Dr. Charles Frederickson

SAFE PASSAGE

Interminable mind-boggling voyage circumnavigating globe
Perusing travelogues embossed hardcover atlases
Whale of tale library classics
Avoiding nauseous seasickness distressing travail

Earthborn into secure landlocked circumstance
Lubbers faraway from oceans favoring
Freshwater lakes over great fishpond
Yellow-belly sunfish to killer sharks

Words cannot express wondrous vastitude
Fathomable depths craving subterranean exploration
Invaded privacy craving familiar comforts
Trailblazer adventures dusted off restacked

Nacreous pearly shells forced open
Exposing ordinary grain of sand
Inverted arc insipid drained rainbows
Windfall leaves reconnected to branches

Waterfall pouring in wrong direction
Figure 8 hourglass flipped downside-up
Counterclockwise about face running late
Compass pointing every which way

Stay-at-homestead safeguards never venturing beyond
Penthouse escaping through bookworm passages
Landlocked conscience surrounded by recalled
Ports National Geographic vain denials

Pristine illusions shattered glass shards
Plastic debris peeled bottle flotsam
Coastline swashed garbage patch discards
Dying coral kelp forest depleted

Dr. Charles Frederickson

sonnet to a hospital

Sonnet to a Hospital.

This hospital in the town centre, stark and
unpainted as death, and dotted about, like
a pearl necklace around an old ladies neck,
funeral parlours; it should have been closed
years ago, but money for a new one has yet to
be sorted. No movie will ever be made here of
young, glamorous medical people. Doctors with
little to do, chattering nurses wait for their shift
to end; no urgency here where the old are sent
to live out final days, their sons and daughters
find it too vexing to let them die at home; busy
they are and short sighted, soon it’s their turn to
lie in the same beds whishing someone would
come and take them home

the tallest wall

The Tallest Wall

This big wall, so strong,
biggest one around,
admired it and the green little door,
entrance to mystery,
the serene life of a philosopher.
Tried the door, one day,
it wasn’t locked and
yes, inside dead stillness
of the un escaped
a prison for dreams that couldn’t fly,
a ruined house owner gone over
the wall, lives near the open sea.
Yes, this is not a good silence,
too much privacy and not enough
human love.

Kim Randell

LIFE'S LIKE THAT

There is a tale that's told, I'm sure it's true,
Of uses for the brown waste from the zoo.
It's gathered very carefully drop by drop,
And sent it's odorous way without a stop.
Consolidated oft in places high,
The reader must read on to find out why.

As life goes by, the realization dawns
That Fate no favours grants, but only scorns
In varying degree at various times, ad hoc,
Like blinded reapers mowing through a flock.
Life's neat surprises, good, bad, big or small,
With no prior warnings, happen to us all.

This brings me back to that brown odorous waste,
Which has some use in spite of our distaste.
When things go wrong, it's hurled with mighty force
Into great spinning blades which change it's course,
To cover everyone for miles around,
And cause them spluttering, to embrace the ground.

Another time when one will see it's use,
Is when someone has failed and "cooked his goose".
Then from those distant storage places high,
In bucket-loads, the waste will downward fly.
Aimed with fateful care at victim's head,
It coats him 'til he wishes he were dead!

The wondrous thing that strikes me in all this
Is Fate's poor target seldom will she miss,
Indeed just after a successful hit,
There'll come from Heaven another load of it.
No matter if you're rich, poor, thin or fat,
When it's your turn you'll wear it. Life's like that.

© Kim Randell 2000

Nicholas Alexander

Night To

Perplexing twas it
stalking moonlight
fallow shadow
pale insistence
making the distance
foot over gutter
land over shutter
willow eye
gest of yer
stir dae
laughing and crying
follocking the red burst
stale dying
along the werks
and valleys
she dug out
to hide under
neath the barn
door slide
effecting the gradual
perspectives in general

Nov 17th 2006, 12:50pm

Jan Oskar Hansen

The Visitors.

