The River of a Whitefella
There is a few of us
White skin folk of this land
But just this few who
Will and can
Communicate effectively
With the black man
And those who can
Find ourselves soon enough
Immersed in the culture
True to this land
Up to our neck
Then mouth
Nose too
But
For those of us
In ancestry the Dreamtime ever anew
Since its our ears we heard the call by
The Aboriginal community
Is always nice enough
To show us
The courtesy
Of letting us in on
The fact that
Us whitefellas
Of any Aboriginal descent at all
Were born already
In over our heads
And when
Able to acknowledge that
We are of this own land’s story
Still breathing
Just
Who is their own behavioural mind in these conditions of life
Who ever picked me
To flush away
Their mind’s own ills
Through
Had better know
That they’ve been
Way to slow
At accounting therein
I ain’t a free
Garbage bin
But one with a charge
That will kill by and large
Through the fact of my own death that is
So whoever it is
Stuck certain things in
This non-usable rubbish bin
Of a self that is me
My own life and my kids
Certain non-tellable things
I have been falsely blamed with
Of criminal minds
Towards children
Best remember forever
That I have ever
Been able to find
Who it is
My Human worth in this
Fact of excellence in
Detecting
Who did
And who is
Dream Frame
Would it be crazy
If I were to believe
In every thing I Dream
For when I Dream Daisies
Then meet in sane places
Sane people are telling me
Today is the time to be
Of mind toward the Daisy
Then how will I know
Have I caused or received
My Dream
Has a simple solution
Among all the world’s indigenous people
That to live accordingly
In the Dreamtime of the Aborigine
Is only to let
That Dream imagery
Which awakens the brain
To the daily needs
Of being a living person
A physical breathing presence
Of carnal bodily function to sustain
Be the very individual imagery
With which the day time
Wakeful consciousness
Is sustained
The image
The frame
Of each day our reality
Is each and every
Imagery
That awakens our mind
To bodily need
Is that Daisy cause for a feed?
So better let sleeping babes lie
Let the Elderly be
And get up out of bed
Before you fall back to sleep
And have another image received
Within which
The first become framed
Or is it frames
And why when said
Is it that will we
A blacker people ever want to be
What Price Money?
What happens when
We live in the society in which
Our fare needs a lie
Just to get by
In the society of profit
Driven economy
The lie that cheats
Another out of their labour
Or else the lie to cover
What else might be out way through
To obtain what we need to
Live through this set
Of economic stresses
What happens when
The Child
Is accused alike
To any adult
Of the fault in the lie
Spilt by breath
Yet worse yet
That accused even of mind
Is that with no shelter left
The most innocent life
Can only be cognised
As that we did all ill
And when such wrong minded
People still
Abide in their notions
Of what might be able
To be taken as
The lie in which
We might profit from
Aren’t we all equally
Guilty to any in hell
Since not one of us
Can guarantee a well
Of promises kept
To every child
That no child need withstand
Accusations of their mind
So test this
Neat frightened hypothesis
With a simple walk down
Any city street
While I tell you
What is it that I meet
At every corner
Some idiot trying
To find any local mind
Receptive to their own enquiry
As to what in the environment
Might have presented greed
That they imagine
Being thereby enabled
To blame their own greed upon
That self same mind
As though their selves so by excused
Yet they forget that all payments
In any real kind
Need be in time
And while I stand daily accused
Of nothing but the accusers own minds
With what they project into mine
As though I might have wanted
But that I
Failing to obtain
What it is that I rejected
But then they projected
As self that if not mine
Then whose and will it not be sin too
For me to ignore the need for
A person to accept
That such self need be believed in
So they accuse me of not being then
Black enough
As though that if not
Taking their ills
Upon myself
I must be whiter than them
And thus ripping them off
So unless I catch them out at
And I have and will continue to
And my own mind in no doubt of
By empirical evidence I collect
And without
Ever myself
