Who does not wonder about this world & beyond? Who does not wonder about the person sitting silently next to them on the bus, speaking only through the sadness in their eyes, living out the same tragedy endlessly? Who does not wonder about what fascinates the face who peers through the library shelf, not at you, but through you, into their own dream world? I wonder every day about you, and I wonder every day about me, and especially the me to you.

The golden sands fall way
To wistfully yield yet another day
Filled with the unknown much like the last
So far away from home but never alone
Walking much too fast but always in faith
Though sometimes it may feel like quicksand
You must never turn your back
Never disband
For when the storm has settled
The sands of time will only permanently mark
The rainbow hues that ensue
Curving to the kingdom of God
Filled with love to slay your fears forever
Erase your regret and wash away tainted tears for good

Your hand is like the sword
These grains in your hand will never disband
They will withstand the darkest of nights
The coldest winters, the wildest storms
Of a troubled heart
Will remain but a small frown
When staring towards the golden sky of home
Unless you let them fall.

Masters rarely love
When life is an endless game
A timeless battle to be fought
And discarded with boredom unless won
And when one competition is
Over and finally done
Another has only just begun
Though more intense than the last
More "achievement" to be surpassed
More blinkered 
More pointless?
When battling on unstable ground
Only sorrow will remain to be found
When all friendships are slain
Competing only for a now disinterested crowd
And all too quickly the tide has turned
Washing up pathetic remains
Old, grey and burned
Out beyond recognition
Then you realise 
That true love is mastered
By those who don't desire to master
Every thing else before, around and beyond them.

Trying to remember the simple joys of life,
How those simple things (slowly re-emerging) could suffice,
To satisfy my needs created by others' will,
Relearning how to make me happy, a new batch of dreams brewed to fulfill, fill
The gaps and emptiness, as mortar to piece together the fragments of a broken mind.

Realising that the joys of life can only be witnessed when there is nothing sad left to find;
When searching for the impossible bliss,
Life's simple wonders so easy to miss.

That was not how it was meant to be
Yes! They agreed.
Oh but WHAT?
What was THAT?
Well actually that was basically that.
Oh! They laughed, and
It didn't really matter
For it's mere chatter, and
It's all in the company.
I see, I see,
But I didn't.

And another
Shattered person
Joins the discarded factory stock
Just staring vacantly into the busy distance
Beyond the looking glass into someone else's lot
Desired for own

Lost in the fragmented and distorted remains
Of a saddened soul
Now seeping from within to without
To fill someone else's need
To inspire someone else's greed
And without a doubt
The exposed yolk will become bad with short time
As the culmination of a series of moralistic crimes
Previously not even known
Now just denied
But remember
You will be tried ...

Your world was an oyster
And you didn't share the pearl
Stashed it away for your rainy day
When others' had long ago arrived
And the cries of the deprived
Fell on deafened ears
The tears spilt 
Could not be seen
The fears
Were never felt
And all the while you knelt at night
With your false god.

Now your broken yolk
Flows like a river
To flood your days and night with despair
And how can you deny the wrong 
Already ignored for far too long
Culminated in this very hour of turmoil and suffering --
And where is your false god now?

Born with the mistaken might of flesh and greed
The cumulative empty selfish need
Abound in money
So sweet and sticky -- just like honey?
Now abound in rotten yolk
So runny and without substance
Your soul a stinking mess
Like the rest
Of the misglory fallen
And in the hall of false judgement
Awaits a set of knives and forks
To capture and eagerly divulge the fallen portion
All the while you're transfixed
On the sticky tape to temporarily fix
The problem and not the cause
Repent
Can't you see your life ebbing away 
On pathetic three-dimensional, real-time, full-colour display
As you bang on the sound proof, shatter proof wall of glass
Wake up, wake up, shake up your faith
Says your consciousness
Before it's too late.

Summer nights
In a country city
Where east meets west
And not who does best
But who does worst
Why watch it on the telly?
Why read about it in the paper?
Why hear it on the radio?
When you can see it all for free
The pathetic dismay display
By real time, full colour play

The Harley's roar
The Rev-Heads turn
To partake in the spectacle
To stir-crazy raise some hell
Shiny paint and shiny pants
Of the women on show
Leathered up, lathered up
And they're past ready to go
They're on every corner,
The membrane of the street
Sealing the destiny of
Every wondering eye
Even those just meandering on by --

I'd never ... or would I?

