by Spirited Earthling
Roaming in earthly state,
bewitched with possums by the Opera House
and Quakers on Devonshire St
amongst designer hollows
and spaces creative
Under a pink sunset that soothes the ache:
Bare feet in the park,
the coolness
hitting
hot
sore
soles
surrounding
Asians pirouetting their Thai Chi
Lights on the harbour,
illumined reflections in Lavender Bay,
the Reds
and the Blues
sheening life-flowing waters.
City skyscrapers are ablaze,
their cells of light declare persistence and order,
as bats overhead
scurry gentle:
contrasting the panic of commuters
finding their nests.
Chagall is spiriting a rooster along Opera Quays,
the hub of elite and plenty,
behind which is the open simplicity
of a bridge century bent.
I hear a cacaphony of cutlery on porcelain:
as the old Indigene finds his rock pillow
while the gourmande avert their gaze.
Possums, oblivious to The Invasion,
scamper round for scraps in the park,
left by travellers enjoying the view.
The contrast and allure,
opportunity everywhere, and nowhere:
If only the blind would see.
Prayer for friends
By Michael Leunig
We give thanks for our friends.
Our dear friends.
We anger each other;
We fail each other.
We share this sad earth, this tender life,
this precious time.
Such richness. Such wildness.
Together we are blown about.
Together we are dragged along.
All this delight.
All this suffering.
All this forgiving life.
We hold it together.
Newcastle
by Spirited Earthling - September 2001
I see his face today:
cringing like a swallowed seed, lost and bewildered.
The pain of so much suffering etched too deeply for his mask to hide; his eyes hollow, weak with regret and coloured with sickness; his skin stretched taught across bony cheekbones in testimony to the hardship he's enduring.
I see a soul barely alive, clinging to dashed hopes; where the expectation of last resolve has somehow been banished, somewhere gone, lost in the pandemonium of events surrounding him.
He was in the office of the Department of Housing the last time I saw him; with friend, and an offer of a place in South Hamilton. One could see the glee his eyes gave, sense the joy, and hear the humour in his cackle with the counter-staff.
His appearance said it all - colourful clothes, cushioned cheeks, clean socks and shoes, and that exuding glow that tells of a person living close to their calling, content with their existence. Even his walk seemed refined and promising…
His excitement was infectious, but also unnerving…I had wondered then if he knew what South Hamilton was really like…nicknamed ‘The Bronx’ due to its notorious reputation. It was a message clear as day.
I felt for him then, but shrugged it off as irrational and paranoid. I prayed then, pleading that he not be broken, that he not be too sensitive to the stonewall streets and bludgeoning farce of a crippled neighbourhood.
That was twelve months ago, and here we sit next to each other, one broken, the other lost…twelve months and he has lost the spirit, the smile, and the glow that gave inspiration to a memory…
I wonder at the frailty of it all. Another lost soul to join the queue - Newcastle seems to have too many. I pray, that somewhere in his torment he might find a way to live…
I see his face today:
cringing like a swallowed seed, lost and bewildered.
The pain of so much suffering etched too deeply for his mask to hide; his eyes hollow, weak with regret and coloured with sickness; his skin stretched taught across bony cheekbones in testimony to the hardship he's enduring.
I see a soul barely alive, clinging to dashed hopes; where the expectation of last resolve has somehow been banished, somewhere gone, lost in the pandemonium of events surrounding him.
He was in the office of the Department of Housing the last time I saw him; with friend, and an offer of a place in South Hamilton. One could see the glee his eyes gave, sense the joy, and hear the humour in his cackle with the counter-staff.
His appearance said it all - colourful clothes, cushioned cheeks, clean socks and shoes, and that exuding glow that tells of a person living close to their calling, content with their existence. Even his walk seemed refined and promising…
His excitement was infectious, but also unnerving…I had wondered then if he knew what South Hamilton was really like…nicknamed ‘The Bronx’ due to its notorious reputation. It was a message clear as day.
