Tuesday, November 28, 2006


My first attempt at a villanelle . . . prompted by the Islamic assertion that no true prophet would allow himself to be victim of the humiliation of crucifixion.

How to Kill a Real Prophet
“they slew Him not nor crucified, but it appeared so unto them” Qur’an 4:157

He let himself be taken to be killed.
‘It must have been another man they nailed.’
A real prophet would have exercised his will.

‘Not my will, but yours be done,’ he said.
In the garden where he bowed his head
he let himself be taken to be killed.

What assistance can a victim give?
If he will die, how will his people live?
A real prophet would have exercised his will.

The servant king inaugurates his reign
with healing that accompanies his own pain.
He let himself be taken to be killed.

When betrayers drew a circle tight about,
a king, a leader would have found an out.
A real prophet would have exercised his will.

In a battle forshadowed by a dove,
in a scandal of humility and love,
he let himself be taken to be killed.
A real prophet exercised his will.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Daily Walk

On our road at dusk I once refrained
from the satisfying snap of a fallen branch underfoot
stepping over it instead, as it slithered away.
Inanimates snaked there too,
like electric leads we no longer uncoil
from the house on the other side
when the shearer comes.
They’ve built more houses further up,
newer ones with solar panels
and earth friendly toilets.
But still not so many cars
as to impede our walks
to restore computer starved circulation,
to the bounce of puzzlements, complaints
and the small joys of our day.
And pangs too. The wallaby we so enjoyed
was, one day, a heap of fallen fur
under inspection by the local crows.
The neighbour’s cow
loud with bovine lament for her calf
lately trucked away to a veal and leather destiny.
And always under the same tree it seems we
exchange a word with old Bill Budd
out with his new pup and the daily unstiffening of knees.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

View at the Edge

At the edge
-----------------the clown's make up
the razor nick skin of the man

Fast food/gas station/motel
-----------------make up the clone,
American gaudy,
LA to DC.

I, this oasis edge pedestrian,
alien at the terminus tide line of jetsam's
tattered plastic graffiti
most visible in Spring,
gravel chemical aqua with
snow melt salt line,
and beyond, hunched uneasily
the domestic weatherboard evidence
of this intersection ghost
chilled out
by the deep fat KFC heat,
bungalow cheap rent now,
a wrecker's lunch.

Three slumping halloween pumpkins
grin from low porch perch
pastel walls behind
blanched to near invisibility
apart from these infrequent footfalls
at the edge.

Friday, November 03, 2006

Self portrait

I pushed the oil portrait a bit further. I will probably leave it at this point and work at another image. I have learned a lot with this one. But sick of looking at my own face! :-)