Oh how I’ve come to realize,
How much more there is left unsurmised
By masses of persons and millions of people,
Who’re left to their own device.

Taught how not to think for themselves,
And learned by imitating the ways of the west,
They’re trapped in their own misguidance;
Not knowing what for them is best.

The media manipulates minds for the benefit
Of a politician’s ego, and a general’s resentment
Of another countries petty problems,
And the people end up with the worst of it.

Looking out upon a world
Smitten with grief and fear and war;
And seeing the poor man on the street,
With the Times for a blanket
And garbage to eat,
And seeing and seeing, but that’s all.
Perhaps fearing and hoping
My lot was not there,
And reassuring myself –
The chances are small.

Every day I look on a world,
That can fill a bum’s blanket
From cover to cover,
With the horror, some truths,
The lives and the deaths.
But a death a day keeps the sales OK,
As long as the daily death is about
Someone else.
(Death should be read about,
But not seen – and never faced.)

And I think of a death
And I think of a tomb,
But why should it scare me?
I’ve nothing to lose!

So many of them
I call my friends:
Those I love.

They live in a land
I proudly call home.
A land I never left,
But in body.
As much a part of me,
This wide brown land,
As are the friends
That make up my being.

Those from my youth,
From my childhood;
Those whom I love,
I miss;
Many, many –
Too many times, for
Their presence
I have wished.

But their presence here
Away from that land
Could not be the same:
I left of my own accord,
And will return to the
Land of my home.
I shall return to that part
Of my life,
(As often in memory I go)
To my friends,
And the heart
(My home).

That land is my friend too.
How many times have I wandered
Its shores,
Pondering?
Walked Solitary, just me
And the trails
Over land
Unadulterated by man.

And I know and I fear,
That man shall be there
In the places my solitude
Would reign:
The lonely seashores,
The lakes and the moors,
And the mountains
The bush and the streams.
The deserts, the caves,
The beaches, the waves,
The sands, the dunes,
And the fields;
The plains, and
The trees,
The roos, and wallabies;
And the birds,
The snakes and the lizards.
And my friend the spider,
And the friendly blue skies
And the rains and the storms
And the seasons.
The cold and the hot,
The laugh, good and long,
Of a kookaburra, alone in the trees.
I remember too well,
The bush tracks and trails,
The harbours, the sails,
The dolphins, jellyfish,
And the sharks.
But what’s remembered
And cherished most,
And forever
Follows wherever I go,
Is the laughter, the
Love and the cheer,
And the jokes, and the play,
And the bored lost days,
And the friends
That I don’t have here.

What will of the mind can one master,
When will’s control is taken by things:
Things of this place on the earth’s face,
And of this time and the occupied space.

Will’s distraction and unbound predilection
For the inabsolute, mere physical direction,
Desired and sought, and chased and wrought,
Leads away from the Spirit’s development.

Whate’er in this world a child is taught,
Or rather, learns by imitation of elders,
Propogates and perpetuates this very society
Which seldom states anything on a Spirit’s development.

Why is to be young again
Such a deeply held dream
For so many of the people,
In latter years of life?

Why is to be youthful
Such a consummate passion
In their despondant time,
Their age of regret?

What regret should
There be, that
Life must go on?
For life must go on
To be worth living.

Eternal youth:
A narcissistic dream,
Defeats Life’s own purpose,
For those for whom
Life does have purpose.

But for the unwary,
Unwilling and ignorant man,
With more time to pursue
His youth chasing plans
Than he has to find
Any reason for age,
Or for life in itself;
Such as Narcissus
Have no purpose
In life;
No purpose in age;
Nothing beyond life;

Nought beyond Death.

He who is youthful
In spirit
Is youthful as
He should be,
For a youthful spirit
Is a part of
The wisdom of age.