Friends

Dreams can be odd things. I woke up earlier than usual this morning with a limerick I'd dreamt. And bugger me dead I couldn't go back to sleep until I'd purged these words:

There’s a bloke I know and can recommend
A champion of the underdog with an honest hand to lend
A life dedicated to fight
For justice and what’s right
Bernie Mendis, my wonderful witty friend

But not to mention his better half would be a no-no
A sassy lassy looking for a fair go
A lady with multiple talent
Time with her is entertaining and well spent
Pauline Darby, my witty and wacky friend also

So there you have it! Weird hey? I guess your poem about me stored itself in my subconscious and elicited this nocturnal response.

MATTER - By Fred Bogusz (1997)

Matter – the indestructable essence of existence;
Atoms of energy micro small,
Transmute through the decomposition of time,
Elements of one life form to another.
Proof that we are one connected to all.

The cosmos condensed into the microcosm of self –
The internal internet, where you will find
The collective consciousness of Mankind.

Meditate and a universal truth will be revealed.
The earth is a liquid fire cast from the sun.
It’s surface cooled, a fertile crust
Supporting Mankind;
A family of the same cosmic dust.

Connected in matter, we share a common soul;
The divinity of creation, reincarnation and birth.
We are related; our purpose to serve one another,
Here on this reality we call earth.

A fat man's domestic problems - John Romeril

Here's a poem from a book of poems I've had for at least 30 years. I found it recently tucked away in my bookshelf. I love the imagery and its metaphoric language. 

i am an elephant

compared to elephants

no mirror can hold me and live

to tell the story

look at the way i eat

spilling my gravy, tearing

at the bread stuffing the children's heads

with nonsense and jungle books

any wonder you complain

and the blankets do slip off

and the light on the stairs is not yet fixed

and the landing creaks as the elephant comes home late again

with another story curled up in his trumpet

Walking about in shades of grey

I am a weary pilgrim lugging an overloaded mind
A walking thought bomb ticking time with vacuous questions
Triggering fractions of fact with flints of fiction
Harbouring splintered opinions in an explosive casing of shrapnel

I study the contours of issues on matters divided
Surveying the ridges of truth and the crevices of deceit
Lost in a canyon of persuasion, I see all points of view
Opinions reflected and deflected in shades of truth
Neither right nor wrong, confirming the duality of life
My conclusions explode in a chasm of self doubt

Sometimes I envy the unquestioning, decisive soul
Unfetted and free of cryptic analysis
Concrete opinions as indisputable as a schematic blueprint
Anchored to secure foundations
Constructing a credible argument without doubt

Not like me – churning in an aggregate slurry of vacillation
With no difinitive solution to coagulate into a solid fact
Neither black nor white, just a messy monochrome
Walking about in shades of grey

Stan the man

This is a poem I wrote for my father and read it at his funeral.

In my life I have been a fan
Of many public figures and their deeds
But the one I admired most, was my father - Stan the Man
A man of modest needs

He wasn’t famous in any way
But he impressed me above the rest
For what he chose to say
Was considered, thoughtfull and for the best

Childhood memories flood my mind
Of running to his outstretched arms
A powewrfull man sturdy and kind
Carpenters trade etched on his palms

Hands that circumstances had made rough
Could also create sweat music on a bow
And remember a gentle time before life got tough
With violin he would put on a show

With a passion for singing I recall
As a child moments of song
When Stan the Man gave it his all
That moment when you feel you belong

Or listening to the classics in his car
Familiar sounds of music to his ears
Evoking memories of his youth in a land afar
Gripped with emotion he would shed a tear

Stan the man had a gift, cut short by circumstance
His full potential slipped through his hand
As war interrupted his chance
But he made the most of what he had in a new land

And his artistic instincts followed him here
Where he tackled his new life in a creative way
To support his family he held so dear
He was admired for the honest work he put in each day

Chess was his passion too
A game of tactics he loved to play
Where once again his creative side shone through
And he was hard to beat on his day

This man we’re proud to call dad
Will remain our greatest fan
Because he gave us everything he had
He was one of a kind - Stan the Man

Flick to the flag

With my tongue firmly in my cheek and Lucifer sitting on my shoulder, a ladle firmly clenched in my hand and a bucket of poo at my feet, while sporting a dinky di, true blue, supercilious, patriotic grin, may I, laconically say: it’s bloody un-Australian to be “overtly” waving the our flag on Oz day, or any day for that matter - overtly speaking of course.

