The Agony & The Ecstasy.

A couplet of poems.

Part #2..The Ecstasy.

A new love.

Faith!…hold true, sweet Aphrodite,

For what you have brought to me.

The raptured joy of new love,

A celebration of joined ecstasy.

But this woman is so precious,

With eyes deep, dark, mysterious,

As black, black pearls from the depths,

Of the deepest of the Euxine Sea!

Her lips a red voluptuousness,

Would kiss the life from me!

Reborn me then with her body lush.

In a rush of pure, heightened ecstasy.

The erotic..Eros..has taken me,

To a place of concealed beauty,

That place where unfeigned lovers go,

Each other to other embracing,

Without shame, without fear, all aglow.

Her long hair falling just right,

Covering those curves of pure delight,

Impertinent in desire to see thee

Naked in sensual erotica, forgive me,

A man who has bask’d his eyes,

Upon vision splendid and desires more,

More of thou’s adorned bodily delights,

To drink thirstily your well of sweet water,

To banquet gluttonously of thou’s gourmet body.

To see your peachy cheeks shining into my eyes,

 A full moon in clear skies..took my breath away,

I kiss it..I kiss it!….fair maid I swoon I must say.

I am but a man who hungers the absolution,

Of thy woman’s erotic, sexual blessings.

The Agony & The Ecstasy.

A couplet of poems.

Part one ; The Agony.

Jealous lover.

Jealousy.

‘Tis jealousy’s finger, I’m certain,

Shapes my thoughts, turns my mind,

Its persuasive strokes caress a concern,

And causes me discomfort inside,

But why not?

Do we not treasure what we value,

So that it holds precious to our parts?

Should a lover not also covert,

Such protection for an aching heart?

What lie is it we tell ourselves,

That our person is without envy within,

No disquiet, no worry, neither suspicion nor sin?

But stay..stay..my jealousy is but a quiet thing,

Held privately, of a part, inside my wretched heart,

To reflect within on mine own failing,

For could I have been the better lover,

Better conversationalist, generous provider?

But no…just as faith wears thin,

From a futility of too much praying,

So too affection blanches away

From love’s prolonged overstaying,

For what possession really can be owned,

When one is but a voyeur seeing,

Those private delights a lover displays,

With some private moment’s viewing.

Then let my jealousy be a trophy,

To cupid’s arrows shafted accurately,

For I can now but turn my eyes askance,

Cold loneliness flow on from lost romance,

While witnessing her warmly embracing,

A new lover to her so delightfully entranced.

Homage.

Homage.

Can a man be counted a fool,

Should he to beauty of women homage do?

What would you…

There she is .. even in silent, stilled loveliness,

With her dark, disquiet eyes,

Does a woman not exude cool attraction?

Should a man ignore and walk past,

Then it would be crime against all nature,

For what other reason to sculpt’ perfect,

Body, hair, eyes in stature Goddess like?

So yes…I pay homage to that beauty,

Ignore it not, at my peril,

Lest some archangels be watching,

As I insultingly disdain .. walk out the door,

To then be banished from adoration,

Of that universal delight to everyman evermore…

So yes..I pay homage to her which I do adore.

Passages to a Dark Lady….sixth part.

#51.

Come the end of Autumn will you think of me?

Those days of Summer passing, languid by the sea,

We loved through those wild days so recklessly.

But with Autumn leaves now falling,

Now come the end of the season,

Meaning lost, time gone by, a great distance,

Between thou and I..so far away from thee,

#52.

Will you recall one sweet kiss in summer’s bliss,

When cold wind blows, will you still think of me?

Now gone..no desperate acts from me,

Tho’ gone the love..the thrilling eroticy,

Let just be grateful for what once was and…

Give gentle reverence of how it came to be.

Yet still leave perchance, to fate’s possibility.

#53

‘Twas the uncertainty of the relationship,

Made it thrilling for me..and for thee?

Please..never, never stop being a mystery.

Tho’ I have not in this time laid eyes on thee,

I have a vision that all too frequent touches me,

Sending shiver of thrilling sensation over my body,

Starts near my heart and spreads over completely.

#54.

A voyeur’s desire…I do see thee…

Long, black gown, tight, kid leather gloves to the elbow,

Small clutch purse of ermine and black leather show,

Lace of emerald jewels platinum set on thou’s pale neck…

A fine slip of silk, black-stockinged legs,

High heels…………

Would you show yourself to me?

#55.

Undress the clothing from your body…slowly,

Or pray..let me?…

Gown, silken slip…no..leave the high heels on,

Fine brassier, lace underwear, let them fall to the floor,

Done, one at a time, With measured movements of soft sounds,

Would you show your scented body to me, naked,

Only to me…for that I may adore?

#56.

Circe!

Beautiful Queen of an ancient regime,

Lounging decadent on her jewelled chaise-lounge,

Feted by many suitors seeking her favours,

So she lay there in quiet contemplation..her elation.

A bowl of rich cherries at her elbow she chooses,

She plucks one from the bowl every now and then,

With slow, halting, deliberate lip movements, consumes it.

#57.

By which she both excites and taunts her suitors,

Until, deciding upon one for the night to “amuse” her,

She brazenly spits a cherry-seed to his lap,

Along with a following smile on her lips,

Disdaining the wanting eyes of those left,

Throwing careless accolades of flattery to her feet,

To see such desperate words fall dead in defeat.

#58.

The tragedy of the age is for beauty of spirit,

To become the plaything of a cabal of cognoscenti,

Mystics and priests babbling chants incoherently.

Beauty of heart become ideology of political identity,

Bending humanism into twisted individualism,

While beauty of body be scorned as futile effrontery,

So is natural evolution steered to cosmetic surgery.

#59.

That old tent-maker; Omar Khayyam’s,

Rubaiyat says ; “I often ponder on what the vintner buys,

One half so precious as the stuff he sells.”

I too ponder on a similar conundrum,

When I come to consider about thee and me,

While obvious to myself your sensual delight,

I do wonder on exchange value extracted by thee.

#60.

What value a woman’s contract with man’s incessant chatter?

 So too the draw of men to feminine beauty, no case to answer,

Just to accept the situation as casual gender banter,

A silken thread woven into our life tapestry,

Precious stitch winding through mine own senses,

Like a glory-vine about trunk of an aging gum tree.

