Time has not really had much meaning before with so many things to do
And so many people to see.
Yet time now has a new name, and maybe its called Lost Destiny.
The myriad of thoughts running wild
Include thoughts of you and I in generations now past.
But for the folly of youth and mistakes so long forgotten
Life may have been so different.

Wondering now if the familiarity of all that has been
Will be worn again as a comfortable old shoe.
Or maybe with an air of restlessness and impatience
For another form of existance so briefly touched on and yet
So close and reasurring that it felt like it had always been
An integral part of life and living, or could it be
That my mind and soul thought they had come home.

The tears come now as the aloneness is felt
As a new emotion, not visited before.
Or even invited, but as an intruder, alien and unknown.
Uncertain now of joys always anticipated as life wound its way
Down the river of new things and expected surprises.
The known paths travelled seem to be dimming and losing
Faith that my heart was content with a solitary existance.

Thoughts are flooding in of the strange way
Paths can be changed and created in a single moment
Unknown to us at the time and unseen by others.
Without limitations or expectations but meandering through
And enhancing all of the best within us.
Creating a hope that maybe there is so much more
For us to feel and give and learn to share and trust.

Fate in its time has been blamed for more than its share
For sorrows felt and lost opportunities.
Maybe the soulmate of Fate is Fear
Trembling and afraid in the dark and not holding out a hand.
You held yours out to me and I to you.
Could it be that Fate may have time off
To smile at those with the courage to make their own.

Janni May 1999

Surgeons, clever little fellows these,
Slight in build, bespectacled, beginning each phrase with "Thou Mustn't".
Cautious beyond reason while practising their barbecue skills on the life support system of others.
Take a piece, leave a piece, invading places while the Soul is temporarily out of order.
The divine right of self destiny is thrown to the winds
As silver sharp the scalpel traces Z for Zorro
On what was once a whole and unadulterated likeness of the Almighty.
Leaving the battered flesh to heal as best it can
And the soul to try and comprehend
What happened to its home.



I had a great love once
A long long time ago.
I didn't know I had it until I was alone.
Sometimes I think love's sneaky, the way it creeps around,
And doesn't let you know until its gone.

>

We spend our lives discussing
Religion and the likes,
The Heathen way, the Christian way,
The other ways, or not at all.

But how on earth are we to know
The rightful way to take
When no-one from above
Has ever shown us.

We're only speculating
That the way we go is right,
To take us to our
Maker at the end.

We could be wasting so much time
In travelling all these miles,
When just as likely
One small step will do.

I only ever met one Nun, her name was Rosemary, but everyone just called her plain old Rosie.
A hospital was where she worked, in white and sterile virtue, tending all the ills and hurts and woes.
But underneath the dignity a rebel child there lurked that now and then would seek the light of day,
And one would then see Rosie with habit disarrayed, leave a seasoned sprinter in the dust.
With a whoop! that shook the rafters, and a stampeding of feet, she took off down those silent
hallowed halls.
God loves our dear old Rosie, our true blue Rosemary, His rebel child in her world of peace, is she.

After we make love, it's the No sounds that get me.
Like you smoking or me twirling my hair.
And then you speak and it seems
That the whole damn world is listening.
Take me home please.

I'm getting older
And my aged and creaking joints agree.
Why didn't the rest of me
Keep pace with appendages and other
Assorted limbs and pieces.
My five year old brain
Is looking for a home.

Who comes a'creeping up my back stairs at night.
It really must be Dan my old Milko.
He comes up like a hippo, or a rhino in a rage
With his empties playing tom toms and his full ones playing bass
The broken ones the cymbals and the drums.
He really is a sweetie with his knee high socks and shorts
And footie boots and Toohey's hat askew.
Jangling all his silver as he fights off sundry dogs,
He does his rounds and just as quickly goes.

Eyes are the window of the soul,
Hearts are the mighty labourers
Who never cease to toil.
A nose is just a facial bump that happens to be there,
A mouth is very interesting, as talk piece for the brain.
And legs and arms are there to do our bidding.
Stomachs are the catcher that distributes to the few.
Appendix can be taken from the body.
Nerves are itty bitty things that are always on the go.
I'm looking for the part that houses love.

A stranger, a meeting by chance, with eyes so soft that haunted,
And wouldn't let me be.
Starting a surge of red hot blood, that pounded through the veins,
Looking for somewhere else that it could go.
It seemed to last a million years, was it really just a second.
For the eyes still stay to haunt me,
And refuse to let me be.

Privacy is hard to get, the price to pay is high.
When some folk need it more than lots of others.
It usually comes when on ones own and free from interruptions.
When in a room thats filled with peace and joy.
It's no good in my kitchen, the Central Train comes through.
The bedroom has a setting there for love. And the loungeroom is a disco in disguise.
The car is always private if its very late at night
And sometimes in the laundry you will find it.
But the very best, when filled with gloom, without a doubt a winner
The much aligned, the smallest room,
The Bathroom.

Prose by Janni 1978

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