Feb
08
1988

Victim

by Stephen Messer

Once when my father’s fathers met your people
And you held your hands out for us to take
Then when my father’s fathers took your hands
And hancuffed you for their greediness’ sake.

You are a victim of circumstance
You are a victim of the color of your face
You are a victim of me it’s true
You are a victim of the human race.

Now some land we took is no good to you.
That doesn’t make it any better for us.
We still took your land and despoiled it.
Because soon it will also be no good to us.

You are a victim of circumstance
You are a victim of the color of my face
You are a victim of you it’s true
You are a victim of the human race.

Other land we took from your father’s fathers
Is just as when we took it from their naive hands
I know that I was not a part of those,
I wish we’d give you back your native lands.

You are a victim of circumstance
You are a victim of the color of your face
You are a victim of me it’s true
But you’re a member of the human race.

posted in Social, Songs | No Comments

Feb
03
1988

Wait

by Stephen Messer

To wait is to allow
This time to pass,
To allow this time to
Go.

Where does time go?
Where has time been?

Where is the future?
Where is the past?
Where is the present?

Present is only present,
At the present moment.

Every present moment
Is gone.

Every future moment
Is a past moment
To a moment further
In this future,
As every present
Moment (and there is
Only one)
Is a future moment
To those moments
Past.

To wait is to allow
Moments to change
From future moments
To past moments,

But those moments
Always are.
So what are we
Waiting for?

posted in Poems, Time | No Comments

Feb
03
1988

Two

by Stephen Messer

There are only two things
In the Universe
Worth living
For:

Everything

And

Nothing.

There are only two things
In the Universe.

posted in Metaphysical, Poems | No Comments

Feb
01
1988

Time

by Stephen Messer

In the incomprehensibility in a moment,
In the instant taken to try
To comprehend the instant,
The instant passes,
Is experienced, and is
To our experience, gone.

There is incomprehensibility in every
Instant,
For we can only experience
But not comprehend each instant:
We cannot comprehend time.

We may measure its passing –
Predict its motion, or
Anticipate its direction.

But we measure our experience of its passing,
Not its passing.
We predict our experience of its motion,
But not its motion.
We anticipate our experience of its direction,
But not its direction.

If time is measured by our experience,
And this experience is measured by time,
Does this limit our being to the existence
Of time and our experience?

In the instant of our passing,
Our own experience of this existence within this time
Does cease,
But time does not.
Since our own experience of this time does cease,
And time does not,
Our being must be beyond this time
And beyond this experience,
Or all must cease
With the cessation of experience
Of any being.

All will cease
With the cessation of any being.

posted in Metaphysical, Poems, Time | No Comments

Jan
28
1988

Walk

by Stephen Messer

I walk a dusty street alone,
Desolate, destitute,
Alone. I walk in company
Of thoughts. I walk in company
Of thieves, of prophets;
I walk in company
Of gods.

I walk in company of thoughts.

My thoughts.

I walk a dusty street, alone.

I kick the dust as I walk,
Amusing myself with images
Of dust playthings and
Dust monsters,
Formed in tiny clouds of
Dust which cloud the mind.

I walk in dust, heedless
Of my company.

The dust kicks back,
Playing with my own
Created images.
The capers of this dust
Amuse, entice,
And intimidate me,
Holding the thought.

Following other footprints
Left behind in
This foreboding dust,
Tracing other paths,
Of other things lost,
I walk and follow and move and
Think alone on this dusty road.

I walk and pass a streetlight,
A light, lighting my way.
But the light is diffused by
Dust; diffused, not focussed,
Confused, not illuminating.

That confused light confuses me.
The dust confusing that light,
Diffuses my thought,
Still holds my thought as I walk.

Without that meager glint of
Confused Light, I could not find
My way. I could not find any way –
Could not follow footprints,
Could not leave them behind.
Without diffused light, I would be
Lost: I could not be.

Whose footprints do I follow?
My feet fall perfectly
Into the place of each print ahead,
My foot fits perfectly into
Each print ahead.

