The Heartscape Of My Hands (The Mouth Of Our Hunger)

Hands have always fascinated me and in 2005 I wrote this poem as a way of exploring human suffering.


The Heartscape Of My Hands (The Mouth Of Our Hunger)

I cast my hands around empty streets,
Sending my fingers in search of men at prayer.

See the heartscape of my hands,
They tell you more than I can say.

In me death is bound by division,
Touching the mouth of our hunger.

Yet you know we will always change,
Though we will always seem the same.

Hands hammered onto nails :                                                                                                             Nails yielding from the martyrs song –
How he beholds the work of men.

Your blood flows into the sea of human kindness :
Mingled with the blood of hate –
Where side by side we thirst for the charms of his suffering.

Within us we see eyes raised above the self,
And from the human clock tick seasons which cannot be measured.

My eyes study their pupils my pupils study their eyes,
Each transfixed in the abyss of the other.


© R.J. Hudson 2005.



Lament of the Spiritual Dollar

In 2006 I was teaching spiritual development classes and working as a therapist. I saw so many losers and con men/women, that I felt inspired to pen this little song.


Lament of the Spiritual Dollar
(a tribute to the modern world of the spiritual guru in D Minor on a rusty old acoustic g’itar)

I came I saw I was awakened by the lure of the mighty spiritual dollar
I changed my name and I threw away the chance of fame
I became a Genpo and a Baba.
Now all around folks from outta town,
They gathered to hear me talk yeah –
They buy my books, they praise my name
They even sniff my grits yeah.
Yehaw …

I found a way to make my way through life.
While all around me I see people falling down,
Butchered by the gods of oppression.
They nearly had me too but I quickly flew –
To the feet of an empty vessel.
In my honest way I found a way –
To the feet of the holy dollar.
And the money tree sets me free.


I found a way to make it pay through the hearts of all them suckers.
They came crashing down,
To hear about the god that they carry around.
By the millions they came following my name –
For it ain’t no sin to help them see.
All of us have exactly what we need –
For it ain’t no sin to help them be.
But only for a fee.


Then one day I couldn’t make ‘em pay.
There was no one knockin’ at my door,
Someone else had wooed my people.
And I found myself feelin’ really grim –
So I listened real hard to the silence within.
The money tree was still there but I didn’t really care –
So I listened real hard to the laughter of children.
Only then did I know what money couldn’t grow.


So here I was
Lookin’ round
At the peddlers who were pushin’.
We had Indian Joe was makin’ a show bout being a plastic shaman.
We had Meister Malichi was teachin’ folks bout finding your way through ya DNA.
While Texas Tik Tak was harpin’ on bout the Hopi Gods and their prophecy.
But my favourite one was the great god Osiris the greatest god of the underworld,
Come back from the land of eternity through the body of a man called Bill.
So I sucked my way from the needle stack to the stack of hay
And I came to this one conclusion :
It was all empty air, made from threads bare and joined in a great confusion.
So I changed my name back to the one my mama adored,
I closed my door and thanked the good lord.
Now I found my way without money or fame
Now I talk to my neighbours and I talk to the birds
And I listen really hard for the silence between words.


© R.J. Hudson 2006.

The Adventures of Mr. Cheese Dick

Here’s a little song I wrote in 2006 after having had my share of encounters with Mr Cheese Dick’s !


The Adventures of Mr. Cheese Dick
(a psychadelic Neil Young electric guitar style song played in the key of A with an upbeat tempo)

You know Mr. Cheese Dick
Every body’s got a Mr. Cheese Dick
Some where close by

Mr. Cheese Dick cares only about himself
He’s a universe unto himself
You wanna see him fall down a black hole
But it never seems to happen
Nothing bad at all
Keep on walking Mr Cheese Dick
Walk on by

Mr Cheese Dick :
He’s the guy who pushes in at the supermarket and doesn’t say a word
He’s the guy who slams the door in your face and doesn’t even notice
He’s the guy who tail gates so close you can see the colour of his eyes
He’s the guy who won’t spend time with his kids but drinks his life away with his buddies

You’re an ugly man Mr. Cheese Dick
I suppose you have a name
Your someone’s father, someone’s brother, someone’s uncle or someone’s son
Maybe your even someone’s grandpa or someone’s friend
Worse still – your someone’s lover


Holy mother mother of humanity
Please soften the heart of Mr. Cheese Dick
He’s a real prick
Pushing and shoving his way through life
At the expense of everyone else

You made us all
And we try and love one another
But whenever I see Mr. Cheese Dick
People seem to suffer
What a pain in the arse



© R.J. Hudson 2006.

