DAOpoetry

Within Your Self

Djubba — Sun, 13 May 2012 22:55:47 +0000

Once Ye have purged thy Self of insanity,
and torn through the curtain of Uncertainty,
Ye shall know that your authenticity,
resides within the inner sanctum of the Beloved,
within your Self…

Filed under: Life, Original Poem Tagged: authenticity, awareness, consciousness, inner sanctum, insanity, self, spirituality

Being Naturally Aboriginal

Djubba — Sun, 13 May 2012 15:34:03 +0000

In the beginning there was the Breath — the Chi — and the Breath was made manifest, the word became the world. The Breath gave birth into the earth It-Self. The Breath was birthed, from nothingness to manifest; from the invisible the formula was conceived to create the form, the visible that we are now.

The source of us all is “the genius of genesis” — the beginning — the seeding of the breathing — the creation from the Dreaming. At some point — the alchemical moment of crux — we crossed-over into this world that matters, as an outpouring of matter fine and course.

The genesis implies the “gene-in-us-all” — the “Gene-Is”. And all of us are natural allies, cooperatively cohabiting this formation we know as life. We are nature-allied by Nature itself, and naturally-aligned from within the womb of us all — the mother-earth gives birth, the matrix is the mother — and it matters to us all.

We are but the many faces, the multi-facets of the One, a holographic expression of the ‘whole image’ — the Original is else-where; we are of the radiation of Imagination (the Image-nation) — manifested in the “atom-o-sphere” — entrapped within an atmospheric world of projection and reflection, acceptance and rejection, gravity and heaviness.

We are the outflow of the one Source of creation — beyond the Atum of the Egyptians — before the Adam of the Judea-Christians — we are of the atomic, the “atom-I-see” expression of life It-Self.

We are of the ‘Origene’ — the ab origin — the absolute original — we are “naturally aboriginal” Beings in essence from neither space nor time, dwelling in this place.

For we are nought but composites — combustible, consuming, consenting Beings — impressed with Life It-Self; expressed from the Breath, one source, whilst being as if some-thing else.

Can you get your head around such paradox… existing, yet not — no-where and now here — Being aware, yet not your awareness?

Can you stretch your limitations — your positionality — until the thoughts that bind you and confine you within the matrix; within the womb of Mother-earth, finally breakdown, and no longer hold you within this “atom-o-sphere of fear” — when Realisation again frees you from such constraints and complexes of the body-mind, space-time configuration?

Is the Truth too big to contain within your head? Of course … ‘It-Is’ as It should be!

Filed under: God, indigenous, Life, Original Poem, prose Tagged: aboriginal, conceptual, indigenous, Life, perspective, religious, spiritual

Come With I

Djubba — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 12:36:05 +0000

Come with I, unity, then ponder what has transpired,
from within the union of the You and I.

When individual polarities commune, mix and meld,
what is it that we have achieved.

My energy once implanted deep,
seeded within your receptacle, remains eternal,
awaits recharging from its source,
whenever it shall need, of course.

One plus One equals Three,
true synergenetic combustibility.

Filed under: Love, Poetry Tagged: communion, Life, Love, philosophy, spiritual, synergy, union

Child Breakers

Djubba — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 07:39:19 +0000

Lightning flashes, lights up the night
as thunder rumbles in distant clouds.
The rain spatters then runs in trickles
down window panes.

The storm covers the sounds of pain
seeping from within the home.

And behind the window, behind closed doors
is a room filled with silent screams, and a child sobs,
forlorn on sheet-less mattress bloodied and worn.

And the cloak of night descends on shame unseen
as the Shadow leaves the room.
This child’s joy-filled aspirations and dreams
now shattered and scattered by the obscene.

The years roll by, the child’s role set.
The child now deadened to the pain.
“Come.” says the Shadow,
“Come let’s play more innocence stealing games.”

The cues are unconscious replays,
one’s loss another’s selfish gain.
The child’s lifeless eyes show spontaneous joy lost —
a shattered heart, a corrupted host.

The first intrusion forced the child’s spirit to flee —
to split, divide — to hide,
and now the corrosive Shadow lives inside —
damaged, fractured Psyche.

The child grows and yet knows not how or why to cry.
The Shadow returns in many forms,
within many others with different names.
Different names same selfish game.

