by Brian O'Neill, Stephen Gunther, Anne Maclean

THE BIRTH OF SOLITUDE At this heart-felt centre Lies an aching need Of Solitude Cast into flesh, And as I look into my little sons' eyes, I know the worth of this bloodied birth. The soul of spirit So different in connecting To the heart of the father And the heart of the son... While the veil of mortality melts And figure returns to ground, I see the tree eternal, And in that moment of ultimate eternal solitude I no longer die each night. Solitude gives birth and we are One.

BLUE SKY The blue sky of childhood Restores my soul, Sheltered in sunlight, Touched by sea breezes Moving in the leaves. Is choice so valued In the Harmony of all things That the abuse of Innocence Is a consequence? The soft eyes Show the pain Of knowing Good and evil At home, In the storm of the Holocaust, Seemingly forever. It is this Age Which says that God is dead. The morning's comfort Is found in the gentle silence As sunlight warms the wooden floor. Somehow I am blessed By the eternity of the mundane - A gentle breath of innocence Pervading all things.

STIRRINGS

I am massaged
by the sound of the air
through the pine and eucalypt trees

The sound tells of sunny winter days
And the crisp smell of snow on alpine hills
And somehow I am connected
To monks and nuns
In clean gentle prayer.

With a longing
Connected beyond time
My soul smells the fresh air
While my brain
Unknowing
Considers psychiatric curriculum
On a computer screen.

I adjust the chair
So I can sit with an upright back
Not slouching
Sitting as a martial artist in horse stance
Knowing that the true art of war
Is the common, everyday
Attendance
To the
Sound of the wind
In the pine and eucalypts

A soft rain is falling falling around me my clothes are soaked I don't care the dampness on my face feels good feels good come down rain come down touch my soul run down my nose down my chin envelop me so that I feel nothing but wetness nothing but wetness cold and warm and wet and be my companion my pores are thirsty to breathe the mist my body is water my soul is water my mind is at sea obscured by sheets of rain of rain a fire burns in my chest evaporating the water cold my skin is cold my heart beating fast like the hearth fire fanned by a blast from the open door the door is open and rain blows in

my house threatening the fire pooling on the floor wrecking the carpet I don't care let it all get wet open all the windows let the rain in let the rain in let it soak the bed let it get on the books let it ruin the lounge let the wind blow over everything so neatly arranged so neatly arranged let it make a mess and the fire sputters and complains but it won't go out it just rages more valiantly fanned by the wind throwing itself around in the hearth no danger to the rain and when the morning comes and the mist is lifting and its clear the fire only a few coals the house damp then I walk outside filled with the sweet morning air then I walk outside my heart wide open my heart wide open

my heart wide open

THE SOUL CRYING OUT

In dream I stand upstairs at night, in a long room,
One of a series of interconnected, corridor-like spaces.

Bunches of thick chairs huddle in corners
Others spread more elegantly in ranks
along the windowed walls.
Each room seen from the others through walls of glass
The last one out showing the spread of darkening,
clouded, wind-swept sky.

Men and women pace and shuffle the length
of all these seried rooms,
each with one hand holding a small white china dish,
their other hand fingering,
counting,
sorting
through the pills.

Pills whose colours nearly match a rainbow
with shapes and sizes as varied
as the fingers intent on taking stock.

The energy around each body is held
twisted and stretched,
lacking the lustre of light and life
A clear sense of bizarre, and edge, and dark.

The lights go out, a sudden stillness and then shrieks
bumpings, panic, and terror.

I shake and tremble,
then creep across the rooms towards the stairs.
I know the switch and dare to find it.

Frightened
I feel my way downward
past people with their pills.
I turn the lights back on and walk upstairs into
the windowed room.

I see upon the carpet
flowers
some whole, some petals scattered,
blue and white, cream and red
a hazy pattern on the floor.
I know these flowers are souls
Abandoned with great pain and
left while pills were put in small white china dishes
and touched and counted
and status found in shape and colour
and frequency of dose.

	(ISSN 1091-1766) Gestalt! "Down Under" vol. 1; no. 3 Published by Gestalt Global Corporation, Fall 1997 Please direct comments or responses to the Sr. Editor Masthead