Under The Mallee Bough

  Empty Air. Old man smoking..Sweden. Empty Air. All my thoughts wrong or right, All my dreams I dream at night, All such gathered in quiet delight, Is really nought but empty air. All I see that comes to me, All I hear in quiet reprieve, All such things I do believe, Is nothing much save empty air. Resolutions made then easily cast, Reckoning a risk against the cost, Cursing fate for chances lost, Is but vapour in the empty air. We take chances for money paid, We hold grievance against past love, All such waste clasp’d as treasure trove, Are but wisps of wont in so much empty air. ‘Twould be better spend our valued time, To contemplate, appreciate other feelings fine, To hold to the best and that gold do mine, Embrace to heart, full and fair, such fragrant air.

  The Company of a Mature Woman. Raffael..Portrait of a Lady. The Company of a Mature Woman. It’s the gentle ones that pleaseth most, Of the fierce or vengeful I am most loath, To company seek, such friendship boast. The mature woman (if I may humbly appraise), Hath heard the worst and endured the most, That fragile male could, in enticing toast, Flatter in fawning adulation as cajoling host, Knowing while she does his salacious intent! So prithee, let us not delude with naive invent. If company of thou is sought by mature women, Rest assured it is wanted and valued by them, And there, in their patience and obliging reprieve, You have free rein to espouse what you believe, To the extent you amuse, not abuse, if you please. I confess some have deep gazed into mine eyes, Though disguised, have discovered my latent intent, But with a Mona Lisa curl of beguiling smile, Let me off the hook, toleran

  The Concubines. Claes Moeyaert.. Mooy-Aal and Her Suitors. The Concubines. As does healthy fruit grace a flowering vine, So will healthy women be graced with concubines, For is it not the will of nature’s design, Beauty of the female spirit should honoured be, With men’s singular attention, waiting patiently, One would forever be a suitor forlorn, One would desire to be a lover sworn, Whilst the silly one could resort to bad poetry, All will take their place in her itinerary! For why should a lady in demand so grace, This or that suitor a favour of place, Feign that chance would give such a taste, Would lead a damsel to loss of face, And end elusive mystery in wanton disgrace? No… Let sit at ease this natural state, That women may lead with men in chase, For order is set in such concourse, That follow in junction orderly laws, Where woman’s beauty of spirit holds forth.

  As I am Aged… (“Old Man” .. Rembrandt.) Alas!………alas.. No more to trust in personal attraction, For such is so many passing years affliction, I now must be content with wishful thinking, For women I hold in delightful company, Needs must be in the main; untouchable. So invention is the mother of my necessity, If I am ever to enjoy again love’s intensity, Not in crass, vulgar crudity, but rather, In silent contemplation, in imagined sensitivity. So let me close my eyes in considered fantasy. : Her smile the warmth of a lover’s thighs, Her voice the musical cadence of passion’s sighs, Delightful caresses with each sloe turn of her eyes, Such is the way that my love now transpires. Neither layers of cloth, Nor crush of crowds, Nor hubbub of noise from traffic out loud, Can interrupt my secretive ruminations, In my silent, private world of fantastical collusion, With wave upon wave o