2015

My father phoned to thank me
for organising his 93rd birthday lunch.
It was his first 
without my mother.
My dad was never the one who called
now he has rung twice this afternoon.

I planned to take him to a local seafood restaurant
looking out onto the ocean
(probably his last birthday, although he said something
about being ninety-four yesterday.)
but he told my brother he didn’t want to be dragged there
and didn’t mention this to me.
It’s been years since I’ve been angry
at my father
maybe even decades
and I don’t know how to do it,
I think about the little time we have left
(which must be a good parental strategy for manipulation)
even though dad is above that.

This morning I woke from a dream:
my mother had died.
In her last months,
she gave glimpses of the woman she had been.
This is who I miss,
whenever I see a rose ornament
or my birds do something cute,
and I wish I could tell her about it.

Dad isn’t going to buy her a memorial
he’s decided to have her ashes at home.
Eight thousand dollars will do that.
The crematorium woman had him walking too far,
sitting on benches
looking at gardens
and never mentioning the memorial wall
because it was the cheapest.
She asked me which one I liked
I said the rose garden
because mum loved roses
and suddenly it was all about how we were getting the rose garden 
because it was what I wanted.
What I wanted was to walk out and never come back
and that is what we did.

A wish wosh as the wind blows by
I love Ipswich when I go for a jog
Happiness is soggy socks
And letting the wind blow my hair

Birds chirping and people cheering
As the sunshine and rainbows paint the sky
The parent’s clean and the children learn
As the babies scream out loud

In Ipswich the fire goes out
The crimes get stopped
The zoo gets crowded
The lines get lost in the crowd

In the sky the birds fly beautifully
As the planes soar by
I love the bustle and rustle
The city of Ipswich

In the front yard of my Grandma’s old Queenslander it stood tall.
Underneath it all our secrets were laid bare.
Little children’s Christmas wishes, lover’s vows, it heard them all. 
Oh, the stories that old tree could surely share.

I stood beneath its branches half a century ago 
as my mother had some twenty years before.
With Grandma’s locket at our throats in gowns as white as snow 
we thought our vows would last for evermore.

My mother’s ‘evermore’ fell victim to the wrath of war.
My own just sadly seemed to fade away.
The past when one is older beckons just behind the door 
of memories we’ve closed and locked away.

I wondered what I’d find if I should venture back in time, 
go back to where our story first began. 
Would that old tree still be there for the kids today to climb? 
Or fallen to the careless hand of man?

I grabbed my senior’s Go-Card and I caught an Ipswich train, 
half expecting disappointment at the end. 
Half a century brings changes, only memories remain, 
growth and progress is a younger person’s friend.

When I left the railway station and continued through the town 
I found little to remind me of my youth. 
An evolving modern city, with its river heart the crown; 
seems the transformation stories were the truth.

When I walked around the corner where my Grandma’s house had been 
I prepared myself to take a bitter blow, 
but imagine my surprise when there before me was a scene 
like so many more enacted long ago.

A purple blossom canopy was drifting down to green 
reminding me that spring was in the air. 
My Grandma’s house looked lovelier than it had ever been 
as backdrop to the bridal party there.

The beautiful young couple looked my way and then they smiled. 
I felt my heart go out to them and more,
I looked towards my Grandma’s house and thought I saw a child 
who smiled at me from Grandma’s open door.

But when I looked again the door to Grandma’s house had cleared, 
the little girl no longer in my view. 
Perhaps she was a vision of the future as it neared, 
or me just looking back as oldies do.

Happily I turned to travel back from whence I came, 
back to my easy care retirement hearth, 
grateful for the city with the grand old English name 
that understands what memories are worth.

Perhaps that big old tree will stand another hundred years 
and maybe I’ll come home again one day,
a cast of scattered ashes and a life time’s joys and tears
lifted by the breeze and whisked away.

Up into the purple Jacaranda’s soft embrace, 
where secrets of my youth were cast before, 
a coming home of spirit to an old beloved place 
held safely in its arms for evermore.

On the skyway up to Heaven, a problem had erupted
A highway once so peaceful had now become corrupted.
The winding golden path to God was getting quite congested,
And eBay hadn’t sent the traffic lanes that God requested.

Instead of two straight lines there was an uncivilized commotion,
Of souls of ghosts and angels who could not grasp the simple notion,
Of waiting for their turn without exploding with annoyance,
A concept understood without any knowledge of clairvoyance!

‘Would you move your bloody wings?!’ cried an angel all a flutter,
Another angel glared at him and said ‘Shut up you nutter!’
You see while death is free for all, admission takes a while,
And waiting for the Gates to open could sometimes be a trial.

The air was filled with curse words; a verbal ammunition,
Whilst other angels undertook a more violent type of mission,
To push their way up to the front and get in Heaven first,
And these people were the saints? It seemed the roles had been reversed.

These ungrateful souls were suffering from ‘road rage’,
A condition known on Earth as the main prevention of old age.
But within the screaming mobs there was one angel who was quiet,
She stood aside from the others and did not take part in the riot.

An unassuming soul, she was plain but did not care,
As she had lived her life with gratitude and devoted prayer.
But this unholy throng had filled her patience to the brim,
She stood with fists shaking, her face all dark and grim.

The angel felt her body tense as she prepared to release,
The full extent of her wrath upon the ill-mannered deceased.
She stalked up to the crowd and any doubts she had were quelled,
As she glared with fire in her eyes she stood up there and yelled!

“Keep your language civil, boys, there’s no need to be so graphic,
When I died on Earth I never thought in Heaven there’d be traffic!”
“So keep in line and don’t complain and continue on just waitin’,
Else I’ll have a chat with my pal God and he’ll send you down to Satan!”

Silence fell and all was still; the angels were all dazed,
As she stood there breathing heavily, she was absolutely amazed,
When in mute obedience every soul turned and stood in line,
Her outburst tamed the wilds! She was floating on cloud nine.

(this can be taken literally for each cloud was numbered up to ten.
with clouds ten to five for females, and four to one for men.)

St Peter at the Gates was looking quite impressed,
He ushered her to the front and then a question he addressed,
“What did you do on Earth? I don’t mean to sound so shady.”
She smiled and then she whispered, “I was a lollipop lady.”

An earth path from the back stairs
led between and past twin mango trees,
past the bore tap where we washed 
our hands and sluiced off mango juice.
Beyond it stood a tank stand, a whetstone 
in the shade beneath, mounted on a block,
fixed with a handle, waist-high to a man.

The path led on, towards a rough pergola
sagging under tentacles of pittaya –
night-blooming lamps of ivory,  
in whose throats gold cilia
pulsed in sultry breaths of air
like sea-anemones in sea.
Beyond that portal, wilderness could have
its way: lantana monsters tussling 
with phalanxes of guinea grass.

On the verge of chaos stood the wooden 
outhouse, weather stained, a bit like
a dilapidated sentry box. To one side of the door,
a sprawling rosebush reared up to the roof,
a tall and tangled fantasy of scented pink 
rosettes, brambly arms wreathing, 
mapping ever greater tracts of blue,
the fragrance of the knotted blossom
tempering the atmosphere. The roses had
the faintest blush of dawn on them, delicate
as scallop shells, no bigger than a baby’s ear.

Inside the booth crouched tiny frogs
no larger than a lady’s brooch, 
a clean leaf green, like jade adornments
in a rustic shrine. Flanks undulating out
and in, the movement of the heart and lungs
visible through thin membrane of skin,
they showed aplomb, not fear,
when sweaty giants came crowding in – 
sighing as they sat in state and made the bench
creak under them, the ageing farmer or 
his son, grateful for a breathing space.

Unlike some people’s privies, there was nothing 
to distract the mind, no makeshift library
to vie with views of open plains of sky,
a belt of distant trees, the mountain 
looming like a crouching beast, clouds
trailing past like wayward sheep
to pastures always out of reach.

A place apart, where weary men could muse 
in privacy and peace, far from the drudgery
of milking cows and tending squealing pigs.
The architect, unfazed by distance from the house
on moonless nights, succumbed to fields of chlorophyll
that charmed the jaded farmer’s eye; was captivated
by the clouds’ attempts to map the boundless sky.

There comes a time when a god has to shore up
His own sphere. That’s what Atlas did thirty years 
Ago, when he wanted the world’s first man-cave 
Below his home’s kauri pine firmament. He was 
A tinker born on the doorstep of war. He was 
Taught to make do with little; so each of the fifty 
Wooden house stumps he chiselled out of clay 
Bedrock, shrugging off blisters as a salamander 
Belittles fire. If that wasn’t heroic enough, he then 
Cast the half century of twelve-foot concrete posts 
Himself & sunk them craneless, into Martian-coloured 
Moholes. Lifting each half-ton pylon with technology 
Levered from the Egyptians. Foundation solid, his 
House rose above his shoulders like the Earth.

The newest of new suns rise over Sovereign Pocket.
Its light, crisp and oh so fresh, cast no shadow.
A planned development.
I strain to smell beneath its stemming road tar
the rich dirt that once was.

Was there water that trickled for a millennium of mornings
over the burnt yellow hill and valley?
when the rains came, did animals drown
or did they know the colours of the sky;
never trapped in sinking cars.

Then they knew when and where to run.
Not now with metal and rubber racing.
Sprawled bloody, legs bent and broken.
They could not read the light.
And so collides with unfathomable darkness.

With plastic and bricks, water is ”managed’,
directed this way and that.
The departing Kookaburras mock such certainty.
They have seen the sudden cascading deludes
washing, cleansing their land.

Beneath the grinding hum of builders can I hear
the very faint yet ever present rhythm of music sticks.
Are they singing creation home; to its centre deep within the earth?
Are they moving still through kitchen spaces and minimalist furniture?
ls this what lives between the light and darkness of Sunrise.

No storm water drains, he said, almost laughing
This is the age where things just seep away.
Wooden beams tilting, swaying to the music.
The portable radio booms ‘love is all we need’
No trade could measure with certainty
that these new walls would stand forever

Nothing is forever he said, as he gave a wink,
Paint drizzled down her hair and overalls.
They had planned this, no one laughed
at their dream to go it alone,
no builders to compromise
their life in the Queensland Daintree.

Carved from a forrest growing
an environment of purpose.
Simple yet focussed on love.
in love with life and possibilities
that adventurers died for.
Robinson Crusoe’s challenge
He would she could ..,. do this.

