Crowmanic

We are born to be in misery, treated unfairly, unjustly, contemptuously, and never happy for many it seems, this Way it is meant to be…

...I for one still rejoice in the calling of the morning sun, as I rise from my bed of comfort…

You can keep your fancy words,
your fancy clothes and fancy cars;
you can drive me from your fancy clubs
and five star bars, but you can’t cut my genetic ties.
Guess what, shove your genocide.

Aboriginal really cannot be interpreted logically, nor rationalised or intellectualised, no matter our need or reason to do so; It is an experience and a “knowing”…

My ancestral bird sleeps peacefully,
wrapped in cosmic energy,
upon the trunk of my garden’s tree.
Waiting for all the ingredients of good-bye.

evolving…transcending self and one’s own limitations…dissolving limiting perceptions…always dreaming, experiencing and experimenting…traipsing a spiral circle, always longing to be Homeward bound.

Spilt wine as blood from fractured glass
seeps through the sands of life,
as the mist of Doubt is vanquished
with the clouds of un-Reality
that clog the once-Born mind.

We have come from afar, from beyond the world of words and beliefs of who and what you have come to believe you are ― we defy rationale ― the why, the where, the how.

And now she dances on into eternity
her life, her light never to shine upon our faces no more

What law, who’s words, who’s hymns are the true songs
to the gods, and the spirits of the land that we once belonged.

I listen for thine heart I once knew,
know not now the one called you.
I watch your moves across the globe,
and wait for the time to disrobe.

Mama slept the day through. There was just me and my toys.
I really missed you. Papa, do you love me just a little bit,
or am I really a silly brat.

Wishful gunna-be’s sipping latte in the Square,
while feeling a little special
sitting on directors’ chairs

Agents of a dubious origin — parasites from the dark-side of the moon — now feed gluttonously upon the face of the Earth

I’d like to write of a red red rose
that captures the essence of love.
I want to write of spring flowers,
of splendid rainbows from above.

Once here now gone—loved ones flown,
just me and my silent rooms.

Spirit gone she sadly wailed,
all torn and used and child-like frail.
Spirit gone she madly painted,
while she sobbed forlorn, so abused,
now her own image stained and tainted.

And while you’re pondering what it’s all about,
does your soul wander lost in a pink Cadillac,
as Superman and Wonder Woman get it off in the back?

Like the seasons that have past,
sound reasons once,
perhaps just a dreamer’s farce?

The show’s over now, they’re too busy to care.
They’ve told you the meaning of the Belly-Button Stare…