By Tony DeLorger © 2015

How many times must I endure,
my own sweet refrain, my beauty predilection,
the guise of all this pain,
when life beckons stark reality, regardless;
the grit of struggle an discrepant lubricant,
to the dim pleasures of superficiality,
revered often and debased by few, including myself.

Pleasures carnal can be an instrument of harm,
its razor edge a familiar bleed,
and yet love in its entirety, moves the world,
and the fullness of it, I have yet to find,
impropriety a waxing visage,
an underlying manipulation for insensible need,
the accumulating self to wholeness.

When has honesty gone,
does it even know of itself, cowering in some dark recess,
nigh used, let alone understood,
and I like any another, seek refuge in blessed intent,
nectar far more appealing than dark viscous blood,
freedom the epiphany, in chains the nightmarish tale,
all for an envisaged salvation.

I choose to wear my pain,
veiled by all I see in appeasement of it.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

The sun did sting, on a summers morn,
when walk the street I did, for seasons joy,
and came across a flock of bobbing heads,
a gaggle of cooing pigeon pies,
high-stepping with amorous notes,
a mass of interchangeable nodding domes,
feathers like a bed of many colors, writhing.

Each passer by, the flock took flight,
their shadow cloaked that beating sun,
flapping feathers, escaped to lines and boughs,
their incessant chatter, ongoing,
and their mark profound before my steps,
in textured white small mounds,
sidestepped I, and passed them by, a furtive glance, goodbye.

Like a thrashing breeze they returned to ground,
cooing, prancing up and down,
like the street had come alive in rolling waves of feather frenzy,
and I, pleased for untainted clothes, no marble gifts,
journeyed on, stepping to shade
and ever looking upward,
per chance a wise friend's sharing.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

Tremulous hands, age defied,
held that yellowed image, fused to flesh,
imbibed memories like a wafting zephyr,
caressing her soul to warmth.

Her pale eyes rimmed in softest blue,
crystalline tears too weary to flow,
he was her meaning, her life's pleasured purpose,
and even now, that face, could take the sigh from her.

Slow blinking eyes, tentative,
holding onto life with but a whim,
so to not forget, imbue those moments spent,
the love that cradled two soul to ecstasy.

Suddenly memories were not enough,
that sepia image too cold and brittle,
and she, tired for the wanting,
living for such fleeting solace.

Yearning, she closed those pale eyes,
and drew that dark breath,
letting go of the moment, to find him, to touch him,
to return to home.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

How can I not mourn the time,
its fleeting passages slipping through my fingers,
while I swipe my hands in thin air,
trying to capture but moments,
hold them close and imbibe their beauteous avail,
but elusive they are to my desperation,
once passed, the crumbs of memory console only,
so momentary, one dimensional.

In youth this focus trite and pointless,
exuberance the great magnifier of rapturous experience,
each moment a blissful rendition of joy or pain or a soul bereft,
and now each moment seen and appreciated,
is whisked away like a cinder spark, a flash in darkness,
lost to time, with barely a moment to conceive,
and I, feeling inept for the loss,
and wanting for the experience.

How age defines life,
segregates those wonderful notions of fantasy,
with those harsh truths gleaned from all the pain,
and in that understanding an irony of proportions,
old enough to see, and not young enough to do anything about it,
and a smile relents my furrowed brow, knowing,
for that is life, the cycle, the knowledge,
and though I groan about it, I am content.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

Which way, some inkling, divine guidance,
show me that end, so I can muster the courage.
The battle rages, the field is strewn with necrotic flesh,
of mine, undertaken in quiet consolation of right,
yet death and disaster follow,
a whiff of sour turning pursued,
and I, the quarry of that bloodhound, unflinchingly focused,
my lame fleeing a loose rhapsody of movement,
desperate to escape my own brutality.

Fairness, my own delusion,
and persecution a pointless blame,
but a simple pointing will do,
a wink, a gesture of affable assistance,
at least one foot on sturdy ground, while worlds crumble,
let lessons learned account, a headway so slight,
so the undertaking can prevail without injury,
the path not laden with jagged stone,
yearning for my blood.