And for thine disquiet eyes, O’ Dark Lady……I indeed thank thee.

Passages to a Dark Lady ….fifth part.

#41.

How severe laughing mockery does come,

In equal part to that sweet flattery given,

When once a lover fresh to a lover’s flesh,

Would worship the pleasures to a lover done.

How severe the critic’s envy edged tone,

The laughing, pointing, cynical drones,

Who never, never sought love’s sweet home.

#42.

I seek no redemption nor crude condescension,

For what I did purposely invite,

Was not the game I played my every right,

To every man or woman seeks fancy flight,

To that wonderful world of erotic height ,

Sight, sound, fury of sexual dreams at night,

‘Twould leave one’s heart in breathless delight .

#43.

Such are lowly ambitions of so many men,

That they would scorn contact familiarity,

With what is granted in such sensuous beauty,

By which we call Mother Nature by any name,

Truly a reward of tremendous, high bounty,

For no simpler outlay than honest compliment,

Have warm desirable beauty of a woman lent.

#44.

What poor cut of man would not lay pride,

Would not purposely lay his manhood aside,

As trophy to the feet of a woman’s grace,

Should she grant him choice of place,

And let this woman be the one whose love,

Would grace his table with banquet fair,

And sing his praise in songs of a loving air.

#45.

Every man with lived knowledge harbours,

The courting of favour to a woman he favours,

Demands the doing so with fearlessness,

For the female of the species..ANY specie,

Is a being most unforgiving and ferocious,

So court her from a wrong angle, make blunder,

Is to risk wretchedness of a heart torn asunder.

#46.

But that is the risk such pleasure brings,

For there is no pleasure greater for man,

Than riotous joys of womanly tidings.

Such sensuous delights and eroticism,

Is worthy the treasures of any kingdom,

And the caress of a favoured concubine,

Be greater than riches of Croesus or Midas combined.

#47.

“Somewhere between the soul and the divine,

Between that love you seek and the love you find,

Is a place of absolute beauty, there confined.”

I sought that place of beauty concealed there,

And indeed, I touched it so gentle sometime,

But it….I could not keep hold in my arms,

Could not contain such wild desire with naive charms.

#48.

Be bold young man and not allow be scold,

By any number of finishing school frauds,

Castrati eunuchs playing their role of tools,

To harridans bent on re-writing gender rules,

Yours the choice, young man, yours the voice,

Let no lost soul’s fiction, rewrite your diction,

Look to yourself and make do with best intention.

#49.

Disregard outrage t‘would demand we conform,

To crazed zealots that would take control,

And bend the genders to a shape awry all,

Take to a dark, lonely place isolating each from each,

Deny to women their beauty – to men that admiration,

Capture emotion, sensuality to sterile debate,

Blindly drag mutual desire into that lonely heartbreak.

#50.

From mutual affection, Focusing on conflicts,

 An absurd denial of an unstoppable impetus,

That draws a man toward a woman, creating connection,

Physical, emotional, spiritual, matched in honest intention,

More knowing dedication to each other than any other relationship,

In natural kingdom on this Earth, toward adoration, journey of delight,

For in truth; “A house without a woman is but a lantern without light.”

A Compendium of a Wog’s Moggs.

By Giuseppe Carli.

I have had many cats,

I have had a few doggies too,

The cats I have to say,

Are more soft and cuddly, aye,

And..

Though dogs DO have their charms,

They can be quite twitchy in one’s arms,

And worse..you’ll admit this too,

they do do larger doggy-doos!

Mimi.

My name is “Mimi”,

And this is my security box.

It sits next to my cat-bird seat,

It’s where I make my plots,

To raid my servant’s pantry.

And if they leave roast to cool,

After have their tea,

I may steal a little cut or two,

To take back to this box of mine,

To gobble down in security.

The grey tabby.

The Black Cat

May look smart,

But it’s got no evidence

On me.

And until they perfect

Paw prints,

I’ll sit here looking sweet

And “innocent”…

Signed: The Grey Tabby.

Cat on the kitchen bench alas.

Cat on the kitchen bench alas,

Licking its paw,

Looking quite flash…

Now where that chicken piece,

I left to defrost…..?

Cat on the kitchen bench..alas..

Patting Giuseppe.

I have to pat him carefully,

Or he oft’ squeals in pain,

Casts me off his person,

So all that patting was in vain,

Then I’ll have to climb up,

Once more to his shoulder,

And start pat, patting him,

All over and over again!

The world outside.

I don’t like the world outside,

It’s full of wild, wild things,

I’m sure from which I’ll hide.

No…

I don’t like the world outside,

It’s cold and cruel and mean,

Whereas inside, there’s soft mats,

Lots of cuddles and pats,

But above all…

It’s so nice, warm and clean.

Through the open door.

I would like to wander once more,

For sure I could be a hunter,

And stalk the wild, ferocious boars,

That I’m certain live out there,

Through the open door.

But then again,

Perhaps I’ll think on it,

Leave it go for another day,

For I do believe I just heard,

In my servant’s calling words,

That the roast dinner now,

Was just about to be served!

The cat likes to nap.

I have a cat,

It likes to nap.

And when it naps,

It likes to nap,

Upon my lap.

And as far as she’s concerned…

That’s that!

The private love affairs of Mildred Scrygmore.

Mildred was born with an odd shaped body, THAT was the starting point of her life’s dilemma…sort of like a cube with arms and legs sticking out of it…also, of course, a head…and while the body held little attraction, her head, ie ; face, hair and shape was quite attractive…one of nature’s ways perhaps, of mocking a person’s chances of ever holding down a love affair on the strength of appearance alone.

As indeed was the case as Mildred grew from child to adult…Having survived the torture of childhood school teasing with mocking nicknames like ; “The Cube” (shortened, as students do from “the cube squared”) and various personal slights, she sought to obtain trade skills to allow her to live an independent life away from either relationship and poverty. Mildred trained to become a hairdresser..a skill she triumphed at and a way of life that allowed her to work and eventually buy premises of her own..It was in this salon that catered for both women and men that Mildred established the confidence of an independent woman..even..after some number of years in the trade, being able to employ another hairdresser to assist in a growing clientele.

