2018

Dark at night when the bats are scary
You aren’t likely to see a fairy.
The Endermen come out to play,
And roam around all through the day.

Sometimes they work, sometimes they go
To far off places, to and fro.
They are busy farmers planting crops.
Wheat and carrots, spuds and hops.

The Endermen don’t like a bath.
They take a teleporting path.
They hide behind a nearby hill,
And crouch down staying very still.

They stay behind a garden gnome.
Deep within their own biome.
Their purple eyes look out at night,
And then shine brightly in the light.

School excursion at Kimbriki helps me become the hero.
I can save the world when I reduce, reuse and recycle.

Bring my favourite green bags when my mum buys the juicy apples,
I feel beautiful.

Wash my mango juice bottles and use it as mango jam jars,
I feel powerful.

Put my ballet shoe boxes into the yellow top bins,
I feel responsible.

Throw my apple cores into my grandpa’s compost barrows,
I feel like a green hero.

In the forest there is a tree
In the hive there is a bee
On the dog there is a flee
And in my home is poetry.
From the morning with the rising sun
Till the evening when the day is done
My head twirling with prose and pun
This is my way of having fun.
So if you see me with pen and book sitting at my favourite nook
Don’t sneak on over to have a look
I’ll slam it shut and then you’ll
SOOK!

See the little dog
Running in the house.
See the little dog
Chewing cushions like a mouse.
See the little dog
Chasing a cat
See the little dog
Asleep on the mat.

See the little dog
Paddling in the sea
See the little dog
Looking at me
See the little dog
Playing at the park
See the little dog
Fetching in the dark.

The sky was as pink as a rose petal and the wind stung my face as I ran along the soft mossy grass,
The trees whispered and danced in the wind, it was like magic.
The fresh smell of flowers filled my nose like a roast dinner.

The river shone as the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the mountains,
And the moon rose and the stars appeared like they had just woken from a long sleep.
They disappeared like they came and the sun rose like a plane that had just taken off.
The sun warmed my body like an oven heating up a warm dinner.

Splash the water went when I landed in it.
I felt like all warmth was being drained from me.
The water was pushing on me from all directions.
I loved this place it felt magical!

Phantoms, spirits they’re all the same,
everyone is scared of their spooky little games.
They hide under beds, they hide behind doors,
they hide under stairs, they hide under floors,
giving you frights more and more.

Leaping, sleeping unicorn
Wakes up and has a yawn
Stretch! Stretch! Stretch!

Rumbly, tumbly unicorn
Magics berries with her horn
Munch! Munch! Munch!

Prancing, Dancing unicorn
Finding friends after dawn.
Play! Play! Play!  

When Bluey cocked his head that way, I’d get the strangest feeling
he was looking through a window at my soul.
He’d seen behind my thin disguise and all it was concealing,
when he looked at me, with eyes as black as coal.

They say that dogs have senses far beyond our comprehension,
from the time they first begin to leave the womb.
It’s said, that they can even see beyond the fourth dimension,
and can feel a spirit’s presence in a room.

My father said that Bluey was the clever culmination
of a breeding plan, to find a working dog.
They’d crossed a native Dingo with a Collie and Dalmatian,
to produce a pup to handle heavy slog.

When Bluey cocked his ears that way, I often used to wonder
‘…does he understand me more than others do?’
He’d comfort me, whenever I would hesitate or blunder,
and when no-one else could see my point of view.

He wouldn’t patronise me when I felt a tad downhearted,
nor encumber me, when I was in a funk.
He wouldn’t laugh or mock me when I felt I’d been outsmarted,
and would never disapprove, when I was drunk.

When Bluey wagged his tail that way, I’d found it reassuring
just to know that he was walking close at heel.
His love for me was natural, devoted and enduring…
and was always unconditional and real.

The day the kids had brought him home, all wrapped in socks and singlets,
he had whimpered like a baby in a crib.
They’d combed his hair and teased it into tiny braids and ringlets,
and had tucked him in a toddler’s cap and bib.

His little paws go pitter-patter softly through the pages
of a thousand memories I now recall…
from many misadventures in those very early stages,
to a time when he could hardly move at all.

When ticks had paralysed his legs, he’d seemed to age so quickly,
and would spend his time just lazing on the floor.
They’d sapped him of his energy, and left him lame and sickly,
with a shuffle, that he’d never had before.

When Bluey died last summer, from the illness that had cursed him,
I had grieved for him and wept on bended knee.
The memories we’d shared throughout the final days I’d nursed him,
would remain his lasting legacy to me.