All come to beat, to take and prey,
and leave the broken child inside to lay,
crumpled in the turmoil of their lies.
Secrets cover guilt and shame submerged.

Rape now abuse implies less hurt.
Parents or friends, uncles or aunts,
the love for the child is now just farce.

Child grows unfortunately,
this child becomes lover, parent eventually.
The cycle continues, passes on down-the-line.
“What was done to me is done to mine.”

In cupboards locked, with belts or sticks
young, supple bodies twisted — hit;
mind and spirit forced to submit.

Pleasure-seekers — child-makers diseased
pass-on their Shadow to become the child-breakers.

Yes, another storm rages outside while another child weeps,
and the storm within this child’s flesh
may never find the release to speak. The Shadow sneaks
into another’s womb leaving anguish in its wake.

Another child sobs, wracked with angry fear —
confusion rules, more sleepless restless nights to come —
sweet child broken,
waits powerless for the sanctuary of daylight.

Filed under: Original Poem, Poetry Tagged: abuse, child abuse, exploitation, sexual abuse, trauma, victim

Bar Room Farce

Djubba — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 07:14:09 +0000

Alone, again …
Another early morning in a lonely front bar.
Hand trembling, clasping the glass of a numbing cold ale.
Sipping another experience whilst drowning the past.
Sculling another drink, drowning the regrets from life passed.
Sipping another round of non-sense, whilst the money lasts;
seeking absolution in another bar room farce.

Filed under: Life, loneliness, Poetry Tagged: alcoholism, Life, loneliness, memories

O Me! O Life!

Djubba — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 02:11:44 +0000

O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless–of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light–of the objects mean–of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all–of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest–with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring–What good amid these, O me, O life?

[Answer]

That you are here–that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

~ by Walt Whitman ~

Filed under: Life, Other Poets Tagged: Walt Whitman

Morning After The Night Before

Djubba — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 10:59:41 +0000

“The morning after the night before
when I was rich and you were poor
we stripped ourselves of all obscene
and washed away our deeds unseen.”

Filed under: Life, Love

Spirit Gone

Djubba — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 12:24:25 +0000

Spirit gone she sadly wailed,
all torn and used and child-like frail.
Spirit gone she madly painted,
while she sobbed forlorn, cried and ranted,
her image now 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 her child-like self—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’re 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, 1st person experience.

Posted in Aboriginal, God, indigenous, Life, loneliness, Love Tagged: healing, Spirit, spiritual

Who’s Sin

Djubba — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 18:58:41 +0000

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

Djubba — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 13:03:04 +0000

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’s Call

Djubba — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 04:58:05 +0000

Why seeketh joy when thou art full of sadness;
and seeketh peace when thou despises the state 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.

Jesus Was A Black Man

Djubba — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 08:02:47 +0000

There are prophets and wisdom-keepers
from within every land.

One such was said to have been born in Bethlehem.
Jesus, they say, had wisdom and vision far.
He is one of the many who have lived the Way.
JC’s heritage and genetics show,
that he was of “dark” origins with no skin of snow.
God makes no mistake.

Buddha, Lao Tzu and Confucius had their say.
Amongst their own… unique in their Way.
From Asia they came with inspired insight.
Wise they were and wise they stay,
without a doubt, “yellow” skin — not “white”.
Their God made no mistake.

Then there’s the wisdom-keepers of the Americas.
Indians like Black Elk, Chief Seattle & Joseph;
I’ve heard of their great love for nature and the land,
and how they pay homage and respect to the Great Spirit
And their skin was “red”.
The Great Spirit made no mistake.

Now head south to Terra Australis,
here “black” humans have walked across millennia;
The longest continuing culture alive today.
With their Ancestral Beings, and Dreamtime stories,
and their regard for nature and the land.
Do you really believe their “Creators” made a mistake?

Back to the Middle East, stop by Mecca.
What colour was Mohammed, I’ll let you guess.
For his country and time he did his best.
A wisdom for the masses many still practise.
I’m damn sure, Allah [all-are] made no mistake.

Then there’s the MGM of the 20th Century;
Malcolm, Gandhi and a King called Martin Luther.
All wise and worthy leaders, coloured with dignity.
Do you reckon their “God” made a mistake?

