Peter’s Principle



in glittering ripples

I wade deeper by paces


As the clouds grow darker.

Below the surface 

Jocund schools of fish

And denizens of the deep


Curiosity sweeping aside inhibitions


Darting between swaying weeds 

And shelter of rockery.

The waters get deeper and darker,

Darker still the sunless wells,


Compelling curiosity;

The weeds too seem changed,


They menacingly

Wave intruders away.


I break the troubled waters,

As darkness covers the sky.

In Desperation

I cry,

“Help me Lord, I sink!”

Helped by his firm,gentle grip,

I surface;

The clouds drift away,

The sea’s calm and peaceful again.

Floating Water Hyacinths

Splashed in noon-time glitter,

Opaque waters run deep.

Rocked on current’s crest


in purple,


on green leaves,

Sweet hyacinth,

You gently pass on, 


To the host’s restlessness

Or, inclement weather.

On the bank, 

An ageing bark

Stands tall,

Mocking your rootlessness;

Himself anchored,

His heavy foliage 


Brown scars,

Brooding reminders,

Foreboding a season of smoke 

and red hot furnaces.


No dark thoughts

Of inevitability.

You just bask in the moment’s



With constant blue above you.

You shrug and pass along

Past green glades,

Even stony shores,


Never a thought

Of pitched forks, confluences,


Open mouthed eternity.

Blessed in your own rootlessness. 



Reclined in a deck chair

letting an evening breeze, touch,

sooth and refresh

the tired brain and assorted aches and pains


the Opera House’s sails majestically 

carry an argosy 

of culture trinkets and symphonies  

toward the harbour bridge

where rainbows 


into a sullen sea

children laugh and clap

at each sulphuric spark

that mushrooms and pops 

 in a sparkling display



this brain wanders off 

the celebration

settling on 

the mute twinkle 

above the vanishing horizon

a constant sentinel at its post


What charts and instruments


measured mass


distance and composition?

what lightyears were travelled 

to tease

and confound intellects?


was a notional starting point 


by this travelling glow-piece

(product of a disintegration) 

millions of light years ago


in another galaxy?


all will be answered

and the world will accept  


fresh intellect and instruments

prove void

the labour and hypothesis.

Sweet Charity


Thank you.

Thanks for the pain-filled look to my pain.

Thanks for funds 

That flow into civilised streams that


Places, people, possessions.

Such generous acts resound around the world;

People laud such generous acts.

Tax collectors too open granite vaults to reward them too.

Amid the celebrations and flow of gold and silver

A pious widow shuffles to the treasury chest,

A trembling hand drops

Two copper coins, moistened by her tears;

One for the spouse

One for her child, no more;

In two she feels the grief for three,

And whispers an “Amen”.

Child of the teacher who taught to love the poor, 

The message ever glows in you;

Reminder of whose face you see in one another:

Making receivers, givers too.

It is not enough to heal the pain,

Heal too the body, mind and soul.

Then, will the collective “Amen”Fully heal and replenish loss;

Enabling one to bear the burden of four more.

The Way To Dusty Death


I asked the mountain to move

and a rock landed on me,

transfixing me to the desert sands;

a mill-stone of my own making.


Parched, I cannot move;

the weight of yesterdays sink deeply

deeply to my soul.

If motionless, I find relief.

I relax and let go.


A distant cloud bursts

and a gentle zephyr brings the text

“In you I am well pleased”.

Is this the way to dusty death?

The Journey of An Icicle

Startled little sparkle
Oozing in the morning sun,
Captivating clouds, cliffs and spotted green
you drop
Silently flop
Onto a heather-down of fresh winter snow.
You seep through moss and cobble slush to the brink.
Transformed, you slip into a sparking gush
of perfect clarity;
down to a sun-filled valley,
Gurgling as you go
Leisurely reminiscing
familiar clouds, craggy cliffs and spotted canopy of green.

A Flinders Street Ditty

Propped up by Young and Jackson

sits, this denizen of Flinders Street,

Watching the passing parade of commutes

in ray-banned glasses and protective business suits;

Protected from the elements and chance infection.

In shaggy beard and knotted hair

he shrugs off dust and itching from his thread-bare gear.


Arching an eye brow, with a twinkle of the eye,

He rummages for his ukulele,

And strums,

Strums to the filing parade;

“Yo-de-le-hihi, Yo-de-li-hi-e,

You, with the shaded glasses, what do you see?


What do you feel through the armour of your suit?


Is there any music from that din?


I, I see a burst of colours this September Morn,

The warmth embraces my bare arms,

Hear too foraging pigeons that fly

from that tall spire.


How great you are! How great you are.”

A Hymn To The Psyche

I swoop
into the dampening mists
of a rock-studded stream,
gulping lungs-full of joyous

in pure serenity,
I climb with a whoosh over a cliff
to ride uplifting currents
from a wondrous space
of dappled woods
ancient rockeries
on a craggy face.

My eyes thump correlatives of the scene
to a heart
that thumps, thumps, thumps
to a befuddled brain,
a riddle,
“This is paradise, where is the Lord”?