Shards from the dark Crystal Volume 2 The Female First Poems
A DROP IN ETERNITY It never happened. It’s only a dream, a nightmare. I will wake up, stifle a scream.
27 years is a drop in eternity. It’s nearly half my life: to live with a woman; a friend, a lover, a wife.
She came, she saw, she conquered; asked for a light, accused me of cradle snatching. Oh, what a night.
‘Twas the end of an era; the beginning of a new. We will live forever, if only we knew.
She died in pain, strong and unrepentant; she lived her life on the edge, always impatient.
Live for the moment. Carpe Deum! Seize the day! Memories are memories. What more can I say?
It never happened? It’s only a dream, a nightmare? Bereaved? You might know what I mean.
Les Bush 9 April 2013
BALLOONS Would you hold my balloons please? I am troubled and sad. I have so many of them, I have lost count. I have balloons of many colours, shapes and size. Some I have earned, some I have not; some I have collected, or picked up in passing. There are those I lusted for and learned too late, everything has a price; some were thrust upon me, by fortune or fate. Some are very old, handed to me at birth; they bespeak a taint of some obscure crime.
My problem is perspective. My balloons have, over time accumulated and become entangled; the strings have become twisted, entwined, tangled and knotted.
Would you hold my balloons please? I give them to someone I can trust, step back and view them from afar, from this angle and that,
One day it would be my privilege were you to ask me to hold yours.
Les Bush Copyright (1 March 2013)
BREVITIES (2013)
1.
Let us converse cryptically, you and I, observe and obfuscate obliquely, speak in code veil our words in a multiplicity of meaning.
Let us build a wall of carefully constructed deceit, embedded with myths, hopes, dreams and disillusionment with just enough cracks in it to reveal what lies behind.
2.
No sex, drugs and/or Rock'n'Roll! Oh dear, how sad, how can one be good, if one has not been bad; happy, if not sad; at peace if one has not been mad?
Fear not, this is but a phase, lurking, lurking for an eloquent phrase. Did I say "eloquent"? Surely not,
I mean elegant (diamond tiara and all). What more can I say? Hippopotamus?
3.
The final act of despair is not death, oit is to prevail regardless clinging to an absurd belief in the independent existence of Truth, Justice, Beauty, and the validity of humanity: some call it optimism, others call it Faith.
4.
The Day I Die will be like any other: drenched in blood, etched with pain, ringing with the rage of the Righteous; festooned with positive attitude, inspirational quotes as a promised panacea to all evils. With too many yesterdays unlived, confronted by too many tomorrows undiscovered.
CHATTANOOGA CHOO CHOO No neat package, tied with ribbon and a bow. Bright coloured wrapping paper? Paint it Black. Forgiveness and resolution is the goal; all I have is process: grim, unrelenting and a lack of direction (no instructions provided),and a vague process to achieve it, broken and ragged, twisted and jagged; littered with shards of broken dreams, sharp as glass, to rip and tear one’s very soul. It is not really about family, culture or race; it’s all that, and so much more. Put your very reason for living to the test. Do you live, or die a slow, lingering death of the soul, the joy of living? While twisting and turning in the chains of personal and ancestral guilt. Uncle Ed did what? Do I have to share his shame? The living, are not two dimensional; we are definitely, vibrantly technicolour 3D and so much more! We carry in our DNA and our cerebral cortex recordings of every event in our life; and through that the actions, motivations and emotion of those who preceded us. It is not spectral, or illusory; it just is.
Let me tell you a story, of a person in my life, for whom I feel equally so much Love and Anger. I have trouble seeing him as distinct and separate; for I see and hear in him, me, his mother. (Oh, how they fought!), those dreadful arguments; the acrimony, the absolute Love. She is dead, he is not; so, to that degree, she lives on; there, just out of reach. Memories I would rather not remember. So, let us not talk of ghosts or shades; such are yours to believe. It’s in the blood racing through the arteries and veins from heart to brain, and back It’s perceived through the senses (if not understood), but it’s real: I see him, and behind him, her, her mother, generations past. So, who do I forgive? For what? What is done, is done. The slate has been wiped clean. So, why repeat the same lines? Time to unpack and discard; buy a new ticket, take a new track. “Pardon me ... is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo”? “Track 29”?
Les Bush 5 April 2013
CONTRADICTIONS (Or “Do you know where the peanut butter is?”)
I love contradictions; I live contradictions, here’s one: this might be our last meeting: but it is not!
We might never assemble right here seated around this table but we will meet again: in the street, in a supermarket; it might be I remember a fragment of conversation (no, my sentences never end) that evokes an emotion, and I will recall these evenings, and say “thank you” to you all.
From the angry, empty man, who came to his first session here, I have been able to experience love and acceptance; and apply it in my own life, thank you.
Should we meet in a supermarket, and you don’t know what to say, you could try, “the heart doesn’t have to retreat; does it, Les?” which would be akin to saying, “by celebrating life, we acknowledge death; in acknowledging death, we celebrate life”; OR “do you know where the peanut butter is?” (I might be able to help you.)
Les Bush 2011
DARK GODDESS
I would like to meet the “me” you imagine when we meet in the night. Is it the same person as when we conversed in daylight?
To read your thoughts as you assess, my face, my body. Have you sought to understand he who takes my place?