So before you rush-in and keep saying white is right,
and that black is the colour of fear in the night,
Just remember that fear has no colour.
And the one’s called coloured,
Are the ones you may call on in your time of plight.

So, my friends, there is no doubt,
given a reasonable and informed view,
that Jesus is a black man… so, what else is new?

Over Forty Years

Djubba — Mon, 19 May 2008 09:49:08 +0000

I have watched over 40 years too many people go under,
under pressure undeserved disappear.

I have watched my own family suffer in subjugated silence,
and from their own internalised violence.

I have heard loving, desperate mothers wail into the night,
in hopeless despair for their children’s plight.

I have slept in restless youthfulness and experienced poverty’s dream,
while listening to the pitiful and pitiless argue and fight and scream.

I have smelt the burning flesh of a man,
who in desperation torched his life with his own hand.

I have walked the city’s bright light day and night,
and watched sightless people step over the black and the ill,
as if they were a part of the gutter’s swill.

I have seen children go hungry in this rich country,
while I have heard the lies of Land Whites say give more to me.

I have sat alone in dozens of front bars across this land,
observing shameful confrontations of the black and the white,
and wandered away from the fray, knowing its not right.

I have been behind prison walls and slept in cold cells,
and seen too many coloured men and boys captured in their living hell.

I have lived and walked with the fringe-dwellers of our society,
and observed the rich getting richer from their false piety.
I have sat in too many committees,
wondering when justice will finally reach the ones we oversee.

And I have confronted injustice many times,
yet I have failed to lift the blindfold from self-justifying lies.
I have cared for other’s children who had suffered too much,
who cringed from the mere gesture of a loving touch.

I have seen deep sadness behind the forced smiles,
of rejected, neglected people lined up for soup in charity’s lines.

I still live in the hope, though fading regretfully,
that we can come back to our senses, before it’s too late.

I still sit in the bored rooms and the bars and the streets,
while Father Time grows older and the years of shame keep on.

Like Being

Djubba — Mon, 19 May 2008 09:42:40 +0000

Like being at a funeral,
when there is no corpse,
Like being at the wake,
when no one has died.

Like attending a buffet lunch
without the food.
Like being invited to a party,
and no one else is in the room.

Like having a banana split,
without the ice cream.
Like having a relationship,
with no one else to share your dreams.

Like going to work,
when there is no more work for you.
Like living a lie, and believing it is true.
Like looking in the mirror and not liking what you see.

Like waiting for an inheritance
and knowing you’re not in the will.
Like feeling sick, yet never actually ill.

Like sitting in your car wanting to go
and the fuel-gauge is showing empty.

Like waiting for the rain in the middle of a heat wave.
Like wanting to fight when there is no one to hit.
Like needing a hug when you have no one to love.
Like coming home at night when your house is empty-bare.

How many ways are there to describe what you feel?
When all you have done has just disappeared.
When all you believed in has walked out of there.
How can you describe the emptying of your Soul?

How does one share the despair of such a time?
When all you have achieved can no longer be believed.
When the ones you have loved have moved on or fled.
What rhyme or reason can appease the bottomless hole?

“How are you” means nought except what for?

Like a bee with no hive, a life with no purpose.
Like a tree with out birds, a dog without a bone.
Like sitting alone by a phone that never rings.

Awake In Silence

Djubba — Mon, 19 May 2008 09:35:38 +0000

I listen to the silence —
while restless in compliance.

I hear my thoughts of what has been —
between these walls and the silent me.

Sleep creeps-up on my Soul again,
the restless me succumbs to sleep —
while Dawn awaits my searching life.
I shall then emerge from slumber’s hold —
awake in silence in a room that’s cold —
chilled by night air that hesitates to the beck and call
of the warmth that comes from the sun-filled Dawning.

I’ll awake in silence without Thee,
to comfort my restless Soul —
as I await your words of comfort to emerge
from your conscious hold —
to set me free in new ways bold,
when next your eyes beholden me.
I await in Silence to be released
from the slumber of compliance’s grip —
to journey forth into my life’s evolving trip.

The Sounds Of Time

Djubba — Wed, 14 May 2008 14:49:27 +0000

When the glass is shattered
and the tears soak in the sand,
the splintered, fractured pieces
of a life again are born anew.

