Smoke Filled Basement

Ash trays and beer mugs
fire trap, smoke filled basement
jazz piano and double bass

Hot humid summer night
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Sydney Opera house and bridge

Hernandez late night coffee
Ethiopian Vienna
amongst taxi drivers and pimps

Driving in your Corolla
leafy Eastern Suburbs
chewing the breeze

Governors, Dunners
reminiscing, looking forward
relaxing, enjoying

Peter this is how I remember you
your stupid dinosaur
and corny smile

God I have a question
they tell me he will die, today or tomorrow
stupid, spiteful, stinkin’ leukaemia

I know the times
the eschatological tension
the kingdom now but not yet

I know you have given
I know you take away
your name will be praised

But I still have a question
a little question
a big question

Selfishly God
he is my friend
and this really hurts

God
the question I have
is simply

Why?
Why God?
Why? Why? Why?

———————–

~3rd Place Editor’s Choice Award

Working Dad

As the sun goes down upon another tired summer’s day
that lonely hour after the kids have gone to bed
and before stumbling drunks fall chasing other people’s dreams
I quietly ride the bus though fading streets
allowing jazz to permeate the solitude of my thoughts.
Bee-bop a bee-bow-bop.

Reluctantly through necessity I trade my asylum
for a factory where morn, noon and night
classic rock blares under fluorescent tubes
and loo paper conveys along mile after mile
of concrete floor and ragged dreamless men.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

With soulless cardboard box in hand I take my place
amongst an ocean of well meaning, forever-changing paper
and with a mechanical stroke of my hand I callously judge:
rejects to the floor, quality to the middle-classes;
thus emulating decisions that keep darkening my dreams.
Swish-whoosh-thud, swish-whoosh-thud.

Whistle blows, neon eyes greet morning skies
with buds in ears, the morning news embraces my slow commute
from a bevy of broken tired men trying to earn their weekend dreams
to the lingering sound of a loved working mum and our beautiful kids
who, innocently pursuing a better future, have just left for school.
Pitta-patta, pitta-patta.

———————–

~2nd Place Editor’s Choice Award


Ticket to Life

~7th Place Editor’s Choice Award

‘Ticket to Life’ won 7th place ‘Editor’s Choice Award’ and ‘Highly Commended’ in the ‘Masters Level’  in a ‘FaithWriters’ writing competition. USA, 2012.

To see the poem at ‘FaithWriters’ and to read all the lovely and sometimes not so lovely comments it has received click here.

Ticket to Life

We were young men and women
who were taking the world by storm.
One prostitute, one heroin addict
one boy prostitute, one transvestite
at a time, for the kingdom.

We strolled Sydney’s
seedier, darker streets
making friends
and handing out
sugar,
coffee with sugar,
sugar,
doughnuts with sugar,
did I mention sugar?
(Addicts love sugar).

One perilous evening
we stumbled upon
a young prostitute
who wanted a better life
she repented of her sins
and surrendered her life to Christ.

We were unable
to find a new home
for her that night
and agreed to return
a few days later
to pick up her things
from her brothel
and take her away
to safer, healthier places.

Return we did.
We could not find her,
searched and searched,
then spied her
across William Street’s
six wide lanes.

My pastor promptly
in his eagerness to help
performed a u-turn.
Immediately we were being pursued
by blue flashing lights.

The officer said,
“ Your u-turn was illegal,
I am going to have to give you
a ticket”.
Watching our young
sex-worker disappear
into the night,
my pastor replied,
“But officer you don’t understand,
I’m a pastor
looking for
a prostitute”.

This is one of many true stories that one gathers serving God in a red-light district. This young woman was rescued from her life on the streets and after much explaining, no ticket was given.

———————–
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

Little Kristina

~6th Place Editor’s Choice Award

‘Little Kristina’ won ‘6th place ‘Editor’s Choice Award’ and ‘Highly Commended’ in the ‘Masters Level’  in a ‘FaithWriters’ writing competition. USA 2011/12.

To see the poem at ‘FaithWriters’ and to read all the lovely comments it has received click here.

—————————

Little Kristina

My broken heart
skips a beat
as I round
the corner
to be greeted
by your
widespread arms
and little legs
running so hard
rushing to wrap
me in the
innocence
of your
loneliness.