I see how your body moves, how you flick your hair; for a brief moment that fixed, piercing stare.
Those eyes are weapons, they sear my soul; deep like an ocean, in which I drown.
Those eyes are like a lover’s, they touch and caress; like your breath on on my ear, the graze of your breast on my elbow.
I would like to meet the “me” you imagine; the “you” that entrances me is hypnotic, exotic and intoxicating; sleep well my dark goddess.
Les Bush 8 April 2013
DEATH Death, in whichever form it comes, is still death; "My other half is life", it might whisper seductively, "full of suffering and despair. Come to me and feel my soft velvet embrace."
It is still death: final, irrevocable and complete. The final curtain call; no encores. The audience has not gone; they just can't see you, hear you.
Death knows nothing of reason or fairness. There is no right of appeal. A thing done is a thing done, and "by the way, here is my calling card:
A serving of grief and pain; and a reminder, (a warning, if you would prefer), Make use of the time you have left. You're on my list too."
Les Bush 2011
THE DEMONS WITHIN 1. The gate had not been breached. A shot had not been fired. Still they got in, The defences had retired.
They were welcomed in: Carried and pulled, Trojan Horse. The plan had worked. Events would take their course.
They were welcomed in The demons did hide Inside this wooden monstrosity so comfortably wide.
The crowds they did cheer drowning in beer, the priests prayed The King commanded Souvenirs were available, on display
2. Were they so complacent, so self secure? How could they not see? Did they really think they could be free
of the lurking terror, the niggling doubt; surely they should know, surely they should shout
“No, no”, don’t let them in. Leave us, leave us to enjoy our sin. “No, no”, don’t let them in.
Inside this thing immobile that filled a space, they waited until some other vacuous idol took its place.
3. It was in the evening the Demons struck the half light between day and night ,
when the body was tired, (not quite ready for sleep). parents, their promises to their children would keep.
They struck with ruthless precision as only they could; killing and destroying without mercy (as if they should).
With malicious joy and intent they had a spree; shrieking and laughing, they slaughtered with glee.
They shouted as they went, come one and come all; we are here and death is free.
4. Dawn broke over a shattered city. Trojan horse, empty stood, unconcerned Whilst all around it everything burned.
IN THE end there was silence that nothing can break; be so careful of what we might forsake.
IN THE end there is silence; No prayers, no speeches, no souvenirs.
Les Bush Copyright, 7 March 2013
DID I SEE ME?
Let me talk of forgiveness. Not the touchyfeely kind; plastic smile, insincere hug, hard eyes.
I’m talking about pain and anger that resides so deep; that seethes and slivers through every breath, every waking moment, every thought; that stalks and ravages the troubled sleep.
The terror and anger that constricts each breath, each threatening tear drop; that stops just short of the voice from calling, screaming out, “Stop! Enough!”
Let’s talk of the love between a father and a son, the kind that is supposed to be unconditional; to last a life time.
A son, who is disturbed, in deep turmoil, has threatened, manipulated and assaulted; a step away from arrest.
He came to visit, the other night unannounced: my partner was not happy, I pointed to a table outside. We made a coffee, rolled a smoke,
and sat outside in the cool evening breeze. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”, I cautiously enquire. “I just wanted to talk to you, you are my father”
I am. I sat, I listened, looked into his eyes, heard his voice. There he was: this person I knew as a child, a comforter, and an angry aggressor, in turn. My, he has grown.
“I will be 25 soon”, he said; “Yes”, I replied. I looked at him, I listened.Such a lonely, vulnerable soul I saw. “There are lots of people still very angry with you”,
I said. “Yes, I know. I would do all that I could to change that.” He asks of his brother, he has not seen for months. They do not talk. His brother wants nothing to do with him.
I looked at him, I listened.Such a lonely, vulnerable soul I saw. Like a mirror, did I see me? Twenty five, and lost; lacking direction, feeling like a bag of … shivers, this is not nice!
I looked at my son; I saw a sad and lonely man. I thought, “Let me talk of forgiveness: it is not a luxury, not a whim”, and then,
"No! Let me NOT talk of forgiveness. It’s not enough, not enough for him, not enough for me." The verbs are active! Listen! Accept! Forgive!
Do it! Make it so. It’s all aspirational! I’m working on it, bit by bit, learning when to bend, when to stand firm.
The hard truth is, I’m angry: with him, myself; I empathise with what I imagine he is going through. I can’t separate the “him” from “me”
Les Bush 1 April 2013
DISCOURSE ON THE DYNAMICS OF DIALOGUE
Avert your eyes please, I am naked. Didn't know what to wear, which body stance to assume, when I came here.
Thank you, you may look now. Casually dressed, in a noncholant sort of way, an affectation of refined boredom fear is the mind killer.
Notice, I choose my words well, pick and choose them from the Tower of Song, put on a mask from the ancient galley (and walked on down the hall).
Words to probe and seduce, words to mask and simaltaneously probe. above all, mark my silences as I poke and probe, sniff and snarl at your defences (don't be scared);
my silences as I watch you investigate an interrogate.
It is not a matter of gender or age, it is all about harmonics; the synchronicity of vibrations and energy.
It's all about deciphering that on which we can agree, or agree to disagree; it's all about the free exchange of thought and opinion, diminishing neither, and leaving each other's carefully crafted persona intact: hey, it's all about respect.
