A loaf of bread is sitting,
On a supermarket shelf,
Surrounded by so many clones,
It’s not there by itself.

The price tag says two - twenty.
The market says that’s fair.
And bread we must eat plenty,
But buyers should beware

Just eight cents for that precious wheat,
Ten cents to make with care,
Two cents to package what we eat,
Two dollars for the air.

Poetalan

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PUZZLES

Did God create the universe?
And how did life begin?
How heavy is a moonbeam?
And why do planets spin?
Why do apples taste so sweet?
Yet lemons taste so sour?
Why do such tiny atoms,
Possess such awesome power?
How many times has Satan lied?
How often has he sinned?
Can true love last forever?
What colour is the wind?

Poetalan

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SYDNEY SUNSET (A view from Governor Phillip Lookout)
(28 Dec 1998)

I sit here on the highest rock,
Up above the trees,
It isn't quite so hot up here,
With cool and gentle breeze. My eyes look east, and there's the ocean,
Ships are anchored or sailing past.
Some just leaving Sydney Harbour,
And some returning home at last.

The sun has just set in the west.
A few thin crimson clouds hug the horizon,
As the sun sinks ever further,
Darkness is chasing away the last few rays of daylight.
Some of the brighter stars appear in the night sky,
And gradually, the shyer stars come out and their numbers grow, How many stay in hiding that man will never see,
I guess it's hard to ever really know.

To the north, there is pretty bushland intermingled with houses.
The coastline fades into the distance and becomes black.

So now the day is laid to rest,
And Sydney looks her very best.
Like a beautiful woman, whose dark dress is studied with white sparkling diamonds. Blue and red fluorescent ribbons are placed strategically to enhance her natural beauty.

The revolving restaurant on the top of Centre Point Tower gleams like a jeweled crown on a monarch's head. The year 2,000 brings the games,

And Sydney draws those famous names,
All dreaming of the medals they'll achieve.
But when those famous athletes see the beauty of our city,
I wonder if they'll ever want to leave.

Poetalan

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KURSK

The Berring sea is grey and cold,
The Kursk was proud,
But she was old.
Why did so many sailors have to die?

The once majestic Russian fleet,
Neglected, rusty, incomplete,
Now admirals and politicians lie.

In days of high technology,
Men should be masters of the sea,
But meanwhile, many Russian mothers cry.

Poetalan

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RUSSIAN TEARDROP

The deep blue eye of a mother,
Secretes a salty tear.
Her tender heart is torn apart,
She meets her greatest fear.

The tear rolls down her pretty face,
And stops to pause a while.
She holds his picture to her breast,
Remembering his smile.

The soft moist trail begins to dry,
And tear is wiped away.
Once more, 100 mothers cry.
A world begins to pray.

Poetalan

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