Neither the language of love nor the physical contact of such entered Mildred’s life in all the years of growing and maturing into middle-age, save a couple of rather fractious, failed affairs that ended sadly..not badly, as they were too tragic in both male compatibility and consideration..but sadly…The fact that also being an only child, lent the obligation of caring for her aged parents when the time came for their needing to be housed in a unit at a care complex…Mildred occupied the other bedroom in the unit and commuted to her salon from that address for many years until her mother passed away and her father was left in her care with his several health problems until he too did pass on..so neither social life nor love-life was a serious consideration.

In this period of enforced duties, Mildred’s salon grew in clientele and she prospered so that Mildred herself could cut back on her clients and refer some that she was not so enamoured with to the hired employee hairdressers…In this manner, Mildred was left with those…mostly men… whom she liked to touch and to handle their hair and even could flirt with in that harmless hairdresser to client way, the conversations flowing in a jocular way from the weather to the cost of cocktails in the local hotel..in this manner, Mildred honed her client base down to a selected number of men whose ages varied from their twenties to a more genteel sixties and even one man in his early seventies..Josef..of Slavic nationality..who held a warm place in her heart for the candid but soft flattery he spoke to her about a respect for her professionalism and his concern for her health…a subject most pressing on Josef’s own mind as he advanced down the path of aging.

It was after a trip and fall on the footpath outside the salon one day, that resulted in a broken wrist and six months recuperation from the required activities of her trade, that Mildred first conceived of the idea of using her male clients as “captive”, close contact stimuli for erotic sensations..an idea grown from a resentment of her enforced loneliness and the perceived future prospects of any love affair actually happening..Mildred contemplated the dangers of discovery if caught in the action of such desire…but remembering the training back in her apprenticeship days of how to avoid “the touching male” customer and how some men would use the closeness of the hairdresser to surreptitiously press an elbow or forearm against the body of the woman attending to their hair..the training went to great length to train the female hairdressers on how to position themselves so as to avoid the situation of such harassment ever arising…body positions were practiced when in close to trim eyebrow or moustache…or when holding the head back to check symmetry of the beard cut..such training allowed Mildred to contemplate body positions to allow her to move into the personal space of the male customers without their being aware of her manoeuvring..after all, the hairdresser was one of only a few people permitted by the person themselves to touch and caress without protest or complaint those most sensitive parts of the head and face..yes…it was time for Mildred to take some lovers of her own choosing.

The selection of Mildred’s ‘lovers” was done with great care..after all, was this not to be HER choice for Her pleasure at Her convenience?…So after judicious consideration of a choice between seven or eight regular male customers, Mildred honed the number down to three..three carefully chosen lovers that she would manipulate to gain erotic satisfaction from in the most subtle means.

Mildred chose Janus, a cheerful hipster of dubious actual qualification but effervescent enthusiast who made his living contributing to the “Gig Economy”..a living not actually of any particular use or productivity, but allowed him time and space to pursue his social adventures with on-line dating which were in truth, his primary raison de’ terre for existing. Mildred’s choice of this particular young man gave her the pleasure of “using” him unwittingly to satisfy her own hedonistic pleasure..a cruel yet just reward.

Janus had the virile energy of a young man in his mid-twenties..he was full to the gills of chat-up and enthusiasm for what he saw as a bright and promising future in his chosen employment of on-selling sports apparel via an online outlet that had its own web address which he called his “virtual department store”..He complemented this career with enthusiastic attendance to a local gym to..as he proudly showed to Mildred..develope his “abs” and “biceps”…even encouraging Mildred to give those biceps a squeeze of appreciation..which she did with raised eyebrows and affected enthusiasm…so quite often, coming to the salon from a “workout” and shower at the gym, he would have fine beads of perspiration on his forehead as he sat in Mildred’s barber chair and instructed her on what he thought his haircut should finish as.

Mildred trimmed his eyebrows to suit his vanity and there, noticing the film of perspiration on his brow, she spoke to him in a gentle but commanding tone..

“Just tilt your head back a shade so I can check if I got your eyebrows equal “… Janus of course obliged and allowed Mildred to take his head in both her hands and bring it back to rest on her breasts..quite un-noticeably to Janus, who could never perceive that a woman of Mildred’s age or stature would use him as a sexual object..

Mildred, with his head sitting on the soft cushion of her bosom, proceeded, under the guise of straightening Janus’s eyebrows, to stroke with her index fingers both eyebrows as if to straighten the hair, when in fact, she was gathering on her finger tips a film of perspiration from his brow…having achieved her intention after several strokes, Mildred straightened up Janus’s head and reassured him of the balanced look of his eyebrows..and while the vanity of the young man bade him examine his face closely in the mirror, Mildred turned her back to attend to her trolley of instruments and products there and in this action, she placed her index fingers one at a time in her mouth to suck off the film of sweat onto her tongue that she had gathered from the young man’s brow..she licked her lips upon extracting her fingers so as to savour the taste of Janus’s salty sweat..she then contemplated to herself whether his semen would have a similar salty taste..a subliminal thrill of desire warmed her body at the thought of vigorously fellating Janus, to then have him ejaculate into her mouth..

This fantasy was of no discomfort nor was it disconcerting to Mildred, for it was just that..a fantasy that had no possibility of happening nor any repercussions to either disgust her, Janus or anyone else on the planet, and having long ago come to such comforting conclusion, Mildred allowed the most extreme and outrageous fantasies to cogitate through her thoughts as she daydreamed at work on those men in her salon or while laying comfortable in her warm bed at any hour of the night…her world of erotic desire was her own to think or feel as she pleased.

The second male on the list was a man of approximately the same age as Mildred, if not several years older..an engineer by profession, very meticulous in habit and sartorial dress..his regular visits to the hairdresser coincided with his regular appointments in the city with allied professional persons..Mildred chose him for the comfortable security he radiated from his person, also the exacting certainty of his opinions on many subjects reminded her of her father when she was a younger woman..so Mildred would pay close attendance on his demands for the haircut he preferred..and in turn, Eric…for that was his name..would trust Mildred most emphatically to attend to that exact fastidiousness..so much so that he could sometimes be observed with eyes closed to be in a kind of dozing trance as she moved her fingers about his scalp..a pleasure attended to and taken advantage of with more than passing enthusiasm by Mildred.