Have ya noticed the trend, my friend. Flags are flapping up everywhere: stuck on sticks on cars, supermarket trollies, cyclists, the list is endless. I dreamt of one stuck in a bumcrack. You know it’s gone too far when you have nightmares like that. It’s time to slip, slap and slop a lotion of truth onto the traitors to our Australia Day traditions.

What has possessed us to suddenly become so “flagrant” as to rant about our flag. Historically we are not known for our jingoism. Lets face it, we are a nation born of convict stock and corruption, resulting in a healthy disrespect for authority that bred the iconic “larrikin” Aussie bronzed Anzac - the digger battlers that proved their worth to the world at Gallipoli, while simultaneously giving the pommy high command a taste of our egalitarian independence. Not to forget the women of this great country, who together helped forge this great island continent poetically girt by sea.

Unlike other nations, especially the US, who stand with a firm hand on their hearts to their national anthem and swear blind allegiance to its authority, we Aussies have historically snubbed such open displays of nationalism. We have something better: our own form of true patriotism - mateship that represents the people - not an obligation to a flag that represents a dual identity and an inherited constitution. So, let’s leave all the jingoistic bullshit to the Poms and Yankee Doodle Dandies - that’s what they do best! And let’s not import foreign cultures to our shores - Poms that have used and abused our friendship and Yanks that have corrupted our culture enough.

Take a good look at our flag. What do you see? Seriously, do you see anything remotely Australian about it. Even the southern cross is not exclusive to us. I personally, see Britannia ruling the waves. The colours are all wrong for Australia. I can’t relate to it. Bugger me dead mate, let’s colour it with an Aussie identity - the boxing kangaroo - Eureka - anything but that fucking symbol of imperialism, the Union Jack.

When I was growing nipper, the flag was seen only on official flag poles - we didn’t give a rat’s arse about these new, hand held, tiny, cheap imitations that are flooding the market today - Yuk! In the past we celebrated our “flagless” patriotism in our own unique, true blue style - an identity that has branded us world-wide - sport - surf regattas, carnivals and a relaxed day at the beach.

Today we are instructed with ads on TV, Radio, how we should celebrate - Yeah, fair suck of the sav bazza, like we need to be told? What crap. Come on Aussie, come ooooon - wake up to yourself, reclaim your lost identity and tell ‘em to shove it. Do what we have done for decades, celebrate without the stamp of authority and keep the old laconic Aussie tradition alive. Empower it with our trademark national character recognised world-wide - relaxed, spontaneous, understated egalitarianism - confident of who we are - our abundance and achievements without the tedious boredom of officialdom.

And get this cobber! The greatest irony of all. These cheap little flags aren’t even made here (the majority of them at least). Most are made in - you guessed it - China! Fair dinkum, friggin’ China. Now why would we want to support their economy on our National Day - it’s bloody un-Australian...mate!

We should flick the flag, at least until we get a decent one to replace the rag we have...but that’s another topic for another blog.

BLANK PAGE

Where has “Silence” gone?
I don’t hear It anymore!
The other day I could
But today ... I’m not sure

Why today ... do I hear everything else
Knocking at my door
Like the drone of humanity
That I can’t ignore

But where, oh where, today, pray tell, has silence gone?
Silence - to ease my mind
Silence - where all truth lies
Silence - today ... I cannot find

Sinners and saints

Some days I wanna hug the world
Other days I wanna tear it down
Days I’ve wasted and hurled
While on others I’ve worn a crown

There are days when I’m mellow
Days when I wanna rage
Days when I’m a good fellow
Days when I should be in a cage

There are days when I have urges I can’t explain
Negative thoughts that test my will
Powerfull emotions that cause pain
Supressive actions that make me ill