So he's purchased the big ticket
Like so many lemming men before
It's a quick nasty show
And he's soon scrounging way down low
Until his eye-ball rolls
In more dirt than he can wash
Ingrained, he can't see things in any other light
And he's proclaiming
A synergy of loss
Is it credit or irreparable cost?
Upon judgement hour
He watches his repugnant soul
Turn to dust and burn
A needle debt in his wake
A mere take on what joy he could have achieved
That he so readily let the devil thieve
From open hands
And the most frightened, most tightened,
Closed shut but seeing eyes.
East meets west...... and goodbye.

Who's that elderly woman sitting there? 
She's smoking too much too fast 
She's mashing the cream in her cappuccino with too much 
vengeance and haste 
She sighs at the chaos and mess -- 
it's erupted and overflowed as a toxic waste 
And she diverts her glance 
too briefly to barely meet my cornered eye
And then she's again blowing and gulping too much too fast 
Just fixated timelessly on her pain 
I want to ask her what the turmoil is but 
I'm watching the street-light too anxiously, too wearily 
It's obviously not fixed by that temporary sugary and sweet caffeine mix 
Who's the person beneath the nicotine tainted 
Lifeless crow's feet stare, 
as a prefix 
to possible worse things to come: 
more lonely hard time to be done. 
Then the lights turn to grass and I'm thinking too much of home 
and she's an eyelid flicker gone 
I'll never know her perplexing wrong 
because modern life is too hectic for cherish and care 
Not enough clock reminder time to share 
happiness and joy, 
let alone the hardship that we bear -- 
the sadness that we might endure for too long, too alone 
Mechanical haste that we half met at the wrong time 
The momentary blending of the estranged yet strangely familiar 
occupants of a dulled red light and rotted bus stop bench
To then disperse discompany again too soon 
as a parted surrealistic cacophony of two; 
leaving a misdirected me 
embedded helplessly in our mind's too familiar womb. 

by
Farrah Tate 

Copyright © Farrah Tate

Inspiration: I always cannot help but attempt to read the unwritten story of a stranger. This is one of the most special to me as I caught something meaningful in such a short encounter.

And now it's all gone 
Packed up and shipped out 
Leaving only my memories 
Behind and deathly still
And now much too intact 
In fact 
It took me by surprise 
To see you vanish my child-hood 
In under several hours 
Before my suddenly very adult eyes -- 
Wrapping up all the good times securely 
And taping their caskets in place 
Discarding the bad times, 
Along with the last day's rubbish and waste. 
The air was humid and oppressive that day 
When you took it all away 
And the water from my tears 
Was uplifted on a lonely current of otherwise empty air 
To follow my despair as we departed from my only known home, 
While the precipitated salt 
Fell defeated to the ground 
As a tear imprint in time 
A tiny mound so motionless and without sound 
To join those (only just realised as) etched years before 
And being driven away I suddenly knew 
That some day there would be yet more. 

For Bob, recently deceased.

Every step immersed and grounded,
Dragging in pain
Every thought ingrained
With the consequence of the next
And perplexed by the inconvenience of the rest
Abided in time with a sorrow deep and long
Resulting only to prolong
Suffering
But as the golden oil
Anoints the wounds of time
Like a long lost friend 
Of the most treasured kind
Peace begins to ablate turmoil
And reinstate the simple years
The years without unfounded fears
And as I step onwards and upwards
Nights pulls its curtains all around
And like a shroud it embraces me
Forever capturing the wonder 
That many others cannot see
For beyond lies eternal light 
Eternal love, eternal rest,
The end of Earthly plight

Rest my soul with a sigh
Such a perfect night to pass on by.

I can walk the perimeter in a small hour 
Or instead step inside and spend so much longer 
Eagerly devouring the glamour 
And alike a small child in disney land 
I swear I never ever want to leave this wonderful place 
With its majestic castles, bordered by garden lights glowing with grace 
For miles with out reprieve 
Twinkling driveways marking a well-guarded path to richness 
And showing that street-lights or any other simpleton mortal aids Are not required here 
Where gates open automatically to those who pass the spoken test 
Simultaneously excluding the 99/100th horrid rest 
From participating in the distant scenes of recently gone tea-parties 
Still haunting otherwise overly tendered grounds 
Barely touched by rich women weighed down with too much jewellery and lavish gowns 
Worth more than my entire world 

I look down at my feet as I stroll so spellbound 
and they look down at me at me with painfully contorted expressions 
Is it my shoes, my clothes? Do I just smell poor? 
Is it the way that I marvel and stare with fascination for far too long 
When their own enthusiasm for their over-substantial lot is too long ago gone? 