When Bluey cocks his ears that way, I bow my head and ponder…
is he looking through a window at my soul?
I wonder if he’s watching me, from somewhere way up yonder…
where the stars are blue ̶ through eyes as black as coal.

He came from Kuridala on the Thargomindah side;
it was there he learned to rope and brand, and there he learned to ride,
and there his strong ambition formed to be a droving man,
and the Kuridala boozer’s where his droving days began.

He toiled behind the boozer’s bar, for want of better work,
and I met him when I rode in on my way from Barrenburke.
He told me of his hopes and dreams, that came from deep within,
and I took a shine to this young bloke, young Billy Backytin.

A long and lean and lanky bloke with burnished skin and hair,
he was full of wit, a larrikin, a true blue Aussie lair.
He had a special saying when misfortune came to town,
“Aah, the sun will shine tomorrow mate, don’t let it get you down.”

The boozer’s cook was never far away from Billy’s side,
and he’d often patched the young bloke up —‘repaired his reckless hide!’
for Billy loved the rodeo despite his mate’s disdain,
and the cook stood ever watchful with —“an aching in me brain.”

It seems the cook had lost his boy to rodeo’s tough call;
it was back in winter, forty-two, he’d watched the tragic fall
that claimed his son, and each day since, that horror burned within,
‘til his heart embraced this bold young lad, young Billy Backytin.

“The first time I laid eyes on him I knew he’d be my mate.
I was outback on the wallaby, and it was getting late,
when Billy here appeared, and asked if he could camp the night,
and we got to know each other, yarning ‘round the campfire light.”

It wasn’t hard to see the cook saw Bill as more than friend,
and this lad without a family respected him no end,
but he’d just say, (when he found strife that made the old man frown)
“Aah, the sun will shine tomorrow mate, don’t let it get you down.”

We got to talking finance, Bill, the boozer’s cook and me,
and we downed about a dozen pots, then reckoned we could be
the captains of bush commerce, drovers extra-ordinaire;
we could all be rich and famous—call each other millionaire.

They jacked their jobs and joined me, and we rode out further west,
where we landed on a thousand head from old Jack Crawford’s rest.
Ahead we faced five hundred miles of dust and flies and drought,
over saltbush plains and red soil, down the Wokingham Stock Route.

A thousand cleanskin yearlings that were born and bred out back
started wandering before us down that isolated track.
The dust clouds were relentless from four thousand tramping hooves,
while the leaders and tail enders formed a mood that disapproves.

Unsteady in the spelling camps, they fussed around the troughs,
and amongst the roars and bellows you could hear their rasping coughs
from seeds and dust they breathed, as onward grudgingly they’d crush;
when we bed them down at night, a tenner said they’d bloody rush.

My canvas swag on rock hard soil felt like a feather bed,
after long hard riding took its toll and burned within my head,
but hollow night time stillness settled softly on the camp,
and the silhouettes were peaceful from the glowing kero lamp.

A transcendental wailing lingered gently on the night,
as our Billy played harmonica beyond the campfire light.
I drifted into slumber from this soft bush reverie,
in a frail cocoon of refuge, in that outback symphony.

Then suddenly the peace disintegrated in the night
when a big raw boned young bullock shied and set the mob to fright;
they bawled and bellowed madly rushing frenzied through the camp,
and the baiter bellowed likewise, swinging wild his kero lamp.

No man could ever hold them then – could calm the fear crazed rush,
of that maddened mob of yearlings running wildly in the crush;
we cracked the rawhide whips and tried to turn the mongrels back,
but they tore like souls demented down The Wokingham Stock Track.

They tore like souls demented like a river in revolt,
in a maddened cloud of chaos that old Satan couldn’t halt;
four thousand pounding fear filled hooves defied the stockwhip’s sting,
and right then I found religion—there was Billy on the wing!

A phantom-like night rider, Billy tried to wheel the lead,
and I rode flat out to back him up but there was never steed
or stamina to match the man, I wasn’t in the show,
and I bellowed in hysteria, “Bill, let the bastards go!”

But Billy disappeared within the writhing mass of fear,
and I screamed in wild anxiety, but Billy couldn’t hear.
The baiter too was mounted then; in frenzied fear he tried
to locate his little mate—and I could swear that bushman cried.

Acacia needles clawed his face and whipped his sweating chest,
as he charged on wildly, blindly, in his agonising quest.
I swore that all the hellfire down in Satan’s evil lair
had erupted through the trembling earth, exploding pure despair.

The thundering subsided as the mob sank out of sight,
and the only movement left was ghostly dust clouds in the night.
Both frozen in the moment, we stood—statues of despair;
not a sound – no sign of Billy, in that coal black midnight air.

