For my brother, Martin
I’m going to sling your memory
over my shoulder
back pack you round the world
slide you on to station platforms
alongside the passing panorama of footsteps
that echo on that slice of cold cement
tuck you into airplane lockers
overhead the sleeping flyers
in that metal coffin in the ice cream clouds
nestle you among bus luggage
beneath the picture windows
and the ribbon racing road
I will unpack you in every village
every town and every city
in every land and nation
on every continent and land mass
crossing the oceans and seas
catching every wave and tide
circling the earth on winds and breezes
following sunsets and solar eclipses
and every cycle of the moon
until I find a place of resting
until I find a place of peace
until I find a place of peace
Written for my brother, Martin.
Died 26th April 2007 by his own hand in a Bluebell Wood
Fifty Seven winters besieged your brow
gouging deep ruts in your beauty paddock
Quick witted armoury surrendered now
sparking like the neurons of a haddock
The Celtic black hair so thick and so strong
Now salt and peppered grey and sparsely thin
And where has that fiery tempered man gone ?
My one time brave and fearless larrikin
You’d take up the cudgels, face any fight,
survive any skirmish, stoush or battle
Your banner unfurled for the good and right
But these days, nothing your cage can rattle
Arise my champion you are not too old
A thousand warm nights before you grow cold.
First published in THE MOZZIE,Volume 14, Issue 6, July 2006
No grecian urn nor sculpted monument
can live beyond the realms of space and time
But in these lines of skilled form and content
you will live on, the centre of my rhyme.
Ozymandias, mighty king of kings,
colossal statue turned to desert sand
Yet, Shelley’s verse awoke these lifeless things
immortalised this man from antique land.
Both clock and scythe circle with the seasons
We cannot escape Fortune’s deadly wheel
None are free from Nature’s laws and reasons
Yet. in this verse you are divine and real
Your beauty and worth forgotten never
You will live in this poem forever.
Look in the mirror and what do you see ?
This is your golden time, your early spring
A dew-fresh face, peachy and wrinkle free
You are sweetest rosebud near blooming
Your sparkling dark eyes of the deepest blue
are a hidden sea by Nature painted .
Your luscious berried lips of blushing hue
are with gentle lovers not acquainted.
Your vernal looks recall your mother’s prime
Beguiling, fair and lovely was she then
Before she faced the whips and scorns of time
But winter’s ragged hand will come again
To your daughter make your beauty’s bequest
Let her and this poem be death’s conquest.
My lover’s eyes no longer navy pools
bleached paler by years of beating sun
His nose over facial dominion rules
and skin with liver spots is overrun
A dandelion man, confused and tall,
a long thin stem and a puff of white hair
Unsteady gait, joints need an overhaul
the crack and creak of cartilage wear
His views are fixed and often dogmatic
expressed in cold voice with power and force
He never cares to be diplomatic
preferring a more a belligerent course
Yet, he is my love and ever shall be
as long as the tides rush in from the sea.