The Probability of God’s Inflexion

I have spent most of my life trying to understand the world without and the world within. Sometimes understanding is beyond me and in this poem I explore the one thing I think I really do understand.


The Probability of God’s Inflexion

The probability of god’s inflexion upon all life
Is as unknowable as fate itself.
The tides of life and death sway to their own strange rhythm.
Each creature it’s own vessel of meaning
Each creature it’s own light of being.

And in my alien mind :
I imagine that an ant watches the black stretch enigma of a human road
With the same respect and acceptance as it watches the stars –
The mystery of isness as daunting as the mystery of death.

And in my alien mind :
I watch a bloody clash of ants and wonder how they can dump their dead
As if the act of death has taken away all honour and dignity –
Leaving the dead as meaningless as the mystery of empire.

But one creature among billions
Is nothing in the great sea of life.
Yet I – a simple human being think meaning is mine alone,
This folly of belonging to a species in which I cannot even understand my self.

Of all that is
I understand nothing.
Of all that really matters
I can find only love.
And in that love I find a god that is –
Is only is.
In one hand a thing that reaches out
In the other a thing that turns away
But in all things love.


© R.J. Hudson 2007.

The Wonder of Each Moment

I spent a large part of my life suffering and then later worked with many other people who suffered. When I realised the preciousness of each moment, everything changed and my experience of life shifted. A life threatening illness woke me to the splendour of each moment and helped me to see how to honour my body as a teacher and a voice for the soul. I wrote this poem as a reminder of the moment and how the moment finds its way into the experiences of the body.


The Wonder of Each Moment

The body moans and groans,
With small agonies
Long since sent away,
To some forgotten landscape within.

As space moves across space,
Gradients change
And space shrinks and expands
opens and closes
consumes and expels.

The mind conceives time,
In a place of space,
Where perception sees what it wants to see.
The body growing older
And the mind following in submission.

Age created from moments only half lived.
Moments when the life force was only partly expressed.
Vitality pushing outwards through the body into space.
But there in the experience of being in the body,
Experience is hammered into what should and should not be.
The full expression of life killed in the moment.

But the body never lies
it never lies
it cannot lie.
Instead it takes every thing
That enters its being and finds a place for it
And anchors it with memory.

Memories gather in the body –
Some reflections of pure moments that were lived fully,
Others reflections of jaded moments that erased in their prime.
Those that were fully lived
fully create harmony.
Those that were erased
disturb the flow.

And in the midst of life,
The river keeps flowing.
The Tao within and the Tao without,
At one with all that is light and all that is dark.
Where life is lived fully
it unfolds naturally with ease.
Where life is erased
it unfolds in knots and disease.
The perpetual unfolding of life,
finds it’s own rhythm in the flow.
Sometimes moving gently.
Sometimes moving chaotically.
Sometimes shifting from one to the other –
But always moving in response to the moment.

Moments lived fully,
Give full expression to the soul.
Moments erased,
Extinguish the souls’ perfection.

The three great poisons in this human life,
Bring nothing but darkness to the soul.
But in knowing them,
We find our own antidotes
And the soul shines forth in radiant perfection.

There is only one secret to living a great life –
To live fully and feel everything
That arises in the moment.
Not to turn away,
To avoid, suppress or deny
But to embrace,
To feel in the heart, the mind and the body,
What is.

A breath has many moments
But each moment exists outside the breath.
Breathe and live,
Be and exist,
Feeling the wonder of each moment.


© R.J. Hudson 2015.