There are days when I wanna break the mould
And be somebody else
Cut loose from the fold
And be a bloody louse

There are days when I have carnal thoughts
Wanna seduce every woman I see
Days when I show all of my warts
The other side of me

Days when I’d like to get drunk
Go out and commit a sin
Act like a real fucking punk
And kick someone in the shin

Days when I wanna suck in all of life
And get high as a kite
Get into trouble and strife
And forget I have a wife

Days when I wanna forget what’s right
Do everything wrong
Sing a different song
And not really belong

But lo and behold!...there are days when things go my way
When you never hear me moan
And I have only positive things to say
Days when I reap some of the goodness I’ve sown

Days when I feel uplifted
When I’m inspired to create
Days when I feel special and gifted
And have no time for hate

Days when I feel at peace with myself
When I show a friend I care
Days when I’m in good health
And have love to share

Yes!... there are those days when I feel like a real saint
With God as my guide
But lo and behold!... there are more days when I aint
When I feel like a real sinner, with the devil by my side.

KEEPING ABREAST OF FASHION

The poem to follow is an example of what can happen to a bloke who commutes a lot on public transport, and has too much time on his hands.


Dear Gurus of fashion, who amongst your rank
Pray tell, do we thank
For bestowing upon us - mere mortal males -
A couture trend currently in vogue
So pleasing to the eye as to pacify a rogue
Blokes like me who like what we see
Breasts on display in all their dignity

It’s in our DNA
Primitive instincts to focus our eyes through blinkers
We are testosterone driven visual thinkers
This basic urge we cannot purge
But surrender to the delight
The variety of watching flesh in flight
Each new attraction a challenging distraction
To stimulate a stream of poetic thoughts
An alliterate list ... ticked off like this:

- Robust and ripe, proud boobies, bursting with personality
- Titillating glimpses of tantalising titties
- Mammoth melons and memories of secure comfort
- An arsenal of broad bazookas with nipples a nudging

... And when the bigger bosoms come towards you
The bounce of each pounce on the pavement
Sends mesmerising ripples of flesh dancing in waves up their chest

Breasts - whether bold or on hold -
Whatever the mold - are beautiful to behold
And, when men are left waiting, and boredom starts grating
They will pass the time, watching and evaluating
And the knack, is to note the rack, and file it in the right stack:

Some are perky and pert, confident and at ease
Others bashful and shy, they please only to tease
Some are small, like little bubbles in separate rooms
Compared to the cleavage of others with voluptuous volumes
Some are a perfect handful, firm, sensual and sensitive
Others - pendulams - free and feisty fun bags to play with
Some are capriciously on display, with the naive confidence of youth
In contrast to the feminine mystique of mature couth

However classified, they never fail to amaze
Bosoms - each a palette of subtle tones we are privileged to gaze
From translucent alabaster to deep ebony
And delicious varient shades in-between
From milky coconut, vanilla, creamy custard, olive and caramel
To occasionally, exotic glimpses of cinnamon and chocolate liqueur
And rare, erotic treats of laced liquorice

... And, to crown this delicatessen of tastey delights
Each bonbon cloaked in a smorgasbord of fashion
Deliberately designed to excite our passion
Breaking our wills with provocative thrills, like nothing else matters
We store these images for future rations
Garments that express their social status:

Tight T-shirts for young flirts to tease wherever they please
Frilly blouses for petite fillies off to the office
Blonde babes in busybody suits, abreast of the rest
Women in uniforms united - marching their way to work
The rest an eclectic selection from suburban sobriety to eccentric access
Filing off to workplaces synonymous to their dress

... And most importantly, we have to thank
The lingerie that makes ‘em all look so swank
Brassieres - bless ‘em - to carefully cup and caress ‘em
With the gift to lift bashfull little packages
Or to contain defiant heavy hooters bursting to shoot us
Others designed to rally udders that spread and keep ‘em in the same shed
But give me the nifty little see through to highlight nipple or two

Now, don’t blame me for this confession or the lingo I use
Look at history - who has always been our greatest muse
Women - the eternal mystery
The spark that lights our creative fuse

...And to give balance to my bawdy verse, it’s not only men who look,
Women too, I’ve been told, when there’s not much to do, like a ‘butchers hook’
And when Hens gather in pens to peck - the talk often turns to Cocks
Along with peckers, pectorals and other personal packages
...But that’s another story, probably better told, by a sassy Sheila
- A spieler more qualified than me

... And finally, I’ve got to put an end to this curse,
of perpetual rhyming verse, and expose the purpose of this prose
And get to the point, before it gets any worse

So, pray tell, just who do I thank, for this prolific, verbose verbal wank!

