Gordy’s Poetry

 This world doesn’t feel like home anymore 

 

I’m a nightwatchman with nothing to do.

I’m an alien who’s passing through.

I’m a corpse without a grave.

a ruler with no slave.

I’m a soldier without a cause.

a champion who just got floored.

I’m a writer without a plot.

a bird lost from  the flock.

 

only one-thing can I be sure

when you leave and I close the door

this world…doesn’t feel-like home…anymore

 

I’m a sailor without his rum.

I’m a cop who’s on the run.

a nurse without the help.

a teacher who just can’t spell.

I’m selling clothes that are rags.

I’m a comedian without the gags.

a party without the fun.

I’m a father who lost his son.

 

only one-thing can I be sure.

when you leave and I close the door.

this world… doesn’t feel-like home…anymore.

 

I’ve got a sermon but no crowd.

I talk to myself but think out aloud.

I’m on a drug but I’m not high.

I say hello but I mean goodbye.

 

only one-thing can I be sure.

when you leave and I close the door.

this world… doesn’t feel-like home…anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


I was Late

I’m not trying to win your heart

or set the record straight.

I knew that it was over

as you laughed and closed the gate.

 

Love was murdered and I was late.

 

I’m not here for forgiveness,

for that, it’s way too late.

I’m not saying that anything

I did was ever great.

 

Love was murdered and I was late.

 

both of us were kneeling

clutching at the corpse.

searching for a pulse,

wallowing in remorse.

and no – one was the winner,

its just an act of fate.

this love of ours was always

our hearts one-big mistake.

and I was late ….. I was late.

the crime-scene was already staked.

on the day our love was murdered

…………………………………I was late.

April 17

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bomaderry (Bomo)

 

A plastic bag blows across the street.

A wino in the garden, rolls and sleeps.

Mother and pram and a coke

on a bus stop seat.

Counting out coins for bread,

it’s the end of the week

 

A kid rolls by  on a bike

and spits on the ground,

the chain rolls around the wheel

with a tortured sound.

A lady in a door way

just  sings aloud

like she’s the biggest diva

singin’ to the biggest crowd.

 

An old man struggles

and summons the will,

the memory of his wife

walks behind him still.

A paper, a cane, tobacco

and a pipe to fill.

With a steadfast resolve

to get over the hill

 

The sun pours down upon the asphalt.

We without shoes

dance to avoid the heat.

In the gutter we pick

at the tar that’s stuck to our feet

Wondering if we’ll ever

summon the courage to speak.

To the girl who lives with her mum

and the dog that’s dumb

over there………

on the other side of the street.

 

Dec 16 2016

 

Just A Peice Of Driftwood

 

I’m just a peice of driftwood out here on the sea,

touching anything that wants to touch me.

Holding onto hope, one day I’ll find a home,

I’m just a piece of driftwood out here on my own.

The ocean … She loves me.

She kept me O’ so long

This old peice of driftwood

isn’t quite done.

 

If I can make the beach…

I can dry out and I’ll make fire…

This old peice of driftwood…

Still burns with desire…

Still burns with desire…

Still burns with desire…

This old peice of driftwood,

someday will make a fire.

 

May 2016

 

 

You

By Gordon McDonald

Gliding my heart around your body.

Touching the submission on your skin,

Listening for the music that’s your pleasure,

Each of us knowing where we’ve been.

This intimacy called love, this seclusion.

The passionate longing in waves,

Sweeping in the whispers of love,

On our breath and in our ears.

Up the river

By Gordon McDonald

Boredom, frustration, a country town,

Excusable motives for crime.

Binoculars, haversack, a river assault;

Gutless fear watching the house,

Friend the commando, ultimate bravado.

John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Rick and I.

Raiding mandarins, a serious crime.

Escape a success, get-away clean.

Outboard explodes, cracking the still;

Gloating pride floats up-stream,

Trail of peel following behind.

The heart

By Gordon McDonald
The heart is desperately wicked and deceitful
Above all things…..the bible
Our heart, our core, our being.
Our centre of all things created.
This heart lies to me, confuses me.
It,s an anxious wait, a rest in peace.
I have fought against it and with it,
My greatest friend and greatest foe.
Never subdued and why do we try
Because it can’t be caged.

In one day, it speaks a thousand words.
Without it, we fail to live.
Some follow it and wear the brand
Of a fool.
Some refuse all signposts, it grows a crust
And hardens like the shell of a crab
Sun-dried in the sand crawling to the oceans edge.
This heart of passion, this heart of risk.
This heart so desperate not to break.
Starts a war and then cries for peace
Starts in love then ends in hate

Desperate to believe the truth and bleeds
Like a severed artery at the words
It refused to hear.
This heart
We,re afraid to speak it,s contents to each other.
The fear of reprisal, shame and ridicule.
It belongs to us yet we don,t trust it.
If I could dare to believe it,s contents were true.
I,d utter my heart here to you
Serve it up, and offer it on cue.
The value of this human heart.
My heart, your heart, your neighbours heart.
Your enemies heart.

This heart that one day will cease to beat,
Cease to love and cease to feel.
All that is, is in that heart
And god knows our heart
“for where your treasure is
There your heart shall be”

The beat of a different time

By Gordon McDonald

In a vision upon a vision where darkness comes to lie,

I heard a people screaming as they dragged the prisoners by.

The mob cried out for blood as anger hit its’ throne.

Some cried out for mercy but the cry walked out alone.

“up against a wall you! Not you, you turn around.

Look me in the eye son, coz the hammer’s comin down.”

Rifles on their chests, grenades stood to attention.

The word that meant you’re guilty, no-one dared to mention.

Some lives were saved, some went to the grave.

Some were in-between;

Some cried “hallelujah” at the carnage eyes had seen.

And the people with the power left the power on the floor.

A suitcase full of money and just headed out the door.

The souls of all the broken were milling in the streets.

Fighting for the crumbs that were falling at their feet.

Fire crackled fire, bullets rained the storm.

Bodies made the mire while god looked on forlorn.

 

No-one knew the ending and no-one knew the rhyme.

The seasons were resounding to the beat….of a different time.

No-one knew the ending and no-one knew the rhyme.

We marched on into darkness our footsteps out time.