I felt for him then, but shrugged it off as irrational and paranoid. I prayed then, pleading that he not be broken, that he not be too sensitive to the stonewall streets and bludgeoning farce of a crippled neighbourhood.
That was twelve months ago, and here we sit next to each other, one broken, the other lost…twelve months and he has lost the spirit, the smile, and the glow that gave inspiration to a memory…
I wonder at the frailty of it all. Another lost soul to join the queue - Newcastle seems to have too many. I pray, that somewhere in his torment he might find a way to live…
Of childhood dreams
by Sam Powell (?)
No one need abandon childhood dreams
that outlive dry illusions:
Born of fear and other’s hoarded expectations.
There is but one lesson to learn,
as easy as squirrels
And sunshine,
A lesson echoed endlessly
in whispers in the sanctuary of your heart,
No matter how long or far you have strayed.
To ignore it is the only sin, a tragic guarantee
that sadness and emptiness
will haunt the final days of your life.
Though the mountains fall on you
and the sky denies her light,
Though the moon disappear:
and clouds are troubled,
and angry.
All of this will pass away,
no matter what the time or season.
Then the dreams you refused to abandon
will explode with new life!
Taller than the mountains:
Brighter than the Sun!
And the joyful song that was yours from the beginning
will resound across the silver edges of your days and nights,
And lead you lovingly and fearlessly
into the light.
No one need abandon childhood dreams
that outlive dry illusions:
Born of fear and other’s hoarded expectations.
There is but one lesson to learn,
as easy as squirrels
And sunshine,
A lesson echoed endlessly
in whispers in the sanctuary of your heart,
No matter how long or far you have strayed.
To ignore it is the only sin, a tragic guarantee
that sadness and emptiness
will haunt the final days of your life.
Though the mountains fall on you
and the sky denies her light,
Though the moon disappear:
and clouds are troubled,
and angry.
All of this will pass away,
no matter what the time or season.
Then the dreams you refused to abandon
will explode with new life!
Taller than the mountains:
Brighter than the Sun!
And the joyful song that was yours from the beginning
will resound across the silver edges of your days and nights,
And lead you lovingly and fearlessly
into the light.
An absolutely ordinary rainbow
by Les Murray
The word goes around Repins,
the murmur goes around Lorenzinis,
at Tattersall's, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There’s a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can’t stop him.
The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
there’s a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.
The man we surround, the man no one approaches
Simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
Not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly – yet the dignity of his weeping
holds us back from his space,
the hollow he makes about him
In the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
And uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
Stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
Longing for tears as children for a rainbow.
Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
Or force stood around him. There is no such thing.
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
But they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,
The toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us
Trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
Judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream
Who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children
And such as look out of Paradise come near him
And sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.
Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops
his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit –
And I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand
And shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
As many as follow her also receive it
And many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
Refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
But the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
The man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
Of his writhen face and ordinary body
Not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow
Hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea –
And when he stops, he simply walks between us
Mopping his face with the dignity of one
Man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.
Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.
The word goes around Repins,
the murmur goes around Lorenzinis,
at Tattersall's, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There’s a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can’t stop him.
The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
there’s a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.
The man we surround, the man no one approaches
Simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
Not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly – yet the dignity of his weeping
holds us back from his space,
the hollow he makes about him
In the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
And uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
Stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
Longing for tears as children for a rainbow.
Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
Or force stood around him. There is no such thing.
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
But they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,
The toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us
Trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
Judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream
Who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children
And such as look out of Paradise come near him
And sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.
Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops
his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit –
And I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand
And shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
As many as follow her also receive it
And many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
Refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
But the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
The man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
Of his writhen face and ordinary body
Not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow
Hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea –
And when he stops, he simply walks between us
Mopping his face with the dignity of one
Man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.
Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.