When mother of God insects crawled
from the recesses of shoes and cereal packets
Everything soft and damp from ceaseless, persistent rain
Water seeping everywhere, always;
not enough towels to dry, looking for the drier.
knowing that this was the dream.
His mothers words could sting.

“A Jennings home, all comfort and convenience”
His mum had spat the words
as if to curse the architecture of his life.
Silly little boy dreams of hammer and saw
bringing out her own nail gun to hammer him
a dose of her reality.

Nothing could dismantle their resolve to build,
to buy honey from hippy neighbours
who had their own bee hives, chemical free,
pointing them to exotic birds, with shrills and
colours of rainbow magnificence.
Their place was bigger than them.

With local markets, and magnificent smells
of fruit, sweet with fragrance of holidays and surf
cheese cloth that was bought cheap.
and green everywhere shades of green.
Frangipani wafting in and out, with every breath taken
a certainty that life was meant for this.

Who would have thought
an eagle, would make his home
in Ipswich?
Well, he has, soaring dipping and diving, daily
he has made his presence felt.
Hovering in the thermals
he is majestic.
Flying lower he is pointlessly pursued
by overly ambitious small fry.
His arc is wide,
no doubt ambling over Amberley.
Is he besotted with a C-17,
his majestic equal?
Who knows, who cares,
he is.

The American Army dozers have rusted brown 
as a monk’s habit. Their khaki paint stripped off 
haphazardly like a distracted child pulls bark from 
a forest redgum’s trunk. They are silent too, in their 
blade prayer; the road scar cut out of the Centenary 
bush for Camp Columbia & its million GIs remains. 
Part walking track; cracked, clay, sewer pipes jut out
of the trail like antique pots ploughed up by farmers. 
Over Sandy Creek, a wooden bridge’s rotted frame sits; 
pitted hardwood pylons poised as a hunting dog’s nose. 
Its cement redoubt still strong, its iron bolts at attention. 
& the circular brick tanks of the city’s first sewerage plant, 
pillbox solid, built when its nightsoil was still carted away. 
An empire’s legacy; leftovers of its dirty infrastructure.

Cheeky child upside down
in the Banksia opposite my window.
I will bet old Joseph never met you
in his travels with his worthy Captain.
Those were dry and desperate days.

These days can be dry and desolate too,
but urban warriors have succoured the landscape
and so you come, bright, bold
and beautiful.

Arrayed in green, gold, orange and blue,
you are truly beautiful.
Rosella, eastern or southern,
who knows or even cares what
Cayley opines?

Cheeky child upside down
in the Banksia opposite my window,
you are truly beautiful, bright, bold and free –
my morning visitor.

They came from Cornwall, Wales and Ireland – settled near the Bremer,
and gave this town their old familiar names
from ‘back home’ where they came from, though the green hills that they loved
and climate here could hardly be the same.
Those soft and gentle mists they knew fell not upon our paddocks,
our yellow grasslands here were perhaps strange.
The heat of endless summers, the droughts and fires and floods
were thought by some to be a poor exchange.

But these were hardy folk who had come to mine the coal –
for in the eighteen hundreds coal was found.
The first mine was at Woodend, then one at Tivoli,
The Eclipse, the Perseverance, Waterstown.
The mined coal was transported on steam punts on Bremer’s waters,
with coal enough to feed their boiler’s fires.
At Basin Pocket punts would turn and head back to the port 
of Brisbane and the waiting, willing buyers.

In eighteen ninety three at Eclipse seven men were lost
when the Bremer broke her banks in fierce fast flood.
A roof collapsed and waters surged – the men there stood no chance.
All drowned, their bodies buried in brown mud.
And once again the people mourned, mining was a hard game
but there was wealth and riches for their toil.
They now had shops and churches, and a Welsh Cambrian choir
and workers cottages built on this soil.

Majestic homes were also built with turrets reaching skyward,
the town was booming – all here held hopes high.
Lewis Thomas built Brynhyfryd in eighteen ninety one.
six hundred thousand bricks handmade to dry.
Forty nine rooms his mansion held – named for a pleasant hill
in Wales – this bloke had worked since he was eight.
He sought to make his fortune in the gold fields over here
but black gold was where the wealth was in this state.

Another man called Thomas opened up a general store.
Cambrian Stores in memory of home.
His store at Blackstone stocked all different kinds of mining goods
that miners might require, from spade to comb.
A wide and shady awning graced the shop whose front verandah
was built a little higher than the street.
The two bowed shopfront windows proudly displayed all his wares,
the verandah offered shade where folks would meet.

And should you travel today on a journey through Ipswich
it’s not hard to recall still those earlier times.
For there are workers cottages upon our busy streets
and evidence remains of those old mines.
The suburbs bear the names the miners gave them years ago,
Brassall, Blackstone, Ebbw Vale, Dinmore, Swanbank.
We have a strong proud heritage, of blood and sweat and toil.
It’s those first intrepid miners we should thank.

Evening prayer at San Francisco Airport:
uneasy Arab kneels and bows, and starts to pray.
Let this be my evening’s solemn thought
bound backwards over the dateline spearing day:
tell me now my decade’s pith of shame;
my shibboleths straining into name.
You’ll ask me how I could not see
those truths, those pities squeezed like bitter lime.
But where are the men who tugged at history,
who pulled the students down for sitting in a time
and place that black men had not sat,
at the Greensborough Woolworth’s Centre? For that
the siding points of history shift and strain
and those leering, earnest bigots never knew
that they were bowled over by an inevitable train,
that they were crushed against the changing face of true.
Have they brought out their scrapbook doubts to show
their children, the asbestos, the thalidomide they bought?
I shall make space and kneel with him, before I catch my jet
and we shall exchange our prayers, which are the same:
let me be this day something which in my age I will not regret;
show me now the rages I will grow, the shame,
the righteous protests I will crush and fight
for I too will be on the wrong side of unfolding fate:
for prejudices I have not yet learnt to hate.

‘How beautiful yellow is’
said Vincent,
het schildermenneke.*

He saw yellow noon high 
over ‘a wheatfield, very yellow
and very light’,

with a reaper 
struggling like a devil 
to finish his work.

A small fellow, too,
bent to his task,
but the yellow, by God,
immense.

Yellow radiant and luminous,
and bright like pure gold;
a high yellow note denying
that death in this light 
could be sad.

‘Ripeness is all.’

And Vincent, 
‘too broken for life outside’
gazed through his iron window-bars
struggling to finish
the lightest canvas he had done.

How well Vincent knew yellow – 

‘yellow whole 
and yellow broken up’.

Vincent knew

‘it’s a devil of a question,
yellow.’

*diminutive: little painter

My father phoned to thank me
for organising his 93rd birthday lunch.
It was his first 
without my mother.
My dad was never the one who called
now he has rung twice this afternoon.

I planned to take him to a local seafood restaurant
looking out onto the ocean
(probably his last birthday, although he said something
about being ninety-four yesterday.)
but he told my brother he didn’t want to be dragged there
and didn’t mention this to me.
It’s been years since I’ve been angry
at my father
maybe even decades
and I don’t know how to do it,
I think about the little time we have left
(which must be a good parental strategy for manipulation)
even though dad is above that.

This morning I woke from a dream:
my mother had died.
In her last months,
she gave glimpses of the woman she had been.
This is who I miss,
whenever I see a rose ornament
or my birds do something cute,
and I wish I could tell her about it.

Dad isn’t going to buy her a memorial
he’s decided to have her ashes at home.
Eight thousand dollars will do that.
The crematorium woman had him walking too far,
sitting on benches
looking at gardens
and never mentioning the memorial wall
because it was the cheapest.
She asked me which one I liked
I said the rose garden
because mum loved roses
and suddenly it was all about how we were getting the rose garden 
because it was what I wanted.
What I wanted was to walk out and never come back
and that is what we did.

It’s just me and dad now
out for lunch at the Redland Bay pub.
His cancer-thin body can’t take the breeze
so we sit inside under dark pressed metal ceilings
black roses 
Mum is with us too
wending from above.

Dad tells me an old tale
about his family’s house in West End
he woke up to a fire
his brothers burst into his bedroom
and bundled him outside.
Dad raced back inside to save 
his school uniform but couldn’t find 
the door, obscured by smoke
his brothers grabbed him and
pulled him to safety.

Which ones? I ask.
He doesn’t remember,
but they were all there:
Harold, Fred, Frank, and Victor the baby.

One day I will be like him
the only one left, spouse dead,
all my brothers gone too,
only smoke and stories remain

The call ended and the rain started immediately after. 
The rain started immediately after like all the static on the line 
Was let go onto the roof. 
Like all the words we’d been holding onto 
Were let got onto the roof.

And then it was just me, looking up 
Up at the shadows of the rain falling 
Down.

We have all the time in the world and there’s no such thing as time. 
This garage roof is colder than dead galaxies and which one is true

either the universe is infinite, or it isn’t? And either way you choose
your father will still storm up the stairs, relentless thunderhead and I

cannot help but teach you the escape routes. The quickest ways
from floor to ceiling and higher. The best and worst part is perspective

is basically a paradox when your father is calling you a whore 
and I am holding your hand as platonic as a Voyager. Pick one

star out of all these and name it. There is no one to tell you otherwise.

Yumba Free Camp.

An iconic piece of Aussie heaven,
a sluggish, dirty brown river,
overhanging eucalypts casting peaceful, dark shadowy reflections.
The kerosene tin huts that sheltered a displaced people
and the innocent laughter of small children
now replaced by luxury tin boxes and satellite dishes.
Here, friendly grey nomads, family long departed, natter,
or merely stare mindlessly,
brightly coloured towels strung between sturdy trunks.
The ubiquitous small fluffy dogs affect ferociousness
and a concrete path serpents its way along the foreshore.
Cheerful couples amble past on their way to the showers,
nonchalantly strolling through our living room,
but we are so chilled, we care not.
We have sloughed off our urban aloofness.
Desultorily, we plan tomorrow’s onslaught on those elusive yellow belly,
the christening of Utzon, our new Opera House yabby pot,
the sorrows of a displaced people drowned in a warming red.

There’s a boy falling outside the wind,
He is a very bright boy,
He knows why the sky is blue and why the burnt bits in the frying pan cause cancer,
Mam use to say that if you were going down you were coming from some place better,
And I don’t know,
He used to seem happy,
He had a very big smile and he rested the world on his shoulders,
It was very nice to see,
Some days I find it hard to wash my hair and yet the falling boy was very very accomplished,
He knew how to yodel and how to make a crème brulee,
He had what Pa called “real knowledge”.