Whilst standing in the stillness of that moment,
life again is felt once more,
near the swelling of the oceans flow,
washing upon the cool, sandy shore.

We be the splintered,
fractured sliver of the glass that is no more,
and watch detached,
the tear-drops sparkle in the skies of night,
while trembling in our frailty
at “The Doorway of Evermore”.

Divinity is upon and within the earth,
in the glistening of the sea,
and in the tear-drops that swell in the eyes of a life
known once-upon-a-time as you or me.

Watch the ebb and flow of the seasons
as a parable of coded reasons
that unlock the teachings
of the mystery called Life.

Spilt wine as blood from fractured glass
seeps through the sands of life,
as the mist of Doubt is vanquished
with the clouds of un-Reality
that clog the once-Born mind.

Then once again Be —
in the rawness of just Being,
whilst awaiting the heat from flames aburning —
re-knewing senses long chilled
as the stillness of a dormant eve.
Eroding our for-getting
with the re-membering,
of the I and All in One —
trinity — a life that is for-giving.

Now sip the juices from the vine,
stimulus and stimuli,
and fence with emotions
that wax and wane like evening tide —
divine Divinity — whilst the tensions of duality,
and the Soul’s longing teases the throbbing of desire.

Ah, impassioned ecstasy,
the mystery of splintered glass,
sparkling on the tips of ocean waves,
moonlit by our all-Being;
hear in the sounds of Time and
the blood-red wine within this glass of mine
pulsates the very essences,
the flux and flow — Eternity.

Noises

Djubba — Wed, 14 May 2008 14:43:51 +0000

Words and music. Sounds and voices.
Cries of torture — discord rhapsody.

Running feet, babbling brook.
Switch on, switch off — choices.

Sounds and music! Words and voices.
Whispers of confused speakers — questers and teachers.

Harmonious ecstasy. Joyous rhapsody.
Speak thy wisdom, sound the gong.

I’m hear — I’m gone.
Sounds and voices. Words and music.

Whispering wind rustling branches.
Disturbing spaces — intensity.
Ah yes, into-me-see.

Sounds no more — why, what for?
Peals of laughter, toll bell rings.
Doom, boom boom — that’s all folks.

~ © Djubba Akbar ~

Stand Down

Djubba — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 10:32:06 +0000

Stand down. Stand down ye Gods of War,
no longer spread your lies and abuse the poor.

Stand down you children of selfish dreamt.
For too long ye gods have stood aside,
always in the shadows hide,
and sent the young of nations out to die.

Stand down — disband the boys in uniform.
Destroy for now and ever more
the weapons of bloodshed and of war.
Disband. Stand down — war no more.

Stand down ye snivelling capitalist.
Ye courtiers of the Corporate Court stand down.
Disband. Leave the world alone,
and let the misguided and misled return to their home.

Spill no more blood in the name of Mammon.
Kill no more innocents in vain with cannon.
Stand down, disband the mothers plead.
Stand down, ye gods of war, from this earth you need to leave.

Ye gods of evil have schemed and lied,
inspired pride, destroyed many lives.
Profited from the loss of fathers and sons,
mothers, nurses, sisters — now none.
All for the love of money from the sale of guns.

Today we remember the sacrifice and loss,
and grieve for family and friends never met.

Yet, I cannot accept the rationale
for waste and ignorance
through such tragic conflicts as war
in countries far from these shores.

Forgive me for my antipathy, I say what I feel,
I reflect what I see. People used for corporate ploy,
Nations manipulated to buy more war toys.

Stand down, ye courtiers of the god Mammon,
and ye tin-gods of war begone.
Stand down. Disband — leave all our earthly shores.
Preach not your message of hate no more.

Stand down, at-ease,
while a chorus of sentinel bugles play,
in places where there is no sound.
Stand down. Last Stand ye gods of war.

It’s early dawn. Rise peace for evermore.

Mama Slept The Day Through

Djubba — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 22:08:05 +0000

Papa, can you tell me why blood is red?

Can you tell me why mama cries when your gone,
and can you tell me why I have to make my bed.

Papa where were you last night.
I waited for my goodnight kiss.

