We have here something quirky and original from a member of the legal profession. Legal profession you may ask?

“Isn’t that a oxymoron?” Well, this legal eagle purportedly knows nothing about the lawyer X case, nor has been seen near the City of Whittlesea, the City of Casey, nor (incredibly) has allegedly no connection to Sports Funding, electoral rorts and donations to the duopoly. So it seems, (and we’ll have to take his word for it) that he is a ‘clean- skin’.  Yet his work at the bar suggests he’s been practising for some forty years. By any reckoning, that’s a lot of time at the bar, and a lot of time between drinks.

Anyway he penned this on his way to work. Which is amusing, cos these days people don’t write anymore. And if they did, the Federal Government would suggest you stop doing it. Otherwise they’ll do a Witness K on you. Or is that a witness X, before it was a lawyer X. Its all very confusing. There’s poetry hidden in all of this, cept we left it on a plain envelope at Casey Council and we have heard back from Mr Aziz yet.

 

Anyway here’s lawyer J’s Poetry…

 

The Currawong. 

 

I was walking west in Bourke Street earlier today, having just passed King Street.

A sound pierced the crushing chaos of noise.

The magnificent call of a Currawong.

Whether anybody else heard the call, nobody else stopped.

It called again.

And again.

Until I last positioned my heralding friend across the road, but unseen, high in a plane tree.

Where is the beauty that caused me to pause?

It left the tree, wings spread in glorious calm as it quietly glided to another perch out of sight.

In those brief moments of flight, the shards of noise around me reduced to the whisper of a ripple on a summer pond.

The Currawong and me.

 

 

and another. This one he calls…. Train to Melbourne

On the train into Melbourne – the last two days at work justifies a late arrival.

All around me, eyes are lowered to electronic devices.

One young chap in scuffed shoes staring at a screen is distractedly picking his nose.

The electronic isolation is no different from the wall-to-wall newspapers of yester-year.

And then, through the door, comes a mum with her infant son in a pram, clutching a cloth book.

Wide with wonder open eyes – and from whom I learn to live the life I have.

Through the next open door, a young lady in lavender wearing high heeled silver snake skin-patterned space boots. 

Joy.