Your Immunity and the fall Rome

The Immune System - your defence against against viral attacks and other deadly foreign substances - is perhaps THE most vital system of them all. Our very survival depends on it. Without it, we could be dead in a sec...or a day or two. Yep, our very existance depends on it! But, have you ever had it explained to you...very confusing...right, unless you’ve had years of medical training. Well fear not my frazzled friend, I’m going to take the guess work out of it and simplify it in terms we all understand. Read on MacDuff......

In a nut shell, the Immune System can be described as a democratic, specialised, military outfit -disciplined professionals that make sure they destroy everything - and get this - leave with a permanent truce for peace. It's a bit like what happened to Carthage when the Romans took their final revenge. And that's as good an analogy as I can think of in describing its function. 

So, let's compare your immunity as a microcosm of the Roman Empire and all that that scenario suggests: politics, diplomacy, defence and jealous enemies - the barbarians - the babbling hordes, prowling on the borders. But for the sake of this analogy, we'll call them 'Viruses' (collective noun for the Visigoths, Ostrogoths, Vandals and other Varlets vying for victory). We'll call your body - 'the Empire', and your immunity (which for Rome, was its central military defence force with contingent legions patrolling it's borders) as 'Soldiers'   

One day, due to a weak link in the Empires borders, the odd Virus gets in and defeats a small unprepared patrolling border garrison. This initial victory builds momentum as it gathers converts marching on its way to destroy Rome, the Empires capital. Viruses, you have to remember, have no affinity with the achievements of the Empire and have no knowledge of surviving beyond what it destroys. So, if Rome falls...your dead! Dead I said! That's it, no second chance. Rome must survive at any cost. You're only hope lies in the Empire's Elite Roman Legions - Soldiers descended from the great Horatius, who held the bridge and fought off the Etruscans, to forge their destiny as a super power. 

Rome and its Legions - your Immunity - is your last bastion of defense. First to be deployed are the legions or Special Forces - Soldier units consisting of Phagocytes and Macrophages - specialists in camouflage, they can fall behind enemy lines and pinpoint the Viruses' position. Here they set up Antigens - wireless transmitters that communicate directly to headquarters and the “Commander-in-Chief”. Here, at this strategic centre, with his team of officers, vital decisions are made with a swift chain of commands. The Chief’’s first action is to brief the T-helpers (T for technical support) - academy trained, logistics officers who, based on intelligence reports coming in from the Special Forces, calculate the size of the ‘force’ sufficient to defeat the enemy. The resulting ‘Legion’ is divided into 2 groups. The first to go in are the T-killers - Infantry front line soldiers {T - for Terrorise and Take no prisoners, no, not for 'Terminate' as will become obvious as you read on). With 'blitzkrieg' efficiency they swamp the unsuspecting Viruses who scatter in confusion and disintegrate into a leaderless mob unable to mount a counter offensive. Defenceless, and scared shitless from the ferocity of the T-killers, they are easily gathered and contained till the second line of defence arrive. Their unit is called the B-cells (B for 'Basic' and 'Bloodless') - the no fuss, no mess, final solution. These are the real Terminators - total chemical annihilation. These chemicals called 'Antibodies' (So aptly named - anti meaning no, in other words 'No Body' - leave no trace of a body). The Viruses have no chance, they are neutralised and killed instantly (just like Carthage was plowered over and salt tossed onto its soil to sterilise it forever leaving no trace of a civilisation). 