Papa, did you know that I love you very much,
and when you’re down the road, its you I dearly miss.

Papa, why don’t you hug mummy any more.
Did you know that she cries so much, that her eyes get sore.
And when she looks at me some days, her eyes are black,
and I ask how come, and she says she walked into the door.

Papa, if blood is red, and it don’t wash out,
then what should we do with the sheets that come from your bed.
They’ve turned red. Papa, were you out with the boys again.
That’s a shame ‘cause I was really lonely.

Mama slept the day through. There was just me and my toys.
I really missed you. Papa, do you love me just a little bit,
or am I really a silly brat.

Papa, I’m worried about mummy sleeping all day.
She won’t get up and play.
Papa what about those sheets on your bed.
Mummy’s fast asleep, and they’re the colour of blood.
They’re red. Mama doesn’t even care.

I asked her to get up, but she’s asleep with her eyes open.
Really strange they are Papa. She’s asleep, yet she stares.
Papa, why do you reckon mamma’s got cuts on her wrist.
Papa, you could have helped me wake her with a kiss.

You better come and have a look.
Please Papa, I know you care.

What does dead mean Papa?
Why did you burn the bed after they took mamma away?
Do you reckon mummy will be home soon? I hope so.
Papa! Do you really like me?

I’m glad you love me as much as mummy.
Can I have some ice-cream Papa.
I’ll go get a spoon.

Goondawindi Falls

Djubba — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 07:04:21 +0000

Have you ever wandered at night outside of town, down by the lake, and listened to the sound of the Goondawindi Falls?

Have you ever sat still, back propped against the trunk of a stalwart tree and looked-up at the silent moon hanging in the sky — with its reflected light shifting upon the darkened waters of Lake Goondawindi — that lays at the foot of the crashing, splashing, sometimes trickling Goondawindi Falls?

And have you ever pondered the reason why the locals in their mud spattered cars, park about the perimeter of the lake after their night’s fill at the local bars?

The sounds of pop music from stereos clashing with their youthful mirth, while the groans and noises of their humping and bumping drifts across the night air. And the louts without a girl in tow, spin and squeal their tyres upon the ground and clown around, while the more single-minded fumble with garments — hormonal conquest and pleasure on their mind.

These falls, Goondawindi, have spilled its water into this lake since forever. This place — a sacred place — gives up its life giving juices in times of drought. This place — Lake Goondawindi made children — a fertile site — when the uninitiated were kept out. These waters soothed the mouths of initiate daughters — now speed boats roar, and fish no more.

This place of potent sexual mystery is still a magnet for those who seek to know the purpose of woman and of man. Now Goondawindi dies without its elderly guides, its magic aborted like its waters, by the unclean. These waters of Goondawindi do not sparkle as they once did, not that long ago. A frothy-scum now rings the rim of its basin, and the waters that fall, fall less often, and the stench of chemicals strokes the nose.

Its source is poisoned from further afield, poisoned with the wastes of the farms and the mines seeping their way into this precious fluid. Like a disease invading the blood cells. And the young of the local town still come out to swim in the heat of summer, or in the heat of their passion-led lives, to wash and to cool down from grown-up frowns. Take a silent walk around the shores of Lake Goondawindi, and listen to die trickle of her falls, and feel the desecration of the place.

Then look carefully at the ground, the land and its surrounds. The broken glass, the empty tins, the upturned rubbish scattered near empty bins. And the silver cedar, oak and eucalyptus stand like silent sentinels, reeling from the degradation of this place that has no elders for which on its behalf to protect or to speak.

And the cars still come with their youthful load of fun, the girls and boys each Friday night. The cars do come full of youth who seek to shoot their pent-up load, passions through youthful bodies explode. And Goondawindi weeps in the Dreamtime realm for these youth-fool ones who seek their adulthood through misguided ways, while their elders sleep in bedrooms safe and secure in the town just down the road.

Goondawindi Falls now calls to those who hear, with the lake at her feet no longer full, its rakish water symbolic of Dreamtime slaughter. Magic place now just another fun-time space.

Have You Ever

Djubba — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 05:05:30 +0000

Have you ever seen someone being bottled? Have you ever seen the fierceness of one victim attacking another, no logic in their eyes, no vision in their lives? Have you ever heard the thudding sound upon skin and bone and watched glass shatter across another’s head?

