WHO SAW HIM LAST?

These were the shoes he wore. Notice the soles are thin. He’d walked many miles in these trying to get ahead.

This was his favourite jacket. He felt wealthy when he wore it. Even though it had holes in the pockets.

This is the shirt he called his lucky one. He always wore it to important meetings and although nothing ever came of them he felt this shirt would bring him luck. Someday.

These were his favourite pants – he’d been married in them. Twice.

This was the hat he wore everyday. It shielded his head from the rain and the wind and the sun. And if he pulled the brim down, from everyone.

This is the map he lost just before he lost his way.

These are the tears he cried when he had nowhere to go.

This is the heart you broke and you didn’t even know.

These are your letters he kept when he believed in you.

This is the photo of his mother who thought he was precious.

Where are the friends he helped instead of helping himself?

This is his favourite song that he played every night.

This is the movie he said changed his life.

These are the books he loved now all packed away.

Who saw him last?

(C) Frank Howson 2019

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THE DEAD AND THE DYING

The heavy decrepit bodies of the great and not so, mingled with their offsprings, children too young to realise that this too would be their fate. Pathetic men way past their glory days paraded pretending that they still had it, while bored defeated women looked on knowing they didn’t.

It was another day at the enclosed perfectly temperatured salt baths. The warmth was comforting to the skin and the soul and made old bones and muscles feel rejuvenated. The inhabitants floated safe in this maternal womb away from the business deals that no longer mattered in a world that no longer cared and was on its last legs. Some old guys studied the racing form while younger middle-aged men preferred the stock market. Some gambled with their own money while others ventured with what they had married into, or had inherited. All in all there’d be few winners that day. There were no more lucky numbers to be had, or surprise gold and mineral funds in a world that had been looted, raped and gang banged so many times there was nothing left. Certainly not energy for outrage. Only resentment from natives who had been trampled under foot and squashed by the invaders who destroyed paradise without ever having taken the time to truly look around and realise the greatest wealth was above the ground. But like rats they burrowed lower and lower into darkness desperate for any shiny morsel of opportunity. Never thinking any further ahead than that.

We had destroyed the world without realising that such an abomination also destroyed ourselves. What we project outwards also implodes us. Given time.

I stood in the warm salt water as the floating bodies of the dead and the dying circled me.

(C) Frank Howson 2019

Sketch by Frank Howson.

THIS PRISON HAS NO BARS

From the mansions of sadness
To the bums on the street
From the highways of loneliness
To the halls of defeat
I’ve watched your ascendance
The road I never took
Girl, you’ve come a long way
On a smile and a look

From the poolside of stardom
To the kids on the run
From the mountains of compassion
To the things never done
I’ve watched your progression
With an assassin’s eye
I could have been there too
But my heart doesn’t lie

There are stars in cars on every corner of this town
You’re gonna need a lot of help
When you finally come down
You’re slept with the Caesars
And you’ve dined with the Czars
But none of them told you why
This prison has no bars

From the towers of power
To a broken man’s plea
From the face on the magazine
To the girl you used to be
I’m waiting for some answers
Beneath the falling stars
Wish I could’ve warned you
This prison has no bars

(C) Frank Howson 2019

THE MEANING OF LIFE

He came with love in his heart for every living thing. His innocence had been untouched and his light force shone so bright that crowds gathered to see him but, more importantly, to feel his warmth. By gazing upon him they were somehow changed. “Was this the Messiah?” they mumbled to each other in hushed tones lest they be deemed blasphemous by some. For some can find darkness in every hope, every wish, every prayer.

And when this man spoke it brought some to their knees, others to tears. It was as if the calmness in his voice could heal every hurt and fear that had weighed them down and they were now somehow lighter.

The taking away of such anguish even brought back sight to the blind. As if all they had needed was to believe in something and were being granted the ability to see the world anew. Men who had walked too many lonely dead end loveless roads and were now crippled, found that they could walk again. And after those first awkward unsure steps they inched closer and closer to him growing more confident and accepted with each one until they were in his arms, and the safety and strength  of unconditional love made them sob for the joy of each precious moment. Time that they had, until now, misinterpreted and cursed for their burdens, and wasted, was now rediscovered and rejoiced over. All things were possible again.

In his face they saw no judgement, no impatience, no pity, only love. And his love became contagious among the people and they sang his praises.

He had not come to destroy the Romans, or hand out weapons, or preach hate. He was here to give meaning to our lives. What was the meaning of life? Love. For love opens the door to joy. And its light extinguishes all shadows.

But there were those, the shadow people, who were angered by us learning the meaning of existence and saw that this teaching could undermine their power over us. For they ruled by fear and threats, both of which were rendered insignificant when the masses walked proudly in the sun again unchained from their own mental limitations.

So they arrested this man, this dangerous man, beat him, whipped him, ridiculed him and his suffering, and sentenced him to an agonising death for the crime of telling us to love and forgive each other.

And in his final conscious moments he forgave those who had plotted his death, and the ignorant who had killed him. To this day it remains the greatest triumph of the human spirit.

Perhaps he was drawing evil into the light so that the world could recognise its face?

 
(C) Frank Howson 2019

Painting by Frank Howson (c) 2019

EULOGY FOR A FIGHTER

One of my earliest memories was of Johnny Wheeler volunteering to take me to the barber for my first haircut. At that stage I had long golden curls that were my Mum’s pride and joy. Johnny took me to his mate Carl the Barber and gave instructions to the stylist. The next thing I remember is returning home and my mother shrieking when she saw my shaved head.  She ran Johnny out the house screaming,  “And don’t come back!”  I remember it being a particularly cold winter that year.

Fortunately Johnny didn’t take my mother’s words to heart and did come back. How could you not forgive him? He was Johnny. He was part of our family.

Another trick Johnny took great delight in was walking behind me and at the most inappropriate moment stepping on the back of my heel, causing me to step out of my shoe, and fall over. I was known as Shoeless Frank for some years as I stumbled around St. Kilda. Johnny was very well aware that, even for my young age, I had a very large vocabulary of swear words and that each incident would be met with me giving him a spray of abuse that’d make a sailor blush. They say in comedy, timing is everything. Well Johnny would perform this shoe trick every time we passed a priest or a nun. As a result, I think I’ve had my soul prayed for by more priests and nuns than anyone in history.

What bonded Johnny and I later on was our mutual love of music. Well, obsession. All the classics. Sinatra, Lennon, The Stones, Kristofferson, Elvis….When we talked about the King we were not discussing British royalty. There was only one King.

When he was running the nightclub Silvers he gave me a job there as a dee jay. Probably because he knew I’d play all the records he loved. It was a golden time. Johnny was at the peak of his game, and there was no better night club manager than him. No matter how packed the place was, and it was the hottest spot in town at that time, Johnny could always find his friends a table. He was genius at it.

Later on, when he was managing the Weathercock in Carlton, I visited him one day for a drink and met my future wife. Still, I held no grudges against Johnny.

Y’know, Johnny once said to me, during a bad patch in my life, it doesn’t matter that you get knocked down, the mark of a man is that you get up again. “You may count to seven over me, but never ten.” They were the final words of Les Darcy and no one took them more to heart than Johnny Wheeler. He lived them.

You see, Johnny was a fighter. And his greatest bout was the last few years in his life where he took all the punishment Life could throw and – to the astonishment of us all – kept getting up. He was an inspiration to me and I’m sure to all of us that had the privilege to call him friend.

Forget all this global warming stuff, the world will be a colder place without this man.