Is that the time, I must fly. Thank you for your time and sharing what you have.
"My name?", you could if you wish call me "Friend"
Les Bush (9 February 2013)
Electrons in Space
Heaven? Hell? I believe, not No hollow shell this ingot
Opportunity Gold Call it Life Neither bought nor sold Fair share of strife
Balance on tightrope Optimism and pain Despair and hope So much to gain
Live for today Cherish the past Future will not delay Could be a blast
Living is vibrant Electrons in Space Ours is the moment In this time and place
Les Bush 20 May 2013
EROTICA, NEUROTICA
Erotica is a gainful legitimate form of Art and human expression; it does it carries within it, at heart,
the seeds of it’s own demise. I detest the term “porn”; it is lazy, disdainful and ill informed.
Call it desensitisation (what a wonderful word) if you will. Variation conquers by the sword
of irresistible change; yesterday’s “hot” is today’s sang froid. Exchanges of carnality, how many
before it comes stale and self satirising? Neither a moral or ethical tale; it lies in realising
how short our attention span is. How many ways could you phrase a given act? Be outrageous? No! That is our malaise.
A lack of finesse, an absence of style; overwhelm the senses: bang, bang, bang! Shoddy editing, soundtrack that riles every sense of harmony. Pelvic thrust
nearly drives you insaaaaaane! (Let’s do the timewarp again!”); variations? 1, 2, 3? It’s all the same; the angle of the camera, shifts in light and shade.
Movement is momentum? How they slave to simulate passion, in a cold dark room; blinded by lights; “Make up! Now! Behave!” Sound, Camera, Action. Zoom, zoom, zoom.
In the end here is silence, an empty space; nothing left to say (there wasn’t much of a script anyway). We pout, we prance, swirl and pirouette. Stripped
of illusion, we are all the same. Camera, Lights, Action. 15 minutes of stardom. Fame’s the game. Who would we mimic?
I detest the term “porn”; it is lazy, disdainful and ill informed. Erotica is a gainful
legitimate form of Art and expression; it does carry within it, at heart’ the seeds of it’s own demise.
Quelle tristesse.
Les Bush 30 April 2013
GENUINE
“The genuine article!” How many times have you heard the phrase? Images of perfection cloud your brain? A derisive laugh? A sneering “oh, yeah!”. Words mean nothing! Just a distraction.
“The genuine article”, deserves some thought; “genuine” to what? By whose define? It’s a worry, don’t you think? What is sought should be viewed in such a cynical decline.
New Zealand trade marks, made in Japan or China no disrespect; Kiwi is Kiwi; should be made on our shores; not searching for cheap labour abroad, in some other country.
It’s all about profit! Profit be damned! It’s all about people; it’s time to make a stand! Employment, dignity and the richness of life, jammed between the dole queue and making a grand.
Enough about money! Let’s talk about us. People, human beings, how we handle the the task of respecting each other, without resorting to lies; how we interact honestly; lose the mask
of false civility, of feigned bonhomie; I will be your legend, love mine. So carefully crafted, so expensively purchased; I sold my soul. Incline
your body towards me. I long for a touch. To feel your breath on my skin. “Genuine?”, you ask. Oh, yes; how much I have trembled, sweated, lay shaking
for a brief moment of Truth and light in which you could see me, as I am vulnerable and naked, not hiding, shading or withholding from sight the “me” that is real, not manufactured or faked.
In that slice of eternity, for time to stand still; no past, no future; an infinite “now”! To touch lips together, feel the power; until the moment shatters; hear you vow
to love me forever: for just who I am; my strengths and my weaknesses, my demons intact for they are part of me, and for better or worse define who I am; and can be. Summon
your tailor, put on your designer persona. I am what I am, what I always have been Cinderella in rags. Be not lead astray, I am no victim. I have seen
a vision of how life could be, as sharp and piercing as shattered glass, vibrant with colour; resonant with light and energy. Anything else? I think I will pass.
Les Bush 23 April 2013
HISTORY IS POETRY
What is History without Myth, Myth without Poetry? We see what we see, we understand what we can.
We hypothesise, fantasise on what might have been even those who report to have seen, their accounts are limited to their own view.
Myth is about the hero, courageous and bold; vanquishing the foe, letting their story be told
over campfires at night, in reverential tone; stories of their might of how they atone
for their mortal failings on mountains or plains, amidst dark storms sailing; their quest to maintain.
These stories told often enough become Myth; then becomes “legend”; matters not a stuff, passed on to youth
as a cautionary tale; a moral lesson, a fable; until stale enhanced with aggression.
History is written by the victor, it has been said. How many mistruths and lies will we be fed?
Truth is not seen. interpreted or understood. on a flat screen plasma TV. So many trees, can’t see the Wood.
Neither believe, nor disbelieve; that is my creed. Let them tell their story, deceive as they might. We need
more, dig deep into the morass listen carefully, weigh the evidence; so many lies, let them pass. Our quest is for the transcendence
of the dull and petty; from countryside, quietly rural, or the crowded desolate city. Collect it all, paint a mural
rich in colour, depth and detail, drenched in blood and ink. It’s ours, not for retail, to serve as a link
to a reality more profound; vibrant with energy; It has its own sound, its own pervasive synergy.
History is Poetry; Poetry, rich in Myth. A song of the legendary fluid and vibrant, not stiff.
