A moment in time, a moment of peace

I thought I’d give readers a break from my musical adventures – I was recently reminded of my time up north in the Kimberley


In the Kimberley, 1994


An absolute peace chased the dawn

dimming memories of the night sky’s

show of shooting stars,

and being crapped on by fruit bats

from their Pandanis Palm fortress

chattering in the dark.


The Jetranger’s whining turbines

called time on a swift cold breakfast;

the diamonds were waiting.

Day after day of dry stream samples,

condemned to work in majestic gorges,

to swim in cool lakes.


Crocs made the wet samples more fun.

Silent death waited patiently

somewhere in the high grass,

but death was everywhere out here,

the adder, the sun, the breakdown

in the midst of nowhere.


When the chopper didn’t return

we made camp, waited for rescue,

which came nine hours later;

the welcome sound of rotor-blades

interrupting contemplation

of this tenuous life.


We flew back over savannah,

parched land awaiting the monsoon’s

deluge driven rivers,

a desolate expanse, so harsh,

so unforgiving, so vicious,

so irresistible.


The pilot had removed the doors;

I leant out to drink in the view,

a warm breeze on my face.

Skimming treetops in the dusk light

beneath a glowing orange sky

was a perfect moment.

Freelancer – On the Underground

Another one – On the Underground


Vacant staring into space, I’ve been waiting here so long

Worrying about the morning train, the one already gone

Still thinking of that warm bed, and the girl I kissed goodbye

Before heading out once more, under a dull grey sky


His steam-pressed pin-stripe suit, on top of dull scuffed shoes

Staring at the black windows, reflections of commuter blues

Trying not to bump anyone, look no one in the eye

In this still and silent herd, as dull and grey as London’s sky


Packed in tight

they’re clutching dreams,

Reality –

it’s not what it seems,

they’re nowhere-bound

on the Underground


She’s wearing that mini  skirt and boots, they’re sexy, right up her knees

She’s staring at her reflection, I wonder what it is she sees

A meaning to the tedium, of climbing up the corporate steps

Just one within a faceless crowd, adrift within the city’s depths

Freelancer – The Beach

This is a song for all of you who have a bad day at work. Once again the H6 recorder was used.



That’s when I thought of you

The air was burning, fire in my lungs,
the horizon shimmered
dissolving the sparse trees
then remaking them – perfectly;
that’s when I thought of you.

Under the shadow of the eucalypts,
desiccating in a riverbed yearning for water,
swallowing sandpaper in delirious bliss,
the sky blue without blemish;
that’s when I thought of you.

As night arrived and the air cooled,
merely toasting me gently,
the stars emerged to peer through the leaves,
twinkling in the distance, out of reach;
that’s when I thought of you.

I could almost squeeze them in my palm,
swat the occasional shooting star
that ripped the sky so briefly
that’s when I embraced the chance to dream;
that’s when I thought of you.


It’s going to be 39 degrees Celsius today, so I thought this was an appropriate post

Freelancer – August 1983

Yes – once again I have grabbed the H6 recorder and an old poem from my book Silence, and now have another song to inflict upon you – hopefully it’s not that bad! Lyrics below:

August 1983

In August 1983, I was fourteen and free
The time was mine and mine alone, no responsibility
Long summer days, I spent listening to the radio
Big Log, I’m Still Standing, Give it up, and What a Feeling.

Those days were made of magic
Those days were made of gold
Those days went on forever
No thought of growing old

Lazing in the sun, a symphony of birds and bees
The perfume of cut grass, and roses on a summer breeze
Half-read open books, discarded pairs of shoes
The grass soft beneath our feet, watching clouds in skies of blue.

Those days were made of magic
Those days were made of gold
Those days went on forever
No thought of growing old

Hold on to your dreams
Never let them go
Hold on to your dreams
They’re worth more than you know

In August 1983, I thought of girls a lot
Dreamed on stealing kisses, yeah, but dreams were usually all I got
I dreamed of lots of things, I dreamed of being a star
Cos dreams can make you fly, and you never know how far

Those days were made of magic
Those dreams were made of gold
Those days went on forever
No though of growing old

Dreams, are made of magic
Dreams are made of magic
Your drams are made of gold



Freelancer – My Funky Bassline

Okay, more music…sort of. This was a performance poem I wrote over 10 years ago that I have put to music. Again on a Zoom H6 recorder.  I can’t get the voice right, but it’s just a little bit of fun.

Lyrics below


My Funky Bassline

It was a steamy summer’s day and I had a tortured soul
I was being persecuted by the gods of rock’n’roll
I had a funky bassline captured in my mind
It was trying to escape, there was someone I had to find

I went looking for the Funkster, the only man around
Who could help me make this tune into a groovy sound
There was nothing else to do that could ease my suffering brain
And stop that funky bassline driving me insane

On my way down to his joint I maintained exclusion zones
With my unexploded rhythm vibrating through my bones
And I got the strangest looks from other people on the street
As I walked the paving stones with a syncopated beat

When I reached his place he asked me, ‘How can I help you man?’
And I said ‘I’ve got this funky bassline and I need a helping hand.’
‘No worries mate,’ he told me, ‘I’ll see what I can do,
It’s a crime to find a bassline and fail to follow through.’

So he sat me on his couch and I hummed my funky music
And his face lit at once and he said, ‘YEAH, I can use it!’
He left the room for hours, but then when he returned
He played me the result, some music that he’d burned

He’d mixed guitars and drums with my funky little bass
And my groovy little rhythm had finally found its place
But no sooner had I left him, I was once again afflicted
With a catchy little bassline, it seems that I’m addicted

I hear music all the time and it comes from everywhere
And new rhythms make me nervous and it doesn’t seem quite fair
That I get funky tunes appearing, while the Funkster soothes my soul
And I’m fated to be tortured by the gods of rock’n’roll


Music from Freelancer – The Silence

The Silence is my first foray into music…be gentle with me. I ditched the Acoustic Fiasco Project for now (i need to spend more time back on the acoustic guitar first) and decided to progress my Freelancer project which is more electric-based. It needs a bit of work – but for now here it is recorded live on a Zoom H6

Lyrics below

The Silence

He’s just a shadow, just a shade
Basking in the afterglow
Caught between the light and oblivion
He’s got nowhere left to go

Promises that once were made
Cast in solid gold, they said
Promises that disappeared
Just dust upon the wind, long dead

Abandoned on deserted shores
Left to dream for ever more
But all he hears is silence
Searching for that perfect sound
With ghosts and spirits all around
But he just hears the silence

He’s drowning in the fumes of fame
Dreaming of what might have been
Slowly slipping out of sight
Scared that he was never seen

Abandoned on deserted shores
Left to dream for ever more
But all he hears is silence
Searching for that perfect sound
With ghosts and spirits all around
But he just hears the silence

He’s just a shadow, just a shade
Fading in the afterglow
Moving from the light to oblivion
There’s only one place he can go


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