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This message hasn't been written to be shouted over rooftops. It hasn't been written for loud poets drinking to excess. It hasn't been written to be stuffed into letter boxes. It hasn't been written for the privileged or profane. It hasn't been written as a recycled email. It hasn't been written for the bourgeois in Toorak. It hasn't been written for the supermarket special at $9.95. It hasn't been written for those calling me a Yid or a Mick or a Wog or a Wingnut or a Coon or an Abo. It hasn't been written for those who can't see that evolution and G-d are integrated. It hasn't been written for all the broken promises since Peter denied his lord. It hasn't been written for the military, for any weapon of violence. It hasn't been written for secret police and their satellites in the sky. It hasn't been written for the queen of England and her progeny. It hasn't been written for Islamic State and its ideals. It hasn't been written for taxation or superannuation. It hasn't been written for Hollywood and all its glitz. It hasn't been written for a conqueror's lines dissecting a globe. It hasn't been written for the ten wealthiest people on Earth. It hasn't been written for those psychological giants Adler, Klein, Piaget. It hasn't been written for the Lunar seas or Saturn's rings. It hasn't been written for Superman and kryptonite. It hasn't been written for popular Americanisms like 'awesome' or 'dude'. It hasn't been written for Adolf Hitler or Mao Tse Tung. It hasn't been written for infuriating adverts at 11pm. It hasn't been written for political babble and ineptitude. And it hasn't been written for 100,000 fans at the Melbourne Cricket Ground.

This message has been written for five or six readers.





Seven readers.
Thank you very much for your poetry.

Thank you, Lucy. And welcome.

This is the final product:

I

In the Western Hemisphere just below Angular Point is a little farm called Springbrook. Here a husband and wife dote on their three children - Fran, Bertie and John. They are a happy lot. Sharing the chores, following Jesus and playing their tunes everyday. Mom and Pa are in their mid thirties, their kids are fifteen, ten and nine respectively. On Sundays they go to their local church at 10am and listen attentively to Pastor Mick. He speaks of biblical lore, morals and righteousness. It is all so neat, all so calm. Fran attends Clyde High. She catches the bus to and from. This morning she got on, paid her way and ambled down the aisle to her friend Chloe. They always met like this. They stood. They chatted away furtively, giggled and smiled. At the very back of the bus, the last row, sat the usual louts Tommy, Hank and JJ. They shared a smoke. The bus came up to Thistlewaite St. It stopped. Fran looked to see who was coming on. A discrete woman, an old timer and then someone new. A Middle Eastern lad all of sixteen. She was transfixed. She stared into the jet black hair, his nose, black eyes. He had her school' s jumper on, he spoke to the driver in broken English. Fran was entranced. They took off, he walked down, passed her and proceeded to the back. There was a seat near JJ. He took it. Tommy looked up, "Who the fuck are you?"
"I am Mohammed."
"So you're Muslim."
"Yes."
"And you think you're coming to Clyde?"
"Of course."
Hank clenched his fist, stood and lunged at Mohammed. The new lad raised his right hand. And inexplicably, Hank fell back in his seat. There had been no contact whatsoever; Fran was testament to that. She was perplexed. She didn't understand. He only lifted his hand. What was this? Magic? Hank was dazed. JJ and Tommy were stunned and then incensed. Tommy yelled out, "Let's get him!" And the two louts rose to their feet. Once again Mohammed lifted his right hand, once again the attackers fell back down. The bus reached Clyde. It emptied. The three louts got off, Fran and Chloe disembarked and cool as a cucumber Mohammed climbed down. The farmer girl looked into his eyes and said, "Who are you?" The boy answered, "I am one and I am all. You knew me then, you know me now, you'll know me tomorrow." He smiled and walked away.