Yet somewhere else, half the world away in a country totally unlike ours 
A small child may tear desperately around the perimeter of my neighbourhood 
And mistake it for their disneyland that I've never seen or understood -- 
Dreaming longingly about taking refuge in my 1/100th safe and clean home 
To play out their true age and to sleep in peace 
Even for just one night but praying 'til grown 
Would I before have even noticed his need, or even see him passing by 
When it's just a matter of blinding relative circumstance? 
I woe my misplaced needs, my selfish deeds
My pitiful tears shed wastefully over the many years 
Tomorrow dawns anew 
I am 100/100th too. 

by
Farrah Tate 

Copyright © Farrah Tate

Inspiration: It seems almost poetic that a main intersection can divide the excessively rich and the poor. Such a juxtaposition that one cannot ignore. I take my chances in this foreign land. Am I in the clouds or on the ground? My mind is not with my body as I contemplate the sound of angels playing in my hair. I lie prostrate without a care, in this lush grass of bountiful blessings. But I know that dressings are not to be judged before a broken soul. Mine is stronger than the magic of this place; it lies beyond Earthly suffering. And so I bare my lot with grace.

When our unsung heroes die 
Who will toll the mourning 
Of perpetual night
With all of my mustered might I shed one tear
Each day of every year
When countless unknown faces pass on by
Families cry with desperation
For their loss
The unknown societal cost
Of a kind and honest volunteer
Someone without the need for accolades
Someone without the need for admiration
Someone with the largest of hearts
To compensate for a voided bank balance
To compensate for those ungracious fools
To compensate for you too?

When the coffin is slung down low
Who will return to leave those flowers with foresight of their time
With all of my mustered might, I'm one of their kind
I place my imaginary posies at their rest
It's them who I admired and respected best
Not the famous faces
Nor the posers in the paper, the egos on E-TV, the narcissist on the news
Why do they forget so quickly?
None of them are my muse
None of them are my inspiration
Just the smiling face at the street corner
Selling badges for a worthy cause
Maralinga tainted his pretty face bounded up with gauze by day
Biting his goodbyes as he hit the bitumen with shock
The rock of the world weathered some more
I'm floored for words to compensate
For this unheeded loss
Challenge the greed to make note of the cost
For they're falling by the hour.
 

by
Farrah Tate 

Copyright © Farrah Tate 

Inspiration: Being somewhat idealistic even at birth, my lack of understanding for worship of the famous (or infamous!) has only heightened over the years. I am pro-volunteerism of breeding and believe in the capacity for human good that has somehow become mislaid over the years... I'd like to help people find it again. The character in this poem is a culmination of different people I have admired, one whom has since passed on. Maralinga was another atrocity of Australian history. The shocking cancer that people who were exposed to radiation, akin in treatment to lab rats, have developed and suffered from ever since is a reminder of the faults in humanity. BUT their brave existence reminds us of just how many unsung heroes there are in our community. 

Shackled to the excess baggage desk... 
(But I should be grateful 
to not be attached to the household sink 
with offspring galore 
winding their grotty mazes 
around my feet & beyond my patience?) 

Responsibilities sky high 
I'm building a Metropolis 
but never a Home 
& the bird poo sticks 
when the heat is turned up; 
it's never cool here 
in my fancy suit buttoned tight 
to protect my patented boobs -- 
they own every working hour of me 
& my academic gift 
only surpassed by an achievement expectation... 

& now the windows 
are so tinted 
that I can't even tell 
if the sky is blue today (or always) 
or pink. 
Has the sun set on my dreams 
or is it just my new-found 
reality dawning. 
 
 

The tomorrow of my dreams 
hasn't happened yet
But to forsake the tenderness
of my passions
To forget the threads of fire,
woven deep,
Beaded by driving desire,
culminating in a seamless creation of 
Unbreakable urge,
To foster the courage of more than an army
Fighting the war for lasting love,
Would be the biggest travesty of breathing life.
For I'm not done yet;
There's more to me than
the clothes that I bare outside.
These are the treasured secrets within
That I can only share with those who really see me,
and are not overwhelmed by the sight, 
Of the shining false trophies I sustain...
The gain only immeasurable weight of sorrow;
A black spider of grief
binds my heart in suffocating embrace,
Hidden beneath
the depths of eyes' revelation which few
have dared share,
Most concentrating only,
All the while 
on the smile held rigidly,
On my face
for the benefit of finances sake,
Over time weakening its pose
and threatening to expose 
the real me.

And at this hour, they will be shocked
for the endless money chain will stop,
Releasing passion to flow
like the life-blood of a fervent gypsy,
Who has been dancing her sole 
through wild-flower studded fields,
For far too long, in her mind,
the many, many foot-steps away
from her home confines.
Now, here I stand,
Poised to take 
the forever more decision,
At the now unlocked door
of happiness created only within.