The Last Light of the Day

Almost every day I walk 2-6 km. A few years ago I lived in a mountain range called Gariwerd, where every evening I would go for my walk and watch the sun go down. Living in the mountains we experienced at least 2 hours less daylight than people who lived outside of the range. I ended up missing the sun’s presence in my life and took every opportunity I could to bath in the last light of the day. I wrote this poem as a way of remembering what it felt like looking up at the mountains as the light dissapeared and darkness descended.

The Last Light of the Day

The last light of the day,
Climbs over the mountain.
A gentle crescent of light,
Saying farewell to the rocks and the trees.

Up there,
Far, far away –
The light looks so otherworldly,
Like light from another sun.

As it rises,
Each rock and tree
Catches on fire
And it’s essence burns brightly.

I can see God in that light.
God burning brightly,
From it’s own inextinguishable being –
And I am stunned into wonder.

My heart settles into a place beyond words.
A place where light creates space,
A space where light awakens the mind –
To the light within.

© R.J. Hudson 2015.

Poetry from the Head or the Heart

Poetry from the head arises from thoughts and other mental activities. Poetry from the heart comes from felt emotion, which manifests in bodily sensation. But both borrow from each other. Head poetry arouses feeling, which drives the feeling of desire for which to write. Heart poetry arouses mental activity, as we engage our brain and mind in the act of writing.

The act of writing poetry may occur with or without awareness. Awareness of what motivates our writing, awareness of what arises in the head and heart, awareness of the emotions we are experiencing, awareness of the felt sensations arising in the body, awareness of our memories, awareness of our relationship to the inner and outer.

Some poets get stuck in the head and some get stuck in the heart. I believe that truly gifted poets straddle both forms of poetry, transcending the mundane by exploring the worlds they create through both vehicles. The head opens up one kind of world and the heart opens up another.

Our awareness of the worlds within and the worlds without, create the opportunity for complete awareness. And it is from here that we create the most powerful forms of poetry. Poems that tell stories about how we percieve reality and who we are as human beings. With an awareness of the worlds within and the worlds without, we can choose what to sense and how close or far to sense it. Imagine for example, the world upon the surface of a leaf, versus the surface of an alien planet versus the surface of Earth after a Nazi Blitzkrieg and the feelings which that each panaorama arouses in our heart and in our bodies. Imagine for example, a relationship between two serial killers who track other serial killers, the relationship between an adopted child who discovers that his mother is a nun, the relationship between a small child and her extraterrestrial friend (who others think of as an imaginary friend), the relationship betwen a First Nations man who is being visited by his ancestors, the relationship between the last man on the moon and his species and the feelings that each relationship (panorama) evokes in our heart and in our bodies. No matter what we are writing about, we have the opportunity to visit the inner and outer on any scale that we wish. We can zoom in and zoom out. The key is awareness.

Great poetry is aroused by great feeling and arouses great feeling. But it is also aroused by great images and arouses great images. Great poetry lifts us through the senses – all 5 of them. For most of us, great poetry is filled with spectacular images that evoke intense feeling.

But all poetry starts with choice. The choice to pick up the pen or not. The choice to write from head or heart or both. The choice to continue in the face of despair and downright crappy writing. The choice to be aware. The choice to observe. The choice to feel. The choice to reflect. The choice to be present. The choice to express.

We live in a world of creation and destruction. And we can choose how to use our words and our poems to create or destroy. There is no right or wrong. Head and heart both offer something of value. But it is up to us to learn how to use the power that each offers. When we understand teh power contained in head and heart, than we can become creators and destroyers. For words shape the world. And poetry has always had the power to a light a candle into the darkness of the past, present and future.

The Prodigal Charm Bug

After dark period that lasted 5 years, I found myself in the mid 90’s struggling to make sense of my life and the identity that I had created for myself. I wrote this poem in 1995 as a kind of homage to the suffering of the poet (and the human being), who upon realizing the impermanance, futility and folly of life, considers the possibility of bringing an end to his invisible, unnoticed life. This poem also speaks about the lure and folly of ego in the world and the charm of perpetual seeking and the promise of enlightenment. But exactly what or who the prodigal charm bug is, I will leave it to you to decide !