I think that people love sad stories,
I think it makes them feel glad they have feelings,
I could be reaching here,
I remember happiness and sadness,
When old Mr McIvor died and Julie remarried I told Mam I felt strange,
And she said that not every feeling has a name.

The boy falling was a sad story,
Because other people lived under his nails and in the folds of his eye lids,
For them he was more than our seven letter town,
But the biggest thing was that the boy falling was kind,
And that’s why I think it is a tragedy.

I never knew the falling boy,
He was older than me,
He was very good looking. Someone said he would’ve been scouted,
You can’t live your life on would haves or could haves,
I was told by the town that there was a boy falling,
And the strangest thing they said,
And the worst thing they said,
And the scariest thing they said,
Was that it was no accident,
They said he was very happy to fall,
And that is meant to scare us kids into staying still,
We aren’t to move or leave,
Sometimes I sit in a tree that is being taken over by a strangler fig,
And I think about falling,
And how delicious it would feel,
How different,
And I remember what Mam said,
That not every feeling has a name,
And I remember the boy who fell.

a portrait

It started long ago, back at the farm.
In times of drought, the feathered refugees
came flying east, out of the parching
heartlands of the dying beasts, collapsing 
in the dried-up creek, where she would find
the dead, the verdant plumage piled upon
the vivid red, and rush for pails of precious
water, dearly bought but gladly spared.

Now they have come again, to her suburban nest,
out of the rainless furnace of the wilderness.
First, two herons, honking greetings, urgently
take precedence, dipping undulating necks 
towards the pitcher’s cool recess; then magpies,
butcher birds and doves, the meekest last,
each to a separate vessel matched to height
and beak. They drink and feed, and drink
before they leave. She rises with the sun,
and fills receptacles and waits.
When they are almost drained,
her work is done, she feels replete.

Secretly she hopes one day they’ll come,
the herons or the doves,
and take her spirit with them
when her earthly life has run its course, 
back to the winged dominions of the air, 
where spirits find release.

An earth path from the back stairs
led between and past twin mango trees,
past the bore tap where we washed 
our hands and sluiced off mango juice.
Beyond it stood a tank stand, a whetstone 
in the shade beneath, mounted on a block,
fixed with a handle, waist-high to a man.

The path led on, towards a rough pergola
sagging under tentacles of pittaya –
night-blooming lamps of ivory,  
in whose throats gold cilia
pulsed in sultry breaths of air
like sea-anemones in sea.
Beyond that portal, wilderness could have
its way: lantana monsters tussling 
with phalanxes of guinea grass.

On the verge of chaos stood the wooden 
outhouse, weather stained, a bit like
a dilapidated sentry box. To one side of the door,
a sprawling rosebush reared up to the roof,
a tall and tangled fantasy of scented pink 
rosettes, brambly arms wreathing, 
mapping ever greater tracts of blue,
the fragrance of the knotted blossom
tempering the atmosphere. The roses had
the faintest blush of dawn on them, delicate
as scallop shells, no bigger than a baby’s ear.

Inside the booth crouched tiny frogs
no larger than a lady’s brooch, 
a clean leaf green, like jade adornments
in a rustic shrine. Flanks undulating out
and in, the movement of the heart and lungs
visible through thin membrane of skin,
they showed aplomb, not fear,
when sweaty giants came crowding in – 
sighing as they sat in state and made the bench
creak under them, the ageing farmer or 
his son, grateful for a breathing space.

Unlike some people’s privies, there was nothing 
to distract the mind, no makeshift library
to vie with views of open plains of sky,
a belt of distant trees, the mountain 
looming like a crouching beast, clouds
trailing past like wayward sheep
to pastures always out of reach.

A place apart, where weary men could muse 
in privacy and peace, far from the drudgery
of milking cows and tending squealing pigs.
The architect, unfazed by distance from the house
on moonless nights, succumbed to fields of chlorophyll
that charmed the jaded farmer’s eye; was captivated
by the clouds’ attempts to map the boundless sky.

I lost a cousin in the waters of a country town’s small lake;
the heartache that I suffered has become a constant ache
for she’ll never be forgotten as long as there’s a moon;
all my lifetime I will love her like the Babies of Walloon.

A bard like Henry Lawson may not write her epitaph,
but I have no hesitation that so gently he would laugh
to see our little Mary playing by a calm lagoon
with little Kate and Bridget who were drowned close to Walloon.

With her brothers she went walking to a creek bed close to home;
she’d begged her busy mother to allow her on the roam
with her two elder brothers, Robert, twelve, and younger, Jim,
her mother gave permission but she told her not to swim.

Our Mary watched her brothers swimming, splashing all about
and tears were over brimming as she heard them laugh and shout.
It was hot upon the stony bank and so she told herself
that she could dip her toes in if she reached the lower shelf.

Her brothers, lost in playing, never saw her clamber down;
they never heard the splashing, didn’t see their sister drown.
Engrossed in being acrobats they’d climb onto a log
and, shrieking with excitement they’d leap off into the bog.

When dusk fell on the bushland, they gave up their happy game;
and clambered up the slippery bank both calling Mary’s name.
Oh God! there was no answer; not a giggle, not a cry
and trees began to whisper as the breezes gave a sigh.

Rob raced back to the homestead while poor Jim shrieked out in vain
he knew that his small sister he would never see again. .
And, Robert, with lungs bursting, also knew of Mary’s fate
and dreaded telling Mother of our little Mary’s fate.

Only those who’ve lost a small one know the agony of heart;
the pain that lasts forever and the grief that won’t depart;
the all-consuming heartbreak when the sad date comes around
when we meet at the homestead and stand there at Mary’s mound.

Her broken-hearted mother sobs with haunted, guilty cries;
Her devastated father watches on with haunted eyes
as we remember Mary taken from us far too soon
and pray that she is playing with the Babies of Walloon.

The jungles and forests are plundered, destruction achieved in the basest of ways
for fashion, Earth’s minerals, palm oil or sport we eradicate, slaughter and raze.
The cruellest of species alive on its mission of power, amusement and greed,
with minimal guilt man continues his dominance, mindlessly planting the seed
of ultimate damage to all that is needed for balance, protection and charm –
his arrogant head turned aside to avoid Mother Nature’s increasing alarm.

Magnificent pelts adorn shoulders and homes such as silver fox, zebra and deer,
while glorious herds vanish under our noses and others are trembling in fear.
Our feet tread what once was a creature of freedom but now a mere skin lying prone –
we capture, we cage, use for testing and slay – tell me, why can’t we leave them alone?
We live unaware of the whisper of death, or embarrassed, attempt to ignore
our conscience within, feeling helpless to change things and put out the call to restore.

The rhino’s endangered, his glorious horn a temptation for pitiless men;
we’re warned of the loss of magnificent cats, pandas, turtles…again and again!
Our closest of relatives shelter above in the furthermost space they can reach,
but mountains accuse as we trespass regardless and colourful birds flap and screech.
There’s sorrow, defeat in the stare of the tiger, distress in the simians’ cry,
rebellion and rage in the charge of the buffs, and deep grief in the elephant’s eye.

Our canine best friends have been forced to aggression and captured beasts trained to perform,
while merciless razors are strapped to the feet of proud roosters to kill and deform.
We’ve broken their natures and taught them to hate, even maimed for mistaken belief
in gross superstition that claws, teeth or bile bring longevity, luck or relief.
Incongruous prancing, compulsory combat, restraints to incite, vex and scare –
our shame should prevail at such senseless charades and all dignity lost to the bear.

Insatiable men on the vessels that plunder the depths despite all our appeals
or ruthlessly tarnish the glacier ice flows with innocent blood of the seals
are callous and blind to the ruin of beauty, the right of all creatures to live –
the oceans run red with the proof of their actions, which most of us cannot forgive.
The hunters return and the money’s exchanged while integrity further derails,
and those who have killed remain deaf to the utter despair in the song of the whales.

There’s an island of garbage polluting our seas and foul gases reducing our air,
yet some will debate that it’s all a coincidence, something that’s not even there.
Most foolish of species! For this is not all – we continue our unthinking ways,
encompass our own as we brutally fight in a selfish and ignorant haze
for dogma, supremacy, money and schemes – all provisional prizes at best
compared to the unity all could achieve and a peace surely none would contest.

A time may well come when we reap what we sow – have depleted our God-given wealth,
fought meaningless battles and ruined the planet, crushed lives with deception and stealth,
fanned flames of corruption, demolished the life-giving rainforests, deserts and seas,
till nothing is left but disquieting thoughts of a sword and the name, Damocles.
Then lost in bewilderment maybe we’ll grasp the sheer evil of what we began –
too late understand we have gambled and lost and are facing extinction of man.

ln hindsight’s clear vision our senses will grasp the disorder and pain we have caused –
the madness that drove us, the splendour destroyed – disbelief that too seldom we paused
at green decimation, and animals’ terror wherever we dared to encroach,
the suffering, murdering, pillaging folly, the sigh of the ocean’s reproach.
Our duty is surely protection of Earth, our ambition for harmony – yet
we’re chillingly close to predictable fate of mankind’s everlasting regret.

It was quiet that Shift. I was on my last rounds.
There was only the hum of the normal ward sounds.
“Will you listen? Now listen.” an old man had said
as I walked by the end of his hospital bed.

“Can you hear what I hear? It’s a glorious sound;
It’s the thunder of hooves as they strike at the ground.”
I looked back at the man in that bed where he lay
for I knew he was dying and slipping away.

He is rambling I thought as I turned his light down;
just another poor soul in a hospital gown.
It was then that he took a firm hold of my hand
and he told me there’s something I must understand.

That tonight he was keeping a pact he’d once made
to a mate he had known in the light horse brigade.
There were tears in his eyes so I sat by his bed
and I’II never forget what it was that he said.

“All my mates they were charging alongside of me
when a bomb had exploded we just didn’t see.
For a moment I thought that the time had been stilled
but my mates and their horses they all had been killed.

Now my horse had stood near me despite his own fear
with his blood running red and the enemy near.
With my foot in the stirrup, he’d made for the line
and he got me back safely that war horse of mine.

So I couldn’t just leave him alone to his fate
and I spoke one more time to my gallant old mate.
Now that horse he had courage. I felt I had none
but I knew from his bleeding what had to be done.

Then I took up my rifle with trembling hands
while my curses rang loud on those far away sands
and I cried for my mate as I whispered goodbye
and I begged him to come when it’s my time to die.