In the evening about seven thirty, Fran sat with her Pa on the rickety verandah. It was early Spring, the stars dotted the dark. They sat in silence, the last of the birds made their song. Tyson the Labrador sat at Pa's feet. Still thinking of Mohammed's exploits, Fran asked, "Pa, do you believe in miracles?"
"Why Jesus performed countless, you know that."
"Well can a sixteen year old boy, a Muslim boy, perform them?"
"No, he cannot."
"Why? Why not?"
"Because he is infidel. He cannot know God."
Pa emptied his pipe, chuckled and went inside. Fran looked west at the old tree by the derelict well. She closed her eyes. Cool April air brushed her cheeks. Who was this guy? Who?

II

Mohammed and his father Ahmed fled Syria by foot into Lebanon. Mohammed's Mom and sister were caught in an Assad raid. Both perished. At age fourteen the boy was strong. The plan was to get to America at any cost. Anything to get out of that hellhole. They walked, hitched even swam. They crossed the border into a UN camp. In a week of recuperation, Mohammed met lots of kids. And he also met Ali a man in his eighties who was in tune with the mystics. Bearded with leather like skin, Mohammed was amazed. And Ali saw something in the kid. While his father haggled to find a way on to a ship, any ship, Mohammed searched out Ali more and more. The old man would sit cross legged in the heat and ramble - about history, pride and about the mysterious ways of Allah. Mohammed was enraptured. The boy regained his strength. Ali told him, "Know this. Many will call you friend but not many will be that. It is not their fault. They are tied to things - money, dogma, fame. They are not yet ready to see that everything is made of Allah. Everything is Him. They toil for bread and revenge and pleasure. You must know that this is transitory. It passes. But Allah does not. People call Him by many names - He is one. Anyone can know Him you only need ask."
"Ask what?"
"For the wonder."
That evening Mohammed prayed on his mat. He asked - deeply from his fledgling soul. He had no doubt left. He let down his guard. He cried. He was only fourteen and life had asked so much already. Inside his tent the boy saw a small tear in the canvas. He stared at it. It was moving! It wrote a letter. The first of his name. It spelled on to complete his name. The boy was fearful, the boy was rapt. It wrote a sentence then another few lines and then it was just a tear.

III

It was Tuesday and Fran, Chloe and their friend Sue sat in the stands of the athletics track. Fran had banana sandwiches and a Coke, the two others ate crisps. "So what do you think of him?"
"Who Fran?" asked Sue.
"You know the Syrian."
"He's not my type," chimed in Chloe. Anyway he's Muslim."
"Yeah, he is. My Pa would freak."

Mohammed sat alone reading Kahlil Gibran. He chewed Lebanese bread with veges. He'd only been to school in America about two years but he'd caught on well. Indeed his English marks were high B's, but philosophy was his penchant. His father found English more difficult and thus had a job picking up work. They only got to Angular Point four days ago as Ahmed was chasing the fruit picking. Mohammed was proud of his old man, Ahmed only wanted his son to have all he never could. They were staying in a trailer park.

The bell sounded the end of lunch. Sue had History, Chloe sport. Fran walked slowly to the library. She had a free. Past the basketball courts Mohammed got up. He thought he'd return the Gibran. The two passed each other in the quadrangle. Fran couldn't contain her excitement. With audacity and downright guts she called out, "Mohammed!" The boy looked up.

IV

"No! No Mohammed, no! How could you even think? What would your mother say, Allah bless her? There are Muslim women all over this country, everywhere. How could you my son, how?"
"Father, we love one another. For three years I deceived you, we kept it secret. All through school, now in my first year of university. And Fran, you know what she studies? Early childhood studies. She is a beautiful soul, Father. Meet her, please just meet her."
The middle aged man looked at his son. "I will never on the grave of your mother and sister meet this woman. Never! You shame me, you shame your ancestors. You shame Islam!"
Mohammed tried to swallow, he clasped his hands and thought of old Ali in Lebanon. The old man couldn't help him now. So what could? Of course - the wonder. The young man went to his cramped room, brushed the open books of Plato and Tagore off his bed and lay there, the feint sunlight sneaking around the blinds. He cleared his throat and invoked the Ancient One and all his majesty. He moaned, then sang, lifting his arms in perfect motion. He closed his weary dark eyes and fell silent. Seconds passed. He was in trouble. He loved Fran fiercely. Since the first day on the bus. He had been honourable, they had never done it. A few times the desire was way too much. But they remained stoic. They knew their parents would never give consent, it was a battle royale, it was Romeo and Juliet all over again. What would Shakespeare advise or Bertrand Russell? He needed something from Allah. He needed a sign. He lay still for half an hour, so still he heard his heart beat. Then he remembered the UN refugee camp, the tear in the tent. He remembered the writing. What did it say? "When you find love, do not ever deny her for she is the nectar of Allah. Leaving her for one second will ruin your life. When you know love, hold it eternally." Mohammed knew in that instant, they must elope.