The Prodigal Charm Bug

From the clutches of some forgotten dirge
We rise – Like the Symphony of the Songless Bird.
Almost unheard – The impassioned beatings of the heart,
Soar as quiet as the sun.

The moment of gravity – Like conscience embodied.
But conscience is second in consequence.
Know not I – This circle of cells;
Enlightened you will be – That final hour when it hath come.
When I shall Dethrone the Emperor.
Many amongst the crowd aspired to play a part,
But only upon the chosen doth light fall !
Come not will you with me – Cross legged we’ll dine with white knights.

How does it feel to end life
Swooning into the arms of death ?
Soon I will know – Dragging the impossible to the lair of the body !
Believe me : This is the privilege of the poet,
Like the serpent that weeps – I suffer an illness that plagues the soul !

As the storm settles through your heart,
In one sense the soul will turn another page –
Descending into battle with a candle,
Like the lasting of my memory.

See the tree of life towering over us,
Like the blackbird’s wing – Stretched over the sun,
Branched fingers creeping through our eyes.

And I curse the beast that warps the heart.
Running – You opened the deity – In thy Art of Rage.
Collapsing, is this – The Sinking Ship of Life.
Whilst heaved, my breast lingers – And I am an Unseen Angel.

Enriched, the solemn giant am I.
A broken Warrior reborn – Piloting consciousness to the very edge.
The dog of my glory – Like the spectre’s shadow.
The moat of Angels and Fools still spinning.

The unprotected heart beats in my chest.
The agonies touch deep within.
And I am withered,
As translucent as the sky.
Lighter than my shadow.

For so long I have cheated the worms of their feast.
And so now : “I Feed Them Commedia”.
The Pulsar within me as aimless as night !


© R.J. Hudson 1995.

The Many Faces of Love

I think this is self explanatory. It refelects my own experience of love.

The Many Faces of Love

1. Puppy Love

Her voice trails at the end of the phone
Angel of perfection
Cannot live without her.

2. Tension of Opposites

He loves her body with haste and fury
They scream in pleasure and pain
Man rages with and without her.

3. Family

One plus one becomes three
Great joy in small discoveries
Child becomes the glue of their meaning.

4. Bad Habits (The Critic in Us)

Preferences slowly rise to the fore
She has what he does not
The eye sees only what it wants to see.

5. True Love

He looks past the small irritations
She sees him through the eye of her heart
They find something greater than each of them.

6. The Gaps She Weaves

He is complete without her
But together there is something else
One day the gaps will speak more loudly than words.

7. Till Death

They are blind together but together they see
Always there for each other
Death will remind them of the gift of their love.


© R.J. Hudson 2006.

Heart of the Mountain of the Eagle

In 2004 we had a fire on the nearby sacred mountain Burra Burra (Mountain of the Eagle), which was started by a lady who lit fire to the toilet paper she had used to wipe her arse ! The fire burned 2/3rds of the mountain, cracked ancient petroglyphs, destroyed ancient grey box trees, burned wildlife and sent the spirits of the Aboriginal people (who had become my teachers and friends) away. I wrote this poem in 2007 as a homage to the people of Burra Burra. It is the first poem in a sequence of poems written at that time to remember my deceased friends and my favourite mountain.


Heart of the Mountain of the Eagle

Buurra waau,
Buurra burra wirrin kyinnya.

The Soul of the Mountain of the Crow
Sent me to the Heart of the Mountain of the Eagle for kinship of a white man.

And I found a place among your people.
Some where across the landscape of souls
I found this place and called it home.
You held me as a child
And nourished me with the dreamtime.
You entered me
And found my tender wounds.
You gathered sticks and leaves
To mend my broken heart.
In you I found my place among the stars
And in your fire I remembered where I came from.
On a cold hard rock you buried my fingers
And in love you healed my wounds.
My place is among you as yours is in my heart.

The Soul of the Mountain is Crying
Her Heart is Broken and her People are leaving.

Let it go
Set it free
And I will hold your memory,
Just as you held me.


© R.J. Hudson 2007.