It is here on tranquil plane
Back in the garden
Of Journey’s Beginning
Before the fall and erosion
Wanting only You
To breathe with me once more
The dear essence
Touch and travel together
A perfect surface of my being
Awaken that kernel of Light in me
And to hold
Dear lord I beg
For just one moment
Myself a full risen sun
Before a new night
And the dawn
Of yet
Another
Unknowing

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at “My Soul’s Aboriginal” by Joe DiMino.

Would you go to school reunions now, and share old classroom tales?

If you’d opened up, so counselors could understand you fully,

Would the knowledge they’d acquired have taken more wind from your sales?

(2)If you’d stood up to your father, when he made you go to Uni,

Doing courses you detested, would you like your new career?

If you’d gone to the gymnasium, when ladies called you puny,

Would you soon have gotten married to the one you thought was dear?

(3)If you’d worked your own agenda, and then gone the extra distance,

Would that usage of your time have given you a just reward?

If you’d left the church’s leadership to other working Christians,

Could some social life nostalgia moments of those days be stored?

(4)If you’d tolerated evil, when the time had come for battle,

Would you now retain some friends, who then became the foes you fought?

If you’d been content participating in the pointless prattle,

Would you now feel more accepted, less alone and overwrought?

(5)If you’d pushed aside your limits, thinking they could be exceeded,

Would you make the roadways safer, as you struggled at the wheel?

If you’d gambled with your destiny, when hesitance was needed,

Would the period to follow have been less of an ordeal?

(6)If you’d listened to the voices, who determined what was trendy,

Would you know yourself today, while drowning in the status quo?

If you’d thrown out childhood literature, like Peter Pan and Wendy,

Would your adult way of life enable you to truly grow?

(7)Would attempts to make lasagna not be misconstrued as arson,

If you’d done a course that taught you how to imitate a chef?

Would these skills have brought you and your girlfriend closer to the parson,

If you’d settled down, before your time in nightclubs turned you deaf?

(8)Are you just the final product of the choices you decided,

Back when you were far too young to take your whole life by the reins?

Do you shoulder blame for errors made, when help was not provided,

When you found yourself depending on your instinct and your brains?

(9)If you had the chance to start again, and take the road not traveled,

Would the outcome take you closer or still further from your goals?

If the tapestry of threads that were your life became unraveled,

Could you sew them back together, without leaving any holes?

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at RIDES NOT TAKEN.

With scenery improving, once I’d gone past Emu Plains.

I did not know the passengers around me, but perhaps one

Might care to play a card game, since we’d only come to Lapstone

(2)I closed my vintage fiction novel fast. So I could then look,

To see surrounding bushland, as the train pulled out of Glenbrook.

The concrete steps and walkway, over roads and rails and tracks stand

Beside the station fences, built more recently in Blaxland.

(3)Excited tourists took in views, and were not sorry too,

That urban redevelopment had not occurred in Warrimoo.

The summer sun that made them hot, and burnt their skin shall be

Forgotten now in Springwood, not too far from Winmalee.

(4)The clear far western air was like that from an open fridge:

And all the fruit was tasty at the shops in Falconbridge.

I underlined one station on timetables, with a thin pen.

You need to tell the guard if you intend to stop at Linden.

(5)My carriage weaving past the hills would often strike a good chord,

As I looked up at overpasses linking roads to Woodford.

My adult self did not forget the early childhood days he took

Excursions with school second class beyond the streets of Hazelbrook.

(6)The bushwalks were worth doing, and these verses should endorse one.

My ears repressurized, to suit the greater heights of Lawson.

The fields were green, and gumtree trunks a somewhat duller colour,

And horses drank fresh water from a pond in Bullaburra.

(7)A roundhouse in a paddock, with tall arches in its walls,

Preceded several pine trees that I passed in Wentworth Falls.

The suburbs further on provided still more atmosphere:

The highest peaks and widest views that came with that lost year.

(8)The weekend trips grew cooler, as the months became a memory:

February, March and April. Each of them was only temporary.

The further up I went each time, before I’d be alighting,

The more the sights I saw up there were ever more exciting.

(9)The red leaves looked as they did, in a 1900s autumn.

I needed winter gloves, and found a clothing shop, and bought some.

The flowers in the gardens of a holiday retreat

In bloom would make the image in my photograph complete

(10)In Medlow Bath, a friend and I went searching for an airstrip

Out somewhere in the bush. I asked a lady with a hairclip,

If she might know the route we’d need to find our destination.