For Mildred, this was a different level of erotica..not so much as blatantly sexual, as was her thoughts with Janus, but on a differing pitch..with Eric, it was more of a personal touch / feel thing, his person being of such similarity to her father, she deigned to feel a sexual desire rather than a comforting reassurance via just running her fingers through his hair and over his cranial skin..and it was through this touching, that Mildred felt such a warm inner glow that allowed..nay…PERMITTED her to fantasise about the male body in general..and with Eric present and in total acceptance of Mildred’s handling of his person, she felt a command of her passions that in the time of her father’s actual living, she rarely had..his presence in either person or personality dictating, if not actual discipline, then a subliminal control of obedience to his own generation’s moral behaviour..now here, in her own studio, with her father now actually deceased but with this living effigy in HER control in HER chair and in such a situation to be impotent himself in a controlling sense, she could command his attention and yet still retain her own psychologically comforting sexuality toward men. In this manner, Mildred had finally overpowered the dominating influence of her father.

“ I have a meeting this week with the minister for transport” Eric spoke “there is opportunity for my company to bid for several overpass bridges for the new East – West bypass..so I am counting on presenting my best physical appearance to the authority…I trust I can count on you, Mildred to do me well..”

“ Well, Eric, “ was Mildred’s syrupy reply “ I can only say that knowing your style of cut so well by now, I will do my best…now you just relax here in the chair…yes..you can close your eyes and I will attend to you as best is possible.” And she finished with the laying of her hand familiarly on his shoulder in a reassurance much as she used to do when attending to her father as he sat invalided in his lounge chair while she saw to his comforts in the last years of his life under her care.

It was in the touching care of her father, that Mildred became so aware of the different textures of the skin of a person..from the neck to the actual torso, she noted the differentiation of texture, softness and sensitivity of tissue to touch..Mildred extrapolated this knowledge with experimentation on her clients..that is, where to touch on the head or neck…even the ears..to get a certain response, how to manipulate a flinch or reaction with just a stroke or gentle touch here or there…such knowledge gave Mildred the power to generate a more accurate and scintillating control over the men in her chair.

Eric grunted a pleasing affirmation and settled back in the salon chair..let Mildred tuck in a tissue around his neck with her usual tender touch and with her fingers in one deft stroking sweep around and up his neck, closed his eyes and let her get on with her job.

Mildred gazed at the reflection of Eric in the mirror with his closed eyes and she smiled a comforting smile to herself as she sprayed a hushing mist of water over his hair while she Welsh-combed it through tenderly with the fingers of her right hand..she was now in charge.

The third man was a more risky proposition..Josef..a retired cabinetmaker of senior years, but with a thick head of hair that perfectly resembled what could be described as Slovakian genius gone mad!..Josef would telephone the salon in no fixed timetable and in a panic beg a place in Mildred’s busy schedule so as..as he says : “Rid myself of this incessant growth that is intent on consuming my entire head!”..he was funny, chatty in a rather subversive way and his voluminous, wavy hair and beard, gave Mildred plenty of time to “work her magic” on his person..Josef was Mildred’s favourite by a long way…and though he was aged quite a few years above Mildred, she could ascertain that his body, through many years of physical labour, had retained a manly physique that was still firm to her touch..indeed, when the haircut and beard trim was finished, the resulting change of appearance from “wild man of Borneo” to handsome silver-hair gentleman was remarked upon as both extraordinary and rather pleasing by any other women there in the salon on the day..and so it was with him that Mildred was most provocative in her erotic touching, leaning in on his person in such a way so as to rub her lower body against his extended elbow under the hairdressing cape..or she would press her breasts against his shoulders and the back of his head as she pulled his head back to trim his voluptious beard..Josef allowed these close contact intrusions by Mildred because..as Mildred herself figured, he was of such an age that he not only would let her be so familiar with his person, but quite correctly, he being now alone in the world, would welcome her chatty, touchy – feely attendance to his person.

This apparently satisfactory arrangement went on for quite some time, even several years as Josef was only in the habit of having a haircut every three or four months in the year..but then one day, as Mildred was trimming the moustache of his beard, and in doing so was pressing her pelvic Mons Venus a bit too sensuously against his protruding elbow under the hairdressing cape, Josef turned his gaze onto Mildred’s eyes, and in gazing back into her all consuming stare into his own eyes..as she was wont to do as part of her sensuous consumption of his person, he very quietly and softly said..

“Mildred” (while others were in the habit of shortening Mildred’s name to “Millie”, Josef always addressed Mildred with her full name) ”..you are pressing your pussy very firmly onto my arm..is there something you wish to tell me?” and he held her gaze in fixed stare into his own eyes. Mildred froze at the shock of being found out..even apparently so obviously found out..and was about to plead innocence, when Josef moved his other arm from the side of the cape and brought a finger to her lips to silence her.

“ You are a very professional worker” he started in hushed tones so as not to draw the attention of the other hairdresser in the salon..who, fortunately was a loud chattering woman who barely stopped for breath in her talking.. “ I have been aware for several years of your..attentions to my person while I sit here in a state of a “captured quarry”..and if I might quickly reassure you..a most welcome diversion for myself in your attentions. But I have to wonder to myself that here is a very professional woman who must be very aware of protecting her body from close contact with the men she attends to in her salon..after all, such contact could draw unwanted advances from some ..certain types..” Josef paused in his confiding whispers and held Mildred’s gaze intently… he continued while Mildred maintained her posture of appearing to trim his beard, the battery trimmer humming a noisy overture to his words..” so I have to ask myself..is this action of Mildred pressing her soft pussy against my arm a deliberate act that satisfies her own desires…and I have to confess to myself that yes, I am convinced that it is so…am I correct?”…Mildred returned her deep stare into his eyes and without saying a word, nodded ever so gently…Josef returned her nod and gave Mildred a slow wink, then gestured for her to put her ear close to his lips so he could whisper to her..

“Go out to the back room, remove your underwear and undo the one button there in front of your pussy..then return to the other side of me..and we will move to please us both…” and Josef’s eyes and Mildred’s eyes remained locked together in deep concentration.

All this secrecy was done under the shield of noise from the battery trimmer held in Mildred’s hand..