I follow no one but myself,
Though I follow footprints,
They were not made by feet.
Those prints were made of dust,
Dust diffusing light,
Dust confusing thought.

Those prints were made of dust,
By dust and from dust.
It was confused thoughts which
Laid them there, where
My foot will fall with every step.
The path I follow has been created by me.
It was laid down by me.

The dusty street I walk is
My own dusty street, my own dust,
My own street.

I pass and look down other side streets,
I look and consider
Possibilities, but my feet fall
Perfectly into each place laid before me.
I cannot place my foot outside these
Dust prints, which took me
On their own streets.

I may consider and be curious as I wish,
But my wish creates more
Dusty side streets for other
Wondering walkers to peruse.

My wish creates more creations
In this dust and of this dust,
For my wish is for this dust.

And so I walk.
I walk this dusty street alone,
In company of thieves, of
Prophets;
I walk in company of
Gods.

I walk alone,
Heedless the company that I am.

This dusty street, must teach me and
From it I must learn
How not to make this dust the object of
My thought.

The less I think of this dust
The shorter my dusty street becomes.

I approach the end of this dusty street,
Where I may no longer follow footprints.
I may no longer follow footprints, but
Then I drift along a dusty street,
Drift along at the speed of thought,
Until no more dust can hold my mind.

When no more dust holds my mind,
I drift alone, I drift with my Selves.

I am my Selves, apart from this
Dusty street.

posted in Metaphysical, Poems, Social | No Comments

Jan
28
1988

A Trojan

by Stephen Messer

Each day passes,
Passes, long, long and hard.
As here we toil relentlessly,
Through an undergrowth
Of an underhanded scheme of life
In this underworld:
This world.
Toil and tribulation,
Struggle and pain,
In each day passing.
Toil and tribulation
For pathetic gain.
Toil and tribulation
In each god-sent daily gift.

I am told each day is a
God-sent gift,
And life is a gift of god.

But this gift,
This deistic offering from this
God is the very thing
That holds us,
Keeps us, takes us
And rapes us.
For with each day
Comes the toiling,
The tribulation,
The strife and pain.
Each day brings
Far far less worth
Than we could gain,
Or should be gaining.

Each gift from God,
Each day, is as the
Trojan gift,
A gift longed for and
Desired with all our
Energy,
That once accepted brings
More pain, more delusion,
More disharmony than
We ever could have
Imagined.

It was a gift from the
God of our Selves,
So well accepted
That now we have become
Engrossed in that gift.

We have lost the contact of the
Worlds outside this deistic gift
Of life, the gift of each
Day we experience, the gift of
Each day of pain and struggle
And Loss.

This gift could be good.
It is what we do with the gift of
Life that makes it good or bad.
We must realize and experience the
Goodness of this gift before we
Can be relieved of this trojan
Gift of Life.

posted in Introspection, Metaphysical, Poems | No Comments

Jan
28
1988

Guest

by Stephen Messer

Warily
We should walk upon this
Earth, as the guests
Of this molten mass
We are.
As amnesiac wayfarers
We wander over this
Small planet,
Forgetting all that
We have been and come from.

We forget we are merely guests,
And ravish the land,
We ravish and rubbish a planet
We can have no part of
For no part exists
As we see it
For anything other than our
Benefit.

But that benefit lies not
In its raping, but
In its understanding.

As a visitor to this planet
Our understanding of ourselves
And our relationship to
This planet as visitors,
Will ensure our visitation
Shall be fruitful,
And we shall benefit from
Being the guests of the earth.

But forgetting our impermanence
Here, forgetting our past,
Forgetting our arrival and not
Remembering our departure,
We see ourselves no longer
As guests of this earth,
But as the masters of the earth.

In our own misguided way
Our lack of understanding
Renders us prisoners
Instead of guests.

Imprisoned by our own
Lack of understanding,
Our own misguided desire.