Have you been real close and seen the skin split, and noticed how the blood spurts or trickles down over their eyes
as shards of glass embed in flesh with perhaps the bone exposed?

Have you ever seen an-other move without control and charge the innocent, enraged by bottled-up and unspent pain, that they cannot free-up and just let go? Have you heard the victim’s screams and pleas, as you stood frozen with the certainty that they may bottle you?

Have you ever stood-by or turned a blind-eye when preservation and shock combine, when such a happening just appears, and you’re the one who happened — just happened to be there when you just wanted to disappear?

Have you listened to the wailing anguish of their pain, as they cried out for help and no-one came?

Have you seen a once smiling face not long before, now appear as if they just came from war. The zone of being throttled — with head held down — broken and shamed from humiliation — a disgrace-filled state?

And when she or he looked up with a solemn air, with eyes awash, soft lips all split and swollen cheeks — battered and bruised as trickles of scarlet red dripped, and asked with those pleading, blood-filled eyes and fractured head; “Why? Why do I have to hurt so much, yet no tears wash the pain from behind my eyes?” And in disgrace you’ve stood speechless — with no ready-made quip or reply.

Oh yes! Have you ever been in life, in such a place where being bottled — attacked and throttled was just a part of everyday struggle — a way of strife. Where to repel the evil that permeates becomes a hope-less and futile resistance. Where rogues and scoundrels and less-than-Beings rule their compatriots with fist and grog, boots and knifes, and busted faces, and broken glass. Propelled by a volcanic savageness unpredictable and hearts as hard as steel?

Have you ever been in such a place, in a way of life, where to stand and fight is poor advice — ridiculous — a place where the bottles fly and to live as such — if that is what it’s called — is lesser than to die?

Comment: Drama and crippling violence is endemic amongst far too many communities within Aboriginal society. Usually kept out of sight and of the radar of awareness of the ‘mainstream’. In my view, and to some extent, it is the manifestation of a disease of the soul., and often comes under the terms ‘domestic’ or family violence. The ‘spirit’ behind this epidemic is known by many names; cruelty, revenge, misguided pay-back, alcohol abuse, rejection, pain, rape, frustration, anger, racism, drugs, insecurity, poverty and fear, just to name a few. It is the expression of a dis-eased spirit [the “Mamu” or “evil” (bad-fella) ] that operates in the vacuum that has been created by dispossession, disillusionment and trauma, coupled with the erosion of a secure and sound identity. It spreads in times of intense distress, trauma, and uncertainty. Wanton violence is systemic disease that spreads like a cancerous and corrosive virus, and appears to thrive where there is little love for one’s ‘self’ and hence little to no regard nor respect for others.
This epidemic is not unique to Aboriginals in Australia. It is just more amplified, more readily identified, because of the disproportionate high numbers of victims from within a small percentage

Once Had… Now Gone

Djubba — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 08:23:38 +0000

I stand in silence, in my silent house,
looking through the window at the silent clouds.
A clap of thunder crashes in my ears,
and in the silence my cheeks are wet with tears.
I stand in silence for loves once had … now gone.

I cry within my loneliness for a life that was.
My silence in my insulation knows,
I feel dejected, forlorn, alone … no where to be.

My charade, my disguise hides this truth,
as I mix with others in my daily routine.
My laughter and smiles are but a ruse,
whilst behind my guise, I question my life.

“Has all I done, the things I believed,
been for nought, a delusion I dreamed?”
I ask myself what is this I feel,
this mood that grips … in silence I plea.

The thunder still rumbles, a thunderous peel,
as the silent clouds gather like the despair I feel,
and deadens desires, my hopes for the while.

I cry in my silence and in my silence ask, “Why?”
In solitude … in this silent tomb-like room.

I Want To Write …

Djubba — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 18:20:44 +0000

I’d like to write a love poem, with words of deeper meaning.
I want to write of my love for life,
and small pleasures of the day. I’d like to write a love poem,
of warmth and smiles so bright,
with words from within my inner-heart
that capture the joy of day’s light.

I want to write a love poem that lifts you into the clouds;
I’d write of the world’s delights and sing with the birds about.

