Posted on by EAT

Lost

This was inspired by some personal reflection on the effects of modern development on the Australian Aboriginal songlines. I imagine that they’ve been disrupted to an extreme. Some things are simply not meant to be disturbed.

Lost

the sacred markers are gone
rusted rocks moved aside
magnificent beech and myrtle cut down
even once immovable markers defiled
that cliff face on the east of the valley
cut for quarry
that granite outcrop once there on the hilltop
bulldozed for a mall
the songlines are lost
scarred by countless hands
yellow machines billowing black smoke
there is no way back to the dreaming

rivers shifted off course
plains cleared and plowed
canyons gutted for ore
fences barb borderless boundaries
even the clouds are dirty

i once walked the songlines
heart that i was
i knew the markers and respected them
soul that i was
there in the dreaming before all this
but i have lost my way
i cannot find the markers
how shall i return to the dreaming

everything has been sacrificed
the way is lost
all is forgotten
lessons of the ancients
guidance of our ancestors
spurned and rejected
they weep for us even now
they walk among us watching
even they cannot find the markers
ripped from the earth
songlines erased for the next ten thousand years
even they are lost from the dreaming
wandering among us
crowding the rooms of our angular homes and towers
flowing in limpid flood throughout our lanes
moaning and wailing soundlessly like drizzle
sharing our torment

the way is lost
the dreaming lost

Posted on by EAT

Ephemeral

Perhaps, in the end, questions concerning the origins of man and his universe will not be answered. We want answers, but chances are they are way beyond, or before, our reach. This is like asking about the origin of faith, or the origin of mind. Everything we know is manifest, but attempting to answer the question of “from” or “where” will only takes us in circles.

Reflecting on such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 14th villanelle.

Ephemeral

Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
A stone now manifest and in the air
Barely above the water, gliding on?

Was it the misty void, though folded soft
Within its mystic lair of dark allure,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

A stone’s gray flight can never last for long,
Its hue in contrast with the liquid mire,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Do waters ponder, when it lands awash
And splashes up in flight again to soar,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

Momentum slows for every skimming rock,
Too soon to sleep enfolded in the mere,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Once it is lost from view, its motion stopped,
Ripples expand and fade; and, no-one’s there
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Posted on by EAT

Pulp

Psychology has its merits—That is when the psychologist is knowledgeable, experienced, and compassionate. But, to my mind, psychiatry has very few merits, no matter how well-intentioned its practitioners may be. I have watched the infusion of psychiatric drugs destroy the minds of those around me, and it has also destroyed most of what potential I was born with and began to develop as a child.

Very, very few losses inflict as much pain and despair as the loss of ones own potential. I know. So, thinking such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th terzanelle.

Pulp

they made his mind a molding mess
a slow and solemn nest of thought
a brooding storm of deep distress

confusion ruled his darkened heart
enraged at what his mind became
a slow and solemn nest of thought

as reason weakened and decayed
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh
enraged at what his mind became

his anguish flared a bitter flame
when it would surge with burning force
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh

he wished for death with yearnings fierce
a wish he never could perform
when it would surge with burning force

he longed to leave his broken form
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a wish he never could perform

the poisons flowed within his blood
they made his mind a molding mess
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a brooding storm of deep distress

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007