Fran nervously found the courage. When her parents and brothers were quiet eating she said it, "Someone asked for my hand in marriage." Bertie and John kept stuffing the lamb and three vege in as adolescent boys do but Mom and Pa stopped dead.
Pa coughed up, "But you haven't courted for so long."
And Mom, "For goodness sakes Fran girl, you're only eighteen. You have just started your course. And what about Timmy Stewart? Gloria and I have had you two in mind since you were toddlers. And he is Pastor Mick's son you know. Who is this man Fran girl. Do I know him? Huh?"
Fran felt anxiety ripple all over her body. She knew she had no hope, she never had a chance. Pa was so controlled by Mom, he never had a say. And Mom she was Dragonlady incarnate. She didn't have a way out. She had decided earlier she'd just tell them. "His name is Mohammed. He is Syrian, he is a Mus..."
"Watch your dirty mouth you slut! Bertie, John get out! Pa, listen to me. If she marries this heathen I am moving into my mother's. I swear it you'll never see me or the boys again!"
"Okay Mom, she wouldn't do it, wreck this family. Fran, your Mom is right. You cannot marry this man. What would the guys think, the church? Your Mom is right, surely you won't marry a terrorist! Surely."
"I had to try. You'll be losing your daughter. Pa, I've thought of this for a long time. If you grew some balls life would just be so much better. And Mom, if you stopped worrying about what everyone else thought and started worrying about and serving your husband, things would change. But both of you won't and nothing will change. I am leaving now!" Pa and Mom were speechless, they had never known Fran like this. Ever.
"Damn foreigners!" Mom walked into the garden and lit a Marlboro. Pa cleared the table.

V

Mohammed sat in his old Ford at the corner of Smith Street and Bowral Road. It was dark. He was waiting on Fran. She had called him in a state. The young man was concerned. Their relationship had been difficult. They were in love no question but they'd hidden it for so long. How many times they met at the old abandoned warehouse on Kidbolt Street. They embraced there, talked of a future endowed with children - ten according to Fran! Mohammed smiled to himself. Last summer the two of them, in different carriages, caught the train to Embley Hill, some forty miles away. They held hands in the open and visited the vineyards. It only lasted three hours. Always the secret, always. Mohammed told Fran of his time in Syria, the food, the air, the sun. And he told her of his mother and his sister Fatima. She was stubborn, so independent. She insisted on helping her father and brother build their last house before the war. And she was good! There was such vitality in Fatima, such grit. And still she held herself. A tomboy with grace. Some boys played soccer with her, while others secretly dreamed of holding her, even marrying her. Mohammed told Fran he sometimes still couldn't fathom how such a one as this could actually be dead, no more. The day his sister was killed, the rescue workers gave Mohammed a trinket that was tied around her wrist. She had it since she was eleven, found it at a bazaar. The boy knew it. On Fran and his two year anniversary, he gave it to her. It fit. She was touched. She wrote him a poem. She read it to him in the warehouse. They lay back. He looked at her, brown wavy hair ruffled, soft smile. They kissed. He felt for her back, he held her so tight. He stopped. She placed her leg over his right thigh. He shook his head, she kissed him on his forehead, his lips. She wanted him. And he her so desperately. There they were, eighteen and seventeen. So up against the world. The young man sat up. She knew. They had made a pact and nothing would break it. Disappointment was everywhere. Mohammed opened his eyes. Rain pitter patted on the car roof. Fran was quite late, only few cars could be seen. Mohammed was worried. He was going to Fran's house.

