Voices at Tyalgum 

Before dawn at Tyalgum

west of Mt Warning

under the rim

of a collapsed volcano

the voices of hidden birds

       slowly rise

from the hollow

of the dark silence.

Warbling,

screeching,

       laughing voices;

voices that sound

the secret cry 

       of the land.

Voices for poets 

to weave 

      into words 

so all the land

can sing in them

       as they sing to God.

Slowly,

the first rays

        of light appear

and dip their nibs

      into the dark ink 

of these ancient voices.

*

Noise

There’s a kind of industrial hum 

               surrounding everyone you meet.

It’s the noise from a mental generator

               working on the daytime shift.

It’s part of the sanskaric factory:

    a recycling plant 

     processing impressions.

This same hum makes its way 

      into everything 

a person does.

It can be heard:

               along supermarket isles

               on the internet

               at sporting events

               in the political system

               in the traffic of cities 

               in boardrooms and 

               planning committees.

It doesn’t stop. 

You can’t escape it:

               by going out to sea

               flying to the moon 

               having a makeover

               indulging in austerity.

It still remains humming away.

It ends up wearing you out.

It’s like a constant ringing in your ears.

Only by repeating God’s Name in your heart

        can you find rest

        from this infernal racket.

Only by repeating God’s Name in your heart 

        can you shut down the factory

        and find quiet.

*

Lime Pickle

To love 

is to go over

into love:

like a piece of lime 

in a pickle jar

embraces the world 

of spicy vinegar.

To love 

is to know

there is no return: 

like a piece of lime 

in a pickle jar

is lost forever 

in a bottled bazaar.

To love 

is to give 

real flavour to life:

like a piece of lime 

in a pickle jar

makes a dull meal

a culinary star.

*