Les Bush Copyright, 20 May 2013
IN SEARCH OF ...............
"I am a student of life", he said; "the world is my university, books are my tickets to the lecture halls of wisdom; paintings portals to to the universe of the senses. My goal is to gain wisdom, an insight into life."
He pauses, thinks; there is silence: not stillness, just silence; I watch him, aware of a great tension.
"Have you been successful?", I ask
He smiles, a soft sad smile. "How is one to know?", he replies. "Wisdom is more than a collection of facts, more than a recitation of theories".
The evasion is not missed. The silence hangs, heavy. There is a nakedness about him, as if something has been violated.
"Well, have you succeeded?", I demanded: discomfort transformed into anger.
"I don't know.", he replied. "There are times when all seems clear; others when my perception is shrouded in darkness and a creeping mist of despair; times when the accumulated wealth of humanity's wisdom and knowledge seems bankrupt, futile."
He paused, searching my eyes for a response. I lit my pipe, obscuring the interrogating gaze by a cloud of smoke.
"So, it is the intellect you believe to be of prime importance?"
"Yes", he said; "what else is there?"
"What of Love?". "Love?", he enquired, after a pause.
"Yes, Love!". "Define it.", he challenged.
It was my turn to pause.
"Love is an awareness, a perception, that beyond the intellect there is another dimension that bestows meaning upon experience. Love is something one tries to escape, while at the same time feeling compelled to seek it. With it one feels apprehension; without it one feels terror."
"Nonsense!", he replied. "Is it?", I said. He did not respond.
He stood up. "Do you really believe that?" "Yes", I said.
"Maybe", was his parting comment. "Maybe!", the word hung suspended in the space he had once filled. "Maybe!", the word hovered in my mind. "Maybe not", I thought after a while; but one has to believe in something.
Months later, I saw him again. He looked at me, said nothing and quickly walked on. "Try it", I said softly, "it could be true".
Les Bush (1981)
Ink and Blood
How should I write the story of my life? Might not be polite to dwell on such strife.
Should I write my words in blood? That’s how it feels. Each sharp like a sword, in confusion reels.
Ink? Blood! Oxygen rich, pumping. Diluted by tears. Suffused with rage? The embers of memory
that linger, resistant to change: what was surely is; instant forgiveness
is not my style. Carve memories in stone, let them dwell a while; for whose sins do I atone?
Hot and metallic! Ink? Blood! keeps us alive. Poetry feeds the soul, releases our innermost thoughts.
drags them to the light. Images and abstractions, who is right? Edits, adds and subtractions,
set the scene, call the cast; now, let’s replay the scene. The words are easy to recall. What do they mean?
Poems written in blood? Sounds grotesque. Poems suffused with rage? The embers of memory?
In the end, it’s ink. Blood is too precious. It might as well be so. It keeps us alive.
Les Bush 3 June 2013
LAMENT
My lighter will not work, you might not care; My lighter will not work, Oh, the despair.
My cigarette is unlit, I do not mean to scare; My cigarette is unlit, how do I end this nightmare?
What's that you say? Buy a new one? Joy and revelation; I will, I will.
Oh, Yes!
Les Bush Copyright, 25 February 2013
NO EXCUSES
I make no excuses, I fake no reason; I did what I did, for me it is my season.
To unloose the chains of history and guilt; to begin again, to reerect that which had been built.
I make no excuse. I feign no shame. I have a right, to regain ny name.
Les Bush Copyright, 2 March 2013
NOTE TO SELF
I am tired, of being strong and reliable; caught between, “She’ll be right, mate” and, “pass the No. 8 wire”.
I wonder, what would it be like, to let go; become an emotional mess of despair and self pity?
I, being of English descent, and a proud New Zealander, say this: “A flat white, please; HOT and LARGE”
Les Bush 1 April, 2013
SHE
IS so quiet, withdrawn, sharp in retort; closes here yes, for fear of what she might see,
“I’m OK”, she says; but it is not so. Her eyes gives away, closed she cannot see ME!
I wish someone could tell her, give her reassurance, to let her know Her fears are groundless they are simply not so.
She looks, she watches; what is he doing? Talking to others! Women! She supposes.
His time conversing with others is not a rebuff! He’s exploring a new world, away from the mundane stuff.
He’s a flightless Kiwi learning to fly, on the wings of poetry soaring into the sky.
He’s evolving, He’s growing; The quest is near, no more quivering in fear.
Could someone tell her to open her eyes? Forsake the darkness, embrace the wise.
He loves her dearly, with all that he is, all that he can be; HE is hers; SHE is his.
Les Bush Copyright, 6 March 2013
SUMMER IN AUCKLAND
Autumn, having been knocking impatiently, has breached the gates, but Summer's burning, unrelenting embrace will not relent. The days are still hot and long, even as the hours of daylight decrease. The sun's unrelenting embrace will not, us, release.
In Auckland's subtropical climate, it is not only the heat, it's the humidity – dull and heavy – that one must bear: energy sapping and moist, clothes clinging to skin. No matter how airy, no matter how thin.
There are days when the winddoes not blow, the heat radiates from the ground as much as from above: it's all around, enveloping. There is no escape.
Shade is at a premium, be in quick. A friendly verandah. A porch will do. The occasional tree in concrete covered carparks the price of progress, I am told, in a remark.