Mildred paused at this request from Josef…she paused and thought a moment, for here was the crossing of a line…an action that would have continuous consequences once she committed herself to Josef’s desires….but then she suddenly realised..was this not her ultimate desire also..to be quietly and secretly seduced, in her salon, secretly in front of her employee and customers by this “anonymous client lover”..for however much she knew Josef, he still would remain strictly as a client while in her salon..

Mildred stopped the noisy trimmer, placed it slowly and carefully with the others in her utility tray and with a whimsical smile to Josef, went out the back of the salon and did as instructed.

A Collection of Joe Carli’s Famous Proverbs and Parables…#2.

Proverb : “Forgiveness for those that deserve it, crosses for those that can bear them.”

Parable : The “Tank Sisters”.

The Tank Sisters were a couple of voluminous and weighty ladies (not related in any family sense) that hung around the front bar of the Seacliff Hotel..why, was anyone’s guess..as there was little prospect of linking up with any respectable males in that establishment..at least not this side of sobriety..which, of course led to this little tale.

Overheard conversations of lurid desires between the two ladies had been reported at different times, but the reproduction of those intimate details is best left to more scurrilous publications.. sufficient to relate that the general complaint between them was that if they didn’t get some sexual satisfaction soon (they didn’t say it QUITE like that!) , “It would heal up”…whatever the “It” was.

There were rumours that Little Johnny, the SP. (starting price) bookie was running a tote on which of the ladies would anally absorb a bar-stool first…such was the broad beam of their backsides! 

My old mate , Mark..you have heard me mention him in that story of ; “To the Lighthouse”..well, Mark had a Saturday morning routine he would rarely swerve from, and that involved getting to the front-bar of the Seacliff Hotel just at opening time, claiming his favourite spot at the bar with an uninterrupted view of the television set to watch the days footy, open his copy of the Saturday paper at the horse racing page and settle in to a good days exercise.

This morning, rather than being the first to the bar, he had to share his place with Tim the plumber….who, Mark noticed was sitting sombre mood, slouched, arms crossed on the bar encompassing a pint of beer…further, Tim appeared to be in some kind of trance, staring at the rising bubbles in the amber fluid.

“G’day Tim..” Mark greeted “How’s it going?”

“Huruumph!..fuckin’ shithouse!” Tim growled out the corner of his mouth.

“Why..what’s the matter?” Mark inquired as he snapped open his paper.

“Well, I got pissed last night, didn’t I ?” Tim took a long draught of the’hair of the dog’.

“So..” Mark shrugged “You get pissed every Friday night”.

“Yeah, well..” and here, Tim tossed and fiddled with the coins on the bar-mat…he finally confessed ; “..I..I woke up this morning , at about one o’clock , on the beach , with one of the Tank Sisters hanging off my dick !”

Mark lowered the paper down , turned his head slowly toward Tim, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the seriousness of the situation.

“JeEEzus, mate!…wadidyado ?…”

At this moment of reflection, Tim gave one of those involuntary spasm jerks of the arm..making his beer spill a tad.

“ Fuck it!..waddya think I did ?! ” he angrily spat..

Now, neither Mark , nor anyone else of that front-bar clientele has ever inquired to Tim for the answer to that question….nobody wanted to know…

Proverb : “Those who are full never believe those who are hungry”.

Parable : That “Australia Day” Honours List. So now we got Australia Day coming around again, with, one expects the usual suspects getting all the gongs…..

Look..I’m not jealous, BUT..Why are there never any tradies given the gong for “job well done” when it comes to recognition of one’s efforts..Why is a fast runner, a media queen, a diligent scientist or even a bee-keeper held in higher esteem than your local honest tradie…ok, ok…your local tradie?…

Why are accolades of swooning compliments pasted with wincing obsequiousness icing-like over those selected from elite and popular pastimes while the merits of great..even supreme sacrifice to one’s trade skills overlooked for the glittering prizes…Whyyy, I don’t like to boast or to blow my own trumpet on such sensitive issues, but I have distinct recall of certain customers back in my trade-working days who would heap praise upon my carpentry skills when a solution for a particularly tricky bit of construction was called for..

“Joe..you’re a genius!” was more than once heralded upon my skills with saw and mallet..”How did you think of THAT?” was another fulsome acknowledgement toward my capacity and dedication to my trade..AND..not just me!..there were others…I’m sure…I mean..look at Keith the plumber who worked out the re-routing of the black-water septic under the floor of Jack Androlopolous’s granny-flat secretly into the neighbours sewerage pipe..They toasted a retsina or two to THAT idea..or Ron-th’-brickie, when he suggested it would be a better thing if they plastered over his brick-work for appearances sake..a solution avoided before out of mistaken sensitivity….but where were the accolades for THAT self-sacrifice.. those great achievements?..where the glittering prizes?..not for the tradie the PM handshake…the trophy upon the wall..the embossed certificate or that piccy in the paper..Nothing , save a disgruntled phone call of “So where the hell are you?”…or “WHAT!…more materials?”..and it’s back to the blood sweat and tears on the job without the least thanks..

And don’t even mention the cultural contributions gifted to the nation by the tradie…f’rinstance..I suppose many of you have heard the expression used in surfing mythology of “hanging five”..being, of course the practice of hanging five toes over the nose of the surf-board whilst skeeting down the face of a wave…Well..I bet you don’t know where THAT little icon of surfabillia came from…: Tony Simmioni and the fifth-floor concrete pour of the Waymouth St Telephone exchange back in the  60’s…Yep!..hard to believe, eh?…but there you go.. It happened that Tony Simmioni, the carpenter foreman in charge of the pour there, was standing on a plank on the edge of the concrete pour observing, when the concrete pump hose did a sudden flick, like they do, and knocked the edge of the plank he was standing on and it swung out of a sudden over the edge of the scaffolding and Tony was suspended out over the edge of the building, five floors up, in a crouching position, arms akimbo as he kept his balance and his front left Blunstone boot was hanging over the edge of the end of the plank whilst it pivoted and hovered over the abyss…and for just that short moment, before he was swung back to safety, he held that now well-known classic position of the surfer in juxtaposition with the wilds of nature at his back and his trusty surfboard under his feet, a mile-wide smile upon his face and those five toes hanging over the nose of the board…”hangin’ five”..

One of the labourers there at the time..a shortish blond-haired young bloke named “Farrelly”…was ”Midge” was his nick-name?..I can’t recall, but he was heard to comment upon the sight of Tony Simmioni wobbly-legged hanging over the edge of the plank..