The silence tells the tail, my heart beat resounds,
no respite declared, the silence pointed, even pleasured,
or is that my paranoia, my un-tethered spite,
having to accept the whip, whenever the wind blows,
and in the end, the knowledge,
what happens is ordained, necessary,
and even if I could turn the time,
placate the circumstances,
I'd still be asking the same question.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

Impassive, but drawn to see what unfolds,
a mind of salubrious demeanor,
unwilling to bend for the fear of itself,
counting time with a steady heartbeat,
and living in the moment complete.

Such rowdy, contentious wills,
like jumping beans, bouncing within life,
the wave makers contrition,
yet to be realized, even understood,
within this rage of living profundity.

I watch with interest, with ambivalence,
like a play of life, characters born and evolving,
while time ebbs, and no peace of mind in sight,
just the buzzing of clouded minds, enacting,
pushing life to ends.

I shall remain the observer,
the impartial mind of propriety,
for my heart beats for love and none else can switch it,
not for all those dreams of hapless greed,
and the gold of distaste rewarded.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

The struggle is evident, ongoing,
the pain of it, very real,
but with whom we struggle, is unexpected,
often unrealized, in each breath of daily life,
and so often we teach ourselves to blame,
to displace our anger, our failure and shame,
in the preservation of lies,
but truth speak to us in thunderous clarity,
for it is we, the bane of our own existence.

Our struggle resides within us,
how we decide, with all our bias, our proclivity,
and through our own doubts and delusions,
we orchestrate obstacles, pain and suffering,
in the process of learning,
for there is no greater teacher than failure,
and the hurt from the consequences of misjudgment,
our struggle the gleaning of knowledge,
and the measuring of humility.

Struggle is the precursor to victorious ends,
learning the steps to an endless ascension,
a higher consciousness and awareness of the processes of life,
not bound by the will of ego and a narcissistic plight,
but by wisdom learned through struggle,
each disappointment, the strength of character,
each pain the teacher of balance,
and each tear the resolve of determination,
to understand who we really are.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

Thoughts abandoned,
let loose in that infinite void,
flimsy, reckless thoughts,
with edges, an unwanted discomfort,
seated in the dark recesses of mind,
fragments of rejection,
willed to anonymity, forgotten,
resting in the bloated lining of consciousness,
ever-present but ignored.

What truths in fragments sit,
in this void of rejection,
little pieces of transformation unrealized,
lies that we hide from ourselves,
clandestine thoughts, in a mist of denial,
clothed in mundane garments,
too trite to notice,
and so we keep ourselves distracted,
while we fathom reality, of our making.

Does truth ever emerge from our lips,
unencumbered, delivered without reserve,
or do we tend our words with ardent editing,
manufacturing each moment of life,
to suit our position, our status, our ego, our persona,
never once admitting reality,
never once trusting a soul to bear the truths within,
accept what intent evades,
what we really are in thought and action.

The problem as the keeper,
is we end up believing the lies,
the painted view of life,
guided by the hand of wanted perceptions,
the superficial shell of us, adorned,
and when the keeper embraces lies,
the lies become truths,
and what then remains of us, authentic,
just the whisper of will and an iron key.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

A single flame is what we are,
alone in the darkness of a vast and accommodating will,
and we, drenched in the sweat of our conscious concerns,
feel alone within the eloquent arms of eternity.

In what manner of state do we expect to live,
within this shell of reason and limits of ineptitude,
seeing so little of what exists, beyond us, the self,
the focus of our being.

We are shadows, reflections of life, mirrored,
from an omniscient mind, a mere speck of a billion thoughts,
and yet we fester in the arrogance of a God,
when we are but a glimmer of potential, yet realized.

This single flame can become a light, of hope, of good,
but for all our potential we remain animals, killing, squandering,
and the animals and life we so look down upon,
live in perfect harmony, by the grace of providence.

So many ironies in a world of reason,
clutching truths like casino chips,
and we, lost within our petty concerns of superficiality,
forge paths to technology, that in the end may be our undoing.

