Bill The Artist

Bill The Artist

Bill is a tall, wiry, older guy

very softly spoken, almost shy

has arthritic fingers but suffers the pains,

prefers to sleep right through his dreadful migraines,

tills his backyard garden for sustainable food,

through his art seeks inspiration to sate his mood

and deliver a subject that justifies

his artistic skills and his mind satisfies.

Yearly April when Aussie minds turn

to historic lessons all should learn

of futile past war games the sorrows of death,

the loss of loved ones having breathed their last breath

ably serving our country no matter the end,

belief in our freedom always theirs to defend,

built an ANZAC legend based on their demise,

on display now the Gallipoli art prize.

The Nek, Afrikaans for mountain pass,

bottleneck in truth a planning farce,

unsynchronised watches officer’s mistake,

barrage stops early still decisions to make,

so lacking protection the light horse hop the bags

go over the top, some succeed raise marker flags

lure more waves of young men to an early tomb

in twenty ten Bill depicts their gunned down doom.

A solemn moment maternal tryst,

embracing the son she always wished

had not enlisted to fight did not have to leave,

his father there too firmly grasping his sleeve,

but they cannot restrain him the train whistle blows

soldier son off to battle this mother’s fear grows,

tears well in her eyes as she prays to heaven

Bill captures this scene in twenty eleven.

Mates, cobbers from small towns in the bush,

farmers, ringers become diggers push

back forces of evil in overseas lands

lives recalled today where this monument stands,

names of men carved in stone unfairly sacrificed

a cost to their families much too highly priced,

cattle graze nearby help our feelings to salve

in Bill’s praised contribution for twenty twelve.

Bill’s quiet, humble, just gets on with life

calmly fades into crowds never seems in strife,

not a complex man and with aura serene,

but deep inside forces powerful and keen

relate to the real world his experience knows

in passionate study of what history shows,

to thoughtfully create such skilled works of art

pose questions, force answers from deep in our heart.

Secret Garden

Secret Garden

There is a secret garden

a place I often go,

sanctuary

in a world of chaos

where the colours of all seasons

are guaranteed

to be on show

So when I’m fractious, angry

or simply cannot cope,

recovery

in a world of turmoil

is walking through an everglade

where I’m inspired

by nature’s hope

My garden is full of people

around each shrub and tree,

our destiny

in a world of learning

locked fast in peace and harmony

with equal shares

the simple key

Forever in my garden

our essence is retained,

'Eternity'

in a world surviving

etched in chalk upon the pathway

this way of life

will be sustained.

'Eternity', a symbol inspired by Arthur Stace (Mr Eternity), an Australian soldier and reformed alcoholic who converted to Christianity and spread his message by writing 'Eternity' in chalk on paths around Sydney between 1932 and 1967. The eternity message came from Isaiah 57:15.

Passing Time

Passing Time

The train was rapidly passing a station

Whilst she was just slowly passing time

I was engrossed in observation

A commuter bred habit no reason or rhyme.

Oblivious to the noisy intrusion

Schoolchildren in scrambling homing haste

Uniform led hysteria infusion

With energy latent not a second to waste.

Bags slipping, legs tripping and slurpee spilling

All talking all listening one to another

Some thumbs cocked in raunchy text thrilling

Others phoning home today’s tales to their mother.

But she remained still, intent and focused

Propped casually in the far corner seat

Unruffled and tranquil, not at all nonplussed

At the physical fuss milling round her feet.

Her interaction with people was mental

Fictitious characters plied her mind

Through inspiring creations from Ruth Rendell

Or rather her alter ego Barbara Vine.

Totally absorbed she did not disengage

From the English author’s newest tale

The Minotaur’s intrigue on every page

Captivated her senses, was her Holy Grail.

Slightly hunched, bent forward with both feet planted

Perching her rucksack to suit her need

She formed on her lap a firm book prop slanted

For easy reading while traveling at high speed

On this trembling train in a giddy carriage

Chasing the warm winter setting sun

She read of four daughters from a weird marriage

And of John the haunting sad and self absorbed son.

Whilst she made no movement, did not flex or blink

The train’s rock n roll sideways traction

Made her pendulous aubergine earrings jink

And jive in a true sympathetic reaction.

Natural grey tints, subtle, rightly expressed

Her age, not young, just nicely mature

Oval glasses clearly not for reading best

Sat balanced atop of her neat, short cropped coiffure

Reflecting filtered sun, a prismatic look

Like the matching aubergine dress ring

On her left hand steadfastly gripping the book

Tight fingers the soft plastic cover impressing.

Her gaze still fixed, not at all animated,

The only gesture was her slim wrists

As from right to left she manipulated

Completed pages with deft repetitive twists.

On her well defined, small and elegant bones

The pallid skin seemed still young and taut

Her thin lips smiling, still erogenous zones,

Instilled in me base feelings I ought not have thought.

My stop was due and with her mind in the tome

I left her to the novel sublime

And an unknown ending to her journey home

We were just passing ships, she was just passing time.