“I reckon I could maybe hang five toes like that upon my “Malibu” surfboard down at Moana …”

Here’s the resulting song!.. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pgx3p3wlqMc

And so history was born…but did Tony Simmioni get a mention in the song…noooo way..no accolades for the tradie…and another thing..I bet not many of you really know how the discovery of the “X-ray” really happened..but “Smokey” the clumsy, inept electrician could enlighten you…but hey..that’s another story..right now, I gotta go back and listen to ANOTHER boring story of the development of Quantum computer physics or something..

It’s SO unfair!

Proverb: A bitter heart will sour the sweetest soul.

Parable:   Milan’s first wife left him and her baby very early in their marriage. She became ill with a rather common debilitating mental illness, and as the medical treatment in those days in Australia was hopelessly inadequate, she was left to carry on by her own . She couldn’t cope and simply left home, left the baby girl, left her husband and finally left the country and went back to Europe where she disappeared from Milan’s life.

In due course after several years, Milan met another woman, a single woman who helped him raise the child. She lived with him for ten years and then they married and she had a baby also, a son. The girl had grown up and was cared for (if maybe a bit too sternly) as the new wife’s own daughter.

Now, every birthday from seven years on, the girl would receive a letter and a parcel from France, from her estranged mother. Sometimes there would be a few notes of currency enclosed. Janice, Milan’s second wife was at first not perturbed at these little gifts. But over the years, and particularly when the girl reached teenage years, she seemed to become a little offended at the daughter’s glee upon receiving these gifts.

“Oh”, the girl would exclaim in happiness, “My mother has sent me something!” and she would take the parcel off to her room to open it.

Janice would look scornful and sorrowful at the same time and would complain to Milan.

“See, see, off to her room with the precious gift, ha! and it wasn’t that woman who raised her, no … it was me who worried when she was sick! So what does she care for me? … no … (and here she would sometimes have tears come to her eyes) not for me the respect she saves for her mother that deserted her” Milan would drop the corners of his mouth and sigh.

One day a letter arrived saying that Milan’s first wife was coming out to Australia for a visit, to see her daughter. Janice was caught between her love of the daughter and the bitter-ness of a feeling of betrayal of the girl’s love for her mother.

Not long after the visit by the mother, one evening, they were visiting a friend, and as they sat in the darkened lounge lit only by the open fire, Janice talked off-handedly of the mother’s recent visit.

“Oh yes, she came over one night last week … hrumph! the way she talked, hrumph! as if I was an interloper, as if I was the one who broke up her family … I soon put her in her place!”

“Well, she didn’t really infer that you …” Milan spoke up.

“Oh no! not to you, no you wouldn’t see, you’re not a woman … but I know that tone of voice … you men are blind … and … and she brought over a dress for Corina (the daughter) .. ha! what a dress … it was terrible eh Corina? eh? … the colour ugh! the cut, the style … what a laugh … ha ha..” and she laughed a forced bitter laugh without looking at the daughter sitting there alone, slump shouldered in the corner, her tear-filled eyes shining sadly and looking to the floor. “Obviously she doesn’t know her own daughter” Janice finished huffily.

Proverb : “Every fine shoe becomes a slipper”.

Parable : Pissed in the tea pot.

The best payback I know of personally was confessed to me by a woman tradie..a house painter who was bullied by this misogynist builder who didn’t believe building sites were a place for “girlies” as he called her..He would bump the step-ladder when she was on it, kick her long-handled roller as he walked past and generally be a real bastard.

On her last day, just before she left the job, she took his tea-pot from the smoko bench (he liked his tea made in a pot and poured into a mug)…and went and urinated in it…swirled it around a few times, emptied it out and replaced it…just as she was getting into her van, she told the apprentice of what she had done( knowing full well the mischievous intentions of the lad).

At smoko, the builder prepared his usual pot of tea, poured himself his mug and proceeded to drink it down…the apprentice, being an apprentice, let him get a few good gulps down and then with an air of innocence blurted out:

“Oh..I meant to tell you..that painter woman..she pissed in your tea pot..”

At this point we can, as Mark Twain wrote..; “Draw the curtain of charity down over the following proceedings.”

Proverb:     The dog runs a little, the hare runs a little.

Parable:      Angelo Pescari “had a woman on the sly”. His wife knew that, but he didn’t know she knew. Till one evening she sent the kids over to her sisters and sat down with her husband for a “talk”.

“A what!!” Angelo jumped up in mock surprise.

“Sit down and stop the theatrics,” she spoke calmly.

“Who told you that?” he continued to bluff “The things you think”. he continued in vain seeking to regain his ground. But she knew and now he was sprung.

“Settle down…I’m not going to leave or divorce you or go into hysterics over it, see, I’m perfectly calm.. all I’m asking is that you finish the affair and we go back to normal,…husband and wife…agreed?”

After some more talking and seeing the futility of trying to proclaim his innocence, Angelo Pescari sighingly agreed to his wifes request;…

“Yes”, he said, he would terminate the affair immediately.

But he didn’t! He continued seeing the woman after work sometimes and of course his wife found out again.

He arrived home from “work” one evening as his wife was setting the dinner. She glanced wickedly at him.

“So,..a hard day at work..eh?” She smiled.

“Why…yes…yes.” he hesitatingly answered.

“And a hard ride on the mistress?” She smiled wickedly again, he just stood there in dumbness.

“Well” she continued “You can have your little coquette…but then so will I have mine…but the difference is…I don’t even have to leave the house!”

Angelo stood there dumbfounded, with a slowly, creeping awareness of his vulnerability . His wife served the dinner.

Proverb: It costs a lot of money to die comfortably.

Parable:     Nickolai Petrov was moderately wealthy. He was also so cautious with his money, that many times his friends would chastise him with the old adage; “You can’t take it with you, you know!”..Now he was old and was dying of cancer. The surgeon told him this at his bedside in the hospital.

Nockolai’s wife sat at his bedside consoling him, holding and stroking his hand. A tear fell from her eye on to the bed cover.

“Ah Nicky…my dear Nicky…what can I do for you?” She sang in sympathy.

Nickolai thought about this for a while…then said

“Trishka, my dear…one thing you can do…”

“Yes, my dearest…just say it.”

