the night is lit with lamplight
this sentinel by my rooms
that is mankind's small signal
that dark has come too soon.
and the traffic sings it's music
a city's mummerings
as silently I sit here,
and ponder all life's 'things"

the day has gone
the night has come
and all of life
now passes by
beneath my glass
of wine.

the world is struggling to wake up.
I have watched the dawn, the rise of Thursday.
garbage trucks, delivery trucks, tradesmen all early risers scurry
into today. Now it's the workers cars, soon to be followed by the buses slowly filling with each pass beneath my balcony, finally bursting at the seams
with school children. Noisily they invade the streetscape, their I-Pod exuberance rising above the rumble of traffic, giggling, chattering, shrieking like a pack
of geese as they migrate across the crossing.
they move in unrelated packs, oblivious of everything, except themselves,
hands waving wildly, their sweet perfumes, aftershave, makeup and latest fashion overstatements highlighting their lack of individuality.
for half and hour they own the footpath as everything gets swept up in
their en massing movement through the town, only to be suddenly swallowed
by the school gate.
peace returns as the remains of their chaos is blown away by the traffic,
wrappers, straws, and the odd discarded hair clip.
the music of the morning dance has finished her overture.
my insomnia is now joined by a world forced out of bed
by the obligations of life.
the day's players are now set for their race as they keep pace
with the sun's journey towards the afternoon's finish line when everything goes
into reverse, messily packing up a finished day.
I am perched on my chair, one floor up,
like an umpire, waving at the few who manage to liberate their eyes
from what's in front of them.
life is hilarious.
I make my tea, and I perform my solemn ceremony
to a surprised audience of school children
trapped inside a bus at a red light.
for a brief moment I become the centre of their
attention, until they are whisked away,
their laughter mixing with the black exhaust that swirls
behind the first few gears of departure.
I pray that the busdriver is full of deaf patience.
tonight I will watch the sunset as the mood changes with the light's transformation
into street lamps and the Chinese restaurant's faint neon sign.
my tea cup becomes a wine glass and silence slowly returns,
finally giving me permission to seek sleep.
the play is over, for a few hours respite,
until the garbage trucks announce tomorrow's
first act.

Life goes on.

suddenly, as if startled by an inward threat, she beat the water with her feet and, stretching her wings, she flew away.
all that remained of her was an oily slick and the foam stained wash of a frightened bird.
my last memory?
a glimpse of wings disappearing into the fading light.
I now sit at water's edge with my thoughts
and a stray feather or two.
The dream has sunk.
Her masts lying twisted on the rocks,
the rigging flayling in the breeze,
a broken back of a boat,
torn sails,
rusty rails
and not even a pirate in sight.
No, just me, with an axe in my hand,
scuttling the last remnants of
all we had hoped for.

I turn towards the barren shore to find the path
that led me here so many years ago.
It's time to climb back up the hill, and then,
gaining the summit, I will find my bearings once more.

One day, another dream will call me back.
This time, I will leave my axe behind.
I have a horrible habit of destroying my dreams
and scaring the wild life.

ok
you have my attention
and
I will listen for a change.
yes,
I am selfish,
and
I only feel my pain.
stuck,
my feet in the quagmire,
scared,
of moving at all.
forward?
is anyone out there?
back?
the past has died.
now?
I am confused.
but,
I am listening,
yes,
I am hearing,
ok?
not sure.

why didn't you listen
was I too hard to hear?
did i scare you so much
that you had to make things clear
and was the thought of my future
far to untamed,
when you had decided
who was to blame?

why couldn't i be me,
is this selfish to ask?
in the middle of loving
you just couldn't trust
the all i am becoming
the all that i am
had to be curtailed
into all that you planned.

i understand you fears
i have seen your tears
but mine are bone dry
my heart a barren sky.
oh my darling
i had to go
but oh God
i wished you'd stayed.


where are we going
for i've lost my only map.
i'm scared and alone
i fear there's a trap.
i don't know how to trust me
please no regrets
i'll just keep on walking
untill the break sets.

i cannot shake the images.
i cannot escape the memories.
am i lost in deception
or have i missed the narrow door?