I want to smother you
with a father’s love
and lavish you
with words
tell you
how
cute you look
and special you are
to whisper
sacred little things
like
‘I love you’.

Alas, I am but
a foreigner
a volunteer
a
protector of orphans
who will
one day
return to
the familiar
embrace
of his loving
kin.

I won’t be there
when the darkness
of the night
drowns your tears
I won’t be there
to calm your fear
and hold your hand
on your first
day
of school
your first boyfriend
will never
grace my
doorstep
and I will
not be
giving
you away
on your wedding
day.

I cannot
be there
for you
cannot
take
you
home
so when
you look in
my eyes
and melt
my hurting
heart
please feel
what is left
unsaid
I cannot
be there
for
you.

But someone
else can,
he will hold
you and
not let go
he will lavish you
love you
he is your adopter
and salvation
little Kristina
spread your
arms wide
and
welcome
Him
He is
your
Father.

———————–
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

D E L E T E

~6th Place Editor’s Choice Award

‘D E L E T E won 6th place ‘Editor’s Choice Award’ and ‘Highly Commended’ in the ‘Masters Level’  in a ‘FaithWriters’ writing competition. USA 2011/12.

To see the poem at ‘FaithWriters’ and to read all the lovely comments it has received click here.

——————————

D E L E T E

It was the invasion, personal
space defiled, the intrusion, the
dark clouds and the
darn right lack of respect
that just irked me.

‘Twas a day like any other
a morning drowsy
sleepy, stumble to
the computer.

The slow timeless groaning
of my hard drive, a punching of
the Thunderbird key and
welcome sight of familiar
names and emails.

I rubbed my eyes, drank
a non existent coffee
in effort to wake up
as I tried to comprehend
why was I selling myself
luxury Rolex watches?

I straightened in my chair
the fog in my head
was being slowly chased away
by warring stormclouds
found my way to my sent folder
to discover a thunderstorm
of waterproof watches
hocking themselves to my
precious, waking friends

Bleakness and panic permeated
my defences, time wasn’t
on my side, had I caught a virus or
had I been hacked?

I found myself once again
riding the tides of google
hoping for a wave to catch in,
to tell me how to
batten down the hatches
and rid myself of this disease.

I stumbled upon a ray of hope
a light in a dark place
that sent me scurrying
with my boots and parka
to my automated ‘out-of-office-reply’
and there the little beastie sat.

.bot.

Skulking in the dankness
of my computer’s underbelly
spitting out slimy emails
selling fake time-pieces
though my POP address.

I had been spied,
watched and hacked
my email host held hostage
abused as a slave
and all I needed to do that
wet long stormy day
was push delete.

D E L E T E.

———————–
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

One Notable Exception

~6th Place Editor’s Choice Award

One Notable Exception’ won ‘1st place‘ in the advanced level and ‘6th place‘ Editor’s Choice Award‘ in a ‘FaithWriters’ writing competition. USA 2011.

To see the poem at ‘FaithWriters’ and to read all the lovely comments it has received click here.

—————–

One Notable Exception

She’s beautiful of course
I wouldn’t have married her otherwise
but it is sad
’cause she’s a sufferer
suffers from TDD
technology disassociation disorder
I made that up, but
in short
she hates technology

There is one notable exception
she loves her ipod
syncs with itunes
and downloads
day after day
her meaty podcasts

Nine to Noon
Saturday Morning with Kim Hill
Politics
Woman’s hour
Americana

The downloading
it is a ritual
a morning tradition
she walks into our office
flicks her computer on
loads itunes
sorts through her podcasts
pushes the ‘get all’ button
and yells through the house
“I am just uploading my ipods”

A thousand times I explain
if it comes down from cyberspace
and lands in her computer
then it is a download
and
if it goes up from her notebook
into the
wonderful and wide web
then it is an upload

though she understands
the differences between
ipods and podcasts
uploading and downloading
the connection between
the understanding
and the speaking
has a twisted wire
thus nothing changes

however she’s my wife
she is beautiful
intelligent
and she daily
uploads her ipods

———————–
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

Bricks Upon Bricks

Bricks Upon Bricks‘ was ‘Highly Commended‘ in the ‘Level 3 Advanced’ section of the FaithWriters writing challenge. USA 2011.