Here we shall return and remain,
Until we realize the crimes which
Imprison us – until we pay for those crimes;
Until we learn to be guests again,
Until we learn not to rape the earth,
Our fellow guests,
Or ourselves.

posted in Poems, Social | No Comments

Jan
28
1988

Walk

by Stephen Messer

I walk a dusty street alone,
Desolate, destitute,
Alone. I walk in company
Of thoughts. I walk in company
Of thieves, of prophets;
I walk in company
Of gods.

I walk in company of thoughts.

My thoughts.

I walk a dusty street, alone.

I kick the dust as I walk,
Amusing myself with images
Of dust playthings and
Dust monsters,
Formed in tiny clouds of
Dust which cloud the mind.

I walk in dust, heedless
Of my company.

The dust kicks back,
Playing with my own
Created images.
The capers of this dust
Amuse, entice,
And intimidate me,
Holding the thought.

Following other footprints
Left behind in
This foreboding dust,
Tracing other paths,
Of other things lost,
I walk and follow and move and
Think alone on this dusty road.

I walk and pass a streetlight,
A light, lighting my way.
But the light is diffused by
Dust; diffused, not focussed,
Confused, not illuminating.

That confused light confuses me.
The dust confusing that light,
Diffuses my thought,
Still holds my thought as I walk.

Without that meager glint of
Confused Light, I could not find
My way. I could not find any way –
Could not follow footprints,
Could not leave them behind.
Without diffused light, I would be
Lost: I could not be.

Whose footprints do I follow?
My feet fall perfectly
Into the place of each print ahead,
My foot fits perfectly into
Each print ahead.

I follow no one but myself,
Though I follow footprints,
They were not made by feet.
Those prints were made of dust,
Dust diffusing light,
Dust confusing thought.

Those prints were made of dust,
By dust and from dust.
It was confused thoughts which
Laid them there, where
My foot will fall with every step.
The path I follow has been created by me.
It was laid down by me.

The dusty street I walk is
My own dusty street, my own dust,
My own street.

I pass and look down other side streets,
I look and consider
Possibilities, but my feet fall
Perfectly into each place laid before me.
I cannot place my foot outside these
Dust prints, which took me
On their own streets.

I may consider and be curious as I wish,
But my wish creates more
Dusty side streets for other
Wondering walkers to peruse.

My wish creates more creations
In this dust and of this dust,
For my wish is for this dust.

And so I walk.
I walk this dusty street alone,
In company of thieves, of
Prophets;
I walk in company of
Gods.

I walk alone,
Heedless the company that I am.

This dusty street, must teach me and
From it I must learn
How not to make this dust the object of
My thought.

The less I think of this dust
The shorter my dusty street becomes.

I approach the end of this dusty street,
Where I may no longer follow footprints.
I may no longer follow footprints, but
Then I drift along a dusty street,
Drift along at the speed of thought,
Until no more dust can hold my mind.

When no more dust holds my mind,
I drift alone, I drift with my Selves.

I am my Selves, apart from this
Dusty street.

posted in Introspection, Metaphysical, Poems | No Comments

Jan
28
1988

Guest

by Stephen Messer

Warily
We should walk upon this
Earth, as the guests
Of this molten mass
We are.
As amnesiatic wayfarers
We wander over this
Small planet,
Forgetting all that
We have been and come from.

We forget we are merely guests,
And ravish the land,
We ravish and rubbish a planet
We can have no part of
For no part exists
As we see it
For anything other than our
Benefit.

But that benefit lies not
In its raping, but
In its understanding.

As a visitor to this planet
Our understanding of ourselves
And our relationship to
This planet as visitors,
Will ensure our visitation
Shall be fruitful,
And we shall benefit from
Being the guests of the earth.

But forgetting our impermanence
Here, forgetting our past,
Forgetting our arrival and not
Remembering our departure,
We see ourselves no longer
As guests of this earth,
But as the masters of the earth.

In our own misguided way
Our lack of understanding
Renders us prisoners
Instead of guests.

Imprisoned by our own
Lack of understanding,
Our own misguided desire.