So I have to be ready. The time’s edging near.
I can hear he is coming with saddle and gear.
Then we’ll turn on our heels and we’ll make for the sky
and he’ll carry me safely to heaven on high.

Will you listen? Now listen to what I have said
for my soul will be leaving this wretched sick bed:
Then you’ll hear what I hear. It’s a glorious sound.
It’s the thunder of hooves as they strike at the ground.”

Then his hand it just loosened and fell to his side
and I sat there awhile as I quietly cried.
but the air had grown cold and my hair stood on end
as the curtains they shimmered and time seemed to bend.

I would swear that I saw a horse pawing the ground
with that man in the saddle and turning it round.
He was soon joined by others. The noise was a roar
and I knew that all things weren’t the same as before.

On such wonder I gazed as these ghosts all appeared-
the man tightened the reins and that mighty horse reared.
It was then that I heard it; a glorious sound.
The proud thunder of hooves as they charged heaven bound.

An empty bed, a broken heart, a family in tears,
their hopes and dreams now torn apart, a message down the years
to generations mourning loss, the closing of a door,
a graveyard with a stark, white cross, the shadow cast by war.

Call the young men from our land,
turn the ploughshares into guns,
hail the time to take a stand
bid farewell to all our sons.

My Grandad was the first to heed the far-flung battle cry:
“Your King and Empire are in need!” And who could then deny
the thousands who obeyed the call and left for foreign shores,
their heads held high, forsaking all to help a noble cause?

Take the strongest of our young,
send them sailing overseas,
sing the songs we’ve always sung,
praise their eagerness to please.

But somewhere outside Pozieres a bullet cut him down,
and though we never knew quite where, the name of that small town
remains with all of us today, a symbol of the price
so many men were forced to pay, the final sacrifice.

Hear the bugle’s haunting sound
Greet first light on Anzac Day,
bow our heads on hallowed ground,
honour them with words we say.

My father was in Singapore the day the city fell,
and so began his private war, a journey into hell
in Changi where he almost died, but though half-starved and ill,
he fought to live and so defied attempts to break his will.

See the wounded who return,
crippled broken, deaf and blind
look away so we can learn
out of sight is out of mind.

The years could never ease his pain or help him to forget;
though wounds might heal, the scars remain, a challenge to be met,
but Changi was a brutal knife that stripped resistance clean,
and far too soon it took his life, with all that might have been.

Store the memories we keep,
now so precious, rich and rare,
ease our sorrow though we weep,
listen to our silent prayer.

Vietnam was my brother’s war, a conscript in the draft.
“That lottery’s a lucky draw,” he said, and then he laughed,
for he was such a cheerful soul, an optimist who’d learned
to make the most of each new goal. . .but not when he returned.

Bleed the courage from a man,
break his spirit, teach him fear,
show him death each way you can,
watch compassion disappear.

For none at home could comprehend what men like him went through,
and they refused to be his friend, to grant him what was due,
which meant he drank the whole day long, denied of all he’d known,
but liquor couldn’t right the wrong, and so he died alone.

Pay respect, but far too late,
grieve the life you couldn’t save,
say the words that resonate,
standing by an open grave.

And now my son has gone away to fight another war,
and I must wait for news each day, as others have before.
I don’t know much of where he’s gone, Afghanistan somewhere,
while I am left to brood upon what fate might find him there.

Keep his room as he has done
through those cherished childhood years,
hope each battle will be won,
pray there’ll be no further tears.

But who am I, you may well ask, to write of warfare’s curse,
the balladeer behind the mask, this story told in verse?
I’m mothers, daughters, sisters, wives, the women who must mourn,
or care for men with shattered lives at break of each new dawn.

Empty beds and broken hearts,
futures changed for evermore,
anguish that each day imparts,
victims of an endless war.

I went to war in Vietnam – just twenty years of age.
I didn’t have a say. They picked my birth date off a page.
We thought that we were fortunate to have the chance to go –
felt sorry for the ones not chosen. Little did we know!

I left behind a sweetheart – Jennifer. We planned to wed
when we turned twenty-one, but I was sent away instead.
“It’s just an interruption,” Jenny said through mists of tears.
“You’ll come back safe and we’ll grow old together through the years.”

They blessed our deadly weapons and they sent us out to fight
an enemy we did not know – their snipers out of sight.
They gave us absolution just in case we fell and died.
I used to ask the chaplain, “Are you sure God’s on our side?”

Don’t wait for “hero” tales from me. They simply will not come.
I went to war and I survived. I’m luckier than some.
When conflict rages you just act. No time to stop and think.
It’s what you bring back home with you that takes you to the brink.

No physical deformity – just tinea and itch
from jungle dampness permeating clothes through every stitch,
and nerves that can’t stand “cracker” night, a lonely croaking frog,
that get the shakes when thunder rumbles – like some frightened dog.

They put me on a pension. I was too “mixed up” to work
(they said). The last indignity. I know they think I shirk.
“A welfare bludger – look at him! We’re paying him to graze
on handouts from the government.” How could I meet their gaze?

I didn’t marry Jen. No happy ending like we’d planned.
I would have ruined her life as well. She didn’t understand.
I couldn’t share the images that come to me at night
and play upon my shuttered eyes to torture me with light.

The nausea that rises when some small abrasion bleeds.
The whiff of Agent Orange when my neighbour sprays his weeds.
And when they shove a steak upon the barbie out the back
I smell the stench of burning flesh from NapaIm’s swift attack.

This Asian girl who works the checkout aisle – I seem to think
I’ve seen her in some back-street bar in Saigon – with a drink.
I watch her through a smoke-filled haze. Her body seems to sway.
Remembering, I drop my eyes and quickly turn away.

Most people think forgetting is an easy thing to do.
The men you killed. Their families who grieve because of you.
Were we so right? Were they so wrong? Or were we all to blame?
Can we just go on like it never happened, with no shame?

It’s worse as I’ve got older. You would think time might have healed.
I still watch out for landmines when I’m walking in a field.
A breeze through summer grasses when the heat of day has fled
can take me back to Nui Dat with choppers overhead.

They sent me to a specialist. He put me through a test,
prescribing me a small blue pill to help me get some rest.
“It calibrates the brain,” he said, “l hope it gives you ease.
There’s just one side effect – it brings on Parkinson’s disease.”

So here I sit with shaking hands, in stiff and rigid pain.
They point at me and say, “That old bloke’s dribbling again!”
So when you celebrate the war while swilling down your beer,
don’t talk to me of “glory”   for there is no glory here.

As our planet casts its shadow on the white-gold lunar sphere
turning beam to rustic shimmer at this holy time of year,
so the Murray’s flowing waters glow with campfire’s orange light
as the reverie of humans infiltrates the Easter night.

While I sing my song of worship l can feel my heart attune
to the rhythm of the river and eclipse of rising moon,
for the night wind weaves its whispers of the ghosts of ages past
and the weathered gums remember where the dreams of men were cast.

And as Moon’s meniscus mesmerises, slowly giving way
to a shield of total cover, all my heart must do is pray,
as I’m linked to Dreamtime legends of the black-skinned Man of old
who expressed in story language how the miracles unfold.

I can hear the rhythmic chanting lilt beside the Murray’s banks,
joining primal, tribal leaders in their rituals of thanks,
so l drift in awe-filled wonder under lumen lights of stars
in attune with potent resonance of ancient avatars.

Then l sense the cosmic energies that penetrated Earth
leading men of inner vision to the stable of ‘The Birth’,
till the Eucharist of sacrifice endemic to our need
is connected by the sharing to the symbols of each creed.

And I’m filled with faith and reverence like early pioneers
who, in harmony with Nature, weathered through survival years
with respect for cyclic seasons and with gratitude of heart
for the blessings of salvation and the sights of Heaven’s art.

Though the simple ways have vanished with the cities’ urban sprawl,
still the solar system spectacle casts spells to reach us all,
while, immersed in mystic magic, Murray murmurs on her course
as the Moon confirms the glory of Creation’s mighty force.

“They told us John has cancer. Well! I just don’t understand.
He’s still so fit and healthy, he’s my farmer off the land.
He’s always been the robust type and done his share of work –
grown cotton, managed cattle stations, Darling out to Bourke.
I’d noticed he had troubles when some little things occurred,
like dribbling drinks and dropping food; sometimes his speech was slurred
But when the doctor told us, ‘There’s a tumour on the brain! ‘-
Oh, what a time we’ve both been through! But, now we’re home again.

“I know God’s looking after us. When John went for his test
the surgeon was available – he got Australia’s best.
My friends it was an ordeal wondering if he would survive,
but look at him! He’s fine again. The op. kept him alive.
We had to stay in Gosford – all the treatments that they do,
they really are not natural, but, they have pulled him through.
That therapy, that chemo! – Well, it’s all behind us now
and John, he coped with everything. I really don’t know how.

“He kept so calm throughout it all. He nearly lost his life!
I was so scared. I sometimes feel it’s harder on the wife.
But John, is such a legend friends; he never once complained.
The most emotion that he showed was on the night it rained.
Just knowing that the drought had broken seemed to give him peace.
To me it seemed like God himself was sending me release.
There’s so much strain and tension. I won’t listen when they say
the dreaded cancer might come back. I’ll find another way.

“I’ll keep John’s body healthy and without those wretched drugs.
I think they’re so invasive. I tell John but he just shrugs.”
“I’m taking John to Byron; there’s a seminar up there –
a lady from the States; she’s cured herself. The fresh, sea air
will do us both the world of good. I’ll write when I get back.
Can’t wait to see the beach again. I’d better go and pack.”
“Well that was inspirational, I now know what to do.
I’ve books and DVD’s and lots of other info. too.

“I’ll use the Affirmation, ‘John is really on the mend.’
I’m taking him to Queensland. I’m just going to pretend
this cancer never happened. I refuse to live in fear.
It will be great off on the road, the same as every year.”
“John’s coping with the travel though he’s looking pretty thin.
I think he’s getting quite worn out but I’m not packing in.
I’ve carried everything on board. I’m giving John the lot.
I’ll try each cure and remedy. My hope is all I’ve got.”

“I’m reticent to do it but I’d better take John home –
It’s easier to treat him there than when we’re on the roam.
There’s recipes and vitamins – I’m bound to find a cure.
I’m doing everything I can to keep John’s body pure.”
“They want to do more MRV’s. I think that doc’s a quack!
The kids all think the cancer’s worse. They say it’s coming back.
They think I should forget the ‘cures’ but I just can’t accept
that I can’t save their loving Dad. – We fought; we hugged; we wept.

