Ivan Donn Carswell

“Gimme ‘n F” the spruiker cried, “gimme a U” and crowd near died, They knew before he came To, Whatzat spell? Whatzat spell? They knew his game, or thought they knew, But he threw

Tales in the beginning didn’t begin in the telling, They would have started no doubt, but not without A concrete bearing, a causal opening and a beckoning Ending (at least tacitly implied), otherwise devout

How do you win a football game? Not by skill alone or clever plays, In modern days the game has changed and subterfuge and actors Ways will pave the path to glory. Fitness pays

I never said I would, I only said I could Do what you wished, the subtle difference Should have raised a cautious flag; Maybe I bragged out loud, made it sound As if it

Our lives were founded on this rock, this Jessie of Gibraltar Whose unfailing love endured beyond her ample nursing, And we grew out of a rich and favoured childhood aware Her powers were real

In these quiet moments before the night Softens the mountains of the South And deflates the clouds That float beneath their peaks, The dying sun’s rich, peach glow Deepens in the gathering gloom. There,

The events Of September 11th 2001 remain bitter sweet; As well as 2973 innocents Confirmed dead (with their 19 Terrorist murderers) there Are still 24 persons To be accounted for. It was an insane

Another fork away ahead Exactly like the one behind And twists and turns to leave you dead As choices in your mind. We’ve travelled here before you know And had this conversation yet We

Night’s grating of steel on stone and splash Of water crashing from the buckets Brings back that moment in a flash; The night burnt bright in limb’s caress And flesh yielding flesh in passions

It was called Farm Fantastic, a catchy phrase, And potentially a day’s wasted sweat. Even after the event I can’t say it wasn’t, And I’m kind of glad we went, for better Or worse,

For more than 40 years we’ve been good friends, Since 1963 in fact, from college where we met (and managed there to build a strong quartet Of campus friendship which kept those years intact,

I’m reading fellow poets’ blogs today, A sustaining source of entertainment; I admire their style without exciting comment Or resorting to an unkind eye, simple though It is to sigh about uneasy affirmation. I

And the Piper dreams as he pipes up in his mind Colours in choral horizons distant, of courtliness dimmed in time, At the puddling waters edge he stands spread square and neat And blows

When was the beginning, In the fertilising, in the flower, Or was it deeper, In the earth beneath? No end of wonderment Shall cease such a quest, Or know how it is unknowable. We

The cliff sprang from the sea at end of Hostel Beach, If the tide was out you’d reach a tiny bay beyond The cape without wet feet, an easy stroll but too effete For

Silvered in the dying light she lies A silent sleeping twinkle coloured Eve Who heaves and breathes a sinuous sigh Beneath her oiled and shimmering skin. Upon my sandy feet she laps a gentle

It is amazing, while I lay in bed, I had the lines Roaring through my head like locusts on the wing, The unabashed extravagance of such a flock Of stunning words shocked me out

Even tonight will pass into memory’s oblivion, Doomed, despite an ardent reunion Of once estranged yet precisely matched parts, To a guiltless verdict – a foregone conclusion. As you dissolve twice-blessed In a kaleidoscope

Will they be there for you when you die? Will they hold your hands and cry until you’ve breathed Your last? Is it too much to ask? While love is free In tearful task

Which things excited you the most when you were young, Can you recall the pleasures they would bring? Indulge Yourself, dispose your mind of daily care and take The plunge – but beware, there’s

Whangaehu waters, hot-spilled from the cauldron Of Crater Lake, swirling mud-green from the cup Between Tahurangi and Pyramid Peak, Sulphurous, sibilant among purer daughters Of the snow-line, Plunging eastwards down broken-faced ravines, Boiling between

Marking time in pencil strokes across a virgin page And waiting for coincidence of heart-beat and second-hand, Keying to the electronic blips that phase The passing time; visionary states of grace Do not deluge

The Ekka institution bares us all, though call it Exhibition, Royal Queensland Show, it’s that time of year when you will go in Liberal spirit where the spectacle of fantasies escrow. Gaudy frills and

Awakening In the twenty four hour embrace of a few moments sleep, Where half a lifetime eludes dreams; And feeling you were cheated By too much gin and lack of sleep In these unconsummated