I remember,
i'm longing,
i'm yearning for belonging
your face comes
to haunt me
every hour.
the photos
they taunt me,
two lovers
now lonely
i'm crying
so silent
alone.

i cannot forget the beauty
i cannot regret our life
i cannot connect the sadness
i can't reject it all.

i'm fighting the present
with the pull of the past
i'm locked out of tomorrow
how long is this going to last.

please no regrets.
please no regrets
oh God please,
no regrets

i miss all the life that has died in dismay
i miss the dream that dissolved in the night
i long for the heart
that loved every part
i miss all that i longed for and failed.

why?
oh why?

where has my world disappeared to?
why did my life hide it's hopes?
has love lied to tie me into broken cries?
have i been struck deaf, dumb and blind?

why?
oh why?

the photos are full of smiles and romance
and I remember the songs and the dance.
the sound of your breath in the depth of the night
oh how i thought it was right.

where you gone
oh love of my life?
when did we lose all we sought?
why did i bow to the breaking of vows
where is the beat of my heart?

why?
oh why?

we built on the pain,
we built on the guilt.
we struggled and wrestled and won.
but now, all is gone,
and you and I, forlorn
oh my love,
i wish you were home.

please don't leave without saying hello.
please leave a thought or a wish.
if you've come for a peek,
to look at me here,
reading my words
hearing my soul,
if you've discovered
i'm not who you thought
perhaps you're confused
disappointed
removed
but please,
please don't leave without
simply saying hello.
i would just like to know
you were here.

Sitting on the balcony full of regret.
Angry with myself for being me
Needing the touch of hands
The smile of love
And wishing that I could keep my peace.

Why so needy?
Why so unsure?
Why so emotional?
Desperate,
Anxious,
Fearful,
Sad.

This verandah is my bed,
the traffic, my friends,
the street, my ward
in my Hospital town.

I sit quietly in my room, two floors up, listening to the hum of the computers, the tapping of my crippled typing, and see they keys calling me to the dance.

this sacred space has seen music pour out of the most unexpected synergy. it has seen joy, tears and pain. it is full of noise, it is full of silence, but it is still here.

i am here again.

i am so surprised by all that has preceded this moment, but, not impatient,
not reckless,
just waiting for the door to open again.

there is music here, i am waiting for it to find my hands, waiting to see the words emerge on paper, waiting for the joy of discovery, the joy of another's hands entering this creative dance.

So, i wait, looking at my view, and I smile at the possibilities.

I am beginning to see
the "little boy" that I was
through the eyes of my paternal instincts.
I will cheer him on into adulthood,
introducing him to the man that he is.

i see a hurt little boy. he is sitting at his piano, alone, with his music, his moods and his confusions. his life is stalked by the fantasies of his mother, the failures of his father, and his own desperate desire to be accepted, and understood.

the piano is out of tune, but it looks good with all the other nouveau riche antiques. the piano would never be in tune, but it looked good for a 'child prodigy' and matched his carefully preened and pampered personality. temper and mental. the piano.... it sang it off key tunes crying out to be musical, but, like the boy, it was all about appearances... and let's face it, no one was listening to the outpouring of emotions, bleeding through every misshapen note, no one heard the soul cry, for the spruiking of the mother, and the silence of the father drowned out the melodies, until the little boy wasn't seen at all, just the piano, and the antiques, the private school, the carefully laid table, silver, crystal and correctness.

Anyway, it was time for little Mozart to be the host, serve the drinks, pass the plate, "would you like some of mummy's pride Mrs Brown?" and to be entertainer for those who were summoned to applaud and approve.. .. the mother.

poor sad mother, sad depressed mother sad depressed mother trying to hard to impress. obsessed mother, well dressed mother. no father, missing in action, somewhere on the south side of the house up to his armpits in avoidance, turning mother's carefully marinated steaks, feeding the fire with silence.

a little boy, just a little boy. how on earth did mummy and daddy have time for his sister. I wonder where she is hiding? but, everyone is blinded by the glare of the spotlight as, blinking like a rabbit in the middle of a dark country road, the little boy is caught trying to be a son. they wouldn't see her anyway. no wonder she wasn't at her dying father's bed. where was he when his children were crying? strange isn't it? He was in charge of searchlights during the war. he spent so much time changing lightglobes in the dark where no one would notice his absence untill long after he was gone.