If you should set your footsteps on The Wokingham Stock Track,
and you tarry by the water troughs, you’ll see a little stack
of bush rocks, and an epitaph—there scratched upon its crown…
“Aah, the sun will shine tomorrow mate, don’t let it get you down.”

They met one night at the height of drought in the bar of a western pub.
Two luckless gougers who’d just arrived from mines in the mulga scrub.
Big Griffo looked at the Busted Pug at the long bar’s other end,
“No man should drink on his own”, he said. “I’ll buy you a stubby friend.”
They hit it off in the pub that day and decided to try their luck
once more in the fields and they left the town their gear in a battered truck.

They searched for days for a likely show but the pair never gave up hope.
Then they found a ridge with a weathered band exposed on the western slope.
They set up camp on the timbered ridge and toiling with pick and bar,
they sank a shaft down to thirty feet and called it, The Morning Star.
They found a level without a trace and they tunnelled to left and right
with a candle fastened in fencing wire to give them sufficient light.

They put in drives and they gouged a room where a party could hold a ball,
but potch and colour were all they got with never a gem at all.
They talked it out by the fire one night when their rations were almost gone,
“The mine’s a duffer”, the Pug declared, “and it’s time we were moving on.”
They were up at daylight to shift the camp with the Morning Star on high,
Big Griffo looked at the star and said, “I am giving it one last try.”

He checked each drive with a searching eye, the last one was heading south.
Then he saw the end of a fractured lead they’d left by the tunnel’s mouth.
With a faint hope rising he swung his pick, one blow for the bright star’s sake,
Then gaped at the nobbies the pick revealed like fruit in a Christmas Cake.
He chipped six opals from off the wall and the colour came dancing free,
“We are rich,” he thought, “We’re as rich as kings,” and he almost danced with glee.

Then he thought of the Pug so keen to move, not knowing about the find.
And the big man grinned, “When he sees these stones I reckon he’ll change his mind.
I’ll have some fun with him first,” he thought, then his voice rose loud and clear.
“I hope you are ready to pack,” he yelled, “for there’s nothing but potch down here.”
With the opals clutched in a grimy fist he chuckled and almost laughed,
as he slowly climbed with his one free hand the side of the laddered shaft.

He tripped as he left the narrow shaft and fell to a bended knee.
His hands flew open to break his fall and the opals scattered free.
The Pug looked hard then he cursed his mate, “You’re a treacherous thieving swine,
you have ratted those gem stones for yourself when half of them should be mine.”
He snatched a pick from the windlass-stay left there when he’d finished work,
and he swung a blow at his kneeling mate; then Big Griffo went berserk.

He crushed the Pug with his massive arms with the strength that would bend a bar,
then threw his mate with a bitter oath down the shaft of The Morning Star.
He had killed his partner: The big man reeled in the rays of the rising sun,
and he gagged and gasped as he realised the terrible thing he’d done.
He stood for a moment his mind awhirl still shaking with fear and dread,
then scooping the opals from off the ground he ran to the truck and fled.

There’s a gouger’s camp in the far outback strewn now ‘neath a blazing sky.
There’s a faint track up to a timbered ridge but nobody passes by.
There’s a shaft still open to thirty feet with a windlass set on top.
There’s the bones of a gouger by a drive as rich as a jeweller’s shop.
There’s a drunken drifter who drowns his past in pubs on a northern track.
A fortune waits at The Morning Star but he knows that he can’t go back.

She waltzes the breeze with a tickle and tease
past maidens who dance in the late summer’s heat
and shimmers and glistens in streets as she listens
through devils who whirl in the dust at her feet.

On late autumn days she remembers the ways
she tends to and nurtures the vine and the crops
in ripe burdened furrows and deep buried burrows
and mellows the roots and the stalks and the tops.

In south winter gales when she howls and regales
the oceans that rise to her call and her whim,
she lashes and clatters with hail as she batters
the ships and the shore and the streams to the brim!

She curtsies the trees and she bends her fair knees
on shores that know only the wet and the dry
in far northern reaches, by corals and beaches,
caressing the seas and the sand and the sky.

She garners her strength and unleashing at length
tornado and cyclone and super cell storm
she holds up to ransom the trampled and handsome
without any fondness for birthright or form.

SHE – ODE TO THE WIND.

On far western plains she drives drought or the rains
and fetches the first of the fire and the flood
to good ground and weary, through towns packed or dreary,
while leaving a bounty as price for her blood.

But she doesn’t judge, doesn’t care or begrudge,
and cares not for sinner or saintly or sinned.
Capricious, seducing, indignant, inducing,
she ever in all ways is always the wind.

