on the other side of the trend

Always on time the 7.30 and always we shared the same seat no.42
second from the rear where we erased each morning with small talk
daily predictions, the economy, the war, sport, weather always, work
television the punctuality of the 7.30 train each day for the past fifteen
or was it eighteen months, we walked from the train to the same corner
he spent the day in clerical at the post office, he was you could say  
average height average build average weight average brown colour
hair brown eyes, not married he went on dates - not often, had a beer
with postal workers - not often played golf - not often or tennis - not
often, joined a chess club went - not often same with his sister saw her
not often her husband or his nephews, went to the club - not often met
a girl - not often, never missed a day at the post never missed the 7.30
missed his favourite television show when the power failed, an average
failure he was average, average walk average hair cut average clothes
average accent average words like morning and not often poor and rich,
always on time except last friday when the police recovered his body
from the river, suicide in small print at the back of the local news told
disinterested readers a man lived and now is dead buried in a grave
marked by a white wood cross an average grave where his sister leaves
flowers - not often and weeds are sprayed and grass cut - not often,

if I was a poet I would write a memorial to my 7.30 seat no.42 co-pilot
send copies to his sister and the post, I would trade-off the trend for
average, maybe I could describe him as mediocre commonplace or fair
actually on reflection he was just a garden variety tolerable was kevin
not often hear the name kevin these days come to think of it his name
was george no thatās wrong it was john of course run-of-the-mill john.


harry is in .......

always is
he won't let you in

                         no door anyway
no window no ceiling
don't look for a floor
harry is in his room
                         attached like a snail

in his room
the size of the sum
of the squares
of the other two sides,
pythagoras theorem of mind

all minds are equal size
all are unequal hoarders

lacking storage space
baggage doesn't anchor
slips through the mist,

he won't let her in
his mother
                          labouring four decades on the tunnel
chipping away at the silence to his room

co-tunnelers from her church
the morning shift a neighbour with leggo
                          a lost cousin with percussion
the psychologist herbalist anthroposophist
snake charmer the crystals lady suggestions
in the falling cards the pattern of bread crumbs
the shoe-shiner, all attempting to break
codes to the shell

and harry?
harry regards the moon circumnavigating
his world and listens to the heartbeat of a snail
yes he is in.


He knew the word for Water
(from the series 'Consider this man')

Consider this man;
who once knew the word for water
knew how it wiped clean the pores of sin
how it scrubbed sandpaper off the tongue
and how it accelerates down the hill collecting,
collecting ancient coins and throwaway thoughts
Spinoza's mind eyes of Monet
                     Archimedes mumbling in his bath
arriving at the equation;
         water = life
            life = death
         water = death

Consider this man;
who once knew the word for water
could decipher Plato's target shoot
the years Mandela ticked upon the wall
why Gabriel and Chet just had to blow,
and once he understood the silent breathing
of a novice nun beside the crown of thorns
and why a cloud never arrives as a lodger
only ever as a visitor.

He found all this in the granules
where we all kick-off moving
downhill inside the hourglass,
do you know this man?



(from the series 'Consider this man')

Consider this man;
smelling the morning ritual roses bordering
his secrets his dreams and nightmares
hues of yellow pink mauve and blood the colour
of red, petals and the zen of existence
breathe inside the borders of this everyman,

come travel with him this day 7 Jan. 2005
an everyday kinda day a day when Elvis
once again was sighted washing chopsticks
in a chinese cafe when dogs were romping
on a Coffs Harbour beach and the market
was declared volatile for stocks and shares

a day Leopold Bloom would have sauntered along
the streets of Dublin James Joyce the boulevards
of Paris, maybe Sylvia Plath tripping through
splintered borders in her mind, a blank page
kinda day for some an abbreviated diary day

for an ethnic Albanian youth shot dead
where Macedonia borders the Presevo valley,

this boy will never meet the man looking back
from the mirror or walk the road as everyman,
the zen of existence has seeped into the earth
tinting green and grey shadows of landscape
with blood the colour of red this day 7 Jan. 2005.

          © Josef Lesser 2006