One last sad thought,
I will do anything for acceptance,
affirmation
and applause.
Anything.
I will beat myself,
deny myself,
maim myself,
hate myself,
degrade myself,
lie to myself,
lie to the world,
pretend,
portray,
perform,
Propose.....
Proposition...
Prostitute...
Oh sad Pan
Oh sad man.
Oh silly billy.
Bruised by your own plan

Peter? Is that you? Peter? Peter Pan?

I am not Billy.
I am Peter Pan
My father's name was Peter
and he was a pan.

I want to fly,
to escape into boyishness.
I want to be the child again,
running,
flying,
laughing,
free.

The little boy,
with the perfect parents,
perfect 1960's Mum,
perfect 1960's Dad,
perfect 1960's house,
with the lawn mowed,
perfectly,
by me,
the perfect 1960's boy.

Where has my role gone.
I've lost the script.
Where is the sunshine
and the splash
and the cool waters.
Where is that childhood
that ended well before my voice found a man inside,
the man that lives in the boy who doesn't know how to be either.

Who lied to me?
Who was it that groomed me for an adulthood that never arrived,
stealing my childhood in the process.
Who dreamed her dreams for me,
demanding the nightmares to be
"the right thing to do"
Who stole reality and forced the Brady Bunch World to
guide my hopes.

I am lost in pre-puberty.
I look in the mirror and the man doesn't make sense.
Who's reflection is this as I grow into the face of the
father I never was allowed to have.

Peter wants to find his "Wendylady"
and fly away to
"Neverland".

But,
I am not Peter,
I can't ever be Peter,
and I'm not Billy,
for Billy is a dream,
I am not yet me,
so,
Who will I be?
I am really alone.

yesterday, today, tomorrow,
tonight.

inspired again.

words flash

thoughts dash

and the music sings in my soul.

This is very strange to someone who thought himself
seasoned
professional
over the hill
and spent.

This is unexpected

but free.

what of tomorrow?

An hour of desperate truth

an aftermath

and then the song

freedom?

fear?

hope.

Naked.

the traffic rumbles past the verandah.
I am inside.
the sunlight streams across they keyboard
as I type
and the shadows play
on the two vacant seats
of my three seater lounge.
I must have felt very hopeful
for there is another empty
two seater,
waiting forlornly
for me....
joining me
waiting.

Thoughts of my childhood
have become foremost in my mind.
I need to process these awakened memories
that vividly challenge my sense of self.
There's a growing anger in my gut,
perhaps it's my need to defend my child soul,
to stand,
and yell at the past,
the violence of words
so selfishly thrown at my innocence.

I have felt deep guilt for too long.
I have atoned for my reactions.
I have not given myself the right
to answer back, to protest, to howl
with the cruel pain that was never
deserved.
No wonder there are no tears.
I have refused my soul the joy
of emotional release.
Instead I have turned my anger
back onto myself, returning to my
angered persecutor, with apologies
and affection.

Thank God I am alone.


There is an awakening.
There is a dim unrecognisable reflection
in the mirror.
Whose eyes are these that find mine?
I have no expectations of this face.
He does not know how to be
without expectations,
and so,
I must teach him to
be.
Me

oh well,
the shallowness
and manicness
of this mornings post
was far too transparent
don't you think?

the clouds returned
before the night closes in.
The sun sets,
and I struggle,
vainly,
for comfort.

I wish I could dial a friend,
but,
I am an addict
in need of a fix.
To aim myself at another's heart,
in selfish self seeking
is cruel
and manipulative.

I am better alone.
The world is better off with my solitude,
for the time being.

It's a beautiful day

yes,
it's amazing the difference a day makes.
Reason?
None that I can think of.
I woke this morning and just felt different.

So,

who has been praying for me?
Come on!
Own up!
You'd better come clean!
It can only be one of two people!
and,
I have my suspicions!
Probably both of you!
What a fabulously famous blog this is!
me,
and you two!
You are out there aren't you!
Enough exclamation makes already!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



!

So,
here I am again,
on the verandah,
laptop where it was badly designed to sit,
traffic passsing below,
lunchtime shoppers visiting the milk bar below.
Mateland is a funny place.
I think I must live on
"Feral Corner".