When I close my eyes I cannot reconstruct your face But the three-dimensional solidity or you Bursts through the tissues of my skin, Transmogrified by a tactile binary fusion. I have catalogued a lifetime

Ronald Hi Khong Wong is gone, Sadly he deceased The commencement of this week. It wasn’t unexpected. He never contradicted The prediction of his death Although, perhaps, he hoped for time To sort some

We wear scars from our youth, trifling things Reflecting those earnings from growing days, Of battles raised and wounds worn in simple Praise of a Spring of early learning’s. I was there when you

The dung was recent, not an event Unusual in itself but difficult to explain Of cows grazing the other side of the fence. Too new to be dismissed without a thought, Disturbing evidence which

There were some worthy places where we could escape, Avoid the heavy weight of living in a densely Peopled space; the first was to the outside loo (the only loo but where at least

Even from afar came shouts of recognition Joyful voices rang across the years disdained and Faces of our childhood unforgot fit instantly familiar names; Voices still the same despite the extra grey, the extra

As a child I played in the same frosty fields Barefoot as my no lesser loved classmates, Whom we challenged to show courage in the numbing cold, Then together we held our chilled fingers

The other day I listened to a man on the radio Who made uncommon common sense, ‘specially since It was an interview on ABC’s noon talk-back show. He was a Professor, of what I

Let’s talk about the weather then, Would that help you take your ease? Gossip is so rare from you The noise of falling leaves is louder than Your breathing; if breathing is whatever is

It seldom snowed in Camp they said, on the mountains, yes, And in the Styx, aka zone six. That’s where we were afoot In alpine grass, garbed to test our winter skills, Tramp the

They came in masted wooden ships across An unindentured sea and cast their lot in ocean Swells to chance at history, and Sovereign power Commanded thus they rot in purgatory. Petty crime or deeds

I was saddened just to hear the bitter rancour In his voice, a sour hostility aloof of commonsense, And ranks who sat in audience held captive to his Ranting must have felt it too.

But I am not yet dead and yet I rest my head Sweetly on the bare gravestones of great poets, I am not yet dead though I sleep soundly In the graveyards with their

What is it about Bryan Adams and his song ‘Summer of 69’? Why do the lyrics linger? Was it 90° in the shade and the harbinger of the end Of the golden weather, or

Were I not a patriot, which of course I am, I would explain Just how the term remains a sticking point within my craw, How it contains a core of prudish mockery, dissembles jingoistic

The problem was the manner of choice (or whether there was a choice for that matter) As you had taken those options to yourself, Choosing as you had to do, and as it was

Does your semen smell like camembert? It’s just A thought I had today at lunch, I must have had The hunch before, perhaps reversed, and then Forgot. It’s not the sort of thought you’d

We talked with family last night, not mine or yours Specifically but ours, the ones we love familiarly. When Little Jake (though not so little now) was heard to say, “Goodbye, I gotta go,”

Do I really love you? So let me guess, you’ll think I’m easy prey If I say, okay I do – but it wont get in the way of my impending fame; I will

You lift the lid in awe, a seat and lid Upon an inside stall where you can go, Quite unlike the outside loo at home, But oh the smell, the hellish smell So rank

We, the living, buried deep in selfish grief Strive to comprehend the passing of your hour, Minds are numbed, aghast and grasping For some sense of revelation, Seeking analgesic succour in our weeping, Searching

She came at night, her gentle hands Defused the ticking bomb that was his brain, She soothed the pain and drew his livid Length inside, she sat astride to weld His broken head with

We reflect this day on the essence of intimacy, From its origins in the spring-tide of youth To an afterward secured in distant mist In awe for the reason and to what end it

We were water babes, born in the arms of a sparkling brook That patiently took us into its heart. At the very start we Were never far from its shingly banks, playing amid ranks

I love you in the morning and at the setting of the sun And in the hours of darkness before the day’s begun And in my waking solitude to greet the break of dawn

I thought my father was far too fat – eagerly I told him so, If he was offended it didn’t show and I don’t recall Where that strange conversation went. Now I know He