Alas, a blurred landscape before my eyes, And in my state of mind I must Show my reverence to a lone, dead stump. Once alive amongst its clan Which now stands naked in a pastured field. Burnt and cleared, made way for tillage, For agriculture and intended profit. This lone stump, a memorial for lost forests. A strange monument on ancient turf pillaged, By the hands of those far from history, When gourmet demands, and gambled futures Have crashed into the 21st century.  

To call out the fraudulent Is to argue that cynicism Is harsher than criticism When words are flatulent Coming from moralists Who work like pugilists To maintain an image No better than wishful Justified when deceitful Important for homage Paid to that authority Which happens to be An operation of force Taking upon a course Of manufacturing truth By corrupting the youth Believing they are free To decide for themselves What is right and wrong Their trust is made long Since they are made needy Overlooking the seedy Side of them who delve Into abuses of power As if the taste is so sour That it inspires goodness As written in creeds Used to plant seeds In minds unquestioning That ignores that doubt Which fosters wellness Overcoming a petitioning Which nags inside and out Until freed by revolt Braving created chasms Filling them with schisms Preparing for the assault Upon personal integrity Making for a positioning ...

  Tarry not, faster tourist, around Tasmania Time’s a spoilsport, and you desire instant majesty Within the comfort of your hire car. After Queenstown you needn’t be getting too far On a secret road that leads to Tullah Its curve caresses Lake Plimsoll’s shore You find your legs and step outside You are captured by the planet-striking view And your digital camera will plead for more The lake, the mountains, the magnificence You’ll be sending the images to your friends And you’ll forget why you first came, Just slowing your eyes To photograph again

Urbane Eric is old: he wants to die. With a posture wrecked through indecision He taps his cane, two for yes and one for no Whether suicide or natural causes How then to draw his ultimate breath? And euthanasia isn’t kind To the strong beliefs he’s long held, But impatient for his saviour’s embrace An idea struck him, through his cane, Having never thought of it before. Travel on an ocean cruise dear boy, Feast; and lay leeward on a cushion And bore yourself to death.