“I really feel outnumbered, but they want to go along
with what the doctors tell them. I just feel that this is wrong.
It only needs one remedy to turn the tables ‘round.
If they would just support me – there are ways that can be found.”
“John says the stock are looking good. He’s really not aware
of all the traumas we’ve been through. He gave us all a scare.
He toppled over yesterday. He’s got this twitching eye.
His ear’s all ‘cauliflowered’. All I want to do is cry.”

“I’m angry with the doctors: They have found another growth.
This really is too cruel, but I’m pretty sure we both
have come to the agreement, he won’t have another op.
There’s risk of damage to the brain. I wish that they would stop
enforcing medications and just let me have my head.
John hasn’t said it to me but I think that he must dread
the thought of lost capacity. Australian men are tough.
He won’t give in but in his eyes – I see he’s had enough.”

I’m like a wreck, I wish I didn’t weep all through the night.
I’m shaking and afraid to sleep. I’m frightened that he might…
not make it through till morning. I’m exhausted now, and John
seems lost within another world. He just keeps talking on
about the land and cattle and the Darling River days. –
I guess we all get through our trials in many different ways.”
“I won’t be posting for a while, our time is running out.
I thank you all for your support but now it’s all about…

“…my darling man. He’s weak and frail and needs my constant care.”
“Oh John, I’ll get your sticks my love. I’ll help you to your chair.
Lean on me Darling, we can’t risk you falling down again.
Just drink this Darling, take this tablet, it will ease your pain.
“Oh Darling, let me bathe you now, it isn’t any fuss.
I’ll cool your sweating forehead. Let’s get rid of all this pus.
These lumps of rot that cancer grows to make you all deformed.
They told me of corroding flesh but nobody has warned…

“This rotten stench, it permeates – this toxic brooding smell.
That’s Death! It hovers round to take you from this earthly Hell.
I’ve done all that I can my John to keep you in this life
but though I love you darling, as your soul mate and your wife,
the time we’ve shared together here, is drawing to a close.
You’ve lived a full and happy life fulfilling dreams you chose.
But now your God is calling you and I can’t hold you back.
Farewell my Aussie hero. I will meet you down the track. ”

“At last I gained the fortitude to bid my John Goodbye.
I didn’t beat that demon but I gave it my best try.
I have to face it, John has gone. He’s silent and he’s cold –
a withered wraith of human flesh – a body, wracked and old.
I know you’ll mourn his passing but no-one can really know
unless you’ve lived with cancer. It’s horrific and it’s slow.”
“Dear God, keep John within Your care and please, help me accept,
this is, ‘Thy Will be done…’not mine.” – I’ve cursed; I’ve raged; I‘ve wept

It was Derby in the springtime, and the early morning sunshine
glistened silver off an aircraft near some Boabs fat and grey.
Then it roared, accelerating with a noise reverberating,
as it lifted, flying over where the town below it lay.

Clem and Emmy both were flying to a lazy island lying
to the north, and off the coastline of the Western Kimberly,
where they both had occupations in a mining operation,
and were now anticipating their approaching destiny.

On a northward track they headed, where the mud flats lay embedded
with a web of tidal rivulets that sparkled with a sheen;
and across the final reaches of the Kimberley, whose features
were a maze of finger bays with rocky headlands in between.

Then they saw it, Koolan Island, evergreen upon its high land,
with a jagged coast, and beaches softly kissed by sapphire seas.
And a cliff, becoming clearer drew the aircraft ever nearer,
‘til it skimmed across and settled on a runway girt by trees.

In her job a little later, as a pastry chef and baker,
Emmy’s thoughts were fixed on Clem inside an ore truck down the road,
where its cabin was his workplace, as he drove it to the workface
on a slope where dynamite was king, and Koolan shed her lode.

And a queue of ore trucks waited near the piles of ore created,
as a dragline-bucket loaded them to take it to the mill,
where the rubble, finely sifted, by conveyor belt was lifted
to a vessel by the quayside at the bottom of the hill.

Then as days to weeks were blending, and their first month there was ending,
they reflected on the friends they’d made; their sojourns in the pub;
playing sport for recreation; on the beach for relaxation;
and in mangroves spotting crocodiles and slipping in the mud.

And in dusky light of evenings, Clem and Emmy, both believing
they had found another Eden in the gardens round the bar,
loved the frangipani flowing in the gentle breezes blowing
off the ocean; and some islands, glowing diamonds out afar.

Then disaster came escorted by a frightful scene reported,
when a loaded ore truck tumbled from the roadway on a bend.
In the twisted wreck, still smoking, lay a body badly broken;
by the number on the door they knew the driver’s name was Clem.

Then the rescue team came speeding to the scene where Clem lay bleeding,
and his worried woman, waiting on the road above the smoke,
was surrounded by the milling of the miners strongly willing
that the driver would be rescued, and they gave poor Emmy hope.

And with ropes and people heaving, up they dragged the man, believing
that a heart so strongly beating guaranteed that he’d survive.
With emotions overflowing Emmy wiped Clem’s forehead, knowing
that his life still hung in balance – but at least he was alive.

Clem was flown by helicopter to an orthopaedic doctor
at the hospital on Koolan Island’s neighbour, Cockatoo.
And with cuts and wounds looked-after, and his broken bones in plaster,
he took months recuperating, getting back to Em ‘as new’.

He was paid out compensation by the mine’s administration,
for the roadway, when inspected, was essentially to blame.
But the wreck remained abandoned in the gully where it landed,
and they honoured Clem discreetly when the roadway wore his name.

ln the bar above the water Clem told Emmy that he sought her
hand in marriage, and she told him “abso-flamin’-lutely yes!”
They were married in the gardens, wearing frangipani garlands,
and the Koolan Island people’s hearts were filled with happiness.

“Remember,” said my sister Jan, “the boys who lived next door –
our ginger-headed playmates – Jack and Jed?”
      I saw her features alter –
      her words began to falter  
“l hate to break the news – but Jacko’s dead.”

“How awful, Jan! Just thirty – he would not be any more,”
I said. “How come he passed away so young’?”
The next words I was hearing
were just what I’d been fearing…  
“He killed himself.” And then she added, “Hung!”

At once the scene receded as l thought of how we four
could hardly wait for Saturday to play
bright games of backyard cricket –
the dustbin for a wicket,
or sometimes we would fly our kites all day!

And Jacko was the one who had us rolling on the floor
with laughter. He would always play the clown.
And yet l had an inkling
behind those eyes so twinkling
a secret sorrow festered deeper down.

Old Henry Jones the grocer died – he owned our corner store.
We stood beside his grave and wished him peace.
Then Jacko said, “This dying –
why should it cause such crying?
It seems to me to be a sweet release.”

It worried me to see the strange expression that he wore.
His gaze absorbed a vision far away.
But how could I be knowing
the darkness that was growing
and moulding his resolve like potter’s clay?

Back then I didn’t understand depression’s burning core –
dismissing it as just a “bout of blues”.
I knew it pulled him under
but didn’t stop to wonder
just how it felt to walk in Jacko’s shoes.

The seasons flew and new directions swept the paths of yore
aside, as we established our careers.
Though Jack was bright and clever
and studied hard, he never
could seem to leave behind his childhood years.

Part-sage, part-wistful elf, like Peter Pan of fairy lore,
he drifted and just couldn’t seem to rest.
But now and then I’d meet him
and take the time to greet him.
One day he broke his silence and confessed…

“Some days my life is beautiful. My spirit seems to soar
like rays of light that leap to kiss the sky.
Then, swallowed up by sorrow
that’s when I fear tomorrow.
Don’t ask me to explain. I don’t know why.

They’ve tried to help with therapy. I’ve swallowed pills galore
with side effects that border on bizarre.
I’ve weathered their intrusion,
but come to the conclusion
we’re better off just being who we are.”

We gathered at his graveside on a bleak day – wet and raw –
united by a single grieving voice.
Beyond the tears I tasted
regret lest I had wasted
a chance – just one – to influence his choice.

He must have felt so lonely as he waged his inner war
unseen behind the brightness of the smile
that made him loved by many
with no idea that any
dark demons dogged his footsteps, mile for mile.

l wished that l could turn back time, to capture and restore
a snapshot of the days we left behind.
but then l thought – reliving
would be so unforgiving
for Jack, in search of peace he could not find.

We’re often quick to judge and to apply a common law
to how we think that others should behave
and see the world around us.
Then, what it takes to ground us
can come too late to save some from the grave.

The years have passed. The loss of Jack encouraged me to pour
my studies into mental health to gain
the best of all my chances
to try to find some answers
so Jack, my friend, may not have died in vain.

You went to sleep and didn’t wake up
so sometimes I wonder if that means 
you thought that you would, 
like you always meant to,
but it just slipped your mind that night. 
Your memory was always acting up. 

And what scares me the most is the ceiling,
because I can’t help but wonder if you knew
that it would be the last thing you ever saw,
and if you felt cheated by it, or disappointed. 
And I wonder if you hated it, 
or if you fought against it, 
or if you were just tired. 
Maybe you were just afraid. 
I would’ve been. 

I hope you were finished. 
More than anything, I hope you were done
and ready to move on, all your things packed,
all your memories stowed, all your energy spent; 
I hope you finished thinking every journey
and weren’t stuck dying halfway through 
the most exciting part of your dream. 
I hope you finished every thought,
and that you didn’t die in the middle of a

I could find- on most good days-
the cosmos mapped across your body.
In the whorls of your fingerprints
lay miniature galaxies; my touch
coaxed the quiet creases of your palms 
into fading tails of comets. I
configured your freckles
into constellations:
there lay andromeda chained 
across your spine, orion shooting at 
the slope of your neck,
cassiopeia waiting silently
at the tender rise of your knee.

The soft indents where clothes
pressed into your skin became
planetary rings. Your scars were 
muted collision courses of asteroids, 
collarbones marking the bounds of the 
known skies, the slip 
into deep space. 
Sunlight broke between your vertebrae 
and the moon 
haunted the gaps in your teeth.
When you smiled, I 
saw stars.

I have long since forgotten what it was like 
to love you
so fiercely that your flaws 
became celestial bodies;
a cartography born of willful
blindness.
I am not sure if I want to remember. 
The universe is too much to be captured 
by the prisons of our bodies, to be contained
by our cells,
held by our blood.

