The True Rose


Getting up close won’t ever help you find
Whatever makes a rose what it just is
Nor can you catch its essence as it dwind-
les in the distance – nothing can exist
Larger or smaller than its proper size.

You and life cannot have a drink together,
You cannot lock antennas with an ant,
Graveyard and cradle cannot hug each other,
Nobody snows, no mountain wears a hat:
Everything out of context is a stunt.

Oh yes you might observe the rose forever
In some black hole a spaceship falls into,
Petals as petrified as jet fuel, never
Moving, but this is nothing like the true
Rose bees swarm in and nostrils go for scent to,

Is it? Perhaps an astronaut thinks so,
Deep in a crushed-in space, if that suspense
Allows for thought where everything is slowed
Down and the present, past and future tense
Combine like ice cubes in an empty glass.

A real rose trembles on the cusp of Now.
Its shape, its odour and its colour clamour
To grab sensations alien to a flower,
Part bee, part human through the spring and summer,
In winter withered to a jagged claw,

Yet none of this will ever make a rose
A rose forever or make now forever
A rose, a rose that never was, God knows,
But somehow all there is, the undiscovered
Truth about what it means to be alive.


Current edit:

22 June 2014

25 May 2015

29 August 2015

The Quantum Thing


Raindrops on the rails that stop
Us falling off
The edge of the verandah, hang,
A lynched gang,

Underneath their gallows sky.
What was their crime?
They dare not fall. They don’t have wings.
Trees sprout rings,

Atoms orbits making jumps
In quantum leaps
That keep each new growth from the next,
Like a text

Paragraphed. Thus drops of rain
Need not remain
Rain but could, if they chose, just go
A rainbow

Angling back into the sky,
Water made dry.
But what on earth do raindrops know!

Make the jump before you fall
Or grab a rail
And hang there for the darkest crime,
Wasting time.


Adapt or die! The world is always changing and we have to grow with it. Easier said than done.

Current draft: 25 August 2015


wiki swans

How do you catch the meaning of a life?
Not the life on the outside, not the sun
Reflecting off the surface, but within,

Fleeting as whispers. Who lurks in the hide,
Watching us in suspense, binoculars
Turned on us shyly, turned on us like mirrors?

If we are careless, bursting into flight,
Slapping the water’s face with alarmed wings,
Rising until the tips flick spreading rings

Fading towards the shore, their far horizon,
As we climb fading slowly into ours,
How will we learn the truth? Here let us pause

And be the swans he came to scrutinise,
That he may venture from his hiding place
And meet us by the water face to face.


Changed the title to ‘Swans’ – 26 August 2015

Wikipedia Pilgrim

wiki skull

An honest pilgrim, being thirsty for
Knowledge and coming to a desert, saw,
Like a mirage afloat on moving hills,
A curious temple built from human skulls.
Wetting his lips, the wanderer croaked “Ah-ha!
This must be the famed Wikipedia
And these the skulls of selfless editors
Who gave themselves up to its noble cause,
Working long hours, transcribing stuff like monks,
Debating meanings and debunking bunk.
Here I may rest my weary feet at last,
Reporting on the sciences and arts.”

As he made for the temple, it withdrew,
As all mirages always seem to do,
For Wikipedia is just hot air
And all it is both is and is not there.
Before too long, because he persevered,
A man who smiled or seemed to smile appeared
From indoors, though the doors had remained closed,
For Wikipedians cannot be opposed
By facts like walls, being expert in the art
Of passing through all spaces like a fart.

I am your guide!” the seeming substance said
Then through a labyrinth of strange rules led
Or seemed to lead the puzzled pilgrim on,
Until the meaning of the rules was gone.
Forget the rules for rules are always old
And lack suspense. All you need be is bold!
Ours is the knowledge anyone can edit,”
And then he vanished almost as he said it.

The faithful pilgrim took him at his word
For what seems nonsense isn’t always absurd.
Scouting around, he found an article
So bad it seemed quite diabolical,
The subject pederasty in ancient Greece,
Nothing of interest to today’s police,
All written from an ancient point of view,
Citing just ancient sources, nothing new.
Disturbed, suspicious, he deleted it.
What happened next, what hit the fan was shit.
The article released a hideous form,
A monster in whose hair snakes hissed and squirmed,
This one her puppet, another one her stooge
Coloured with her mascara, smeared with her rouge,
All dripping poison, spitting out abuse,
Thinking as she did thoughts odious and obtuse.
“You stinking vandal, look what you have done!”
She said, they said, speaking in unison.
“Restore our words, our meanings, spellings, tenses,
All our elaborate cobweb of consensus
Or else!” The pilgrim, not sure what to say
Made himself scarce to fight some other day,
But every day turned out just like the first,
Himself reviled and his reverts reversed.

There is but one way to defeat true horror:
Heroes must scare it shitless with a mirror.
The pilgrim donned a wig of rubber snakes
And laughed because they looked such obvious fakes,
For satire was his weapon, truth his shield,
And justice would supply a level field,
Or so he thought. Where was real Justice then?
It wasn’t in that world of virtual men.