VI

His mind was racing, the old Ford was speeding. Springbrook was a ways out of town down Jackson Highway. He had to get there, he knew she was there. He turned into the side road, travelled five hundred or so yards and approached the homestead. Two cows stood in a paddock. One dim light was on. His engine stopped. He parked next to Pa's 2010 Toyota Colt. The light turned off. "Allah give me strength, guide me." He got out. A cow mooed. The young man went through the dilapidated gate. A warm breeze, Mohammed could smell the earth after the rain, the onion weed. The front light switched on. "Stop right there you heathen. Turn around and leave!"
"Not without Fran," the Syrian was petrified.
"I said leave!"
"Mr Jones I love her. Can't you see? We love one another."
"Get off my property now." He came into the light. Under his arm was his hunting rifle."Boy, if you don't get off my land in ten seconds, they'll be your last!"
Mohammed was resolute, determined. Suddenly he heard a scream, "Look out!" It was Fran. He ran for the door, Pa fired and hit him an inch from his heart. Mohammed went down face first onto the brick path. His chest exploded, heat all through him. His ribs cracked on the hard surface. Fran ran out. "What have you done? What have you done? Ring an ambulance. Please now ring!"

Brian and Mark lifted him onto the stretcher. Blood was everywhere. Fran would not leave her fiance's side. Sargent Gilroy cuffed Pa, Mom smoked a Marlboro, nervously chewing the filter, eyes fixed on the flashing red. The ambulance careered out of Springbrook - Fran in it holding her true love's hand, so brave. The heart monitor beeped slowly. "Is he okay?" she whispered. The screen flatlined, a continuous beep. Fran knew, she buried her head in his bloodied chest. She started sobbing. Brian said, "We won't get to town for another seven to eight minutes." Mohammed felt light. He let go. He saw the digital clock inside the cabin. It read 11.47pm. He saw the two ambo's, and he saw his Fran. He looked up. He heard a feint voice, a female voice, softly singing in Arabic. It was his mother. He tried to focus. She wore the broadest smile he'd ever seen. They were in Homs in their old home. Everything was intact. There was no war. A balmy afternoon. His mother sang a nursery rhyme, he was about three. She gave him dry biscuits and dates. The boy ran to her. She looked into him and said, "Mo, you are not ready my son."
"Yes, yes I am! Mama, I am!" He started to cry.
"Not yet," she smiled again. He cried harder. Intermingled in his pain he heard another. His mother faded, the weeping got stronger, louder. A deep profound grieving. A cry that could drown out the whole world. Mohammed looked around. Out of nowhere, the machine beeped. Through blurry eyes, Fran looked up. The ambo's leapt up. They were astonished. Fran looked into his face. He opened his eyes. And feebly, he smiled.

One week later, Mohammed lay in his hospital bed. He said to Fran, "Do you remember that first day we met when I fended those three louts off?"
"Yes my love."
"And what happened in the ambulance?"
"Yes."
"Fran, it is the wonder. It is real. Not many know it, or trust it. But it is real, it is real."
She took his hand, "I know."

The End

----

Thinking I'll take a break (yeah, right!) for a bit. Thanks for reading. Bye

I
think
of
her

today

and
I
just
don't
want
her
anymore

Now that seems to be a step forward Boss; into the sunshine

Jamesy, what is 'sunshine'?