This carnage may last for days, even weeks, as the process repeats itself on various fronts of the Empire, leaving it in a toxic and fatigued state - it is literally 'sick' of war, and yearns for peace. As the final victory takes place, a unique auxiliary unit is sent out to do what no other conventional force has ever been able to achieve - a permanent Truce! Granted, it's only on that particular invader, others will still be able to try, but imagine defeating each, one at a time, permanently. That's a bloody good average.   

These diplomatic envoys are called T-suppressors (T for Terminal Truce - never again to be attacked by the same Virus). Here's how T-suppressors work: with the T-killers and the B-cells so focused and hyped on the task at hand, they loose sight of their perspective and don't quite no when to stop, so the T-suppressors come in to calm them down and tell them it's over. In the wash-up, they employ two sub-sections of their unit. The first are called T-memory - as the name suggest - T is for Total - they memorise the data gathered about the enemy totally, then file it under 'T' for totally known enemy. In the future, if they spot the former foe again, they alert the second unit - B-memory (B for oBlivion) - who based on the info provided by T-suppressors release the Antibodies in storage to destroy it.   

Based on the above scenario, it sounds like the enemy doesn't have a chance! But of course, sadly, nothing lasts forever. History remind us of that, so does our own mortality. Just like the Roman Empire, our Empire will fall one day too. It's inevitable that the continual attacks, strain and weaken the foundations they were built on. Your exhausted Immunity, like Rome, will finally surrender to defeat. And like the 'variety' of barbarians that finally sacked Rome, persistent ‘variant viruses’ will do the same to you. In fact, if you're not accidentally killed, this is what kills you in the end.  

So, If you think this is THE END of the story, think again...think hard...real hard...who really wins in THE END?

INTERESTING ISN'T IT!!! With all that I've sprouted about - the marvellous efficiency of the immune system etc. - I get to the end only to realise this: The bugs - the buggers, they WIN in the end. We may destroy trillions of them in the process, but they get US in the end - the little buggers!  

So is their a moral to this yarn, a lesson we can learn? Here's what I got out of it.......
1. Persistence will always triumph. 
2. Don't do what Rome did - take on more than you can handle - it'll only weaken your defences.

Can you thinks of others - let me know, and add to the list.

UNIVERSAL TRUTH

Written in 1997, about the same time as "The Truth of Youth"
I was deep into my 'Self' at this stage, full of all sorts of esoteric questions.

Matter – the indestructable essence of existence;
Atoms of energy micro small,
Transmute through the decomposition of time,
Elements of one life form to another.
Proof that we are one connected to all.

The cosmos condensed into the microcosm of self –
The internal internet, where you will find
The collective consciousness of all kind.

Meditate and a universal truth will befall.
The earth is a liquid fire cast from the sun.
It’s surface cooled, a fertile crust
Supporting not just us but all;
A product of the same cosmic dust.

Connected in matter, we share a common soul;
The divinity of creation, reincarnation and birth.
We are related; our purpose to serve one another,
Here on this reality we call earth.

THE TRUTH OF YOUTH

By Fred Bogusz (1997)

Some poems need an explanation, because of their personal nature. This Epic of blood sweat and tears was written almost 12 years ago when I was re-examining my life, after recovering from a depressing breakdown from Chronic Fatigue. It was my catharsis - the emotional purge I needed to help to refocus my life. Re-reading it today, confirms my decision was right.


Reflecting on my past through the eyes of disillusionment,
I am struck with a painful truth, concerning myself and my youth.
When I take an objective look, I’m angered for what society took.
Things I intrinsically knew; things you couldn’t find in a book.
Things that came naturally, that were existential to me–
Intuition, idealism, passion and affinity.

In their ignorance they stole that from me, the guardians of society.
The powers that be, religion, education and conformity.
Suppressing my innate intelligence.
Cramming my mind with their nonsense.
Knowledge foreign to my higher self, slowly stripping my independence.
Preparing me for the ways of their world. How to win and be the best.
Past the test. Competition. Forsake the rest. Create your own wealth.
Forget inner needs, understanding self or spiritual health.
Gradually eroding the real you and what you intuitively knew.
Leaving only a replica. A mould cast in synthetic goo.
While your fragile inner self fractures into fragments,
Dissipates and disappears into the marrow of your bones.
Imprisoned in solid solitude. Leaving a vacuous hole...an empty urge.
A vessel to fill with dubious knowledge against your will.
To become a walking encyclopedia–a parrot of photocopied facts,
Mimicking memorised text not totally understood.
Ostentatious squawks and pedantic prattle...over used, abused and misconstrued.
A record spinning the same tune. Stuck in the status quo,
With nowhere to go, but to conform to the norm.