I must dance on.

Punish both sides equally
For the wrath of time
Is it the punisher
Or the punishee
Who becomes a victim
Of the wound of unforgiveness
The sepsis of bitterness
That continues to fester throughout the years
It is the coward
Or the impatient wanton bride who loves
but does not love enough
to do what is right
& end an eternal absence of ring to unite
is it she who is therefore the coward
who is thee
punisher, punishee
the love of a coward
or cowardess reigning all time
have we not now suffered same
although we'd never feel it
as we see it for the other
or see it in the other
as we feel it for ourselves

A fat little black bird 
Pecked wildly at 
His succulent dinner 
Of over-ripe fruit 
Fallen for the taking 
A wormfilled liqueur 
At its heart. 

From within the kitchen 
The pot danced merrily 
Giving birth to its own delights: 
The secret fragrances of a family recipe 
Passed down the generations through life 
Made immortal through death. 

A block away 
On a lonely square of turf 
An exhibition to more than one 
Of a plight long ignored but far from secret 
Also passed down through the generations: 

Our Indigenous people who loved the land -- 
(As their father, their child, their respected teacher; 
Negotiating the long red beards of course sand 
They foraged with freedom, 
With knowledge paving paths 
For legends, larger than life, 
Shared between forefather, elder and child) -- 
Haven't even had breakfast for three days. 

Foraging instead for fallen perfect circles of scrap metal; 
Coins to purchase unfamiliar grub 
From a box, 
(It's making pillaged their oceans, plundered their trees; 
The same rubbish that was fed to the children 
Of the Stolen Generation 
Whose innocence and freedom was exploited, raped and destroyed 
By white-man poison 
Christians, Catholics alike 
Who, blundering and blinded to justice, couldn't find God. 
People almost like me, but not me... I'm sorry

by
Farrah Tate 

Copyright © Farrah Tate

Inspiration: Earlier this year I had a chance to learn about the atrocities delivered against the Aboriginal/ Torres Strait Islander people of Australia. I couldn't stop saying sorry, in many ways, forms, gestures, as deemed appropriate. For as long as I can remember our prime minister has refused to say SORRY for crimes of the past. I feel this is vital for healing and if it does result in compensation well good for them; I do not mind my future tax dollars contributing towards justice... shame on any one who does.

I watch their flitting bodies 
They're clambering for their shove of space 
Upon my window 
Whilst I struggle to make 
It through yet another 
Night on the take. 

An exhibition of 
no rules 
no waiting turn 
no consideration 
for a neighbour's fatal plight, 
if they should slip 
from their greed-filled height tonight 

They climb upwards and onwards 
Delivering their lace of speculations Reaching their micrometer projections 
Toward their goal 
At the top of my window 
In hope of discovering 
That the light of my world 
Can be theirs too... 

But it's only a mere apparition 
A position of fame, fortune & lust 
A distraction from the last remnants of expiring good, and clarity of sight;
For all creatures of the wanton night 
All that morning brings 
Is the shameless loss of mortal wings. 
 

by
Farrah Tate 

Copyright © Farrah Tate 

Inspiration: One night I was busy finishing up a major assignment for Uni, delirious with tiredness. All of a sudden a massive swarm of flying ants crashed against my window with the only desire in life to penetrate the light. I thought about how recklessly humans pursue greed, also flocking together to fight over a different kind of gold inspiration. This is where the poem came from. 

Is this regret 
As real as a sigh 
Or is it just 
A figment of my 
Symbiotic perception; 
I have a mistrust for my own revelations. 

You mould me 
Too fit; or so they exclaim: 
I don't know 
What's Right or Wrong 
Or if I exist beyond their words 
But then perhaps 
The mortal struggle 
Of endless confusion by living day 
Is testament to their influence. 

Only death is the eternal Truth; 
For now I just embrace your memory, 
Itself as immortal 
As our breeding. 

|~|

Gold-fish bowel 
Boggle eyed faces 
With distorted expressions 
Mouths bobbing soundless dribble 
Gesturing at warped possessions -- 
These are really less significant 
Than believed. 

The world beyond my bubble 
I see the same every day 
Yet it is so unfamiliar 
That my unchosen home 
Seems more promising than theirs; 
Is it easier to be a prisoner of monotony 
Than fail through flirting dangerously with risk? 
They do seem to spend so much 
Of their excess space on sorrow. 

by
Farrah Tate 

Copyright © Farrah Tate

Inspiration: I think of myself much like a gold-fish... I don't really understand people or the world out there at times. I can't work out if it is I or them, who are far too idealistic.
 