Yom Kippur Eve

Holy man you grow, develop, learn. You call out and in, refine. Alone with your one very close companion you talk of childhood and religion, of the current wars and Hitler. Treblinka in the back of your mind, some Pope Francis and Obama too. You wonder if Man has it in him. If we can dare transform the carnage and open a new chapter. If we can build a ripe Utopia with attitude. You will be called names of the highest order, you will be called filth and evil. You will have to stand against enormous odds, there will be danger and risk. Your faith finely tuned, sharp - razor sharp. You will need it for defence and reference and judgement. You are strong, you have learned through the suffering, a few good teachers, animals. You know the game, how men handle themselves and how they think they handle women. You know a castle with two distinct thrones; how only one is ever fought for. You can read the false words - the politicians, the men of religion and money. You know the habits all drenched in greed and power. Holy man dance to the song of the L-rd. Dance in all the humanity you know. You taste virtue and you breed honesty. You know it by experience, by a slow amble just forward, by a raw explosion into wisdom. Some will protest you, some will claim you. They won't believe you, then they will. Holy man you are a seasoned campaigner, you are a novice. And you are ready. Go out and make yourself proud. There is so much to be done.

Shabbat Shalom,
Boss

Jamesy, what is 'sunshine'?

Good question.
Maybe you can answer it also.

"The birds they sing, at the break of day
start again, I heard them say"
don't dwell on what has passed away..."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cgYlqKxV54Q

Boss wrote:I
think
of
her

today

and
I
just
don't
want
her
anymore

I wish.

Ain't no sunshine, Matty,
just ain't no sunshine:

http://youtu.be/tIdIqbv7SPo

when she's gone.

... looks like you were borne to sing the blues, Boss.
there is an alluring beauty
to melancholy

sing on...

you take me back to some threads of "The book of mercy"

{ Kindle the darkness of my calling,
Let me be with you again, absolute companion,
let me study your ways which are

just beyond the hope of evil.

Blessed are you, who opens a gate
in every moment,
to enter in truth to tarry in hell
who have broken down your world to gather hearts
Arouse my heart again
with the limitless breath you breath into me,
arouse the secret from obscurity.
Kindle the darkness of my calling. } Leonard Cohen (Book of Mercy)

[I have grouped these lines above in a formation, an “holistic fragment”. It helps me clarify my perspective.

“Kindle the darkness”. Here we have a methodology that initiates a solution, sometimes.
“Kindle the darkness”. The “darkness” is the absence of god consciousness, which is there, yet just beyond the hope of evil. This “evil” Leonard refers to is our normal state of consciousness that is pervaded by what we might term “god-absence”. God-absence is the darkness/evil or evil darkness which Leonard struggles through like a deep valley or gorge. As he struggles through this darkened valley of miss-directed consciousness he pleads with his God to make the journey and his vision (or lack of !) even darker, and hence, “Kindle the darkness of my calling”.
“Kindle” is poetry!
“Kindle the darkness” is a paradox. To kindle means to promote and encourage the darkness and it also means, at the same time, to fire the darkness up and ignite it !
To me, this is poetry of the highest order; a line of sheer genius.

The methodology is sensible. The darker it gets, the more visible a tiny speck of Light will seem ( God’s Light ). By hanging in there, dousing himself in darkness and accepting the utter futility of everyday consciousness in this arena, so to speak, the seeking soul may find a beacon to direct it…one faint star in a midnight mind, offers direction and the hope of finding a way through the “gates of evil”, and home.

(Cruz puts it this way, “ In darkness and secure, By the secret ladder, disguised--oh, happy chance!”)

“Kindled in darkness”, says Leonard, 400 years after Cruz says this:

“On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings
… . In darkness and secure, By the secret ladder
…Oh, night that guided me,
… Oh, night that joined Beloved with lover, Lover transformed in the Beloved!
… All ceased and I abandoned myself ”

By the way, the words below are in the poem “Dark Night of the Soul” as well as this
• Kindled
• Secret
• Darkness
It is interesting to note that this journey of Leonard’s is probably not the first one he has taken, to his “absolute companion” for he suggests in this verse that he has been there before; through this darkness and the gates of evil and onto that “other” world of “Light”.
“Let me be with you again, absolute companion,”
“Again” !
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion. (G.M. Hopkins)]

Mat.
Book of Mercy thread .

(Go the darkness, Boss! and the the blues' bleak embers that gash gold-vermillion!
Loved the song above, thanks for the link.)