Entering a parked car, after having been away
for some time, is a challenge to face the stifling heat that has lay entrapped; the steering wheel burning hot to the touch. Open the windows quick, it does little.
Why complain? Winter's chill will come. Then we say, "Summer come back, all is forgiven". One can never win.
Les Bush Copyright, 1 March 2013.
SYNCHRONICITY
Avert your eyes please, I am naked. Didn't know what to wear, which body stance to assume, when I chanced to come here.
Thank you, you may look now. Casually dressed, in a nonchalant sort of way, an affectation of refined boredom fear is the mind killer.
Notice, I choose my words well, pick and choose them from the Tower of Song, put on a mask from the ancient gallery (and walked on down the hall).
If you get my drift. Would not be the end. There are words to probe and seduce, to mask, unmask and probe; what I can guess or deduce.
Above all, mark my silences as I poke and probe, sniff and interrogate; ever watchful for your response as you too watch and investigate.
It is not a matter of gender or age, it is all about harmonics; about opening a new page, assessing synchronicity of vibration and energy.
It's about deciphering and deciding on that which we can agree, or agree to disagree; it's about the exchange of thought and opinion, that diminishes neither; so important to remain free,
leaving each other's carefully crafted persona intact: not an emotional dance of the seven veils hey, it's all about respect and all that entails.
Is that the time, I must fly. Thank you for your time and sharing what you have.
"My name?", you could if you wish call me "Friend"
Les Bush (18 July 2013)
TAKE THE RIDE
Set myself targets, timelines and goals; one thing I’m not sure of. yet, how the dice will roll.
It’s all very easy to say, “I’m in control” of my destiny; the master of my soul.
What nonsense, to regard, such arrogant pride; life deals the cards, we stand still, or take the ride
into a maze of options, imagined or real. Lost are you, without exception? I know how it feels.
The motto is clear. Never give in. Rest and recover and share, gather your wits; then begin
anew; one step at a time, breath in, breath out; focus, be calm; worry will diminish your prime, identify the real; discard the bogus.
One thing is clear in my mind; roll the dice, without fear; forsake despair; take the risk: whatever you find.
Les Bush 9 April 2013
“TEACHING” “CREATIONISM” IN SCHOOLS
It is true, I hear, in America, I fear, that in certain States there is a push to teach “Creationism” in schools.
Some say, "Oh, No!"; I say, "Yes, Yes".
It bends the defines of Pedagogy and Education, to be sure. There would be balance, I am sure that proponents would thus ensure,
and agree that in so teaching, there would need to be a study of:
* Epistemology (the study of Knowledge), * the works of Teilhard De Chardin, * what constitutes "the scientific method", * historical developement of "The Bible" (don't forget the printing press),
* the genesis of "Genesis" (and the similarities in theme with other, older religions).
Perfectly reasonable, I am sure you would agree. For reasonable people, they must surely be (untainted by politics and creed).
Should “Creationism” be taught in schools? Oh, yes!
As an example of deliberate delusion, political interference, cynical abuse of power and media manipulation! Oh. Yes!
Les Bush Copyright, 25 May 2013
THE "FAST MOVING CONSUMER GOODS" MAN
FMCG (Fast Moving Consumer Goods) is the name, filling shelves is my game. Supermarket shelves is what I fill. Large or small, shallow or deep, or the AOV; why? I am the "Fast Moving Consumer Goods" Man.
I understand when you block the aisle, converse at length about Bob and Carol, Ted and Alice; and little baby, Moses. A princess found him in the lillies, so you hear. Amazing! "Am I in your way?", you might ask. "Oh, no, I am here to serve." I am the "Fast Moving Consumer Goods" Man.
Little do they know, little do they realise, little do they care; within these aisles, those carefully crafted displays, I lurk; a snake, slumbering within, a mind deep and dark, delicious and seditious; eyes that observe, record, and lay bare human behaviour.
"Is it fresh", prod, prod; "one has to be SO careful these days",
prod, prod, shuffle, shuffle, examine with analytical view; focus their most careful efforts on the budget bread. "Buy it", I intone, to myself. Who am I? Tolerant, patient and benign; I am the "Fast Moving Consumer Goods" Man.
The next time you go shopping, wherever you might be; stop and wonder, without people like me, the shelves would be empty; without people like me, your life would be cast asunder. I am the "Fast Moving Consumer Goods" Man.
Les Bush Copyright, 22 February 2013.
THE BITCH HAS TO GO!
“The Bitch has to go!” You angrily proclaim. “The Bitch MUST go, only one of us must remain.”
“The Bitch (as you so phrase) stays!”, I angrily say. “That Bitch, my Mistress has long helped me out of my malaise.”
During those long dark days, when 20, I turned, She was there to spur me on, to better, to persevere.
There, during those long lonely walks in an uncaring city, on feet of clay laden with self doubt and despair, She was there to show me the way.
On the bridge over the river Avon, as I peered hopelessly at the shallow water below me; ‘stop your cravin’’ She sternly said. “Mellow, man, mellow!”
On dark lonely nights when give up I might, She whispered in my ear, “come hither, come here!”
She lead me to the lights, burning bright: row upon row, mounted high above: just waiting, waiting to light up and glow.