Sad little being, we humans,
so much right with so much wrong, and we immovable,
devout in our striving for self, for recognition, for ego,
when all life wanted was to share. 

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

Slender strokes of loveless paint,
an affront to canvas but soul acquaint,
digging deeply for guidance dreamed,
but relented from that creative stream.

And colors marred from pointless lines,
meld in tones of grey in time,
searching, desperate for form and life,
an artist struggle in bottled strife.

And numbing words reverberate,
within a skull too numb to wait,
that rainbow seen so far from place,
a giddy blurred and slurring waste.

The bottle drawn and memories sting,
that loss of love and fragile wing,
turbulent rolling inner will,
no brush can bleed, no heart instill.

Art is life and life is art,
and broken hearts with art depart,
and bottles numb but solve not pain,
just forgetful minds sing death's refrain.

And walk that single narrow line,
a teetering abyss awaits, divine,
as purpose falls from grace and mind,
and soul relents on life and rhyme.

The canvas speaks of disrespect,
and that bottle empty, its use reject,
and still the artist bleeds in self,
regretful hearts and selected stealth.

Hiding from an empty white,
his colors bleached and need respite,
for now self-pity is all that's worth,
a creative minds chosen birth.

Lost within that righteous flow,
where life once lived and overflowed,
the artist kneels in sadness lost,
this block a deep and malignant cost.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

Beguiled by the sweet scent of expectation,
deluded minds falter at the first sight of doubt,
that erroneous line they walk so treacherously fine,
unable to carry the burden of weight.

For minds uncluttered of reason,
see their wants as determinate ends,
the periphery of reality far from consciousness,
and restraint an unconsidered choice.

Blindness is a personal affront,
nurtured by our choices and propensities,
and so often we bend under the reality,
that beckons light to see.

We become a travesty of motivation,
seeking that which is superfluous,
when all we need is to open our eyes,
and accept ourselves in truth.

We may spend a lifetime on paths to nowhere,
journeys that deliver teaching to deaf ears,
and change then becomes stagnation,
the perpetual cycles of past revisited.

And all the time we outwit ourselves,
choose the safety of delusion, to maintain ego,
and re-enact a life of blind, self-abuse,
unknowing the sure path of honesty.

Without truth and acceptance,
there can be no honesty,
and we listen to that inner voice that placates us,
never to discover who we are.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

The wayfarer dawns the new day,
weary though his limbs, he strides to ambivalence,
not destination his focus,
simply direction, what the moment brings,
and his eyes are crystal clear,
unclouded by presumption, the expectancy of ends,
and his heart beats time to his stride,
as if time itself is his quarry,
consuming, experiencing it as he pleases,
and his heart is pure, not dulled by contention,
not broken from disappointment,
but filled with an open acceptance,
life unfurling, like woven silk,
complex threads underfoot,
acknowledged but without restraint,
and so his life ensues,
unencumbered, free from his own denial,
and the wayfarer breaths the freshest air,
sees the most vast views of beauteous life,
that warms his heart,
answers his questions and stills his mind,
to just be, without the judgement,
each breath a symphony,
each step and epiphany,
each moment precious,
on this his journey, undertaken.

By Tony DeLorger © 2015

It always amazes me how fundamentally ignorant people are when it comes to business. Bubblews is certainly no exception. The business model they constructed looked great on paper, I'm sure, but when it came to the most basic and essential information about advertising revenue and their subsequent budgets and sales targets, they over-estimated to the realm of the ridiculous. How the hell can you start up a business, and invest huge amounts of money based on wrong information. Even with a business plan you need to know how much money you can earn and the cost of creating the product. So why did it all fall to bits?

I suspect they all had the technical side down, and marketing and a broad view of what they wanted. What was missing was business savvy, and pie-eyed dreams lost within the complexities of ignorance. But in order to save themselves, they did what any fraudulent business does, try to save themselves and hang all those who tried to support them. I dare say there is probably more than half a million dollars owed to bubblers, and a mere pittance will ever be paid, even at the end of exhaustive and prolonged class actions. No doubt being a company with paid up capital, the directors will get off scot free, and maybe have already tried to syphon off money personally, before the shit hit the fan. In any case they may be bankrupted and won't be able to do it again any time soon. But it's a bitter pill to swallow, being so disrespected and abused by a business that utterly depended on we writers for revenue.