It happened near McKinlay
At a pub, so I’ve heard tell,
When the rains in northwest Queensland
Made all the rivers swell.

The farmer came in, hat in hand,
He looked the worse for wear,
His clothes had seen much better days—
He didn’t seem to care.

The barman looked at him and said,
In a casual kind of way—
“I thought I’d seen the last of you;
You back here to stay?”

“The answer’s yes,” the man replied;
“The word’s around the town
The Queensland drought is over
The McKinlay’s coming down.

The Diamantina’s flowing,
The Thompson and Barcoo,
The Western and Georgina,
And many others too.”

The barman polished glasses
With a concentrated frown;
“And will you see my daughter Kate
Now you’re back in town?

You didn’t even say goodbye—
She had a right to know
The reason why you left her;
That woman loved you so.

She’d have stood beside you, son,
And only done you good;
She’d have gone to hell and back with you
You know my Katie would.”

The farmer’s voice was level,
He said, “I had to cut and run—
I either had to get out fast
Or end it with a gun.”

He jammed his hat down on his head
“It’s time for me to go.
Tell Katie, if she asks, I’ve gone
To watch the McKinlay flow.”

He stood with others on the bridge,
The river bed still dry;
If water came, he’d stick around,
Give farming one more try.

Others, too, had left the land
And some, in black despair,
Had made an end to all their pain;
For him, the help was there—

Help from family, from mates
And from bush padres too,
And yet, he’d left without a word,
Not knowing what to do.

He hadn’t meant to break Kate’s heart
And cause her grief and pain,
He doubted she’d forgive him
And care for him again.

His eyes grew tired with staring;
Had they got it wrong?
Would the river ever flow?
O God, please bring it on.

And then he heard the cry go up
“She’s comin.” What a sight!
He hardly could believe his eyes,
Looks like folks were right.

The river moved toward the bridge,
Nothing held it back;
It flowed round every obstacle
Keeping right on track.

It curled and foamed and bubbled,
It pooled, and swirled and spread
Its healing, living water
On that dusty river bed.

And in his mind he made a plan
To stock his place again;
To rebuild fences, fix his house,
Thank God for blessed rain!

He felt a hand slip into his—
Now, strong men never cried
But he came pretty close just then
With Katie by his side.

And with his arm around her
He at last could see
That after all the pain and loss
The best was yet to be.

Hearts of the Wattle.

And now you’ve gone. My heart lies cracked and broken.
The transport ship has disappeared to sea
to carry you with dreams we’ve dared not spoken
across the world and far away from me.

Be still my heart! My love is not forsaken
and should your touch be ever lost to me
I think my heart should sleep and ne’er awaken
and never blooms again the wattle tree.

When wattle blossoms open dense and quilted
once more I’ll cast my eyes across the sea
and call your name until the bloom is wilted
and time farewells the scent of wattle tree.

Be still my heart! Now rest and never waken
‘til comes the bloom upon the wattle tree.
Be still and wait, although the wattles taken
another year of you away from me.

Be still my heart! The waiting wattle’s matching
my silence at the berthing of the ships.
Am I awake? Is that your kiss I’m catching?
Your promises are hot now on my lips!

Be glad my heart! Now mend and no more breaking,
for grows that bloom that held your love for me.
Together now, two hearts will soon be making
one life beside that faithful wattle tree.

NOTHING MUCH TO TELL.

I am sending this and hoping Dad, that the girls don’t get to see
what is truly going on behind the scenes.
I would rather them believing God is here protecting me ̶
than to know that we were blown to smithereens.

We were confident of victory and were spoiling for a fight,
as the Ninth and Tenth Battalions paved the way…
the Eleventh copped a hiding though, in spite of all their might,
when they disembarked just north of Suvla Bay.

We were sure the Turks would turn and run from the mighty Third Brigade
and that we could take the Dardanelles with ease.
But apparently they’d seen behind our fearsome masquerade,
and refused to yield or bow on bended knees.

I was with the second wave of troops that had scrambled two abreast
from the rowing boats the tugs had towed ashore.
We had landed in the middle of a flamin’ hornets’ nest ̶
in a blazing hell of blood and guts and gore!

There were bodies strewn like bits of wood all along the stony beach,
where the withered kelp lay stranded, rank and dried.
There were others floating shoreward through the shallows out of reach,
as they drifted in like flotsam on the tide.

If we’d only taken Chanuk Bair, in that very first advance,
then the sacrifice may not have been in vain.
If the landing hadn’t gone amiss, we may have stood a chance
of achieving something from this whole campaign.

We have bitten off a little more than we’ll ever get to chew,
and have opened up a can of worms it seems.
For the Turks are worthy warriors, and jingoistic too…
but misguided by the Kaiser’s crazy dreams.