Making any accusation yet
The full consequence
Of every cent of profit
Is that the kafr ring
Is only able a money thing
By kaffir attempting
Though the minds of whom is deserving
Constant Forgiveness
Their own self propagation
As though they are to be able
To deliver life
By regarding all believers in Allah
To be already needing hell
Therein will believers
Deliver them
With the only way out being
To stand clean never accusing
So no profiting in money
Can ever have been
What we might have clean
Yet in all the dirt of
Who is it the first to
Realise the burden
And so reject the story
Of a profit ridden economy
But only children
And of course
Always worst is
That it is children who
Have first been abused
By the need for money
Whom have had to know first this
So pick yourself up
No time left for falling
We have to get
Into this that
The economy had been appalling
And our lives ever enjoyed better
When forced to be more creative
In finding every way to
Cut out on our spending
For need not despair
In the fact of our ware
Being still yet
Dependant upon money
And representations akin
For in the full story
Is the certain fact fully
Recorded of Religion that therein
Of its every tradition
We might know one lesson
That of our self
Will the money flow
And never in love’s path
To know
So what women obtain
Of the dirt’s gain
Might only be furthered
If at risk are children
Thus men are whom earn
Money exchange
For labour
This payment from my brain
Must accept the world yet
In which that minimum extracted
In exchange for our labour
Still leaves us with
The maximum
Of what we have done
Our own labour won
Its worth in our hands yet
Karma Buisness
Thought and deed
I a count for
And eye for an eye
In the same shape
And weight scaled by
Those ably forgiving
My sanchit storehouse of Karma
Be finely mastering myself
My Pralabdha Karma I Will bear
In dignity
For this resoundingly snakey body
And Kriyaman Karma
What fruit will I reap?
All Glory to who held on to
For giving I
Letting me take of
I am able to Forgive
To relieve their Sanchit of intolerable burden
Only by I am able
To accept
Of mistakes
With constant
Good thought
And deed caused mind.
What Future Will Bring
What future will bring
For who can it sing
The Chair Dance ring
There’s a future I see
Though really quite blindly
Excepting my part in
Which might be of timely
Reminding this is
Not yet tomorrow
Yet nor is yesterday
And you being not me
Might not see it this way
But these are some parts
Of a story in play
Of the Grace of today
In which australia takes a part
Upon a world stage
Inside a big top
A tent that’s rent
Is well paid up
There is a tree
On a stage
With a man of some age
An Artist
Of the sort belonging
To traditional setting
An Aboriginal alone
So seemingly
While gradually
On that large stage
The audience notice
Life is abuzzing
With abundance of nature
And its people
Barely discernable
From the trees
The audience all pass
Some test or another
For who needs to be there for their father
The state if round
A large Bora ring ground
But off in the distance
The distance of mind tricks
Is a stage smaller
No less magic
Yet poorer
With only a chair
The old man is telling
A little gathering audience
Of Aborigines and animals
Bees and birds and Magi
He is saying just you see
This is my story
About that mob over there
With the chair
The mob who gone and lost
Life’s real fare
Then wait just a minute
What is that in it
The smaller state with the chair
Suddenly run over with fun
Funny stares
OF a circus performance
The clowns funny faces
And ring masters graces
Messing all over every place is
The circus of world in disgrace
Begging of us
To join in with its lot
And distracting the audience
A way from our Dreamtime plot
Into the market
They’ve had set up over there
It’s a medieval square
Glorifying crusading
While not yet resolved of
Medieval jousts against Islam
In bonnets and pouts
Shysters and Tricksters
In acrobatic flicks do
While Aborigines considering
This Dreaming anomoli
Start practising telling the
Stories of how
It is that we might have to consider
Correcting that circus affair
So the story unfolds
Of an invasion
In which Aborigines
Sort out lifes smaller mercies
Into three well defined
Stitches in time
Through of yours to three of mine
There are those who join in
With almost anything
Those who turn in