Bubblews actions over the last few months have be reprehensible, not to overlook the illegality. They have been secretive, underhanded and thoroughly devious in their actions and statements, in a last ditch attempt at saving their own asses. Their blatant disregard for the law is a testament to their lack of business acumen and also their moral sensibilities. I am thoroughly appalled by their behaviour and have accustomed myself to the financial loss, and loss of a great and supportive community, that have unfairly been abused by this business.

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME!

Another Year, Another Breath
By Tony DeLorger © 2015

A shallow breeze teases the summer morn,
and birds speak to day with bright expectancy,
sun blessed, the world moves in time,
and another year has passed, another breath taken.

How the past lingers, felt yet fallen behind,
and the path entreats a forward step,
unknown and profoundly rich in possibility,
and the wheels turn with subtle hum.

Filled with purpose we move into the new year,
mind filled with anticipation, a blind faith,
to greet day fresh and unencumbered,
a passenger on this ever-turning, churning ride.

Burgeoning plans and promises made,
hover like an umbrella,
and faces clean and free from yesterday,
forge the valleys and climbs to come.

I love the smell of expectancy in the morning,
like blossoms unfurling to a beckoning sun,
and whatever awaits is righteous,
in this dream of growth and being.

And I thank life for its acceptance,
I, like a pebble in the rapid flow,
glad to be here, for yet another year,
my heart ever-open, my mind willing to grow.

Gym Junkies Unite
By Tony DeLorger © 2014

Been going to the gym now for over twelve months, have lost 15kg, have got some level of cardio fitness and feel 10 years younger (just wish I looked it). There is no doubt, that no matter your age, exercise is a good think and feeling healthy like no other feeling. If we don't go to the gym, we feel guilty, and have to make up for it. We really get obsessed with it, because of all those endorphins I guess, but it is a good thing and although I go through much pain doing it, I wouldn't stop for anything. The following poem I wrote for my son Ben, who tales gym many steps farther than I do; hell he squatted 200kg the other day, that's two of me on his back. I'll leave that to him. I hope you like my little poem about us older gym junkies.

I Think I'm Falling To Pieces

My body is racked with pain,
my joints screaming for respite,
every muscle is trembling, in spasm,
every sinew feels alight,
that burning lactic acid,
is searing me to cooked,
and another minute or too should do it,
medium rare I'd say if I looked,
but I can't look at what I done to me,
I'm bulging, veiny and statuesque it seems,
swollen and hurting from all that pain,
the pressure is too much now for my minute brain,
my body has just taken over,
rep after rep after rep,
and my elbows and knees now are squeaking,
I can't take another step,
I'll just lay here with my tonne and a half of flesh,
glistening in the afternoon breeze,
I think perhaps I've broken my back,
I'm numb from my neck to my knees,
I'll be OK though, this is normal,
I'll rest tomorrow and be fine,
cause its back to the gym then the next day,
all that pumping and lifting of iron,
but it's fine, this old heart can take it,
its just a marathon on the bike,
and if I finish early, some shrugs or quad presses will do,
before they have to carry me out with a fight,
you see they're frightened that I'll sue,
but no, that's just ridiculous,
I'm hear for my health and self-esteem,
until I herniate a disk, or is it a discus?
Anyway, just need the day to recover,
and intake a cow for protein,
a few dozen eggs and the odd kilo of veg,
and I'll be right as rain and all keen,
so don't listen to my constant moaning,
just a momentary organ shut down,
a good nights sleep and I'll be raring to go,
back to my gym if I'm allowed.

By Tony DeLorger © 2014

I hear so many stories about grown up children abandoning their parents, and I don't just mean those with dementia in care facilities, but parents still fending for themselves at home. It saddens me to think that after bringing a child into the world, nurturing them, feeding and educating them, and grounding them with a sense of morality, and wisdom, so they will have a productive and happy life, someone could then turn their back on their parents.