Also to read the lovely comments and critiques that this poem has received, read the original version at FaithWriters

——————

Bricks upon Bricks

One, two and three
thud, thud & thud
bricks upon bricks
Babel’s rubble raises again.

I once used my fingers
then stored the answers in my head
grew into a calculator
now I google instead.

One, two and three
thud, thud & thud
bricks upon bricks.

Map books and rulers
arithmetic and thinking
all necessary for calculating distance
plug it in and bing.com you have your answer.

One, two and three
thud, thud & thud
bricks upon bricks.

Those lovely road maps
from a bygone era
getting directions
search.yahoo.com.

One, two and three
thud, thud & thud
bricks upon bricks.

Community nurses
neighbour’s remedies
mother’s wisdom
health problems, just ask.com.

One, two and three
thud, thud & thud
bricks upon bricks.

Anything, anything at all
forget the encyclopaedia
and other lowly things
lift your eyes up, altavista.com.

One, two and three
thud, thud & thud
bricks upon bricks.

Soon brainless
with stubby fingers
our dollar will read
‘in Google we trust’.

Then one, two three
thud upon thud
Babelling bricks will fall
and search-engines will tower no longer.

———————–
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

Rodelio and Rohelio

~12th Place Editor’s Choice Award

‘Rodelio and Rohelio’ won 3rd place the ‘Level 3 Advanced’ section of the FaithWriters writing challenge. USA 2011.

Also to read the lovely comments and critiques that this poem has received, read the original version at ‘FaithWriters‘.

—————-

Rodelio and Rohelio
part 1

In a Cebuano village
under palms, papaya and poverty
Rodelio and Rohelio
twin boys arrived in this world
innocent and free
bound in their fate

In a culture and class
where family survival
depends on healthy men
a rumour escaped
from their hessian hut
that Rodelio was beautiful
and Rohelio had club-foot

Shame and pity shrouded
in humidity and midday sun
forced Rodelio’s Dad to flee
flee to the joy and the glory
of a anxiety free
solvent tin

And me
the Joe, the white man
driven to prayer
through anger and injustice
driven to action
motived by faith
and western values

I stormed off to my doctor
told him the story
of twins born in a village slum
absent Dad, passive overwhelmed Mum
and a kid who will bring humiliation
without income or food

In a nation where affliction is normal
and goodwill to all is all too expensive
my doctor said ‘treatment is possible
but only with money’
I had faith, earnest faith
and only faith

Again we laid hands on the infant
pressed our prayers into the throne room of God
God was listening, just not answering
wounded and determined
I carried my expectations
off to the city council

Poverty ain’t precious
on a Filipino island
and the poor are paralysed
by the predicament of their situation
money moves men
and my pockets were empty
of coins and prayers

Prostrated and pain-stricken
ardently I soldiered on
to the mayor’s office
I poured out my passion
and drowned him in my sorrow
until justice was led to victory
and God got the glory

Rohelio at three days old
was going to visit the capital
sleep in a hospital
and would bring home
years of fish and rice
for his loving mother
and inebriated father

Anger subsiding, praise magnifying
justice given to a poor wean
by a God whose very child
was born into the malady of a manger.

Rodelio and Rohelio
part 2

I was earnest and sincere
loving God
obeying his call to serve the poor
and if I lived in
Liverpool, Lyon or Los Angeles
maybe here this montage could have concluded

Rohelio returned from his undertaking
wearing a healing, itching plaster-cast
the fear, pressure and all night screaming
cast the die of fate one more time

His dad returned
there in the absence of glue,
the bedlam of flowing tears
and the resulting sleeplessness
he ripped the cast off
and pronounced that this was
‘the divine will of God
for his son to have club-foot’

He might have been right
he might have been wrong
but when the boys are old enough
to slip and slide
around in the communal water pump
Rohelio will be watching
and slipping further into poverty

Rodelio and Rohelio
part 3

Rohelio, the divine will of God
is for there to be
no more death, crying and pain
for you to bathe in the waters of healing
and bask in the fountain of life
wait for your miracle
and wait for Christ’s return

And then and perhaps only then
you can explain to me
just what happened.