To plants animals and chairs
Ants too somebody stares
But birds of a feather
And the acrobats have good weather
To fly over those who stay down
On the ground
And a war to compare
The joiners retire
To the far stage in the mire
Of the spoils of invasion
There to try to desire
Of what might be the way to
Recycle the situation
Until finding that learning
Circus performing
Was the best tool to employ
While those who turn their self in
To an animal dressing
Just keep on transforming
Re-becoming Human
Then in every transformation
Back into nature
Turn a few more of the circus
Gradually so performing
And slowly perhaps
Rejoining
While the warriors
Why they are always right there
In the midst of the circus
And everywhere
The circus neatly adapts
To their sabotage traps
As though self spawned
By their performance barge torn
By the rent of time absorbing
Whose time to pay who is today
All being counted daily owing away
So gradually more a more
Of the circus performers
Caught up with warriors
Go down by their own conscience
Turning into animals
Of all sorts of strange types
Is just like the Ekka’s delight
And regularly returning
In plant form
Few as chairs
Are the joiners
A ready to fight
In circus tents long torn
Since to save the forests
We each have to teach
The Circus
How to grow green hair
So gradually
This whole ballet
Is turning into
A great and larger forest
Full of the flowers and fruits of
The birds and bees love
Until all that is left
Below and above
Is a man
What Future Will Bring
What future will bring
For who can it sing
The Chair Dance ring
There’s a future I see
Though really quite blindly
Excepting my part in
Which might be of timely
Reminding this is
Not yet tomorrow
Yet nor is yesterday
And you being not me
Might not see it this way
But these are some parts
Of a story in play
Of the Grace of today
In which australia takes a part
Upon a world stage
Inside a big top
A tent that’s rent
Is well paid up
There is a tree
On a stage
With a man of some age
An Artist
Of the sort belonging
To traditional setting
An Aboriginal alone
So seemingly
While gradually
On that large stage
The audience notice
Life is abuzzing
With abundance of nature
And its people
Barely discernable
From the trees
The audience all pass
Some test or another
For who needs to be there for their father
The state if round
A large Bora ring ground
But off in the distance
The distance of mind tricks
Is a stage smaller
No less magic
Yet poorer
With only a chair
The old man is telling
A little gathering audience
Of Aborigines and animals
Bees and birds and Magi
He is saying just you see
This is my story
About that mob over there
With the chair
The mob who gone and lost
Life’s real fare
Then wait just a minute
What is that in it
The smaller state with the chair
Suddenly run over with fun
Funny stares
OF a circus performance
The clowns funny faces
And ring masters graces
Messing all over every place is
The circus of world in disgrace
Begging of us
To join in with its lot
And distracting the audience
A way from our Dreamtime plot
Into the market
They’ve had set up over there
It’s a medieval square
Glorifying crusading
While not yet resolved of
Medieval jousts against Islam
In bonnets and pouts
Shysters and Tricksters
In acrobatic flicks do
While Aborigines considering
This Dreaming anomoli
Start practising telling the
Stories of how
It is that we might have to consider
Correcting that circus affair
So the story unfolds
Of an invasion
In which Aborigines
Sort out lifes smaller mercies
Into three well defined
Stitches in time
Through of yours to three of mine
There are those who join in
With almost anything
Those who turn in
To plants animals and chairs
Ants too somebody stares
But birds of a feather
And the acrobats have good weather
To fly over those who stay down
On the ground
And a war to compare
The joiners retire
To the far stage in the mire
Of the spoils of invasion
There to try to desire
Of what might be the way to
Recycle the situation
Until finding that learning
Circus performing
Was the best tool to employ
While those who turn their self in
To an animal dressing
Just keep on transforming
Re-becoming Human
Then in every transformation
Back into nature
Turn a few more of the circus
Gradually so performing
And slowly perhaps
Rejoining
While the warriors
Why they are always right there
