A Vision or a Dream.

In vision or dream
I saw a man in Dachau
give his last morsel of bread
to one he thought was suffering more.
I heard his thoughts.
"I am no mere plaything of circumstance.
They can take my life but not
the freedom to choose my way."

I rushed to tell my friends
that choice determines who we are,
proof sufficient being in Dachau
a man chose compassion over self.

One friend replied:
"Noble indeed is such a one.
Heroes make these choices.
The exception though is not the rule.
Choice is circumscribed
by circumstance
and eliminated for most by horror of place."

Another then spoke:
"Oppression's boot can find the weight
To crush all choice away.
Was that man's compassion
an act of choice?
I rather think it a gift of grace."

A strange and diverse parade
then passed by
following the banner "Choice",
surprisingly small in number,
privileged ones all sleek and well fed-
warriors, warmongers and kings,
artists, writers, scientists,
simple honest folk and villainous ones too.

Then the next parade came in view
following the banner "No Choice"
and they passed by for days.
I wept to see
starving children shuffling by,
eyes bereft of hope-
women marching on and on,
slaves, bruised and beaten, acid scarred,
child brides, circumcised, mutilated,
disempowered, exploited, disenfranchised-
multitudes of poor,
their every choice dictated by need-
the tortured, guiltless and cruelly oppressed-
lastly, the largest throng,
billions with crippling chains forged
deeply inside their minds,
limited thoughts conditioned
entirely by place.
"Is there no-one to set them free?"
I groaned in tears,
until at last in blessed relief
the world went dark
and I could see and weep no more.

In the dark
a voice came softly speaking
words I had heard before.
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me.
He has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord's  favour.”
I cried aloud in answer
"How could this ever be?
How can these captives be set free?
How can the blind be given sight?
How can the oppressed have liberty?
Can there ever be equity?
What the day? What the extent?
What the arm? What the method?
What the power? What the man?
What the promised liberty?"

I awoke suddenly from my dream
in sober, shaken state.
Could so many be choice-less bound?
What of this hope
that chains will be removed?
Can humanity achieve this on our own?
and determining the answer to be "No",
(yet desiring all chains to go)
considered then my choice must be
to surrender in prayer to the hope
that chains be loosed,
and since compassion is a gift of grace,
my choice must also be
to pray that such grace comes to me
so that I too can,
in shared humanity,
offer my last morsel of bread
to those who need it more.

Caravaggio's St John the Baptist.

After the relentless repetition
of Annunciation, Nativity and Crucifixion,
the sadistic scenes of Last Judgment,
their florid, cruel sensuality,

their crowded, muscular nakedness;

after the ornate splendour of palaces
covered from wall to ceiling

in blue, gold and red,
depictions of battle, death and victory
or violent, Biblical narrative;

after these you walk down a darkened crypt,
past fading depictions of gospel scenes,
your mind numb from days of surfeit
and suddenly there it is,

Caravaggio's "St. John the Baptist",

not a prophet from the Judean wilderness
with fiery, uncompromising words
but a slender youth
rendered in exquisite truthfulness.

His skin is luminously beautiful.
The light, from the left, touches him
on cheekbone, shoulder, thigh, knee, calf.
The lines, composition and colour are masterful
but its real wonder is its truthfulness.
He turns from his simple shepherd's task
as if you've suddenly surprised him,
a complex mixture
of amusement, confidence and shyness,

a friendly, joyous gaze,
as if the nuance of his mind
in this single, fleeting moment
has been caught in Caravaggio's brush
and effortlessly placed upon the canvas
so we, who come to it after so many centuries,
can be transfixed by its beauty and truth
and be privileged by the momentary glimpse
into the mind of that boy
and the transcendent power that captured it.

Lascaux II

It is a facsimile
but few galleries are more beautiful.
There is a hush,
a sense of the sacred.
In the dim light the walls shimmer
with copies of artwork,
walls and ceilings covered
with confident boldness of line,
beauty of eye, antler, hoof and horn,
curves and bumps and ceiling too
masterfully integrated into one fluid flow.

17,000 years ago,
in the nearby cave of Lascaux,
men and women mixed their colours,
prepared smoke free oil,
built their scaffolding and,
like Michelangelo,
covered the walls or lay on their backs,
painting the roof,
moved by their muse,
a deeply human compulsion
to not just represent
the power of hoof and curve of horn
but to create beauty,
to seek meaning
and surely to reflect the sacred,
a sense of something vast beyond themselves
of which they were a small, vulnerable
but gifted part.

I know you, my brothers and sisters.
Your sensibility is mine.
This human finger, touching the keyboard,
shaping words into patterns,
seeking order and meaning,
surely comes from shared desire.
Is it really so different
that your vision was herds, horns and hooves
and the mark of your hands upon the wall,
whilst mine is songs of the heart,
longing for compassion and surrender to love,
when we, in vulnerable mortality
and common humanity,
across this vast desert of time
desire the beauty of art
and seek communion beyond self
with the mysterious divine.

The Only Chance We've Got.

When you think about religion
It's enough to make you sick.
Blind Freddie has sufficient sight to see
It's full of mind-boggling hypocrisy.