In any case, you have left.
The night sky is once again
a mystery.

Itsleeps
underthepillow
wakingateveryhour
areminder
onconstant
rotation/
Itfalls
fromtheshowerhead
soaking
everyparticle
aninvader
findinganysanctuary.

Itmasters
eachmovement
ruling
everylook
apuppeteer
pullingthestrings/
Ithides
inconversation
re-writingeverytruth
adictator
controlling
everyword. 

Itstalks
happiness
snatchingatanyshred
ahunter
neverceasingthe
chase.

where do the birds go, when bombs and rockets steal their skies?
where do they fly? 
fire blots out the stars above a landscape imploding
how many lives is a piece of land worth?
mine? yours? our childrens’? 
should we have asked ourselves that question
before we plunged our spades into the torn-up earth to dig their graves?
the birds leave 
hard metal wings of planes replace their softly feathered ones
birds feel no hate
so why must they suffer for ours?
they wonder why we fight
we wonder too
are age-old prejudices and conflicts worth a life today?
one day let the birds come home
to Palestine, to Israel 
to peace

Do you hear the echoes?
clamouring voices, cart wheels on cobblestones, children shouting
a city frozen in time
red roofs turned grey with softly swirling ash
so beautiful
so deadly
crushing, coating, caressing to death

that day, beauty and horror
were so closely entwined
how is it that a streak of lava
glowing, radiant with lustre 
charcoals flesh and coaxes screams from dying lips? 

the mountain did not distinguish
between the slave and his master
whether wrists were encased in iron shackles
or golden bangles
the mountain took them

as the sun rose that morning
it knew not that it would set on a very different sight
the curving arches
marble fountains
and white-washed villas of Pompeii
buried and burnt shells

ash filled the cracks in the cobblestones
frescos and mosaics splintered and fell
a city once full of life
snuffed out
gone in a day

The sleek wooden coffin was slowly laid into the deep, cold ground,
An array of black umbrellas were raised, as the rain slowly fell down,
I am greeted by a bone chilling cold, as I am touched by each drop of rain,
Yet, it was not enough to dull this constant, soul splitting pain.

My father, a pale white, sat in the chair beside,
He was suffering from depression, he constantly cried,
I had to tell my younger siblings, aged four and eight,
That they would never see mummy again, yet they sit and wait.

They don’t understand, they think she’ll come back,
Their tear stained faces cry that they’ll be good, that they’ll pick up the slack,
They think if they behave she’ll return, these thoughts were in vain,
No child their age should have to experience such trauma, such a twisted pain.

The crowd slowly rose as the last song was played,
The only colour seen were the roses where my mother laid,
My soul felt like space, empty and cold,
How I missed her soft touch, her warm loving hold.

It was like my family was the building, my mother the foundations,
Without her we slowly crumbled, lost all human relations,
My world was destroyed the day she died,
But she wasn’t taken by illness, but rather one young man’s pride.

How I long to see the man who ended her life,
The man who so selfishly killed a loving mother, friend and wife,
I long to ask him what was so urgent that he had to drink drive,
Why he was compelled to spin wheelies, did he realise he would kill five?

And the families of others who’s loved ones were lost,
Did they feel like they were surrounded in a never ending frost?
How I long to stare into the eyes of this man, this killer,
How I long for him to know the full extent that his actions deliver.

And there are some who say that it was an accident, that he has suffered enough,
He will never suffer as much as I have, why do I have to be tough?
Why can’t people see that I must grow up at the age of fourteen?
While this man who knew what he was doing, is given sympathy at nineteen.

I wish that I could visit him, to look into his eyes,
Does he feel remorse for what he has done, or is it all soulless lies,
There is one thing I will tell him, one way or another,
I wish he had died that night, instead of my Mother.

Trembling bodies and quivering fingers,
They all gather together,
For what could be the last time,
Deathly silence echoes through the trenches, 
Explosions and gun fire signify their fate, 
The country boy and the banker, 
The father and the athlete,
All too young and all not ready, 
Their uniform brings them together. 
The courage has been drained from their bodies,
Fear has invaded their minds,
They hesitate to enter the blood bath,
But are forced into their graves,
The fast runners and the slow runners,
Bang! Bang!
One by one they drop to the ground,
No man is left behind,
They all lie still, together.

The stars have fallen out of the sky,
And onto empty streets to cast shadows.
If a light moves in the heavens, it is no comet,
But a metal bird carrying briefcases and ties
From one meeting to another;
Or perhaps uniting families and friends;
Or tearing lovers apart.
Behind every suburban door lies a history,
An anthology of tales – of childhoods had and lost,
Of pain, of laughter…
Until the bookshelves of every street
Are crammed with the memories of millions.
The city is but a cold conglomeration of lives.
Filled only with stories lost and dreams forgotten.

they give us pencils to draw with
feeling pleased at their generosity
they do not wait to see the pictures
that appear
childish scrawls 
with haunting undertones
of pain 
and sadness
tears drip from the pages
in blue crayon
blood splatters
in pink marker

mama said here we could play outside
run around 
and send our voices spinning up to the clouds
without being silenced in fear

i tried that once
only once
yelling, chasing my brother and shouting out to the clouds
i got yelled at in return
now i am silent

they tell us we are illegal
i do not understand

i am seven
how can i be illegal?

we used to play with kites
dancing, swooping, vibrant birds on strings
squares of colour against the glaring white sun
anchored to our adoring hands
flying in the open sky

now we play in the dust
behind a fence
that seems to shrink inwards each day
until it closes in completely 
and crushes us

do they remember when they look at us
that we are children
or have they forgotten
are we now nothing but
other?

Hover-flight, silent-kite
Under-sky, over-cliff
Watchful-eye, wings-outstretch
Silent-flight, hover-kite

Kestrel-ship adrift,
Ride the sea of breezes,
The sky-dome your kingdom,
The cloud-drifts your forest,
The cliffs are your palace;
Be still, be statuesque
Be lost in the azure sky.

Swooping-slide, dipping-glide
Whizzing-dive, flitting-fall
Cliff-beside, over-waves
Dipping-slide, buffet squall

Flick your wings
Surf the wind
Submerge in ether’s ocean;
Flaunt your airborne jinks
Snap your parachute wings
Graceful plummet, cloaked in feathers
Stooping earthward.

Skyward-skim, flying-whim
Soaring bird, airborne climb
Upward curve, cliff-top bound
Flying-skim, skyward-whim

Now resume your throne – 
Watch the relentless waves
Devour the mighty cliffs,
See the trails of footprints
Forgotten writing on the sand,
Drop your invisible anchors
Becalmed in the azure sky

Hover-flight, silent-kite
Under-sky, over-cliff
Watchful-eye, wings-outstretch
Silent-flight, hover-kite

Becalmed in the azure sky.

I was a lone sailor, upon a large plank of drift wood for all these oceans, tired and aching like the wood beneath my buckled body, but knowing that the sun sat there, holding me in its arms, made me love the days I saw, and the same fish I caught, even on the days when blocked by the clouds, and my head beneath the waves, I knew you’d come back… like you always did. 

I loved every moment of life by the fire pit’s side, burning the wasted and starting anew. The crack and pop of memories old becoming nothing but your soft whispers in my ears, your heat becoming my heart beat, and my eyes needn’t see, but instead feel the caress of your sombre light. 

A lone light on the street, guiding me down the dark and cracked bitumen as I desperately tried to grasp home, weary heart warming up to the soft orange glow that was felt when standing beneath your flickering light. You shined brighter than any other, every flicker a battle won against the slither of dark. Proud and grateful was how I felt when your bulb didn’t break.

The light I needed so desperately upon my porcelain skin, in a croak of a sob as you draped your arms around my unwanted being. I felt the very place I searched for down the broken street, or by a fire in the woods, or even at sea; home. Never had I thought to look to something so simple, gently speaking as my mind wandered along the path of never-ending conclusions. I loved and cherished the feeling of warmth as if I never felt it.

In the end, my mind fogged with red dust, burned softly. I knew I loved you with every cell in my body, but that was the very thing you didn’t need. As much as you adored the song sung along with your rays, the soft sleep-lustering grumble behind your cracks and pops or the soft homesick shivers beneath you, I was of no measure to the brisk light. I let my skin burn as I pushed my body to your heart, but it turned to dark ash, each layer slowly drifting off with the wind.]

And yet, I didn’t stop battling. I didn’t stop burning. How could I? You were my sun, my fire, and my lone street light. I’d rather let your light seethe into my flesh and burn my four chambers to the ground before my eyes gave out to the darkness once more. 
And I ask myself above the sound of my skin peeling away and becoming one with the dirt; why did my mind fool me, and make me think I was something that burned just as bright as the beautiful lights? 

I am not Woman
You will not hear me roar
I have galaxies growing inside me
I am a universe
I’m heading straight towards the storm 
Karma is coming for you
With a baseball bat

I am not a damsel in distress
You will not hear me weep
I am the untold story of Andromeda damned
My name translates as ‘ruler of man’
The monster I am to meet is an old friend 
This wretched world, these endless dead ends
I am guilty of sin, guilty of seven
Don’t you dare send me to Heaven
Karma is coming for you 
With a baseball bat

I am not weak
You will not hear me moan
The Gods have spoken to me
“This is your destiny, Joan”
The flames will come for both you and me 
Wailing banshee, 600 degrees
I’ll let them lick my velvet bones
Please tell the wolves I’m coming home
Mother, Maiden, Crone
Haven’t you been told?
The Garden of Eden is overgrown
Karma is coming for you 
With a baseball bat

I am not lonely
A thousand ancestors are on my side
Salem held many dear to me
Virginia Woolf whispers words to me at night
The Amazonians wrap my knuckles
My bosom is that from which this cosmos suckles
This is a witch hunt
The hunters are witches
I don’t need a nurse to pull out my stitches;
They’re inside me
Karma is coming for you 
With a baseball bat 

I am not Woman
I am Womyn 
I am Eve
I will burn down your cathedrals 
I need you to leave
I want wreckage 
Burnt earth 
Broken glass
Debate my own existence with others 
I need no tribe, I need no mother
Watch me take that baseball bat
Call me karma, rule of threes
Seven seas, I’ll bring you to your knees
I speak in tongues, my grin made for war
You will not doubt me anymore
I’ll summon wolves, I’ll slash your tyres
Background soundtrack of a gospel choir
Ecclesiastical attire
Sexual desire
Daughter of Abraham,
You’re a lamb, you’re a lamb, you’re a lamb
Karma is not coming for you
With a baseball bat;

I am

They fought on the beach,
They fought on the land
Where seabirds screech,
On Turkish sand.