Then I had the gall, convinced to say I knew it all.
Bits of paper told me so. I’ve past the test. Qualified to stand tall.
Make way for me. I’m trained you see...to be competitive.
To succeed. Money and Greed. Get what you need.
Egocentric. Neither caring or sharing...just bold and daring.
Survival. Do or die in the jungle of life.
Carving a career with a machete. Slicing, Slashing and tongue bashing.
Hacking at the corporate ladder with a firm grip on the handle of the blade to success.
Swinging on the grape vine. High as a kite. Out all night.
Roaring like a lion. Adrenaline pumping. Heart Thumping.
Feeling sure. Give me more. Marriage and Mortgage.
Busy as a bee to support a family. Blindly lost in a bubble of bourgeoisie.

Time suddenly! like a sharp cut into reality...looses it’s edge and goes blunt.
Life showing signs of stress and strain. Wasted years with little gain.
Realising you’re just a well trained pawn in their game.

To late! They have you by the balls, squeezing till you feel the pain.
Excruciating! You curse the bastards for messing with your brain.
Cramming propaganda, facts and figures for their gain.
Sterile information clogging the truth. Driving you insane.

But where is the real you? The knowledge you need to help you through.
To cope. Now that you’ve lost all hope.
Disillusioned with the split face of the human race.
The hypocracy of democracy. Corruption. Equality dying and the planet crying.

They didn’t teach you that–the power of one, for the good of all.
To understand yourself before you understood the world.
To nurture what you already had–the gift of you.
Your quintessential self. Your soul–the fruit of a predestinate seed.
No! They only showed you the path of selfish growth and greed
Trained on a lead, hungrily sniffing to fulfil an intangible need.

You know something is wrong. You can feel it in your bones,
where it was banished as a child–Truth crying for identity,
Polluted in composted marrow. Superfluous garbage and life’s artificial game.
A victim of the timeless dominance of age over the pure truth of youth

AN ODE TO SHEM’S 21st

It was 21 years ago today
That our son was born in a different way
While ordinary people arrive on this earth
Mostly through a traumatic birth
Our son was a smart little man
And insisted on a caesarean

No mess, no fuss, what a way to arrive
Not like squeezing and pushing to survive
His mother calm and sedated
Watched as they showed him to his father
Who was elated

But nine months cramped to one side
Produced a problem you could not hide
Looking down upon his crown, one had to frown
That his head, was slightly twisted

If left unattended
It would never have mended
And the curse would have got worse
Till his head turned at an angle
Ninety degrees to his dangle

And so that he wouldn’t grow up looking like a twit
We worked on a solution to fix it
By turning his head while asleep at night
In the opposite direction till it came right
But I have to admit, I didn’t help it
When one day, without intent, he did slip
From my grip
Now I dread what it’s done to his head.
So the bounce I’m here to announce
May explain his quirky brain

But perhaps that’s what we like about him
Spontaneous things that he does on a whim
When it’s all said and done
It’s his sense of fun
His weird and wonderful ways
That gets him through his days

We named him after one of Noah’s three sons
Shem, Ham and Jacob were the ones
We picked Shem
Because it was better than the rest of them
Dam, if I was going to call him Ham - how weird
And Jacob - you picture an old fart with a beard
Shem means “Renowned, with good reputation”
And he’s lived up to that without hesitation

Being an only child he grew up with his mum and dad
Sharing in the thoughts we had
From an early age we gave him the freedom to be
Whatever he wanted in society
And now he’s grown to be quite a lad

We’ve watched him with pride
Taking the journey in his stride
From baby to boy, teenager to man
Each step part of the plan
Shem, today you are twenty-one
And you make us proud to be our son