I’d like to write a love poem to the mothers the world around.
and say to absconded fathers that their love is duty bound.

I’d like to write a love poem of adolescent play at night,
their fingers pleasurably fumbling with each new found delight.
I’d like to write of a red red rose that captures the essence of love.
I want to write of spring flowers, of splendid rainbows from above.

I want to share such feelings that strike me when I’m blind,
that remind me of true purpose, of gestures oh so kind,
as children play in the park with angels standing by,
their laughter skips across the ground and caresses unwitting souls.

I’d like to write a love poem to relieve the suffering of the poor.
I’d like to share that life is grand so suffer please no more.

I want to climb to mountain tops and soar with the king of the sky.
I want to write of love so grand that makes fear begone, bye-bye.

I’d like to write a love poem whilst serving humbly at your feet,
that speaks of the joys we share, feeling good and complete.
I want to write strong sentiments that wrap you in true love,
I’d like to write about these things that mean so much in life.

I want to lay beside a stream and stroke its juice of life.
I want to be safe in love’s embrace and know a sacred space.

Oh please dear friend, you reader there, tell me if you can,
how to write such words of hope with promise—
from the well-spring of love’s elusive hand.

My God

Djubba — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 11:32:34 +0000

My God is not a ‘god’ of miracles available on my command;
nor is my god a charlatan dripping with jewels and precious stones,
nor dressed in tailored clothing or golden threaded robes.

My God does not wait upon my beck and call;
nor is my ‘god’ a showman charging for all to show and tell.
My God is ever Present, pervading all that I experience as life.

My God abides within me, not in the things that I own;
my God is more intimate than the thoughts that fill my mind;
my God never fails me, it is I that strays from the sublime.

My God does not judge nor condemn me,
nor send revenge upon my world.
My God transcends such pettiness, is beyond trivial silliness.

My God does not demand my love;
nor does my God seek to bind my mind or soul.
My God is all-ways Present no matter where I go.

My God is not for sale, nor does my God impose Its will.
My God is not full of gibberish when I listen to Thy will,
and I am not a puppet of mediocrity whilst I remember to be still.

My God does not coerce me with promises of vaguery,
nor tempt me with desires that are of my own imaginations.
My God but seeks only to coax me towards my inner-sense.

My God does not shout in disdain, nor lay blame for my foolishness;
nor does my God punish my stupidity whilst I be in immaturity.
My God remains eternity, awaits my return from learning.

My God does not rape nor pillage nor plunder.
My God abides in harmony, in stillness, peace infinite.
My God has no place in the temple of the ignorant.

My God does not favour one above another;
does not support one preacher by the derision of an-other;
does not kill nor maim wantonly at the behest of secular teachers.

My God does not condone wrongdoing;
nor favours one race or breed above all-else.
My God does not choose the rich before the poor.

My God has no colour, no bias, no favourites to wait-upon.
My God cannot choose one species to the exclusion of all else;
nor can my God say I am right and thus you must be wrong.

My God shines the same ‘light’ upon all of Its creation.
My God does not exclude me from any thing that I need.
My God permits all to partake in what we need to learn.

I am able to make my choices whenever I desire.
I shall not expire in hellish fire when I wander far in fright,
as my God is forgiving all that I do in questing for insight.

My God knows me, as my God is all that is.
My God is free to you and I, and awaits for any to abide.
My God does not force, nor cajole, nor threaten.

My God just is — omniscient, omnipotent, all-pervading.
My God is lighter than love and life and light.
My God is my best friend, my Beloved, my Guiding current.

My God is Divine — divinity, the trinity, true synergy;
not fear, nor evil, nor war, nor loss — my God be justice,
no more no less — my God is Bliss at the end of separateness.

My God is the Kurrunpa — the Life Force, the Breath, the All.

Dancing in Absentia

Djubba — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 11:21:52 +0000

Dancing with my ancestors in absentia obsolete.
Dancing in the kitchen with memories,
of lost loves incomplete.
Dancing with my past alone and incomplete.
Dancing with the history of people that have been.
Dancing to the rhythm of a silent beat.
In absentia with the essence of all unseen
in my passionate heat –
As all are in the ‘Other-World’
another time, another place,
and further have I roamed.