Here we shall return and remain,
Until we realize the crimes which
Imprison us – until we pay for those crimes;
Until we learn to be guests again,
Until we learn not to rape the earth,
Our fellow guests,
Or ourselves.

posted in Metaphysical, Poems, Social | No Comments

Jan
26
1988

Australia Day

by Stephen Messer

I cannot tell if the festivities are
Too deep within me
Or too far outside me to experience.
Even though I am unable to experience them,
I feel their presence.

I feel the festivities of my land,
Celebrating two centuries of
Growth, development, and ravishing;
Two centuries of rape,
Murder and profiteering;
Two whole centuries of defiling,
Mastery and decay.

But a young people, who would call
Themselves a people, celebrate.
I am of those people,
But not those people.
They are my people,
But I am not theirs.

Two centuries of mindlessness,
Two centuries of invasion,
Two centuries of mateship,
Two centuries of sweat, pain, grief, blood;
Two centuries to destroy
These millennia of heritage.

And I am not there.

My mind wanders the plains of
The outback, wades the creeks of the ranges;
My heart rambles through the
Sands and the bush and the scrub.
I commune with the forces to which
I am foreign.

I remain foreign.

As a foreigner at home, I cannot celebrate
These two long moments;
Long in time of man, but only
Moments in time of the land.
My heart and mind and soul
Are at home,
They are aware of festivities
But cannot partake in them.

Have these two long moments been
A loss or a gain?
Irrefutable as they may be,
Two centuries have brought about
A pride, unsurpassed.

A pride, surpassing memories of
The crimes of yesterday,
A pride, encompassing the
Crimes of yesterday.
I share that pride,
And am proud of the country I call home.

What crimes can there be as history follows
The meandering course of time?
The crimes of nations, the crimes
Of corruption, the crimes of redemption,
The crimes of survival.

But who survives?

One people invades and plunders;
Another continues.
One people grows and expands;
Another continues.
One people becomes great;
Another continues.
One people catabolizes;
Another continues.
One people laughs and corrupts;
Another would have continued.
One people usurps another,
And another is no more.
One people outgrows and destroys itself;
Another will continue.

Was a heritage lost or a nation gained?
It was not our heritage
And we did not lose it.
It was not their nation,
And they did not gain it.

And I am not there.

Was a people lost and a heritage gained?
They were not our people,
And we did not lose them.
It was not our heritage
And we did not gain it.

And I am not there.

Was a land lost and a people gained?
It was not our land
And we did not gain it.
They were not our people
And we did not gain them.

And I am not there.

Not being there I see more clearly now,
The course of nations,
The course of peoples,
The course of colors,
The course of races.

I have seen peoples more blind than
Ours, more victimized than theirs;
More corrupt than ours,
And more lost than theirs.
I have seen worse crimes,
And lesser punishments.
I have seen courses of nations,
And the course of our own.

Our own differs only in time and place
From those of the past,
From the courses of any blind society,
Or any lost people.
Our own crimes differ only in time and place
From crimes of the past,
And from crimes of the future:
All still are crimes.

As long as there are crimes
There will be more crimes.

As long as there are peoples,
There will be crimes.

Two centuries to celebrate.

And I am not there,

Though my heart remains in the only
Land I know how to call home.
My heart shares the pride of a land,
But the shame of a people,
The pride of a nation,
And the shame of a race.

Do I know I have the shame of a race?
It may not be my own shame but
I cannot be freed from it.
They are not my crimes, but I
Cannot be excused from them.

Though I empathize with our victims,
I wonder who the victims are.
Is it he who wanders, in
Spiritual harmony with his land,
In fullness of life and of existence?
He has lost a world, but not a spirit.

Or are we victims of our own hedonism,
Victims of our own indulgence?
Are we spiraling downward, ever
Downward, frenzied with material desires?
We have gained a world, but lost a spirit.

We may take away a land and destroy
A race,
But we cannot take away a spirit,
Or destroy a people.

Only a people can destroy themselves.

Let’s celebrate.

posted in Poems, Social | No Comments

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