Mat, thanks for your informative post. I don't reckon I know the technicalities of the blues as you do, or indeed Leonard Cohen or your other famous men. I am a simple man just trying to get along. I don't want to be gloomy. It is just that 'darkness' has been all over my life - coming at me, killing 3 siblings in their early adult lives, landing me with a mood disorder that bloody well tore apart my nineties and beyond, and presenting me with a family all woefully broken and savagely wounded. I clearly see that all of us are struggling, that everyone suffers, and I must assume that the next man's pain is akin to mine.

It's just that I sometimes wish He'd give me a break. So I could indeed see and know the sunshine; even if it was for only an hour.

Regards,
Boss

Ps. As for her - you just don't want to know...

I wish you this hour, Adam.

Twenty-four hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks per year, for many years. Better start asking too much. Life is a tough negotiator.

Take care!

Thank you so very much, Tchoc,
You take care, too

---

I write on the morning of the Sabbath. No, I am not in synagogue, I am in bed, alone, alone in my house. Yesterday, my older brother David and I took the toughest, grandest and most stubborn dame to hospital. You may know her from the post she and I wrote on page two of this thread. Alexandra is indeed a regal lady, but she is also salt of the earth, she is all class. But I think above all of these superlatives, she is downright honest. I have known her 46 years, not once can I remember her not telling the truth. This has taught me on my way, this and her unwavering trust in God. You may know she has lost much in this life and you may know she's been last in line so very often, but what you probably don't know is that this remarkable lady almost singlehandedly raised a brood of six children against the wealth of the world, against the advice of the experts and against popular convention. Yes, she lost three kids, and yes the remaining three have difficulties, but there is a dignity in her and a pride. And this lives in me. It will always live in me. It is not intellect that she bestowed upon me, it is not physical attribute or social standing. It is love and kindness. Old fashioned love and kindness - the fact she so cares for me. I love you Mum and I will ring this afternoon. And I will remember to water your plants and bring in the mail.

Adam

Watering plants. Bringing in the mail. Carrying water. Chopping wood. The Way. The Tao. Nothing to do Boss but what you're doing. You're doing it well. Your honesty gene is a gift...and a curse? Thank you for sharing so much.

Here now,
Dar

Thanks, Boss. I try.

It is a strange turn of the road when life makes happen that some of us begin to be the parent of the parent in the way a parent cares for his child - and more an more, sometimes to the state of babe-in-arms, and even sometimes, they look like in a kind of foetal state at the very end.

But really : Sad ONLY is the condition of those who neglected to bond (or to learn how to bond) by the heart.

All the others may suffer, of course, but they are blessed in the path, and often are not even aware of this.

Love only sustained humanity. Love only protect from being just "a case", a disease, a broken limb, a decaying material blob of flesh.

Amen, Boss

G'day Dar,

And good on ya for the Leonard birthday greeting. Well deserved.

Honesty has never been a curse. Having two extremely different parents was always the trouble. And what all manner of problems that led to!

G'day Tchoc,

It is indeed a bit like that. I did feel like the parent; especially in the last couple of months. I spoke to her twice yesterday - she seemed okay. She really is a soldier; I have nicknamed her "Champ," of late. And she is.

Peace and amen to you both,
Adam

Psalm 151

How many years, how many times shall I pretend, just to keep the peace? Bend, contort, fake it? How many fucken times? I am so very sick of being Mr Agreeable. Give me 1981 with a smoke in my mouth, a Foster's in my hand and an ego bigger than Texas. What happened to you? Who said you must be Mr Nice Guy all the time? Some sort of saint? A good boy? Who damn well said it? Who? I am so angry, so fucken angry. And why is it such a chore, even laborious just talking to most people? Just trying my damnedest to look good, not trusting the part of me that doesn't need affirmation from outside because it affirms itself. O freedom come unto me. And courage and strength give me thy countenance. And fuck to all the shallow, worming games I play. I bury them all in yesterday. Amen.