Spirit Gone

Spirit gone she sadly wailed,
all torn and used and child-like frail.
Spirit gone she madly painted,
while she sobbed forlorn, so abused,
now her own image stained and tainted.

Spirit gone in the empty faces of the masses
moving within their darkened spaces.
Spirit gone from within this our land,
watch the rich, moist soil turn into barren sand.

Spirit gone she whispers softly
as I reach-out and gently touch her hand;
she dries her tears encouraged to face mounting fears.

Spirit gone for many it may seem, yet for her,
a young woman born of ancient Law and Ancestral Dream,
“The Spirit” is in the very air that she breathes,
and is blessed whenever she remembers to take a calming breath.

And as I soothe young ‘Haley’ still again,
she says the “Aunties” have left her side.
I remain to remind our child—my young charge—
that it is us that wander in disregard,
and leave the place of our sanctuary.

That is we too quick forget where we’ve come from—
choosing to live too human lives—not to take charge—
not to be where we remain safe and strong.

Your Spirit’s not gone
I respond to her rage,
your ’spirit” is still here,
beyond your conditioned fears.

For the “Aunts” and the Land,
are a part of your spiritual being,
and such true love remains
the only constant in a changing world
of tidal waves and shifting sand.

Now breathe quietly again my child,
do not be crushed by your mind’s trap.
Rest gentle awhile— calm your insides—
be kind to yourself, desist from your own
or any other’s destructive crap.

And in the closing of this prose,
as hidden tears of pain and joy,
and anguish fall within my chest,
I see her image before my eyes,
one of the many children of the lost,
forgotten,disregarded Dreaming;
and my rage is full, yet silent,
against such forces that brought her
to age too soon.

And then “Spirit” again soothes me,
as ‘Haley’ is only one amongst too many,
who deserve to be re-Earthed, to be safe;
to experience the joy of her life reviewed.

So I silently pray for this young ‘child’ of ours;
that she may recall these words this night,
whenever caught under her shroud of misery
that smothers her peace and hinders her bliss.
Then hope enlivened may clear her clouded soul,
revive her troubled life, and joy again for the while
can fill the space not so long ago a troubled,
shadowed bowl.

Written 26/12/1997 & 2/1/1998

[Afterthought: And in 'Haley' living a full and joyous life under the Southern Sky, may young Ricky's spirit live on. No, dear 'Haley', like the boomerang that returns, neither the Spirit, the Dreaming nor the Aunts have gone.]

Please Note: ‘Haley’ is a pseudonym to protect the identity of the person whom this is about. “Ricky” is a young lad, whom I knew well, who took his life. This story/poem is based on real, direct experience.

Who’s Sin

What force, what power, who’s god,
in the midnight hour,
drove the hand that drove the knife
deep into my Cousin’s flesh — took his life.

What force, what power, what God do we follow,
as we wallow in subjugation under the hand of
the man with a church in one and the fear of the gun.

What law, what force, who’s sacred ways were wrong,
what right does the white become right in the night,
and turned my Cousins ways, his very life into a crime.

What law, who’s words, who’s hymns are the true songs
to the gods, and the spirits of the land that we once belonged.

Who’s rules prevailed, who’s life assailed,
who drove the knife into my dear Cousin’s flesh,
when nought was done except a night of young fun.

What force, what power, who’s god was to blame,
to see such a crime go unpunished, not repaid.
What god permits such hypocrites to rule another man.

What force, what power, what twisted beliefs
spilled — nay wasted the life-blood of my Cousin
on the pavement, in the midnight hour,
who’s right, who’s power, who’s sin has it been.

Echoes Of The Past

Random words, random thoughts,
whilst randomly strolling on moonlit walk.
Seeking solace, seeking truth,
whilst meandering beneath a starlit roof.
Empty soul, life’s bell tolls,
announcing the echoes of journeys long past.

Speak to me of precious things,
of the subtleties that unseen entities
again do bring.

As I lay exposed beneath the stars,
I ponder why the tolling echo lasts
resounding into the night;
the echoes of the past.

A gentle wind does stir,
stirring deeper scars.
Scars unseen yet known to me;
as I wonder why the stains from
distant past remain, lingering beneath my skin.

As I stroll these ancient tracks on arid land,
the earth beneath each step softly speaks.

Mournful feelings once deep now rise,
to the surface of my present thoughts.
Memories that I believed
I had left behind, now echo in my mind.

Compassion Calls

Why seeketh joy when thou art full of sadness;
and seeketh peace when thou despises the ideal of bliss?

And how will ye knoweth when thou has reached happiness,
while thee chooses to sit on the throne alone — full of restlessness.

And the cheek of thee to speaketh to me of thine wonders of thy life,
and yet in turn speaketh so poorly of thine friend or wife.
Thou does ask me to depend on thee!
Why should I bend to thine request?
As ye again turn from those defenceless or alone.

Thine contempt for all whom pass by your door,
leaves no room for hope amongst the shadowed poor.

I seek not your form of happiness,
for thou art but an illusion upon the shore of selfishness.
For t’was a time when we knew joy — in simple things;
playing, learning, growing tall with life so full.

And now you seek greater toys of delusion —
philosophies of exclusion.
Speak not my friend of harmony,
for thy words sting sharp in me.

I listen for thine heart I once knew,
know not now the one called you.
I watch your moves across the globe,
and wait for the time to disrobe.

I seek thine will in your words of impassioned style — empty vile,
and I too wonder when it is that thee shall see
the folly in such selfish spiel.

Speaketh not my teacher of new found wondrous delight.
No, not to me this cold passionless night,
for I wait for Compassion’s call —
when we again fill our souls with the joy of innocent fair,
to be shared with all. So sleep well my friend adrift,
for thine actions and words I know not of thee.

I lay in wait for thy return;
I sit in silence and pray for thine enlightenment.
Empowerment comes to those that commit,
does not dwell long with hypocrites.

I abide in busy-nest, for I too seeketh the joy of life,
and wondrous bliss, I await in silent prayer,
and stay where compassion leads mine heart to bloom.