We carry wounds which no one sees, Stripped bare by the world's quiet indifference. A life lost, forgotten by time's cruel hands, Moments of sorrow fade beneath others' noise. A bomb bursts, its weight unseen, And the rubble settles—no one comes to mourn. We sit with our aching bodies, Alone in a world that turns its back. A sickness takes root, And the world moves on—too busy, too ...

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Vultures fly in perfect circles

and pretend we believe

they are white doves

bringing us peace

 

Foul-smelling scavengers

disguised as prominent politicians;

illiterate statesmen or authentic literati,

that never attended a single seminar

or even stepped in a University

but surely received and will show with much glee

their hard earned honorary doctorate degree

 

...

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With gloom I express what I can, 

not to do so will cause the demise of my soul;

sadness lacerates me like a dancing whip

 

To describe the incomprehensible in words is not easy,

to explain it is complicated,

to make it understandable is more difficult

 

People are slowly eliminated,

they agonize on a cross that has been erected for them;

hunger and disease spreads

...

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Just as the wind barges in,

seeping into nature,

I feel a sudden breeze wrap me up in sadness

 

Shattered by the dead weight of indifference, 

I fall like a leaf from a shaken tree

 

I descend into an abyss where time no longer exists; 

only emptiness and fear

 

The night pulls me down,

I find myself in a net of darkness,

immersed in my childhood memories,

li...

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Chasing wonders,
With a pen and a paper,
An empty sheet,
A piece of oblivion.

 

Staring blankly,
Eyes lost in the wilderness,
Once with a blink,
A whimper towards nothing.

 

Looking around,
Inside a four-cornered room,
Pastel purples,
In between the white curtains.

 

Oblivion,
Running strokes on the paper,
A pen and ink,
Breaking the bars of this cage.

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Dull eyes, blank faces

fake smiles, fake concern.

The façade is demanding,

arduous, exhausting. 

Which raises the question

Is faking worth it? 

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This piece, over twenty years old, came to me largely in a dream about being a poet.

 

Adamson Adrift

We sat on the wharf at East Balmain,

where the ferries make the Harbour

never still,

 

and Robert Adamson floated away

with grace on the violent tide,

as we looked on the streams

of the living

(as in air, we were in motion)

 

and in action, and relative calm

...

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