A sunset mystery
by Spirited Earthling
Tonight I watch the sky and it is truly beautiful. As the fiery sun throws its incandescent glow of constant change, the clouds shape themselves into elephants and angels. Some are bold and beautiful, where others disperse like the tide swept sands on a distant shore. There are the light ones that wisp and fancy, and those that contain a determination that’s already marked them from the rest.
Above this, a glimpse of that other dimension. The clouds, like quick flashes of consciousness, underlie the deep silence of the universe beyond: its presence quietly holds the drama of the setting.
The sunset casts a strong spray of colour where golden tendrils catch all in their path, as a light playful wind creates mischief and patter. A layer of cloud undercuts the rest. Its long feeble fingers moving with a different current to touch those who have also drifted away.
There are some higher than one could imagine: fine elegant patches of white that sit far above, watching and waiting the unfolding play. These guardians remain still: silent, strong, proud and concrete. They are indeed the ones closest to the deep spirit beyond.
The movement is quickening as the sun sinks back into the earth. Pink now, with bold grey streaks across the sky. Pathways fringed in crispy gold: and those angelic fingers of God.
Just a speck, as the fingers of light finish their work and drop beyond the land; a patch of light disappears into the sea. Glimpses of what has been form an afterthought; as embers fizzle and the glow turns to night - red and gold turning to grey and stone. The tension mounts as the night prepares itself, and the great pilgrimage marches its echo. Faint snatches still clinging to the possibilities of prolonged existence, then fading…fading…into night.
The other shore seethes with a calm abiding, where the underworld is spinning as a new light beckons. The white waifs are gone to make way for the moon and her glory. This shore holds many secrets, where clouds across another place speak a different language: strange and distant…
A faint hue is the sun’s only remnant; he has made another life and moves with different pilgrims…
The evening star finds me pondering on the finishing, and reminds me that all is change; ever growing, ever transforming. Where something dies, something else is born. My eyes need training. What do I see, I ask myself, if the mystery of it all is just a reflection of an inner working - that which seems just out of reach but present all the same.
The wind is rich. It is time to go in……
Tonight I watch the sky and it is truly beautiful. As the fiery sun throws its incandescent glow of constant change, the clouds shape themselves into elephants and angels. Some are bold and beautiful, where others disperse like the tide swept sands on a distant shore. There are the light ones that wisp and fancy, and those that contain a determination that’s already marked them from the rest.
Above this, a glimpse of that other dimension. The clouds, like quick flashes of consciousness, underlie the deep silence of the universe beyond: its presence quietly holds the drama of the setting.
The sunset casts a strong spray of colour where golden tendrils catch all in their path, as a light playful wind creates mischief and patter. A layer of cloud undercuts the rest. Its long feeble fingers moving with a different current to touch those who have also drifted away.
There are some higher than one could imagine: fine elegant patches of white that sit far above, watching and waiting the unfolding play. These guardians remain still: silent, strong, proud and concrete. They are indeed the ones closest to the deep spirit beyond.
The movement is quickening as the sun sinks back into the earth. Pink now, with bold grey streaks across the sky. Pathways fringed in crispy gold: and those angelic fingers of God.
Just a speck, as the fingers of light finish their work and drop beyond the land; a patch of light disappears into the sea. Glimpses of what has been form an afterthought; as embers fizzle and the glow turns to night - red and gold turning to grey and stone. The tension mounts as the night prepares itself, and the great pilgrimage marches its echo. Faint snatches still clinging to the possibilities of prolonged existence, then fading…fading…into night.
The other shore seethes with a calm abiding, where the underworld is spinning as a new light beckons. The white waifs are gone to make way for the moon and her glory. This shore holds many secrets, where clouds across another place speak a different language: strange and distant…
A faint hue is the sun’s only remnant; he has made another life and moves with different pilgrims…
The evening star finds me pondering on the finishing, and reminds me that all is change; ever growing, ever transforming. Where something dies, something else is born. My eyes need training. What do I see, I ask myself, if the mystery of it all is just a reflection of an inner working - that which seems just out of reach but present all the same.
The wind is rich. It is time to go in……
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