we do
what we do

it is all just
action and reaction

right
and wrong

a conception
only

of the moment

to disappear
with all vanities

in the flow
of time

and you think
you have

reason

to create
or take

another life?

The Gatwick Private Hotel

corridors

dark paths
of passion

burnt out

the white haired
ghosts

in the lobby

laughing

worlds off
to each side

spaces for minds
to roam

unattached

the keeper is

an old lady
who drinks

in the crucifix
room

Hitler drunk
crawling up
the steps

bottle in hand

and God
a sprightly septuagenarian

black Homburg

bright eyes

portmanteau

rings the bell



(c) greg. t. charlton. 2006.

beneath
the apparent

the force
of sinew

and muscle

in skeleton
vital

the spirit

a disparteness

endless
seeking

definition

is the colour

the taste

the scent

of anguish


(c) greg. t. charlton. 2006.

best

to grow flowers

in the old
garden

and to let it
go wild

you must
keep moving

or the weight
of possible

worlds

is too much

to bear


(c) greg. t. charlton. 2006.

to be ruthless
for

the present

is

to love
what you

are

and to be
true

to the world

as is

what you were
what I was

yesterday

or

in another
life

and time

is only

the reason
for now

it is not

a place
we can meet

nor should it
be

the indulgence

of the failure

to face

the unknown

in each other's
eyes


(c) greg. t. charlton. 2006.

the light is hard
out here

the ground
a thousand kisses

the horses
are gods

in the fields

the fields
wait for dancers

the sky
is belief

in colour


(c) greg. t. charlton. 2006.

nobody
knows

why it is
or what

the space
of mind

tries
to explain

itself

and then the world

(it begins
every moment)

God

is thinking
top

down

and hey
why not?

start there
or go

south

inside
vision

beyond
flesh and blood

or ground
and stone

to

physics town

bright lights
big city

a different
way to hide

or

you can find
in this

here

or that attempt
to make

create

(be your own)
until

the taste
of too much

alcohol
or saltpetre

or the sun

in your eyes
and heart

slide
into another
life

time has passed
in your bones

what can you recall?

and how
would you test

if anything
happened at all?

well a memory
is what?

I don't know

I just believe

like grasping
the sea

getting your story
straight

is never
right

where is the place
of rest?

as if

I don't think

therefore

I am

still


(c) greg. t. charlton. 2006.

Hicks and me

it's become
a question

of my art

and so
of me

that I cannot
approach

in words

the detention
of David Hicks

how to
begin?

what to say?

every image
unworthy

any statement
hollow

too real
for tricks

of the trade

perhaps
there are

subjects

too close

for the vanity
of verse

and is this one?

it should not be

rather
I think

reason for

the great poem
that makes

a difference

everything
Plato feared

should come now

in blood
and sweat

and I have

(but for this
apology)

gone dumb

perhaps
I am

closer to

the gaoler

than the man
detained?

you see
I cannot

imagine

for
David Hicks

and of
the sickness

that led
to this

the great silence
across the nation

why?

how?

I think

they slipped it in
on the assumption

'he must have done
something'

and

as a reason
for

the great atrocity
that was

to come

and

somewhere
between

the cricket

and

the footy

just when

everyone
needed

a focus

for their
miserable

pain


(c) greg. t. charlton. 2006.

people

are quite
entrenched

engaged
en route

to the imaginary
of goal

reason is
just everything

drawn
into

the centre
of being

alive

(however
this is

dark or
without

the knowledge
of parameters)

every history

a serious
narrative

of the heart

you can
choose to pray

or go

few
attempt
escape

so
strange

to be
an animal

that thinks
about

thought

(we fashioned
God

from this

and separated
him

out

of the picture

as if
the burden

too much
to bear)

so

we return
to the minutiae

of seeing
what is seen

within

and speaking out
as if

another knows

the great illusion
of language

(we cannot
decipher)

and yet

just this
endeavour

our briefness
is

the measure
of

(it runs on
like
a gold
chain
down
into
nothing)

you discover
yourself

on the street
of delight

(as if you never
left)

between

the fit up
of history

and the openness
beyond

still

the miracle
ever present

yet always
gone


(c) greg. t. charlton. 2006.

the argument for grace

consciousness
invents

the substratum
is knowledge

the only
foundation

to the absence
of

pure
experience

is nothing

it is
the centre

out of which

mind
makes

the world

is thus

once created
the source
of creation

(the hypothesis
that was never
put

once embraced)

so

on Tuesday

I will make
pancakes

and invite
Sarah and Nola

to tea

in the dark room
of joy and sorrow

at the old house
in the trees

where it is
always

autumn and dusk

(beauty

is any

equation)


(c) greg. t. charlton. 2006.