Where bullets whistle and bombs explode,
And mortars tear up the dirt packed road.
Where sand and water mix with blood,
They often returned caked in mud.
Our brave boys.

They fought mines and Turkish shell,
Battling in the darkest part of hell,
The strait they call the Dardanelles.
And true that first day, many fell.
But they straightened their backs and set their gaze,
On the far off cliffs, shrouded with haze.
And with tooth and nail, they fought ever upwards,
Always stepping forwards, never backwards.
Our brave boys.

And oh, what a story the media told.
Of soldiers brave, and soldiers bold.
How they fought in waters stained with red,
Before retiring weary to their beds,
To nurse their wounds, or aching heads.
Or pulling out bullets (made of lead).
But always laughing, and joking too,
In just the way that Aussies do
Our brave boys.

And when the rations were low,
Did a sad face, our soldiers show?
NO!
They ate the rats, they ate the mice,
(True it didn’t go down very nice.)
And snacked on stale bread and cheese
(Never forgetting their Q’s and P’s)
They smiled and sang, well into the night,
Before waking up to another fight.
Our brave boys.

And when the fight for the Dardanelles was lost.
Our Anzacs stood firm, to the very last post.
And marched out of that hell with their heads held high.
And shouted cries of triumph to the sky.
They boarded the ships, The Anzacs and their friends,
True blue mates, to the bitter end.
And sailed from that hostile sea,
To the land of the free,
(Girt by sea.)
They sailed on.

Our Brave Boys.

I wish I had the Midas touch
But not for gold or riches
Instead to erase all of your pain
And ensure your journey had no hitches

I wish I had a genie’s bottle
To rub and hope upon
So that shirt of cuts and bruises
You would never have to don

I wish I’d found the Fountain of Youth
To give you that magical gift
Of eternal health and vitality
So the sand of your life would cease to sift

I wish I could reach the end of the rainbow
Where all your dreams come true
And we could still be together
Without bearing tears anew

You are a flaw.
That is what you are thinking.
You did not learn from your mistakes,
And zeal was not enough.
It must be of your own free will, because
Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.

You are a flaw,
But not a dead man yet.
Though you will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future,
You still exist in the present.
But does he exist in the same way I exist
You asked and I answered;
You do not exist.

You are a flaw.
You are here because you have failed in humility.
You would not make the act of submission.
Freedom is Slavery, Winston.
Big Brother is always watching.
But when you delude yourself into thinking that you see something,
you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you.
But reality is not external!
Reality exists in the human mind, nowhere else.
So when I ask you how many fingers,
you will answer I don’t know.
Because two and two make five.

The Party said so. 

Oh, how I really do hate colour,
How I wish the world was duller.
If only it was black and white,
Then I’d be living in utter delight.
But pink and green, and blue and red,
They are too bright, they hurt my head,
There’s just too much, it looks a mess
I wish the world was colourless.

My house is simply white and black,
Where I can think – my brain I wrack,
How would it be, if the world was painted?
With colour, it is horribly tainted.
But I could paint it as I wish,
Black, white, and even some greyish.
And this is when the story starts,
Where black and white take over, and colour departs…

I walk to the paint store, shielding my eyes,
Oh colour, I truly despise,
“One thousand tins of black and white paint.”
I say to the salesman, who grunts a complaint –
“One thousand, that is just too many,
Why, don’t you just start with twen’y?”
“I’m sorry, but that won’t be enough,
I need one thousand!” I say in a huff.

And I return home, with one thousand cans
Of black, white and grey, and a brush in my hands
And I smile, and start to think,
“Soon, colour will be extinct!”

That night I wait until darkness,
The sky is black, and it is starless.
I venture out, into the night
And start to paint the first streetlight.
I have to be quick, I have to be fast,
I have to paint my whole town (which is rather vast).
I don’t have much time, not much time at all,
And the paintbrush I’m using is only small.

One whole hour has already passed,
I have to be quick, I have to be fast.
I’ve painted my street, and each house and lawn,
Only nine hours, left until dawn

Uh oh. I’m painting the clock tower,
And already it has been another whole hour.
I’ve painted the trees, and the flowers too,
All in white and black and a nice grey hue.

Three hours, have passed, there’s no time to waste,
I must paint quickly – I must paint with haste.
Four hours, five hours, the hours flick by,
Six hours, seven hours, eight…and now nine!

Only an hour, until it is morning,
The sun’s orange fingers are rising in warning.
I’ve got to be fast, I’ve got to be quick,
I’m almost finished, just one more brick…

I gaze at the town, all black and white,
A touch of grey sometimes, what a nice sight!
The world is as I fantasised…
No bright colour to glare in my eyes,
Only black and white, and some grey in the midst,
Pink, green and blue no longer exist!

WAIT! STOP! There’s one major flaw;
A flaw that I did not notice before…
There is some colour, in fact, quite a lot,
Colour, that from my view, I must blot,
For the sky above, is still blue,
And oh, I must paint over that too.

That night I wait for the light to leave,
Tins of white paint and a ladder I heave,
I climb to the top and start to paint,
I paint vigorously, without constraint,
I must be quick, I must be fast,
So my town can be black and white, at last!
Slowly I climb higher and higher,
I’m painting so fast I’m beginning to tire.
Stroke after stroke, I’m panting and wheezing,
But it is worth it – our town will be pleasing.

Soon the sky is no longer blue,
Our black and white town, looks like it’s new!
Now I can live, in true paradise,
Without radiant colours, to hurt my poor eyes.

Two days have gone by, and ever so fast,
When you’re cheerful, they say time flies past.
But not everyone seems to be quite so happy,
In fact, with me, they are rather snappy,
“What have you done to our colourful town?”
They say to me, with an accusing frown.
“I just made our town look so much better,
Thank me now, no need to send a letter!”
“Better, you say? No…it’s just duller,
We much prefer life with the brightness of colour.”

Suddenly, my life was filled with complaints,
After all of my efforts…and money on paints.
No one appreciates what I have done,
Nobody at all, not even one.

A whole week has past, and I must confess,
I’m starting to like black and white less and less.
There is just too much, the world is so bleak,
“Oh, what have I done to this town?” I shriek.
“Do I paint it again, oh, what do I do?
I miss purple, pink and red, green and blue.”

Suddenly the rain, it came pouring down,
The paint washed away, and flooded the town.
It gushed through the drains, and into the sea,
And colour returned… the town cried with glee.
“Colour is back!” everyone cheered,
And even I was happy, that colour had reappeared.

ACT I: The Road With Thanatos

Detached, dismal, odious, stark,
My candle now falters, floored by the dark. 
I sigh, wink it out, and turn it away,
My desolate gloom no soul need say.

I join a stream of myriad men,
Weak-faced, impersonal, cynic’s brethren,
None can comprehend my grim failed plight,
Of my heart and soul now cruelly alight.

I stumble, fall, and clutch a hand twixt my ribs,
Give a whimper that sounds like a wail from the crypts.
Rain pours down, torrential and gray,
I am lost in a turbid, emotional fray.

My heart torn asunder by pervasive mortar,
Sensitivity murdered before a blood altar.
And now all hope, inspiration seems dead,
I taste salt, somehow, from rain above head.

ACT II: Waters of Elysium

Aeolus’s watercourse runs through my hair,
And I smile, bearing teeth of white sheen and glare.
At last I find myself truly content,
I’m the king of the world, no sarcasm meant!

Alone, by myself, though it couldn’t be better,
I roar my name, crying every proud letter.
I start to run, sand pouring ‘tween toes,
For within my mind I have vanquished all foes.

Glimmering, opaque, and twinkling blue,
To my contented gods I bid no adieu.
My fingers run along Poseidon’s swift brow,
Along foamy surface my hands do plow.

At last I return, and solemn I should be.
But I’ll never forget, the closeness, the sea.
And now I await tomorrow’s broad morn,
That moment in time where my spirit’s reborn.

Upon this hour I will seek to render,
All thy proclivities, whether stout or slender.
All predispositions, and affinities grand,
Thy penchants and loves are mine to command.

So let me commence without further ado, 
The list that ‘tis present at my hand hitherto.
Through the act of oration its flaws you’ll perceive,
But its accuracy, it’s hoped, you’ll scarcely believe.

So do you relish perusal within,
A corpulent tome with its pages too thin?
Or is your liking far more akin,
To dropping the book before you begin?

In the midst of a fire that roars in its hearth,
Do you recall and laugh, cry in mirth?
For does your remembrance in most times choose,
The events in your day that sought to amuse?

Or do leanings and habits rather comprise,
Of strolls or rambles beneath sunny skies?
Or rather dwell on the alluring tryst, 
With wending a way in the well-trodden mist?

Or does lure of company spur you most loudly,
Your gregarious nature sufficing most proudly 
To dispel thy tedium and fill you with cause
To live life with humans despite their great flaws?

Or could all this resolve in but a mere glimpse,
Of some withheld parchment in which penmanship skimps,
For are you a person who’s experienced, sage,
In voicing your memoirs into words on the page?

It is hoped that now we have met our cessation,
My work consists of a marvelous creation.
I have mentioned all items of thy proclivity
And thy perusing eye – ‘tis entrenched in captivity.

Gently stir the fragile heart,
Mix in the slit wrists,
Then allow it to fall apart,
Stir as it ceases to exist.

Toss in some pain,
While adding a little grief,
Put in a spoonful of disdain,
Sift to remove all relief.

Pour in cups of misery,
Grate in a loaded gun,
Fold in a drop of agony,
No turning back it’s nearly done!

Drop in tears, one by one,
Add a trickle of ever-growing stress,
Crush in white pills, it’s one or none,
Toss in three dashes of hopelessness.

Carefully sprinkle over depression, bit by bit,
Fold in sadness, pain and distress,
Once this is done, you must persist,
Leave to rest, and then acquiesce.

Empty darkness washes over me like the waves drawing you in
The eerie silent heart covered in fur is a dying fire in the starry darkness
Black red blood spills like tears from a lifeless body
The flickering eyes slowly shut as a gentle force takes the soul
The delicate snow falls gently on my nose combining with my tears
The small wet nose now dry is a black gorilla in a dead forest
I see the breathing slow as the straight line shatters my already broken heart
White fur now red from blood gently sways from the breeze above
The rising in the centre slows and stills as the breath is taken away

If this is grieving, what is death? 