The travel map I’d used had aged too much since publication.

(11)That 1997 afternoon in mid-July

We waited for our fellow mountain walker’s best reply:

“I haven’t come across that place in any of my walks,”

She said, as night began to fall on dandelion stalks.

(12)My friend and I discussed new ways to make the night go well,

And watched the lights go on outside that suburb’s grand hotel,

Enjoyed its lounge room fire, and then went home by heavy rail,

Imagining those three explorers charting out a trail.

(13)Thankfully, since they produced their maps on ancient parchments,

No-one found a way to bulldoze through those high escarpments.

Now, years later, still convinced that mountain life was best,

I relocated to this land beyond the city’s west.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at NIGHTFALL IN MEDLOW BATH.

The Chrono-Car, and used it to explore the fourth dimension.

He revved it up, and traveled back through 23 years’ history,

And then the engine used up all supplies of his magistery.

Now trapped back when his childhood self had only just turned seven,

And frequently thrown out those brown bread sandwiches with devon

His mother made; Brint chose to spare himself the wierdest meeting.
He steered clear of the school, where he’d endured a frequent beating.

He met a blond haired lady his own age, and slowly courted;

And then they got engaged, but his indulgences were thwarted.

She dyed her hair to brown, and now looked strangely too familiar.

Their three year romance took his thoughts to days of juvenilia.

For Tina now resembled all his deepest recollections:
The teacher in his sixth class year, for whom he held affections,

But couldn’t share, because of different ages and those fissures

Dividing them, because her only known first name was “Mrs.”

So “Tina Long,” her married name, before the timeline altered,

Confronted him with guilt; since he had well and truly faltered,

By stopping her from meeting Mr Long, when he had entered,

And tried to buy a life from her, which he had really rented.

Tormented by morality, he pondered all the choices,

Recalling all those recent dates in cheaply hired Rolls Royces.

Should he arrange for Mr Long and her to meet and marry,

And then seek someone single in the past, where he’d still Tarry?

Or should he marry Tina, and let Mr Long be cheated

Of destined love, if what had gone “before” was not repeated?

He thought that she should know the truth, and do her own deciding,

Confessed (except Long’s name), and hoped his teacher would start guiding.

She said, “I’ll marry you, and have no wish to still discover

Identities of might-have-beens,” which made Brent really love her,

“Why don’t you choose an alias, to safeguard your persona

From sharing names with your young self, who must remain a loner?”

Invent a name like Mr Long, and be my true intended.

Don’t worry how the broken threads of time will all be mended.”

“Did you say Long?” asked Brint, “That means the Mrs Long who taught me

Was married to my older self, while 6th class Brint was naughty.

My childhood self was jealous, while I was my greatest rival:

Your adult husband, while my younger self would seek survival

In mucking up at school. No wonder you gave much attention

To teaching him the right ways, and gave him an hour’s detention.”

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at LONG JOURNEY.

im a poet

when i was young and in my prime the world was new and so unkind in this world we all shall pass, working and working trying to by some cheap gas to travel the country side far and near, to  go visit relatives and people  we hold dear.
through the interstates and road’s we shall go twsiting and turning to where  we don;t know , life is about travel or  maybe staying at home, might be with someone else or could be alone.
how many days shall we toil  in the mess just to pay bill’s or buy a new dress maybe some slipper’s  or  just a new car. why do we do it ? why not just say no! and walk where we all need to go, why not just ride a bike or roller skates or just hitch a ride to go where we may.
if you stop to look, and listen a bit, you would see that your money is all spent buying and paying for things you never see and ending up broke  just like me.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at .

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at day before christmas.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at truck driving in the usa.

Could it be true that im lost in the stars?

That secret will follow with love in my arms.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Light of Life.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The Open Road.

She looked at me, and her deep dark eyes,
Where the shadows, when twilight is dim-
And I talked with her Grandma-
Beside the old boat,
That travels the Waves, no more!

Such a little time, we have in this world-
Where waves and winds are free!
And the sun shines down, from the drifting sky,
Such a little time, till the years go by-
Little GIRL, and her Grandma, and……me.

Then she emptied the basket,
Her brown hands held,
Of driftwood, to dry on the sand-
A small girl of China-
Only seven years old-
Little girl…..of a far away Land!

Dark were her eyes-
Like her pitiful life-
By the shore of the boundless sea-
And…the overturned wreck of a lonely boat-
Was her HOME, but the sounding sea!

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at DARK WERE HER EYES.