THE NIGHT IS DARK IS IT ME THOSE EYES ACCUSE?
AND LASTS SO LONG DID I CAUSE THE TEARS THAT FLOW
THE MORNING LIGHT AND FILL THE CRACKS AND
WILL IT EVER COME? CREVICES OF THE WORLDS
MOUNTAINS?
I ASK TOO MUCH I FEAR THE NIGHT,
OF ME, AND OTHERS. I WILL NOT SLEEP!
LIKE THE NIGHTS DARKNESS,
SMOTHERING, HAUNTING, FORBIDDING
WILL THE MORNING LIGHT THE DAY FINISHES,
EVER BREAK THROUGH THIS DARKNESS, I RETURN HOME.
OR, WILL I WANDER, LOST, FORLORN, MUNDANE TASKS COMPLETED
FOR ETERNITY? THE EVENING DONE.
I WILL NOT SLEEP!
I AWAKE,
WAS IT A DREAM? THE DARKNESS IS BACK!
SO REAL, SO COLD. WHY?
I’VE BEEN SWEATING,
MY LEGS ARE TIRED! I PINCH MYSELF AND FEEL PAIN!
HAVE I BEEN RUNNING? NO, THIS IS NOT RIGHT!
YET, MY BED IS NOT TOSSED DREAMS ARE PAINLESS!
WHY DO I FEEL PAIN?
TURN ON THE LIGHT, THE LIGHT, THERE, THE LIGHT!
IS THIS MY ROOM? I RUN TO THE LIGHT ....
LOOK OUT THE WINDOW... BUT I DO NOT GAIN.
THE VIEW IS THE SAME! I SWEAT, I TIRE.
WAS IT A DREAM???
I GO ABOUT MY DAILY TASKS, WHY DOES THE LIGHT NOT GET
FEARING THE NIGHT, THE DARK. CLOSER? MORE EFFORT, RUN
WILL I DREAM AGAIN TONIGHT? HARDER....
IF SO, WHAT? BREATHING HEAVILY, I TRIP, I FALL
CRYING FACES, ACCUSING EYES? THE DARKNESS ALL AROUND!
THE DARKNESS! SO DARK!!
AND SUDDENLY I KNOW.
THE LIGHT IS SOMETHING I CANNOT
HAVE,
SOMETHING ITSELF FORBIDDEN!
NOT MINE FOR THE ASKING,
AND I REALISE,
THE DARKNESS IS ETERNAL,
IT IS ME!!
AND I CRY .....
© Tony Johnstone, 1996
There, up there! Upon the hill! Stands a man, Straight and still Looking out across the land The wind blows in his face! This man is not familiar here, a stranger to this place. What is it that the man does seek What does he gaze upon? He returns to the hill top every day and stands there all alone The man himself does know the reason he comes there every day, and watches the clouds pass on by, journeying on their way. He looks always to the east, and out across the sea, and he prays to know the reason why, "this is the way things be?" He looks and sights a bird on wing, way up in the sky, and thinks how lucky is that bird to be able to up and fly. He knows what lays over the land and far away from sight. He takes his thoughts away with him, as he journeys home each night. The man walks far to be back home, but he doesn’t care, for in his home, a great house, there be an empty chair. The chair upon which his love once sat, a million years ago, when they were young and full of life, and very happy so. But something happened and he erred, what a fool was he. But to have uttered a single word, how different things would be. And now she’s gone, far away, never seen again, and to the hill he must go each day, In sun or driving rain. Though he knows within himself, that his love is lost, he keeps his hopes up endlessly, and disregards the cost. The years past by, the township changes, and still upon the hill, stands the man, facing east, alone, and straight, and still © Tony Johnstone 12/6/96
This poem is dedicated to all Victims of Sexual and physical Abuse.
Stairs
Step by step I climb the stairs
While they lead me to my scares
Cold sweat, chills and silent prayers,
But it seems like no one cares!
Step by step I climb the stairs
While they lead me to my scares
Hands clasp'd tight to say my prayers
Seeking hope from my nightmares.
Step by step I climb the stairs
While they lead me to my scares
Scent of his and breath I feel
For I know he'll make me ill.
Step by step I climb the stairs
While they lead me to my scares
Softly knocking on his door..."?
---Jenny Lee ©
GREEN AND GOLD MALARIA The day would soon arrive, when I could not ignore the rash I was obviously ill and so I called on Doctor Nash, This standard consultation would adjudicate my fate. I walked into his surgery and gave it to him straight: "I wonder if you might explain this allergy of mine, I get these pins and needles running up and down my spine. From there across my body, it will suddenly extend, My neck will feel a shiver and the hairs will stand on end, And then there is the symptom that a man can only fear, A choking in the throat, and a crying of a tear." The doctor scratched his melon with a rather worried look, His furrowed brow suggested that the news to come was crook. "What is it Doc?" I motioned. "Have I got a rare disease? I’m man enough to cop it sweet, so give it to me please." "I’m not too sure," he answered in a puzzled kind of way. "You’ve got some kind of fever, but it’s hard for me to say. When is it that you feel this most peculiar condition?" I thought for just a moment, then I told him my position. "I get it when I’m standing in an Anzac Day parade, I get it when the anthem of our native land is played, I get it when Meninga makes a Kiwi-crunching run, And when Border grits his teeth to score a really gutsy ton. I got it back in ’91 when Farr-Jones held the Cup, And I got it when Japan was stormed by Better Loosen Up. I get it when the Banjo takes me down the Snowy River, And Matilda sends me waltzing with a billy boiling shiver. It hit me hard when Sydney was awarded with the Games, And I get it when I see our farmers fighting for their names. I flattened me when Bertrand raised the boxing kangaroo, And when Perkins smashed the record, well, the rashes were true blue. So tell me Doc," I questioned. "Am I really gonna die?" He broke into a smile before he looked me in the eye. As he fumbled with his stethoscope and pushed it out of reach, He wiped away a tear and then he gave this stirring speech: "From the beaches here in Queensland to the sweeping shores of Broome, On the Harbour banks of Sydney where the Waratah’s in bloom, From Uluru at sunset to the mighty Tasman Sea, In the Adelaide cathedrals, to the Mighty MCG, From the Great Australian Bight up to the Gulf of Carpentaria, The medical profession call it ‘Green and Gold Malaria’. But forget about the text books, son, the truth I shouldn’t hide, the rash that you’ve contracted here is ‘good old aussie pride’. I’m afraid that you were born with it and one thing is for sure, You’ll die with it young man because, there isn’t any cure". © Jason "Rupert" McCall