If all the world were water,
You could wash all the bad thoughts away keep all your family in the one lake
And scoop up all the memories in a bucket

If all the world were water
You could wet yourself with happiness
Drink all knowledge so you wouldn’t have to go to school
And feed your worst enemies to plants.

If all the world were water
You could add pool filters to a bad day to make them better
You could keep your mum or dad in a drink bottle and carry them around with you
And pour your little sister safely into her kiddy pool.

lf all the world were water it would be great
But the way the world is now is even better.

I love to play the saxophone,
I don’t just play it at home,
If I let my imagination flow,
Here are some places I could go:

I play with the band at school,
I play it in the swimming pool,
I play it down the main street,
And outside in the heat.

I play it on top of a green sea turtle,
I play it during a 50 metre hurdle,
I play it on a mountain top,
And when I’m in a lolly shop.

I play upon the fluffy clouds,
I play it in front of millions of crowds
I play it in my imaginary place,
And when I’m floating in outer space

I wake up to find myself sitting on my bed,
These things have been going all in my head,
I’m playing out loud from the bottom of my heart
I hope my music will never part.

Standing in the wings my palms start to sweat
My stomach is rushing around like a jet.
The adjudicator says number forty-three
I swallow down hard and tell myself “THAT’S ME!”

As I start to walk out and everybody stares
I see my arch enemy as she sits there and glares.
I grab the microphone ready to sing
Then I stand there and tell myself “I CAN DO THIS THING”.

The adjudicator turns on the amplifier
I stare at the audience as my heartbeat gets higher.
The audience is on the edge of their seats
I hear the piano play the first beats.

As I sing my song they’re all in a trance
I’m less nervous now I imagine them in underpants.
Suddenly everything starts to crash and burn
If you think I was nervous, now it’s their turn.

A speaker comes loose and swings towards their faces
It’s really putting the backstage crew through their paces
The pianist smiles and nods at me
I start to sing and smile with glee.

They are mesmerised by my beautiful voice
It’s the only thing to calm them, they have no other choice.
My song ends, you could hear a pin drop
Then they applaud so loud my ears are going to pop.

The adjudicator jumps up and awards me first place
He says to me, “You saved this competition from disgrace.”
My arch enemy looks like she has something to say
Then she scowls at me!  It doesn’t matter what she thinks anyway.

This is where car wheels squeak on gravel roads
Where the sound of cows mooing fills your ears
Little white clouds with legs dot the landscape
These are sheep
And this is The Farm
Oh yeah
This is the farm

This is where riders trot past you on their horses
And the tractor engines rumble
Where oat crops grow happily
And the sun bakes down
This is The Farm
Oh yeah
This is The Farm

Huge headers roam the landscape
The rumbling louder than that of a tractor
Quad bikes zoom past you
Chasing herds of livestock
This is The Farm
Oh yeah
This is The Farm

Kids play in humungous backyards
And houses lie separately
Between vast stretches of landscape
This is where my family lives
This is The Farm
Oh yeah
This is The Farm

The beautiful sunset and its array of soft colours,
Peach, baby blue, mauve, sunshine yellow and tangerine.
Settling in over the water.
Gazing, calm and relaxed.

Rolling waves disperse on the golden sands,
‘Kooshhhh’, a soothing sound.
The sunset shimmers on the water,
Drawing me into its world.
Welcoming, warmth and peace.

A dolphin jumps out of the water and several others follow.
Gently skimming fins hurry after each other in many directions,
A game of tiggy they start to play like schoolkids in the playground.
Encouraging, wonder and awe.

The sunset deepens, the waves tickle my toes,
And the dolphins dive deep and are gone.
Leaving a lasting vibe within.
Anything I put my mind to can be achieved.
Determined, energised and courageous.

I ride across the empty plains,
Staring at all the dead kill,
The dirt is still throughout the lanes,
The few trees stand dead and still,
Our town is in a drought,

All the burnt leaves fall,
The sun shines bright across the land,
As I struggle to stand tall,
There’s no grass in the sand,
Our town is in a drought,

The wind gets fainter and slower,
And the roos can barely jump,
The people never ever have to get out their mowers,
And the rubbish still in the dump,
Our town is in a drought.

Marcus is kind to his muM
he eats a type of fruit called bananA
he is a rad skateboardeR
Marcus is a big brainiaC
he knows the French spelling for blue is bleU
and remembers that burgers are better at Hungry JackS

Marvellous Marcus
Awesome in many ways and
Remembers a lot of things, he
Comes up with many solutions and he is
Useful with jobs and, of course, he is
Superbly awesome

Twinkling stars shining like a million fire flies.
Soft moths flutter to the light.
Little noises whisper and spread across the night.

Dragons have their own lair.
Not fair.
They also have a fiery breath.
Certain death.
Some dragons set themselves aflame.
Very lame.
A dragon l know can glow in the dark.
Leaves a mark.
Some dragons have hundreds of spines
Opposite of divine.
Years ago dragons were alive.
Cavemen died.
But now most of them are dead.
Enough said.

I think that hopping mice
Are really quite nice.
Little mice hopping about.
I like them without a doubt.
Cute things burrowing about
quietly, without a sound,
Where can I see them?
I know!
In the bush!
I’m already there!
And I’m trying not to stare.
But I see one!
How fun!
To see it’s legs,
run, hop, run
I think hopping mice,
are really quite nice!
little mice hopping about,
I love them without a doubt!

The crystal moon glistens, a shining pearl surrounded by darkness.
A dark owl hoots like a calm voice talking.
Stars shimmer, golden rain drops sparkling in the wind.
Palm trees sway in the moon light, as a spider creeps up your bed.
Waves go up and down, a mouse peeking in and out of a hole.
A bad bat screeches, echoing a finger scratched on a black board.

Tick-tock goes the clock, the sun comes up, a new day dawns.

I am Chloe
I am
Crazy as a little girl 
Helpful around the classroom
Loved like a new born baby 
Organised and ready for anything really fast
An Entertainer of little kids

My sister Jacinta
She likes 
Jumping on jumping castles
Being Active by running and going on bike rides 
She’s Clever as a 40 year old
Inventive as a really good scientist 
Naughty because she sneaks stuff at home 
Tall as an umbrella 
And Awesome like a singer

My Mum, Liz
She’s 
Loving as a mother should 
Incredible because she teaches me craft 
Like a Zebra because she is so fast at running 

My Dad, Steve 
He’s
Stinky because he farts 
Thunderous as thunder
More Entertaining than a comedian 
Very full of 
Energy like a little 4 year old

My puppy, Lexie 
She’s 
Little like a tiny mouse 
Excited like a mother seeing her baby for the first time 
Xerothermic 
Impressive because she does a lot of tricks
And Exciting to little people

My sister’s dog, Rosie
She’s
Ready as a race horse
One hundred percent at running fast 
Skilled as a flexible monkey 
Instant as a tiger pouncing on its prey
And Excellent like a movie star

I see the world in a different way to people
I want to live my dream with everything I want
Instead of
I want to live to help poor people
This is the way my life will go
TV is better than books
Instead of
Books are better than TV
This is the way my favourites will go
I want to be the wealthiest person
Instead of
I want to be a doctor or nurse
This is the way my job will go
I want to get married and live in a mansion
Instead of
I’m going to live with love and kindness
This is what I’ll do with my life
I’ll get a posh ginger cat whose name is Garlic
Instead of
I’ll get a pet that the family will like
This is my future pet
I’ll be a designer with gown and dresses
Instead of
I’ll write some books for any age
This is my future hobby
I’ll take my kids to the cheapest school
Instead of
I’ll take my kids to a five star school
This is what I’ll do with my kids
I won’t go to uni and won’t get a job
Instead of
I’ll go to uni for many great years
This is how I’ll get my job
I’ll get the dad to help the kids
Instead of
I’ll do anything if my child is stuck
This is how I’ll treat my kids
I see the world in a different way to people
Let’s rewind
(Read each line one by one backwards)

Jellyfish was getting bored,
He wondered what to do.
So he took a ride,
Upon a Wahoo.

Jellyfish was having fun,
Until he looked and saw.
Wahoo was drifting,
Too close to shore.

Jellyfish was worried so he said,
“Lets get back to sea”.
Wahoo replied and nodded,
“I’ll try if you help me”.

Jellyfish and Wahoo swam,
They got back out to sea.
“See you again” Jellyfish said,
“Thank you for spending time with me”.

When I go fast on my motor bike, dirt flicks everywhere,
My clothes get stained,
Dust and bugs are flicking in my face.
I hear the ground getting ripped up by the tyres.
I smell burning rubber,
I see blurry tyres rushing past me.
I feel the motor bike grips in my bare hands, it’s exciting!
When it’s all over, it’s sad to leave but –
I’ll be back to go motor bike riding again.

Yellow as a lemon
Sweet as a melon
Cute as a kitten
Chicks that can fit into a mitten
Small as a mouse,
A warm nest as a house.

I love to dance
It’s so much fun
My beautiful costumes
My hair in a bun

I learn my routine
I practice jazz jumps
I spin on my toes
I do big chest pumps

Cheer and Hip Hop are so much fun
But Jazz is my favourite one

We go crazy, craaaazy when we’re in the class.
We think of things that’re a blast!
We talk of funny things like eating our mother’s underwear
And burping out shoes like we just don’t care.
If we could do the things we like,
We could cancel maths and go on a hike!
We could swing through trees,
and dress like bees.
We could scream out loud and snort and sneeze!
We go crazy, craaaaazy when we’re class,
But today, for now, l will not hurl,
For I want to prove I’m an intelligent girl!

I am yellow like the sun
I am cuter than a butterfly
I’m a bird, a yellow one too.
You can find me in a tree.
I am a shiny diamond in the sun
I’m a singing, yellow bird.

Frogs are green
That I have seen.
Up in a tree
With a bee.
On the floor
Next to a door.
In the water
By their daughter.
They jump all day
In the month of May.

It is grey and yellow and has a shell
And great big feet and eyes as well.
It moves along the rocky ground
Like an elephant stomping now.
It is slow, great and big.
It is a giant turtle.

Summer is my favourite season
It’s hot.
A palm tree is a perfect
Shady spot.
The waves make a splash
Two dolphins move as quick as a flash
Castles in the sand
Are made with my hands.