But it happens all the time, after all the parents sacrifice, when the child grows up, they have no time for the parent, even when they are in need. So many older couples are basically destitute, not being able to maintain their lives without help and with perhaps no money to get into a care facility. I know many children become focused on inheritance and just wait for their parents to go so they can get their greedy hands on their life's savings. This is just so abhorrent to me, and I can't believe any person could feel like that with their own parents.

Imaging turning your back, out of choice, on those who gave you life. How shallow would you have to be to have no feelings for your parents. I think I must live in another world. Our parents and the elderly deserve everything from us. We inherited the world from them, and what we have is because of them. So where is the respect, where is compassion and love?

I'll never understand this kind of behavior, but it has to be addressed, because we hold such little value with the elderly, those who have lived, loved and fought for our future. We must appreciate the wisdom of age, and those who have delivered us to life, surely?

Oh Why...
By Tony DeLorger © 2014

Why do storms preempt fine weather and arguments end in peace?
Why is pain the greatest teacher and love a soul's release?
Why is strife just one more challenge in a world of serenity rarely seen, and hurt accepts its passage, what falls apart is dreams?
Why does my heart ever long for love, when heartache is all that ends, and friendship so it appears to be, is lost my heart transcends?
And why am I awake at night the stars a burden to hold, their endless distant light of past, too much for a mind be told?
Why do I cry at advertisements, with babies, kittens and the old, when I am man and unbreakable, a stoic steel-like mold?
And why is grass greener on the other side, where feet have not dared to tread, and challenge the scale of dizzy heights unwilling to be met.?
Why is disaster always come in numbers, to beat us to the ground, when ass-holes find the pathway smooth, their gain too much, astound?
Why are baby feet so perfect and grown ups gnarled and irksome, why is beauty all we ever want, when a heart reveals the person?
Why do birds sing in the morning, and dogs howl at night, why do drunks stumble in alleyways, their families a horrid plight?
Why is luck a thing of fancy, when losing is commonly felt, but winning a thing of destiny, a meant to be result?
And why do I sleep alone at night time, all marriages gone to heaven, yet other men bald and ugly, find sex and pleasures given?
Why do I enrich my life with morality straight and true, when reckless men with ill-intent rule the world anew?
And why do trees affect me so, I hug them all the time, yet strangle weeds in my back lawn, my conscience not sublime?
Why do I love those that I do, when frustration often stings, and in the end I forgive them all, and give my love some wings?
Why is the world so harsh and cruel, to those of softer nature, when those of tough and leathery hides, live easy lives with stature?
Why do I continue to write so much, my thoughts in hope of learning, when life itself does beckon me, put down your pen your burning?
And why do I wallow in my unpleasant past, when a clean and inviting future, screams for me to accept it's path and forgive my past illusions?
Why do I ask so many questions, on a minute to minute basis, it's because I know so little, and I want to die sublimated.
And why is life so complex, when we humans are so dumb, I guess if we knew the truth of it, we'd explode or in madness succumb. 

By Tony DeLorger © 2014

How much further must we go into the abyss,
before peace is found,
before fear and hatred cease to consume minds,
before greed is proven shallow.

Islam, Christianity, Buddhism and Hinduism,
are filled with notions of love, brotherhood and acceptance,
yet somewhere purpose has become lost,
the pure words of truth are but echoes falling to distance.

I believe not in any doctrine of dogma,
but I do believe in love and the potential of peace,
and in that pursuit I see nothing but contention,
the squabbling of children over pointless rights.

I dream of countless blessings,
and wake to endless war,
in minds, in words, in battles and oppression,
the sounds of silent screaming resounding in hearts.

How much further must we bend morality,
justify the decimation of our earth,
and the destruction of all life sacred,
for the appeasement of systems we've created.

How much pain can we inflict without guilt,
without the consciousness of a open and giving heart,
and how will we sleep knowing what we do to one another,
in the name of self-gain.

How much further can I go without breaking,
knowing all this and seeing no change,
no serenity only struggle,
no contentment just self-inflicted pain.

How much further is it to home.