In the midst of the circus
And everywhere
The circus neatly adapts
To their sabotage traps
As though self spawned
By their performance barge torn
By the rent of time absorbing
Whose time to pay who is today
All being counted daily owing away
So gradually more a more
Of the circus performers
Caught up with warriors
Go down by their own conscience
Turning into animals
Of all sorts of strange types
Is just like the Ekka’s delight
And regularly returning
In plant form
Few as chairs
Are the joiners
A ready to fight
In circus tents long torn
Since to save the forests
We each have to teach
The Circus
How to grow green hair
So gradually
This whole ballet
Is turning into
A great and larger forest
Full of the flowers and fruits of
The birds and bees love
Until all that is left
Below and above
Is a man
A few good chairs
A dance a piece
And a Trapeze
Devil’s sticks if you please
With the audience by now long
Become birds
Silently watching
The performers a forest
And a song lingering on
Sprocket’s Of Knowledge
Sprockets of knowledge
Make for too tasty porrige
Volumes of spill soon
Will find your mind room
To collect puddles
And shovel
Up
Love for Eternity
But
Get that sprocket holding of
The best of your toilage for
To know is
To know that
Responsibly so
Is knowledge effective
In any directive
And porrige tastes best
When you’ve shovelled up
Lost puddles of the spilt milk of love
Newly now found
In a tummy round
Might have forgot
But for the sprocket
Holding love bound
Perniciously Weird to Be
Something weird
Is happening to me
Something weird
Too
“Wh”
“i”
“E”
“rrr”
“dh”
Too see
A pernicious frightful
Too silly
Something that might likely
Be really too frightening
For too often
Acknowledging
Too weird indeed
All around this word
Pernicious
Is something
And everything
Having its same meaning need
Of every permutation
Its pernicious fatality
Is just that reality
Exists and therefore this
To be pernickity
As to what this wierdness is
Exists the fact of
God’s awe – full Grace
I bow my head it its face
For Love is true with
The mystery of every place
This pernicious
Wierdness
Must I daily face
Is the simplicity
Of what we
All begin to experience
That in the past
As we are accustomed
Knowing will fire
Had enabling factors
Of finding way through
This track and gate to
A less painful fate do
Out around past throughout
This pernickity reality
Is a pernicious blast
In every permutation of how the past
Adds up into
The future
We all need live through
Is that when we
Now find that fire key
Only end stories can be
When finding Angels through Death
Who show us the rest
Of what in future
Life will be
Because the fire of reality
In this time now we see
Is a fire no more possibly dire
Since never without
Death’s fact to need
Is just simply too weird
For many of us true believers
In life begun in eternity
Yet coping we help with the stoking
Until in revolting realised we
That other mob had always this job
But now so do we
So what can it mean
And who is being decent to me
Until weird becomes
Less of the fun or the drugs
But rather just simply
Experienced regularly
In daily reality
Weird strange and vague seemingly
Yet undeniably
Immutable in me
The only roof
Left over
Life’s every truth
I am nothing without
In Jesus
Follow in Eternity
Through death only
Finding the
Eternal resurrection key
Be elementally
Evolutionary
Our wood be
Fire forming wood sureing
For Earth that this should
Mend the air
Before water anywhere
For can it really be
That space where
Ozone depletion had to be detected
Was close to we
Caused by
Other Earth people’s sighs
Of defaming and blaming
Or is this that them I
And what it is we can see
No less weird of us
Than for them to be
To live through this
Time now existing
Into reality
So take that fire
Might never more be hired
As an easy shower
Of the faults upon
Any one
Except our own power
To effect
A consequence
Since but how
Have we
Accounted it
As it was once
We could find our
Reconciling opposites
Short of needing
To bear with
Thought of our death
But when now
Earth needs us
Every fire has how
We need
To be
Is through death only
To see
The fact of
God’s awe full Grace
I stand here
Bowing my head in its face
Set standing
Am sure in
Reality
No spin
Just that weird it is
To yet be
The perniciously
Weirdness
That is simply
The way through
Itself into reality