The middles aged people who come here
in jeeps, and dressed in shirts that look
like tapestry, are tourists; take pictures of
ancient houses about to fall down and of
dogs, cats and hoary old goats.

They are very friendly, ask how old I’m,
impressed and put money into my hands,
when I say 105; it is the air and calm life
they tell each other, no point telling them
I’m forty-five and drink a lot.

Jan Oskar Hansen

The Lovers.

The express train, going east, slowly drove passed
disused factories made into trendy flats and stopped
our carriage was just opposite someone’s bedroom
window and in the half light a couple was making
love, both so rudely white their nudeness appeared
as sinful, She, peering over his shoulder, saw us first,
told her lover, who quickly covered their phototropic
bodies in a duvet, pretended to sleep. We, the public,
tried not to look into a room where a couple had lost
all privacy, but the train was stuck and eyes strayed,
the tableaux were too gripping to miss. Finally, our
actor got out of his bed walked to the window and as
he lifted his arms to pull the curtains shut, he was so
superbly heroic that we spontaneously applauded.

Kim Randell

LINEAGE
(Upon reading our family tree as researched by Professor Brian Randell)

I’ve found it all goes back a long, long way,
The jagged path that links me to my ancestors.
A history so large it take more than a day
To navigate the chart and sail those plotted years.

Long hours from many people on this living task
Of building up a lineage from scraps of time,
A cut and paste of many lifetime cameos
To paint ancestral pictures clear with detail fine.

To know my lineage now gives wholeness to my life,
A finite place in history from whence I've come.
No lonely island in a surging sea of strife,
But in an archipelago all bathed in sun.

© Kim Randell 2006

Jan Oskar Hansen

Night Journey.

A near accident almost run over by the train…shock, her
old heart gave way she collapsed in my arms. Wrapped
in her blanket she looked asleep. Drove into the long night,
headlights made a temporary tunnel in the darkness:

” If I turn the light off, we will both disappear.” Looked
in the rear view mirror, mother smiled. At the petrol
station its young attendant, seeing death for the first time,
was pale, this was reality, not play station2.

Found the grotto I was looking for, it was dry had straw
on the floor and a lit candle in a niche on the wall, the dead
Jesus on a slab, his body cleaned by loving hands, but his
face still bore the agony suffered by the righteous.

Laid her beside him, she looked so brittle, they had both
achieved eternal life, she because she had no foreknowledge
of impending demise, he was now our collective myth
Messiah, who gives hope and light in the darkest of nights.

Blocked the entrance with stones and twigs of olive trees
the night now a fair blue veil of sadness, from the east
fearless soldier sun-rays came storming down the ridge,
zapping shadows and a new day was born.

Nicholas Alexander

Excess

as he walks past, he can see we are important
us trophy wives, branded metal steed and significant attire
the watch that says it all
See the Napoleonic resolve stir as he gets behind the wheel,
and we get out there and do things

It was words of course
Broken words that clashed over the right side of summer
Words that told them what to hope for
Out for the day like children they mount their iron steeds
and race into the intersection foot to metal
insipid wealth adorned with structure

The words were written all over their deeds
The smashing of sentences across the ceiling
woke the children from sleeping and dreaming
of days when families where supposed to sing together

These boys burn shining rubber and
don visors to keep them young through summer
Pay advisors and bankers to keep them in champers
Pick up mail order brides with picnic hampers
Spend nights drinking at the waterfront bar
The Late Great Holy Roman Empire

done weary of driving,
its been another four hours
spent in the passenger seat
being second fiddle to this
persistent as a mistress
there is no end to the road
music too loud as usual
the smell of oiled leather

another small town passes and nobody sees it

She is now sleeping so he turned down Aerosmith
it was time to to see what this baby can do
leather to metal rubber to road the feeling of speed building

The hotel room awaits
Like a chapel, like a womb

October 29th 10:40am

The collaborator

The Collaborator


Behind a wall, with broken glass sadistically embedded
on top, a woman harvests King George potatoes from
her small plot. she spent most days here now, since
they had shaved off her beautiful hair; she had been spat
on by the town’s people, for collaborating with the enemy.