 

I was lavishing my undivided attention to my computer, 
Tormenting myself over an unfinished assignment, 
For a Masters that had begun to fill my world to its brim. 
My friend and I communicated on ICQ... 'life was hard', 
Then he relayed the news. 
I believed him but yet I needed to question him countless times, 
Until I'd had the opportunity to believe myself and contemplate 
What exactly this meant to me, 
Aside from what it meant, 
To the people of New York, 
Who had lost their loved ones and faith in humanity 
Amongst the fallen glory. 

It could have been night over there too, 
In the Valley of Ashes 
and I thought about F. Scott Fitzgerald 
and the American Dream that will never die. 

Next door a child 
Thought that he was watching another movie: 
He was up late and 
There was much fire, screaming, crying, horror and 
special effects 
The chaos of the damned was unreal. 

A while ago we flirted with Melbourne, 
ascending upon the tallest building in Australia; 
We didn't climb to the sky as we couldn't justify financing greed 
But we looked at a marvellous replica 
Of the world trade centre twin towers 
Because that much was free... a tribute to the land of the free. 

On the day that we watched to towers fall (so many times), 
I heard that a small girl received 
A transplant; a life saved amongst 
The unaccounted lives lost; a miracle buried 
Beneath the depths of tragedy at Ground Zero 

It's two months on and I still can't believe it happened 
Yet, it has also changed my world; 
That's how I know that the planes once existed, 
That the bodies still lie waiting to be put to rest 
Through final justice. 
Nothing looks the same 
Nothing feels the same 
Breathing air tentatively 
Its chill filling the corpuscles 
Circulating wearily through a numbed body. 
For the first time 
Priorities are like rare gems 
Now that my Western existence 
Has been challenged. 
We're now but 
Freedom's exiled child 
Immortalised. 

She said to me
"You know
There's nothing more
Stressful than writing with your heart"
"Oh no!" I exclaim
All of life is stressful
Except for that --
The timeless hours
Where pen and paper 
Meld together
Sometimes just for foreplay
With an excited promise for a future encounter
Other times to create the most sensual love
But always ending in rest, peace and enchantment
(The only time I feel true joy
Is when I hold a pen in my hand --
There is no flesh left for money;
Poverty is bestowed
As readily as peace
But yet I wouldn't give up
My twilight hours
Listening to the silent electricity
Of the night of my other mind and the dawn of my heart far beyond flesh
While only the pale light of my lamp
Keeps me company
And my shadow has come to know me better than myself)

I discard the lab coat
Shedding my old skin
Whilst they stare mouths agape
"You've convinced me" I say
"Of my blatant insanity"
But it takes all types
And my niche is tucked far away
Where I can't hurt any one...
Though you'd never gather it
As they scatter like frenzied doe
To become their surrounds
In hope to escape the beast of desire.
They don't understand me
But I can't help it if 
I have been teething all of my life.

It's hot and oppressive
In the room I call my home
I cannot tell whether my little sister is crying or sweating
I cannot remember the last night that my mother made it to bed restfully
I am frozen with their fear.
We're waiting for the fall-out
To catch up with bad deeds not owned by us;
We don't even own freedom.
I can't even remember when it became a commodity.

At first I can't sleep for fear of a "good result"
Then I can't sleep for the throbbing noise;
I will die eventually, even if it is only from sleep deprivation.
I steal to my shaky feet
Challenging the rocking ground
My night dress billowing with the smoking truth
A white flag of surrender or false alliance
Or the ghost of childhood happiness that once flowed bountifully;
My mother offers her swollen breast to my baby brother
But the milk will not be proffered; he was never known happiness.
Across the road I think I see my best friend having from a stark white bed sheet
But it's hard to separate nightmares from reality.

The smouldering sky is alight with the end.
It's the most horrific
Unwanted, untimely fireworks
And I think
My brother will never know that in other parts of the world
These signify happy celebrations.

Thunder and lightening --
God must be very angry tonight.
Or perhaps he is just letting me know that
I could have been living
Someone else's life, for their last tortured breaths.
He's letting the blind know
That they cannot also remain deaf forever.
No matter the ignorance blanketed thoughts
Their soul will remain exposed to the truth.

I'm a bad mother
When it comes to my money:
I can't find the appropriate sustenance
To encourage it to grow
But then I can't motion my failure
By letting it go either;
I'm uncontrollably inconsolable
When it is spent.
It makes no sense to me
Since I didn't give birth to it
And I have never developed the bond
Of beloved, long awaited adoption.
No, it's just a burden
A big mistake;
I should have got myself an abortion
Easy years ago.
This inheritance
Is made out of 
The same material as the balls and chains
Of my ancestors;
We're still in a bind.