There you are..
"King Billy of the Ferals"
I'm a Feral on High Street,
"Feral on High"

Well I am on the first floor,
so I suppose I could take it quite literally.

Pause to drink "Diet Tonic Water".

Excuse me....
.... little burp....

Oh well, my darlings,
that is it for today's
"Postcard from the verandah"

No news is actually really good news for me today.

the world has not changed.
the view from my verandah
is just the same as yesterday.
life has continued.
i am alone,
i carry my own load.
whether i sink or swim,
live or die,
succeed or fail,
laugh or cry,
win or lose,
wake or sleep,
whether i am
or am not,
the world continues
in spite of me,
and i wonder
why.
why am I,
who am I,
what am I,
does it matter?
Will the burnt dust that will
eventually mark my existance
add anything to the tonnes of ashes
that have preceded me?
The sun will rise,
the birds will sings,
mankind will continue
to hate,
kill,
maim,
blame,
and
even eternity
will remain
unmoved.

Tuesday
is the same as
Monday.

where do i take my disappointments?
What less divine heart will hear?
will any of those who carry the whips,
poison pens,
barbs,
darts,
turn and embrace?
Even those who
have turned my dreams
into a rude awakening,
will they close their eyes
to share my nightmares?
Will they skip into their own resolutions,
leaving me alone to pick up the silent,
unresolved shards of trust.

i question why divine love so quickly celebrates healing
with songs and dances,
and all manner of spiritual babble,
whilst i stil reel from all that is
forgiven
and restored
and
forgotten.

oh God,
we still dance around your agony
with clapping
waiting for you to die
again,
greedily hastening the moment
when our victims cry
can be buried with you
and we can ignorantly point to an empty grave
and a stone
that was rolled away.

The world has not changed.
my world will not
ever
shed a tear.

I am alone
again.

and it's Tuesday
again.

I am not Billy,
Father,
husband,
friend,
lover,
famous,
infamous,
praised,
criticised,
noticed,
ignored,
I am
me
again.

I am
alone.

Goodbye Billy

The darkness is overwhelming.
The night is callous.
My pain, cruel.
My lonliness taunts me in the deepest part
of my guilt and shame.
I did not plan to be here at this stage of my life.
I had dreams, plans and noble ideals.
I was someone.
Now?
I'm not even Billy.

I have no one to turn to.
The crowds have gone elsewhere.
Those who cared have been careless.
Those who encouraged me have seen new visions and
have new challenges.

My work has been burnt, thrown away and forgotten.
I am one of "yesterdays heroes".
I am more than alone.
I am isolated.

I have broken my life.

I am beyond repair.

I want to slide from the stage of life,
without goodbyes or farewells.

But,

the spotlight is still blinding,
and the play continues,
unyielding,
unrelenting,
the director is out,
the producers
have a contract
signed with my blood,
the audience thinks that I am
someone else.
They refuse me to play my own part.
They want me to make them
smile,
sing,
cry,
sing,
sing,
damn the songs.

Whose lines are these?
Who wrote this perverse part?
Did anyone care to look inside my heart
as i gave it away,
so freely.

Alone.
Not Billy.

34,200 Googles.

You can find me anywhere.
But here.

And......

No one is even reading this.

I hope it was all worth it.

Maybe it was simply
"The power of my luck"

It sure doesn't feel like love.

Goodbye Billy

Poor plastic Billy.
Sad little songwriterman.
Pointless,
plastic,
praise.

Bitterly cold now.

Now naked,
alone,
centre stage,
scrutinised,
the audience
screams their prayers
at me.
They stretch forward their hands
in fists.
demanding me to perfrom.
I can't.
My life proved the lyrics
have
failed.

Hello,
is anyone there?

see!
Told you.

Oh God

Oh God

Oh God, now
My eyes can’t see,
My hope is tired and old.
Oh God come
And take my soul
To have, to heal, to hold.

Oh God, now,
You see it all
The pain we have to bare.
Oh God come
Restore our hearts
And place your mercy there.

And oh my God
Help me see
Oh my God come
And rescue me
This is my prayer
My only plea.