———————–
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

Blood Red Tears

It wasn’t a hard choice
either the east
sloppy Russians
exporting our men
to Siberia
or the south
unknowns
clean, regimented
Germans, Nazis
price to be paid
the killing of the Bolsheviks
business thieves
stealing our lifestyle
foreigners in our land

So, searching for the lesser evil
we decided to trade in foreigners
for foreigners to protect us from
foreigners

We mercilessly
slaughtered our Jews
each one of them individually reflecting the sun
like glass bottles on a wall
as we lined them up in our village squares
and shot them down
shattering them into anonymous
mounds of brokenness
we dragged them out
into the countryside
buried them with our consciences
in shallow graves
and covered them with infertile
listless earth

Hitler was welcomed by the cover of night
and there on the coast
he annexed our land
with one long rant
he gave us occupation
he gave us peace
freedom from Russia
freedom from Bolsheviks
and baptised our native land
with the witheredness of our souls

But bombs fell in the peace
dead Jews started talking
calling from their graves
voices from the silence
were heard from across the sea

The bombs continued to fall
like sweet spring rain
flooding our emotions
with fear and hope

The west ended our occupation
liberated and sold us out
sold us out to Russia
Molotov, Ribbentrop
shaking hands with Stalin
sealed our fate before we fell into it
Roosevelt and Churchill
slept in the ruins of their victory

Peace, freedom
silenced Jews
tanks on our streets
USSR, Red Army
cold Siberia
and the familiarity
of Gulags

We called it occupation
we called it peace
we resisted
while the wounded sleeping West
watched
watched the Moscow Circus
purchased Ladas
called it a war
a cold war
but we were the only ones cold and dying
dying for peace, dying for freedom
falling
falling on the fresh graves of dead silenced Jews

Glasnost, Perestroika, Gorbachev, Reagan
poured words on our suffering
drew back the Iron Curtain
now our nation could be heard again
tanks on the streets
as we sung and held hands
death and freedom
war and peace
from a rusty curtain rail
that left nasty shards
lodged in our bloody hands and feet

Our fathers
our grandfathers
walked the fields and roadsides
home from Siberia
but only their bodies arrived
their minds never returned
it was called peace
these men never experienced it

From their graves
the Jews’ voices were heard again
singing for freedom
by day we have Nazi-hunters prowling our streets
by night we have neo-Nazis desecrating graves
and in the morning the dawn greets us with blood red tears
falling upon our torment and shame

Peace, they call it
my dad is drunk
has been for twenty years
the shuck of his Dad returned
from war
and promptly disappeared into
the blissful haze of alcohol
Mum is bruised and beaten
living in a concrete shell
of a communist apartment building
and me
I am searching for peace
working in Düsseldorf
for a Russian company.

———————–

~1st Place Editor’s Choice Award


Anike

Anike
my lovely lass
you have seen war
so many wars
long painful wars

is it true
that they made you
turn your
amber eyes
and bow
your pretty head
in front of Hitler

did you hear
the Communist tanks
and the soldiers
marching
across the
cobblestones

did you gather
your skirts
and hide
your graceful
presence
braiding your
beautiful hair
in the
solace
of your fear

What could
you see
from your
hiding place
Anike?
What was your
outlook then?

suddenly
the sun shone
freedom
returned
and at your feet
people celebrated

joyfully
dancing and laughing
from the
heart
of their
misery

poor people
singing people
and free people
skipping and spinning
together

What was your
outlook then
Anike?
What was your
outlook?

and now
reflecting
from your waters
trinket sellers
trinket their
covered
swastikas
selling their
hammer and sickles

does it make you
want to throw
down
your flowers
and run
turning your
shy face
in disgust

What is your
outlook now
Anike?
What is your
outlook?

now a new Union
ripples from
your pond
promising
prosperity
protection
and wealth

Anike
I sense
the jazz plays
too late for you
and that
your enchanting air
is getting tired

I sense your people
are struggling
to shake off
the shackles
of their history

but Anike
do you smile
laugh and giggle
as you watch
the innocent children
cool their feet
in the depth
of your
waters
does it give
you hope

Anike
please

what is
your
outlook
now?

– – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Anike is a sculpture of whom from her subtle fountain head vantage point quietly watches over the turbulent history of the European city of Klaipėda, Lithuania.