“A…a cushion…an embroided, red velvet cushion..like they have in the old country…to lay my head on when I…pass on…to put in the coffin for me to rest my head on…” He turned his eyes to her.

She wept a little at his request “So like the man” she thought,

“Yes, Yes my sweet…I’d love to.”

And she made him a soft velvet cushion of the dimensions he wished  , embroided with also a tasselled edging. She brought it to him in the hospital the day he was to be sent home.

The doctor had given him a couple of months to live and he spent these finalizing his accounts and business and even arranging the funeral services. He insisted on doing this work himself and said:

“While I have the strength, let me have the dignity.”

And so he died and was buried with the red velvet embroided cushion under his head. His wife mourned for weeks in sadness, but, life goes on and the bills keep coming in.

One day she went to the bank to take some money out,  there was none there! – the account had been closed. She went to the building society…that too, closed!…No money? Where had it gone? She asked all the relatives if Nickolai had given them proxy after death to handle the money? No, no one knew…Had he hidden it in the house? She turned it upside down in the search…No…gone… lost!

At last she went to the grave of her husband.

“Nickolai, I know you’ve hidden it…but where?” She glared at the tombstone through slit eyes. “You old devil.” She hissed “Where did you hide it?”

Then she looked to the photograph of Nickolai Petrov fixed in the left side of the tombstone. He had a certain “Mona-Lisa” smile fixed on his face. “Damn it Nicky, I need ” She stopped short as a niggling, nasty realization crept over her mind. She flung her hand-bag to the ground. “You swine!…0h you, you bastard!…the cushion, the cushion… you did take it with you after all! You little pig!” She shook her fist at the grave.

It cost Trishka five thousand dollars and a lot of affidavits to exhume the coffin and redeem the money from the cushion. She replaced the cushion under his head when they reburied him… but this time she filled it with rocks!

Love Poems to a Complete Stranger…#2.

The “want” of men.

There’s some regret, can it be said,

For what was scorned; a mark of threat;

Those lascivious whistles of men at work,

When attractive women passing walked?

There’s some regret too for the trouble spent,

Sporting that smart-waisted, little red coat,

With matching cap and shoes no doubt,

And you knew your shapely legs could elicit a shout,

From those Italian “brickies” lacking erudite clout;

“ ‘allo sex!”…losing the essential “y” in their haste,

Tho’ not in meaning..nor, let it be said..in taste.

There’s some regret, it must be known,

That loss of appreciative whistle at sites in town,

When one flounced by with scornful frown,

To see those wandering eyes in windows reflect,

In passing of the hungering “want” in men…

A regret..?  

The young courter.

I wonder if young boys court the girls,

Like we courted girls long ago,

I wonder if they too do wonder on the mystery,

That we pondered upon in those Summers that passed so slow.

Those days when I rode my pushbike past her front hedgerow,

With my shorts, brylcreme’d hair and ‘fair isle’ vest just to make a show.

When I rode my pushbike past Jean Beacham’s front hedgerow.

What I was seeking there, I then was not to know,

For a girl was as much a mystery to us as was the impulse to grow,

Which was the mystery would draw me to that front hedgerow,

And Jean would sometimes flirt to me from her front window,

So her younger sister could aim – with ripe nectarines to throw,

Where I sat there on my pushbike at the low hedgerow.

Jean would laugh the kiss of the summer hills,

And smile the moonlight of June,

She could mock me, shock me, and tease me..still I would return,

To ride my trusty treadly past her house forlorn..

But I wonder if the young boys court girls nowadays,

With such faithful concern?

Upon the sands with thee.

‘Twas not across the sands of Dee,

That I edged my trusty craft.

‘Twas not across the rocks and scree,

That Mary walked avast,

‘Twas on the sands off Seacliff shore,

That came my Mary that I did adore,

My bonny boat I rowed the sea,

In the “Buona Fortuna” I rowed with thee.

I rowed up to the “whiting patch”,

I rowed with the strength of a young man’s back,

And Mary stretched her long white legs,

She stretched her long, white legs between us.

And ‘twas not off the sands of Dee,

Where Mary coaxed love from me,

And we loved upon that rocking sea,

In the sturdy ‘Buona Fortuna”, Mary and me,

We loved and loved upon that tossing sea,

But ‘twas not out from the sands of Dee.

Mary cried with delightful ecstasy,

She cried across the wind-blown sea,

“Oh take me, lover to the sandy shore.

And let us finish loving all the more….”

My sturdy craft, my-cock-my-mast,

But I tell you ..‘twas not on the sands of Dee.

Where the beauty?

Where does beauty lie,

In the silhouettes of the trees,

As I wander past them by

Or is it in the stars of a dark sky?

Is it in deep silence of the night,

Its vast splendour and delight,

In the hoot of a passing owl,

Or perhaps in my lover’s eyes?

No..it is none of these things..

Not in the trees or heaven’s stars,

Nor the deep silence of night’s sky,

Beauty lies gently, sleepy and quiet,

In the soft, beating heart of thy..”

The Slight of Aphrodite.

With love betrayed, all reason to stay

And substance for existence gone.

Now…; falling, falling away..

Without sound or purpose,

To lay silent like Autumn leaves forlorn,

On the forest floor…

And with eyes turned

From salvation’s door,

Do we strike out alone, down barren roads,

Under the stern disdain

Of the slight of Aphrodite.

Come the end of Autumn.

Come the end of Autumn,

Will you still think of me?

With the passing of Summer days,

Languid by the sea,

We rode the wild brumbies of laughter,

Rode them hard..you and me.

But with Autumn leaves now fallen,

Now come the end of the season,

Letters lost , time gone by,

The great distance between thou and I,

When I’m so far away from thee,

Will you still recall one sweet kiss,

In a full Summer of such bliss,

Will you still think of me?

Loss.

Into the fire she did cast,

Letter by letter until the last.

Her stern face, flame-lit aglow,

No pity nor sentiment did it show.

No regret, nor heartfelt loss,

As letter by letter she did toss.

Until the last in hesitant hold,

One short sentence writ in bold,

One final line that caught her eye,

And though the rest she did despise,

That one broken promise with love’s death,

Gave pause for memory’s catch of breath,

Forgotten above this, all the rest;

“Forever my Love, my love, to you,

I do bequeath”.