The stage on which I strode, lifted my head high, raised my voice: I am here, I am who you want me to be. Here, under this proscenium arch, I am free.
The make up, the costumes, learning all those lines; let us resume,
“stand here, speak, move now, turn, feel the passion, let it burn
from deep inside, I want it REAL! I want to hear you, reach out and touch you from afar, feel you beside me, inside me, confide in me, reside for a special moment beside me.”
Oh, how I loved her, she loved me; spurned, encourages and caressed me in my moments of panic: “say it again, breath, your words are weapons, tinkling bells to bind me
to your creation, your time in the lights: work with me, don’t fight me, I am your friend, your only friend here in the half light, this delicate mystery.”
I was young, I was old; I was whatever I was told to be: English, Kiwi or somewhere on an island, a boatman
I was enthralled, besotted, bound and enthralled to her touch. “You aren’t here to play, I want it all, I want it now. Is that too much?
Feel it deep inside, learn to take me astride to a world of wonder; be it soft, be it thunder.
Feel it deep inside; make me feel it too. Standing up, lying down shake that which I stand on, the ground.
I am here to be pleased, not merely appeased; I paid my money, I want what I want: here, now, with passion.
Open your mouth, loosen your tongue,
breath, articulate! Let me feel your words reverberate through my being. Faster, slower, do it again. I didn’t come here for solitary pleasure.
I want to feel your performance, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes; do not break the thread that binds: do not loosen me from the throes
of your passion, that only you can provide: again, again: take me on a cosmic carpet ride. For this brief moment in eternity, take my life and enhance it in shades of a new reality. I will decide
whether you were successful, and worthy of doing it again night after night (for a specified time); whether you have the reason or rhyme to be worthy of my patronage.”
Night after night, in that magic space, delight after delight, none could replace; begone, the tyranny of the mundane,
that was another time, another place.
We parted; ‘tis sad but true, after eleven years, and one failed marriage; She was there first, She was there last, holding my hand; holding me fast: a refuge, a draught to satiate my thirst.
We parted, nonetheless; maybe She wanted new blood. Have you guessed Her name, what be her Fame? You might call Her, Theatre; I embraced her as Life. She is too untamed, wild and free: exuberant and exultant; nobody’s wife.
It has been many years, we have been apart; but still I can her voice: “again, again; feel the pain, express the joy make it real; this not just a part, it is life (in the Theatre); no pain, baby, no gain”
Have I been unfaithful to Her? Possibly, I have met, been entranced by, one her sisters. I call her Poetry; She calls me to type poems at 2 am in the morning, and abandons me without warning.
The Bitch must go! No way! The Bitch, I fear for you, is here to stay.
Les Bush 10 March 2013, Copyright
THE DAY I DIE (Variations on a Theme in 5 parts)
** 1 **
THE DAY I DIE will, like the day I was born, be like any other: on the edge of an abyss, looking into the face of oblivion; buoyed by a cautious and fragile optimism; anchored by the remains of sins past.
Held back by too many yesterdays unlived; too many “Thank you”’s ungiven’ looking into the jaws of a tomorrow that is undisclosed and undecipherable.
Somewhere, the sun will be shining; someone will be laughing, someone will be crying; somewhere there will be darkness, somewhere there will be light.
The day I die will be like any other: complete with soundtrack (roll tape!),
somewhere, in the corner of my mind, I will hear Frank Croon, “I Did It my Way.
** 2 **
THE DAY I DIE will be like any other: balanced on the edge; restrained by too many yesterdays; buoyed by a fragile optimism, anchored by a stubborn (even vainglorious) determination to prevail (despite the Odds); staring into the imposter’s mask of tomorrow, a mystery, a riddle; demanding a response.
** 3 **
THE DAY I DIE, the battle for humanity’s soul, heart and mind will continue, unabated; the Righteous will trumpet their revelation (their “undisputable truth”); those who question will be scorned and mocked; the complement of all that it is to be human
will be reduced to truism and headline banners: (so glib and sensational) sells papers, sells those casually, cynical “bytes” that so many even in an “advanced, educated” society fall for (Plato, Socrates, Newton who?); damn the substance, sentiment rules. OK?
** 4 **
The Day I Die will be like any other: drenched in blood, etched with pain, ringing with the rage of the Righteous; festooned with positive attitude, inspirational quotes as a promised panacea to all evils. With too many yesterdays unlived, confronted by too many tomorrows undiscovered. ** 5 ** THE DAY I DIE will come (sing no sad songs). The Book of Life will not close, a semicolon perhaps might be added to the long and winding sentence that began with “He”
Another quantum of particulate matter and energy will quietly fuse and be at one with the cosmos. There will be no yesterday, today or tomorrow simply infinity, an eternal now.
The illusion of Time, and memories of Who or What was, the division of time into past, present and future will be the legacy of the living; (roll tape, turn up loud!)
“I’ll stand right here before the Lord of Song’ with nothing, nothing on my lips but Hallelujah!”
Thank you, Leonard.
Les Bush Copyright, 22 March 2013
The Essence of Being
I am I am that I am I am that I was I am that I will be
Neither add nor subtract The essence of being
Les Bush 27 May 2013
THE "MATRIX" POEMS
1.
Lost in a fourdimensional matrix of time and space, suspended between matter and energy; floating in cloud of consciousness; I stumble: dazed and bemused.
