Ken W. Simpson

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A degree of Propinquity

Memories of old friends
flare and flicker
then fade as glimpses
of familiar faces
names and places
the house next door
an approaching pram
a car rolling, slowly
down a driveway
towards the street
where moods of sadness
meander
beguiled by moments
of hypothetical happiness.
​

Groping for a Ghost

Puffs of thistledown
floating in the air.
 
Lovely lady
dark blue plums
and the tracery of lace.
 
'Toot' says a trumpet
to the cry of a clarinet.
 
Tinkling piano notes
flowing
lilting. rippling fleeting
fleeing.
 
Bows, strings and violins.
 
Echoes of yesterday
fading into grey.

The Heavenly Line

I was a passenger on the Heavenly Line
stopping all stations and running on time
starting early on a lifetime's journey
innocent, guileless and gullible
willingly, but lacking initiative
passive and compliantly pliant
introverted, programmed, unable to think
learning by rote but understanding little
emotionally, socially and sexually repressed
wondering who and why I was
lost to those who had reared me
on my solitary journey
 
Going somewhere on the Heavenly Line.
 
I escaped for a time at Fantasy Station
finding salvation in the imagination
with stories and pictures of distant places
a magic storehouse I could explore and enter
escaping behind a phony facade
eluding imagined jeers and taunts
alienated because I failed to adapt
fleeing from that world and into another
where I was indoctrinated
and taught to believe the unbelievable
naïve  and uncritically accepting
 
The fog which lifted eventually.

Listless, helpless people waited
on the platform at Stillborn Station
vacantly milling, vainly hoping
the demented, the crippled, the unborn
for a hope that would never arrive
when we were leaving someone fled
and frantically attempted to board
hanging on desperately as we picked up speed
flailing wildly backwards, into the past
where the immortal soul awaits its fate
for the grace of eternal life
 
Or damnation in Dante's hell.
 
In a compartment all alone
I learned to discriminate
between the scenes outside
and the thoughts within my mind
to see other faces in distant places
solve problems and deal with doubts
about being born without knowing why
with travellers on the Heavenly Line
trying to understand a creator
to acknowledge and venerate
a loving, forgiving and wrathful figure
linking fatuity with hope
and the means to save the souls

Of travellers on the Heavenly Line.
 
In the darkness of the night
entombed within a speeding monster
dreaming nightmares of the horrific kind
losing my way in some alien city
confused by  changes in every scene
I awakened relieved
jolted free from fantasies
escaping into a silent, private world
of creativity, fulfilment and contentment
free from the wars being waged outside
by disembarking at Serenity Station
some distance from its destination
knowing I was as close as I would ever be
to a place that didn't exist
leaving behind a ghost train
 
Going nowhere on the Heavenly Line.

Ken W. Simpson's profile

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Twilight

Palm fronds
undulate gently
somnolently
nodding
tiredly posing
as the sun sets
lights glimmer
inside
and dappled patterns
glow
against flimsy blinds.
 
Jagged blades
and the spires
of distant pines
appear
in silhouette
inside
as the wind rises
and palm fronds
writhe
flailing wildly
as if trying to break free.
​

Holidays at Home

Plastic rainbows
men in fancy dress
faces damaged by derision
and snide jibes.

Pretty girls in curlicues
dressed in white
counting the spaces
in between paces
while playing games
beneath a chiaroscuro sky.

Innocent Eyes

As the sun sets
eyes delicate and shy
drift away
from the unkind sunlight
to the concealing gloom
where enigmas lurk
and shadows snake
towards the night.

Silhouettes of Severed Heads

There were few jobs
after graduation
but after applying
I was accepted
as a temporary art teacher
and sent by train
to a technical school
in the countryside.
 
It was bureaucratic brick
with a bitumen yard
flanked by classrooms
and a staffroom
occupied by strangers
including me
a misfit
sipping a cup of tea.
 
I had to teach
miniature men
their features blurred now
by the passing years
to a timetable
of supervised sport
free drawing
and clay modelling.
 
I shared a room for a time
at a local hotel
with Bill
who taught maths
then flew to Melbourne
to pick up a car
and rented rooms
in a private home.
 
Early one morning
while intoxicated
I was threatened by a lout
who kept insisting
I take off my coat and fight
which I did
outraging my landlady
who asked me to leave.
 
I moved in with Bernie
an alcoholic
partied with Laurie
my department head
who unknown to me then
was unhappily married
to Shirl
when she sat on my knee.
 
After the Melbourne Olympics
in '56
I rented a shack
on a turkey farm
swam naked in the river
on hot summer nights
and resigned
leaving only memories behind.

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