The monster – the real one – flew off to court,
Fuming and fretting, bilious and distraught,
Puppets and stooges augmenting her cries:
“The pilgrim is the Devil in disguise!”
The judges shook their jowels as if shocked:
“Guilty as charged – indefinitely blocked!”
Incensed, the pilgrim shook his fist and laughed
To see how mad and bad things were and daft,
Shouting abuse, confined to a small cell,
As lonely, cold, reviled and scorned as hell…

They said he had betrayed the covenant.
Hypocrisy and lies make good cement.
Now his skull too stares from the pediment.



I’m still working on it but this far from the event motivation is a problem.

Current edit: 23 May 2014



Child, you are unwanted, a misconceived
Enigma in the adult scheme of things,
No portion of the hope that gives us wings,
So you will be made as if you never lived.

I have no words for my regrets,
I cannot even mime my grief,
I am the coin that pays my debts,
A cancelled cheque, an annulled life.

You are a failure, Punk, a criminal,
A poor man, beggar, lunatic and drunk.
You do not know to what depths you have sunk.
You will be educated in a gaol.

I have been tutored by my chains.
I am as upright as my bars.
Give me a chance to be a man again.
Just try to overlook my scars.

Yours is an abject and abysmal race,
An obstacle to progress, a mistake
Of nature, Jew, a  treacherous fake.
You are a problem to be solved en masse.

Don’t you see from my haunted eyes
And my emaciated limbs
How deeply I apologize
For being born the man I am?

You are an editor who uses socks,
A lunatic that won’t co-operate,
And though, up to this point in time, your slate
Was clean, you are indefinitely blocked.

There are already in this world
Tyrants enough, more than enough
Cast, it may be, in the same mould
As you, you stupid shit. Get stuffed.


At Wikipedia, I was accused of having sockpuppets and I was blocked indefinitely. It was complete nonsense. I had multiple accounts but they were started and abandoned one after the other, with open decalarations and links to avoid deception. The indefinite block might have been lifted if I had shown myself to be really sorry for my antics. Self-defence was not an option at that point. Defiance was tantamount to Wikipedia suicide. Why was I defiant? I owed it to the victims of worse injustices who never had a chance to shake their fist and laugh. Wikipedia is full of compliant victims. They and their tormentors will soon be the only Wikipedians left. So much for the world’s encyclopaedia! I am still indefintely blocked. Hooray.

Rocks and Breakers


The headland rocks rise from the ocean wash
As gaunt and harsh as castle battlements.
The breakers drag their tattered banners hence,
Lifting them once more out at sea and thence,
Time after time, surge forward, roil and gash
Themselves on shore with an almighty crash.
It is as if some passion in them, tense,
Urgent and not to be denied, some sense
Of right, propells them to this thunderous clash.

The rocks, locked in their battlements, look on
This turmoil seething at their feet unmoved.
By being patient, they have always won,
With no advantage gained and nothing proved.

Here, as I walk round these tumultuous acres,
My mind sides with the rocks, my heart moves with the breakers.


We all struggle to some extent for a proper balance between common sense and ardour. Common sense is appropriate for maintaining the status quo. If you want to create something or make big changes, you have to ignore realities and just go with the inner flow.


Wiki brown snake

I take the brush-cutter out of the shed,
For it is time once more to slash tall grass,
A tangled and impenetrable hedge
Choking the dam. Once there I prime the gas,
Pull on the cord, adjust the throttle as
The engine kicks and sputters into action,
Then shoulder the strap, making a slow pass
With the great, whizzing blade, section by section
Subjecting nature’s ruins to a man’s correction.

It has been my intent for many years
To turn this dam into a landscaped pond.
It burst some years ago. The water clears
Slowly, as faith does in a broken bond.
There is no such thing as a magic wand.
Sometimes I have lost hope but I return
Time and again to work the stubborn ground,
Imagining the scene when I am done,
Lawn sloping to clean water ducks will quack upon.

Somewhere within this fortress grass I know
A brown snake lurks, her scales like polished brass,
Her eyes black coals, her movements sure but slow
Until she senses an intruder pass,
When she uncoils from the much-too-much grass
A lethal spring. I’ve met this cool bitch twice.
Twice she came short, incising where I was,
Expending all her fury in a trice,
A gambler’s fling. She sure would like to make it thrice.

She won’t come near me while the blade is spinning,
Despite her fangs, her archaic weaponry,
Because survival still depends on winning.
I have replaced the Aborigine,
Tuned to the rhythm of the didgeri-
doo when the fire-place roared and the hillsides rang
With dreams now vanished from all memory.
He kept the tempo of the world he sang
With a rotating wooden blade, the boomerang.


This is written in Spenserian stanzas. Strictly speaking, the boomerang was only used by some tribes in the centre of Australia but throwing sticks were universal and they all looked rather like boomerangs. More needs to be added to the poem, I guess, but this will do for now.

Current edit:

18 May 2014

26 August 2015