2.
Meantime, in a Matrix;
Mathematical probability (x), Misinformed Idealism (y) and Mythology (z);
Truth slumbers.
Les Bush Copyright, February 2013
THE TEARS OF CHRIST
Son of God? An ordinary man? Was he there, when it all began?
The Deistic “Big Bang”? The eve of Creation? Does it matter? Wars between nations
are corporate business. Profit must be maintained. Hate is created, goodness how easy it is to entertain
the witless with legend; dirtied and tainted beyond repair; not what he taught, his agenda; peace on earth, good cheer.
THE TEARS OF CHRIST will flow forever as long as people follow blindly, shout throng and mob together; allow themselves to be lead by the greedy.
He cleared the Temple of Money Lenders; an action of righteous anger. A visit to Wall Street, where they tender their corporate greed, with unapologetic vigour
would not go amiss. In this modern world, Capitalism the new religion embraced by the acquisitive, swirled around in an ice covered glass of gin
or whiskey, only the best; praise ourselves for their foresight damn the poor, the starving, and the rest
THE TEARS OF CHRIST could not wash away such filth; they serve as a reminder
of how greed by stealth
has drained our world of all things tender. The aspirations of the noble are mocked and drowned in disdain got to have the new mobile
get on the right tack, catch the train. No one sees him, when he cries. In the Garden of Gethsemane, atop the Skull of Golgotha, calvary.
He healed a blind, it is written, gave him back his sight. turned to the killing mob, and said “he who is without sin”, cast the first stone”.
No one did. They stood in fear and disbelief. How dare he question their right to be ill informed and righteous, a thief is a thief; a whore is a whore.
Save the explanations, can the tears, we are the law there is no room for redemption your doom has been foresaw
Not he! He stood his ground. Looked them in the eye; bring it on! Not a sound as they turned away, no goodbye.
THE TEARS OF CHRIST will flow forever, Now, as before, as will be The Righteous Thunder, chunder their absurdities into the ears of fools.
The tears are not of impotence, their strength lay in their vulnerability, their profound silence their absence of enmity.
They are the last resort of a captive population;
no less slaves than is taught about generations of other nations.
They are the reminder of who we are. Captives of a dying planet; comprised of the matter and energy of stars and cosmic matter.
Incomplete in isolation, molecules in disarray; give me complexification I will show the way.
THE TEARS OF CHRIST might never end, until we hear his call to love one another, are no strangers; we are inhabitants of this small planet, we all.
So, forgive others, as you would have them forgive you, the meek shall inherit the Earth (what’s left of it) let the hateful and greedy form a queue
the next shuttle to Mars, is waiting in transit.
Les Bush 13 April, 2013
THE UNIVERSE
THE UNIVERSE is not static, never will be, never was; nothing’s automatic, more a touch of chaos:
atoms, galaxies swirling and whirling in deep dark space (such a strange term for something so empty
so vast). So, one thing clear, there is no divine right of kings’ no “Natural” order of hierarchy; we are all the same:
quanta of Energy bound in particulate matter; struggling and striving, to determine what matters
in a strange, exciting and hostile world; struggling for balance, a sense of perception, that it all has a point,
a purpose. Search for the truth, in whichever form you seek; but know this; it is for the strong, not the weak. It is hard
and unforgiving, demands that you face the reality of being, no prescribed state of grace; it’s solid and it’s brutal. It’s right in your face:
nothing is perfect, nothing a disgrace. Things are that things are. Don’t whimper and whine. You show me your imperfections;
I will show you mine. We’re all slightly broken; in a state of disrepair. Do not despair.
We are constantly evolving, growing in strength and complexity, becoming more aware
of our place in the world around us, in time and in space. A consuming awareness that, solitary or not, we are never alone. The universe is not static.
Neither are we. There’s nothing automatic. It’s a matter of choice: breath/don’t breath? Don’t be fool! We do what we have to, we survive, we survive!
It’s been said before, I will say it again, “you are a child of the universe” made from cosmic energy and matter’ “you have a right to be here”!
As for love, hate, courage and fear? They are what we make them. We stumble, fall, and persevere. grab the handle of the sword of truth:
it cuts both ways. Turn it around, flat: that’s it. See your reflection in the blade? Don’t flinch, don’t run away. Look, and say, “I see you”
Suck it in, stand firm and intone. “I am what I am; but I have the power to change, accommodate and assimilate, to transform. I am energy and matter, potential unbound.”
There is no divine right of kings; no “Natural” order of hierarchy; we are all the same: stand tall stand proud; and call your name!
Les Bush, 10 April 2013
THE WATERFALL It starts, as always, at the top, it’s a flow, a flood, a torrent, trickle or drop; coursing hard and metallic through your blood.
Drops of water, liquid and elusive; hard as rock, soft as satin; each little moment thoughts and feelings inclusive, fleeting: lost in translation.
Some call it Gravity; it’s that massive drop to land head first, bloodied and battered, so far from the top; twisting and turning, emotionally bruised; indeed
so utterly damaged, one dare not breathe for fear of choking on one’s own grief! Hey, it’s just water, a natural delight. Not some funereal wreath.
Energy is quantum, it cannot last. Its fury is in the moment. Pain is transitory; it loses its blast; leaving one numbed and bewildered: torment.
