I am grateful that you have visited my blog. I hope your visit is a successful one. Please feel free to comment, contact or otherwise interact with the site and with me. I'm beginning to spread my wings photographically, so please take a look at Paul's Photos on Flickr (on the right). which will lead you to my presence on Flickr. Again, your comments, feedback or whatever are very welcome. Let us assist each other in our pursuit of our own truth, our own Dreaming. Peace!

The Poetry Page

I wonder how many of us think of ourselves as poets. And I wonder how many of such self-proclaimed poets like to let the world and his/her dog know that they are Poets. Well, no need to fear in my case: I do not consider myself a "Poet". (note the capital "P" and the quotes) I was once asked to write a kind of manifesto on my poetry. In that wonderful and sadly long buried and not famous document, I wrote something like: 'I am not a Poet; I am a writer who sometimes writes in verse or in a poetic form'.
     Cool don't you think? Reckon I got myself off the hook with that one: I 'ain't no Poet man, I'm just a writer, you dig? So, no need to worry: no way you're gonna be preached at, read at (or down to); nothing of that pretentious kind of crap from me. No siree.    
     But, seriously now: what you will get from me are words from my heart. Okay, okay: sometimes they're from my head. So sue me! Anyway, I write as the words come and as I said, sometime it's in the form of a poem, sometimes (actually more often than not) they come in some other form. On this page it's the poem forms you are going to get I'm afraid.

     With that long bit of waffle I offer you my poems. Enjoy them, love them, hate them. It's up to you and your reactions. Your comments, feedback, praise, criticism or whatever are always welcome and you can be assured they will be valued by me. Thank you.


It's not a nice time
that's what the man said.
In New York City they say
there's 6000 dead.

Into the two towers
the terrorists drove their planes.
And now, they say, that things
will never be the same.

And now another war they say
is coming to our world,
And into oblivion
millions more may be hurled.

I'm not feeling good
about what's going on,
because, like everyone else
I'm only just so strong.

For all my life I've said
Something has got to give.
But I could have done more than talk
So that more may now live.

Yes it's true what they are saying,
that nothing will ever be the same.
It's not a time to point fingers and judge,
not a time for laying blame
    11 September 2001


Many have been the nights
I’ve trudged (and less often, strode)
past illuminated windows framing.
families sharing sit down meals.
Or huddled worshipfully before
flickering and silent (to my passing by ears)
picture boxes in corners of cosy family rooms.

I am just one more invisible (to most), anonymous
drifter. Just passing through
the empty nighttime streets of one more
anonymous town.
Longing to enter the illumined frame.
Longing to share one of those sit down meals.
Longing to worship at the alter of the flickering picture box.
Longing is loss.

The edge of town roadside summons
this lonesome bodhisattva begging rides.

It’s just one more quiet and cold
semi desert night. A high moon in a clear sky
casts ghostly shadows through Eucalypts:
my only company as the waiting game begins.
Waiting to see headlights coming and going my way.
Waiting to be rescued from this lonely edge of town roadside.
Waiting for another ride, to another anonymous town.
Waiting is wasteful

Better to be here, now, on this
edge of town roadside. A place as good
as any. Illumined by the moon,
the ghostly gums create the frame
in which this bodhisattva rests.
And worships

Note: Written in my head as I walked across the Murray River (on a bridge!) in Australia as I recalled old hitchiking days in the bush and the outback of that vast land.


The hand of the monk
ag├ęd, insistent, but gentle too,
takes and holds mine.
The monk sits, the Dharma before him,
sacred texts resting in their saffron shroud.
My presence completes
this circle.

Mountain monastery
calling him; it’s not home.
Other mountains
he’s climbed. Escape.
High places divide
this world from that,
that time from this.

His loving touch, his smile,
linger in rarefied air.
Air drenched with the warmth
of the Dharma,
in this late monsoon
restaurant of the Snow Lion,
south of his land.

Note: The Snow Lion in McLeod Ganj India serves the best tofu sandwiches with a HUGE plate of wafer thin potato chips hot and spicy right out of the pan. I will always be grateful I spent time in that beautiful town and land.

AS YET UNTITLED (Suggestions invited)
sorry about the resolution


My father, many times he hit me.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.
My father hurt my sisters.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing
My father, he beat my mother.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

My father had a shrink at 150 an hour.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.
My father tried to get sane.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.
My father, he kept his demons.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father used to run for trains.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.
My father, one day thought he was late.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.
My father ran hard for his train.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

My father caught his train, of course.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.
My father, his heart attacked him.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.
My father, on his train he died.
But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

Note:I was once told that this was a powerful anti-war poem. And that was a great compliment. It's about (obviously) the PTSD sufferred by war veterans and their families. Dedicated to my family.


Cruising straight the roads
of midnight mountain climbing.

Negotiating twists and turns
in the dark
of lonely longings
and polite behavings.

Cowering in the back seat,
I slump still sunken deep.
Crushed against the door
and deathly still
as she contours thigh to thigh.

My eyes fix on the darkness
out the window, and into
the mountainous abyss.
Her head rests upon my shoulder,
her hand upon my leg.

She sure had high hopes
for that mountain night.


Standing by roadside
of desiccated earth and broiling sun.
I can‘t see the end
of the road. 
Too long, this road.
But what road is too long?
Anyway, for me, the road, this road,
leads nowhere. To nowheres
of the mind.

The Great Loop,
that sliver of highway
holding fast to the edges, the edge,
of this land.  Of this island.
Petering out in …where was it?

Yes.  Maybe.  On those pearly shells
crunchy under foot.  Bare.
My bloody thongs broke.
Lost in the mud of a bogged and flooded Cruiser
up Highway One.
On the Mary River someplace.  Crossing. 

Yes, Broome.  I made it that far.
Almost too far is that road.
Petered out.
But again it opened
          For the long run.

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