Little dreams of a moth.

I have little dreams,

They are quiet and shy.

I dream of primrose days

And the patterned wings of butterflies…

Sometimes I dream of thee,

And sometimes I dream of us,

But come the Primrose light of day

My dreams fall back to dust.

But when next I lay abed,

Eyes clos’d by night’s velvet glove,

Return to me quiet dreams,

My shy dreams..

My dreams of sylth’n love.

 I held a bird with broken wing.

I held a bird with broken wing,

No more to fly, tender thing.

Put it down or leave it go?

Let nature deal the final blow?

Yet in its small, frightened eye,

A touch of myself do I espy,

Who am I to refuse it balm,

When never has it done me harm?

Why not, with helping touch,

Can I not relieve its hurt,

And with tender love & care,

Will it not sing once more its air?

“It will not fly” you c’ld say,

And does a tree run away?

And does the oyster glued to rock,

Not wait with patience for its food?

So this bird, broken now,

Us together shall allow,

Some moments when we shall share,

A little of life’s splendid air.

A Balloon.

A bright blue balloon

Am I,

As blue as blue as an azure sky.

Catched for a moment

By an Hibiscus flower.

Wind buffeted,

Held for an hour

Of  fragile kind-ship,

We were.

Now..

The delicate thread broke free..

Now, can you see me anymore

As I drift away

Shape and colour

Lost against a vast array

Of blue as blue as an azure sky.

My bright blue balloon

And I..

She is gone…

Goodbye my sweet..goodbye..

A Cold, Cruel Dream.

I dreamt she’d died, unsatisfied..

And our children asked me to attend the rite.

And though divorced these many years,

Would I please to view her in state?

Now that, is not something I’d normally do,

The plastic presentation of death I eschew.

But curiosity urged me abide ,

To view that woman I’ve many years evade.

As I gazed on the broad, Irish face,

That had lied and cheated from my embrace,

I blanched at the look of innocence there,

Rose blossoms dappling her now grey hair.

As if to deny to me by this final sight ,

The justice for many years that was my right.

Forgiveness not what I sought,

But rather admission for the damage wrought.

Upon marriage, relationship and our children begot.

But now, in the silence of this final place,

No word from those lips so bitter she’d trace,

No reason, no ’scuse, no thought of disgrace.

Just an emptiness , as per her usual escape.

Nothing..save one long-stemmed rose strategically placed,

HER request, no doubt….sensitive to an image she’d like embraced,

Always keen to leave an impression entranced…

Enough!

I turned to go…then..in a moment inspired ,

I took that rose there so astutely attired,

Broke off part of the stem.. and did place

The thorny stalk, it’s vicious spikes,

Across those tight, pressed lips now forever chaste.

Our Father.

That meager kitchen light

Cut his reflection on the glass.

He looks…the collar of his overcoat tugs,

A fumbling with the latch.

Another dawn interminably,

The workplace calls him down.

The trains, the jostle, the silent journeys

Through winter’s cutting edge.

Though visible within my memory,

No touch, no talk, no sound,

But an awkward gentle smiling,

That baleful knotted frown.

The evening family rosary,

Pray God maintain our health.

HIS prayers I’d say were directed

To stay the creeping stealth

Of years, that cut a swathe

Through the patience of the man,

The blocks, the bricks, the working tools

Raised welts of callouses on his hands.

When the cup of love went empty,

Would do to fill it up with wine.

He drank to forget the future,

He drank for Auld Lang Syne!

The weakness was his, they tell us;

The drink, the swearing, the hand

That struck us fiercely stinging…

But I see the courage in the man.

And though his “achievements” were empty,

And poverty enriched our band,

I’d do worse than esteem his persistence,

Nor prefer I memories of “better” men.

The Siren’s Song.

The Siren sang her song.

Irresistible in her comeliness.

And yes..I answered..

Along with others,

But oh..;

The clues were numerous,

The seduction of her face,

The perils of her warm embrace.

Small things ; gifts and trinkets

To secure her exclusiveness.

Along with mine..

Shipwrecked upon her palliasses.

Now, behind cold glass,

I touch her face,

My fingers hesitate on lacq’d plate

Of  the silvered frame.

She smiles out at me.

Again the Siren song my heart fills.

She is calling…!

She is calling…!

I cannot resist..does she love me still ?

I am falling…

I am falling…

I am falling…

On the day she went away.

We kissed, on the day she went away

The air was heavy with the cut-scent of hay.

On the day she went away.

We kissed and her kiss was as soft..as soft,

As a thrust of air from a parakeet’s wing,

Her touch; a downy feathered thing.

“I’ll call” was her parting say.

No laugh or smile nor “ in a little while”,

Just  ; “I’ll call”…that never came.

When we parted on that Summer day.

And though her-self is gone,

Her scent remains… and memory.

More precious for its hint of hunger,

More perfect than a fleeting romance.

For perfect makes its own promise,

In that it remains unchanged, just so.

Now, as evening or morn’ awakes

With air on air of breath intakes,

I touch her dress and kiss her nape,

With tender memories once more..

For we were so much in love.

Athens Rose.

A shaft of sun through the Parthenon glows,

Upon a wild, White Athens Rose.

The blossom of that tender bush,

Is tinged at heart with a gentle blush,

When held, ‘tis said, ‘tween lovers fingers twined,

Would, with age-old chant, their voices bind;

“Oh Sun who gives the blush to thee,

     Grant her cheeks may blush for me,

And with the passing of this day,

     Grant the wish I wish I may.”

A Prayer to Aphrodite.

A Prayer to Aphrodite.

Thou art Venus, graceful evening star,

Your light flows over the curve of the sky,

Deliver please, thou sweet light unto me.

Throw upon me, Aphrodite a favour, aye.

Sweep away dull shadows that hide her hips,

Let soft glow fall on rose tender tips,

Of breast, brow, limbs, yea, even every toe..

Allow thee light to a place only lovers go.

Give grace to her dark, disquiet eyes,

Warning threat of dire unpleasantries,

Should’st one trespass oh too keenly,

Upon that revered altar of Aphrodite.

Verily I pray unto thee, O’ evening star,

Grant me on one knee, your full grace ,

Throw benevolent light upon mine humble face,

And desire my love return me soon, her warm embrace.