It’s a force of nature, our waterfall; taking account of no one, nothing other than its own need.
So, I write, my words surge and tumble, all in vain? Not so, indeed
for frothing and throbbing intent: energy unreleased on jagged rocks that stand resistant; the water splashing and swirling gives up its fury, in that instant.
In the end, comes the calm waters so deep, so good for hiding one’s grief; those uncried tears, a balm that for the moment, it’s worth confiding.
The Sun rises and sets, the water drops from great heights; one gives, one gets a fright, or a delight.
Les Bush Copyright, 20 March 2013
THOSE EYES (A Poem to a Friend)
Those eyes, so deep; an ocean of despair: too sad to weep, with a hint of fear.
So, little sister, I feel your pain: "where do I go, how shall I live?". Me? I have nothing to gain; I seek only to give
a heartfelt reassurance, this is not the end! There is no "Life" insurance; there will always be a friend
to watch and listen, and hold your hand; should a tear glisten, beside you stand;
in a low caring voice command "Rise, little sister, do not bend to the torrents of hopelessness seeking thy will to bend."
Those eyes, so deep; an ocean of despair too sad to weep? They can and will feel cheer.
Les Bush Poet 20 March 2013
WAR AND POVERTY
War, Poverty, War and Poverty: War is Poverty, Poverty, a weapon of War, of Mass Control; vested interests, bloated stomachs: too much, too little.
Poverty, War: Poverty is an act of War; created and maintained to serve the selfselected Few. War, defence of the state? Death and destruction rendered sedate? Lies, lies, lies they found them and sold them, hoard the food in warehouses.
Poverty runs deep: consumes the soul, leaches all hope; a full stomach can
begin to mend a body. Peace, respect, time can possibly mend damaged souls. (Even that is not guaranteed). Without stability, integrity and a commitment to work together in a constructive manner.
War? Shove it! States start it; States need to end it. Governments? Organised Crime? Poverty of intent, will,imagination and humanity. To inflict war on a culture is unforgivable; to inflict a culture of war for material gain is criminal! Who loses; who wins? Nobody! We all lose; we are all diminished.
Les Bush 6 April 2013
WATCHING, WAITING
I am watching, waiting for what, or who: Godot? How time flies. Frustrating that so much had passed, so
little has been achieved, or am I mistaken? Can’t see the woods for the trees? How can I be bereaved for what I don’t know. Goods
purchased on credit, what a price. O’erladen with credit charges; the experience of life. Advice freely given? Truth enlarged,
or narrows the view, define the focus;
illuminate the perspective, life is a game we all must play, the best we can. Were we to do it again, would it be the same?
Would we take our time, strategise, better plan? I am watching, waiting; for who, what: Godot? Samuel Beckett never found the answer. Illuminating? What we don’t know, we don’t know.
Les Bush 29 April 2013
WHAT IS “EVIL”?
BELIEF, it is my hypothesis, that is tempered, refined and redefined by experience,leads to the ascent of Reason: the acceptance of, and positive and constructive interaction with, the people and the world around us.
REASON, when applied in an empathetic, humble and constructive way, leads to enlightenment. Reason (or the application of “Reason”), devoid of emotion and empathy, can be stark and dark, and at worst, lead to cynicism and detachment.
CYNICAL and cold detachment leads inexorably to the acceptance of the grotesque and abhorrent as “normal”. Worse than cynicism, in the extreme, is casual indifference; WTF! Can’t do anything, just gotta accept it.
“LIFE’S a bitch and then you die.” This is not acceptance, it is abdication. It is not a choice, it is laziness. Life is not a bitch, she (if you wish to apply a gender) is a mystery: written of pages of a book you have yet to read.
THE NATURE OF EVIL? It is, I believe, the deliberate choice and decision to embrace and adopt such a brutal detachment; to choose, by proxy, the easy way out; big monstrosities are built on little lies.
LOVE, philanthropy and the sharing of care and resource in a time of adversity and need is instinctive; the predisposition to greed, limited self interest and Evil is an abdication of choice.
IN THE AFTERMATH of the Christchurch Earthquake, the sense of community and sharing was strong, support came from throughout New Zealand, and around the World.. As the years have passed, memories fade, empathy wanes
and fear creeps in like a dull grey mist, comes the profiteering, the exorbitant rental demands in a limited housing situation: this is more than just “demand and supply”.
THE EQUATION is simple. We need each other to achieve our respective humanity,
individually and collectively. Celebrate it. We need, consciously and actively, to make the choice.
Les Bush Copyright, 2 April, 2013
WORDS
They are all that we have to share, to verbally articulate; bringers of joy, or the cause of pain and despair. They are ours to nurture, not destroy.
Brightly packaged lies, weapons of deceit; carefully studied, so artfully discreet; eye candy for the ears, it might not be as it appears .
So sad that a thing so beautiful can be plunged into disrepute, and ridicule; plaything for fools: it must be expunged!
Removed and ruthlessly discarded from the library of Truth! Words are the tools, not to be regarded as weapons for the unscrupulous, the uncouth.
Use them wisely, not with disrespect; care for them, nurture them, and enrich our understanding of ourselves, our world; circumspect should our approach, which
combined with Truth and Integrity shall shine forth our vision for the future, used wisely and proud; stupidity is for the stupid. Beauty is ours to ensure.
Les Bush 8 April 2013