Who hasn't heard the rant and cant
veiling cruel actions and unloving hearts.
"In God's name this. In God's name that."
Blind Freddie can also smell a rat.

There are the diamond shark smiles,
the "God wants me to be rich" brigade,
the sickening show of "humility"
masking a sense of superiority.

Paedophiles lurk behind the smock
and men in gorgeous coloured robes
deceive themselves that church reputation
Far exceeds any moral obligation.

There is blood in Rome, death in Salem
and burning in Calvin's "city of God."
History shows that this sorry mob
should never have any political job.

It's a pretty sad mess, that's for sure,
enough to make you cynical,
but when I think of the Nazarene
I don't feel in the least equivocal.

I'm not talking about that image
with shampooed hair and dreamy eyes
nor all those artistic marble statues
in wealthy institutions built on lies.

I'm thinking of the flesh and blood man
who was a friend to outcasts and poor,
who challenged the rules and status quo,
who gave until he could give no more.

He dined with harlots and publicans,
he touched lepers, the sick and the sad
but those who held the keys to wealth
ridiculed him and declared him mad.

He doesn't seem mad to me.
He had  a kind of moral divinity,
was a great poet and a teacher too
but I most admire his brave humanity.

I'm praying that he comes back.
I've read that he'll fix what we cannot,
the violence, inequity and oppression.
I'm thinking he's the only chance we've got.

Lyre Birds, Minnamurra Rainforest, Budderoo National Park, NSW, Australia

Well above the boulder-lined mountain creek,

its tangled profusion of vine and tree,

the spreading glory of the strangler fig

and remnant cedar’s towering beauty,

where the mountain steeply slopes,

filtered sun casts a dappled light,

tall trees grow from leaf-littered ground,

stop and stand still in hushed delight.

Two young lyre birds cavort and display,

practising for some more urgent time

their dance, spread of tail and joy of song

with beauty far beyond the power of rhyme.

Their tail is two curves of yellow and black,

enclosing silver gossamer wisp,

as seemingly delicate and coloured

as dew-filled web or wind-blown mist.

This glory they arch over their backs,

graceful, delicate, surprising long,

then dancing a quick, little staccato bob

pour from their throat liquid miracle of song.

Mimicry of diverse forest sounds

in effortless beauty from their throat pours-

kookaburra’s laugh, whip bird’s soar and crack,

king parrot, rosella and many unknown more.

Hush! The vault is blue, white and green,

there are ethereal slants of light,

great supporting buttress columns of trees,

and a choir praising in unrestrained delight.

Walk quietly away from this pure moment

with feelings privileged and sublime,

a heart full of wonder and gratitude,

a sense of a glimpse into the divine,

For on that on that leaf-littered mountainside

with effortless beauty these small birds raise,

without tuition or much thumbed page,

a wondrous hymn of beauty and praise.

Seals At Play. Admiral’s Arch, Flinders Chase National Park, Kangaroo Island.

Unhindered,
the western waves roll
across three oceans
to crash upon the cliffs.

Unhindered,
southwards the rolling sea
stretches far beyond the horizon
to distant Antarctica.

Unhindered,
the salt-laden wind blows
over the huddling heathland's
wild, remote beauty.

Beneath the cliffs
but above the surge
are crevassed platforms and a curving arch
leading to a pool of mirrored transparency.
Everywhere fur seals bask,
argue over position, laze in the pool
or clamber awkwardly towards the sea.
Where once men clubbed them
to near extinction
they are protected, contented and safe.

Two young seals are at play
in a steep narrow gully,
a rush and retreat
of foaming turbulence and unforgiving rocks.
They surface in tangled somersault,
wrestling, diving, breaching again and again,
young, joyous and unafraid,
toddlers in a playground
confident in their skills,
except this is no playground
or carefully constructed, rubber-layered, safe zone
but the immense, cold, surging,
cliff-pounding sea.

Fraser Island (revised)

Fraser Island.


Miranda, on her magical island,
heard music in the crash of wave,
high, clear notes in the treetops,
dim timpani resound from distant cave.

Surely here she dwelt with Prospero,
their realm undiluted sand.
No pebble, rock, clay or loam
stains symphonic Fraser Island.

Music softly and sweetly sings
from serpentine streams so clear,
so unclouded and untouched
they could be water or could be air.

Music murmurs in the mangroves,
in the cobalt blue of upland lake,
in banksia grove and pandanas palm,
in forests of coastal she-oak.

It crescendos in the rainforest's
green palms that densely entwine,
stands of white towering blackbutt
partnering spotted Kauri pine.

Twice daily the eastern wave sings
as she washes from her sand
the countless tracks of 4 wheel drives
that scurrying, scour the land

and even though tomorrow
the traffic will again resume,
closely following the tide will sing
her lyrical, relentless, cleansing tune.

O gently, gently, twice a day,
the attendant tide comes in
and joyously singing as she goes
makes the beach pristine again.

Then the magic that Miranda heard
ripples or crashes in the sea,
or high in towering treetops
sings songs of exquisite beauty.