Colonel Hans Horst, their love was born in war, fervent,
all embracing, there was no time for bourgeois morality,
unspoken, both knew it was not going to last. Hair grows
back, grey now, but still thick and glossy, she was secure,
in her certainty, that she had been true to herself and him.

come aurora

Come Aurora.

Echo of bodiless voices, murmur of those
who used to have names, a pulling chant
as I resist the icy wind pushing me forward.

It’s cold now in the room decorated with
ice crystals, both beautiful and mortal.

Have no power in my arms and far away,
I hear a scream. Dawn, the new day is as
fearless as the sun.

the English exlplorer

The English Explorer.

The sea is tobacco yellow, but I can see
seals they are yellow too, except whales.
An explorer on his way from Antarctica,
drags a sledge behind him, no dogs must
have run out of provision. He stops, lights
a cigarette, the aroma of Turkish blend,
wafts through the south pole. Speaks with
a posh accent, shows me his scars after
a bypass operation, feign interest, ask him
for a cigarette. Heart patients, on an ice floe,
we smoke and talk about the weather.

waiting

Waiting.

The forest tarn was black and shiny,
on felled trees lost souls sat and waited for god.
Ripples, the water broke the silence and
a giant silver fish appeared, phosphorous and
seriously blasphemous it
ate the souls, burped and said.
” I’m god and needn’t
explain my action to you or anyone else.”
After this profundity it swam down in
to the layers of silt that
hid the bones of local trout anglers,
I was left with a rabbit that burrowed deep
into my head as the new sun
meandered between trees.

the morality thing

The Morality Thing

Sex immorality, the pastor confesses
and is fired, but he is charismatic and
so is Saddam Hussein, but he‘ll hang;
the victor has a cold, christian’s heart.

The pastor will be forgiven, it is said
the devil spend more time on preachers
than ordinary blokes who only get
around to think about sex dissipation.

Misty days are good for the soul,
deceitfulness wins and the dictator
will hang on a hook, before he called
as a witness to our moral degradation

farewell

The Farewell

When I left the village on the hillside was siesta dozy,
empty road dogs sleeping in the shade; much flowers
amongst greenery, May is a beautiful month.

Started the car, drove off slowly, it would have been
so nice is someone came out, waved and wished me
a safe journey, a smile and friendly natter.

Twenty years I lived here, but was never a part of
their world, just a strange, lost bird that came here
rested for a while and flew off again

only a fish

Only A Fish

Unblinkingly the fish,
on the slab at the monger’s
stares at me,
I’m offended look away;
what does it thinks it is
…Human?

Half open mouth,
a smile of irony…
too now late for it to
be arrogant
and superior,
the cat will eat its eyes.

Fifty years from now,
a newspaper article, says
there will be no fishes
in the sea,
What do I care!
I only eat tuna and it comes
in tins.

winter mood

Winter Mood

November drizzle is greening
the landscape, I listen as drops
of rain trickle down leaves of
grass, hear a tree’s murmur and
sand that sighs under my foot.

An epiphany occurs I’m what
I see, Nature, hurt a plant, and
you hurt me, kill nature and
you eradicate mankind, into
a miasma where Time has died.

You and I, we shall not throw
menacing shadows over land,
yet, we’ll live forever when new
Time arise, where air is chaste,
virginal and tastes of honey.

Is This Real

I guess it could be me,
I think it has to be,
Could it be me?
Oh my God!!!
It is Me
Therefore
I am
What could I be?
And you two up there
Watching over me
I look at the moon each night & think of thee
In all the dreams, visions, hallucinations
You’ve given me
Leads to believe she is for me,

How beautiful she can be
How beautiful she be!
Please make me believe
How beautiful she can be

pretext

Pretext

After mass
we were given leaf-lets to read
(about charity stuff)
which were eagerly read,
when leaving the church,
thus no one saw the beggars
at the door.