They’re persistent little buggers though, I have got to give them that…
for they like to do their fighting tete-a-tete.
They‘ve been culling us like rabbits, in a game of tit for tat ̶
and can give about as good as what they get!

We have names for every mountain top and for every cliff and ledge,
and for every gully, gorge and hidden trek.
There is Baby Seven Hundred, Walker’s Ridge and Razors Edge…
and of course you would have heard about the Nek!

It was where the Third Light Horse Brigade were bereaved of half their men
in a suicidal bayonet attack.
They were slaughtered there like cattle in a butcher’s holding pen,
till the Brass had intervened and called them back.

We have called it Godley’s abattoir, as it’s tainted with the blood
of the hundreds who have died to no avail ̶
for a lousy bit of wilderness and acreage of crud,
with a spattering of broken rock and shale.

When I look around, I wonder now… why I volunteered for this,
when I could have been at home in Inverell.
I would just as soon be playing cards with Mum and Little Sis,
as be playing devil’s advocate in hell.

It’s the Sydney blokes who do it tough, in the scorching midday heat…
as they’ve never had to rough it in the scrub.
They would rather be at Bondi, chasin’ sheilas down the street,
or be sipping grog in some suburban pub.

But they’re eager in a donnybrook, when the chips are really down,
and are partial to a bit of fuss and strife.
They have learnt the art of fighting on the streets of Sydney Town,
and are handy with a bayonet and knife.

They are generous with cigarettes, and have taught us how to smoke,
and are full of wit and clever repartee.
They are always stirring mischief and they love to share a joke,
and have been a calming influence on me.

We’ve been fighting here since April Dad, with our backs against the wall,
and our senses numbed by nauseating stink.
I suppose I should be grateful that I’m even here at all ̶̶
I’m alive and breathing oxygen…(I think!)

What a God forsaken, bloody mess! It is hard to verbalise
and explain the dreadful things we’ve seen and done…
for the trenches here are swarming with mosquitoes, rats and flies
from the corpses that lie rotting in the sun.

If you think the flies at home are bad, you should see them over here!
They’re as thick as ours, but not as purely bred.
They will hang around till evening and then seem to disappear,
when the mozzies come and hassle us instead.

It’s the smell that driving me insane, and the thirst I cannot slake…
from the putrid taste of ruin and decay.
It’s the overwhelming pungency in every breath I take,
and the thought of you and Mum so far away.

I am signing off and hoping Dad, that the girls don’t make a fuss,
when they get to hear there’s nothing much to tell.
I would rather have them thinking God is here protecting us ̶̶
than to know that we’ve been damned and sent to hell.

A grand, old queen, resplendent all in gold,
with crown jewels perched atop her flame red hair.
Magnificent, a glory to behold –
majestic ruler, plumed beyond compare.

Each time the wind regales her with his lies,
she showers her whole kingdom with her wealth.
Bestowing red confetti from on high,
she gives and gives, not thinking of herself.

Assuming she was held in high esteem,
she hears the truth and bows her head to grieve.
A paper thin brown bag now masks her gleam,
if not for family roots – and pride – she’d leave.

A season’s sadness prompts her to reflect,
upon her noble birth; a seed ordained.
She rises and the gerberas genuflect –
resilient, like a weed, she reigns again.

Tell me Wellies

did you hear the thunderous waterfall – more cacophonous than lguazu’s –
when its ruler smote the pregnant clouds, birthing torrents of amniotic fluid?
In Ipswich, not Haarlem, did you hear the tumult of the dam disgorging and
cymbaling against the mighty Brisbane as they coupled in disastrous coitus?
Did you hear the aqueous crescendo of the surging swell as it climbed,
altius et altius, before pole-vaulting up and over the custodial banks.

Did you hear the shrieks and cries of those in flight … running, paddling,
sloshing, breast-stroking to a safer place away from the overflow of Wivenhoe,
to the percussive accompaniment of Zeus’s drowning roar?

Had you time to notice the gob-smacked muting of Apollo’s song?

Tell me Wellies

did you smell the putrefaction of the gaping sewers, the crevices’ malodorous
secrets, the squirrelled contents of the rodents’ lairs, the ordure of things wasted,
the dung, the excrement and piss, the vomitus bile of the trajectory?

Tell me Wellies

did you see the palette of fluvial float transmuting from blue to green, to sluggish
brown, to muddy black, its filthy daubing and smearing charcoal sludge rubbing and
ruining, besmirching all things soaked, already soiled?

Did you see that tumbled-in boy, the belly-flop of the sagging bridges, the cars swept
on the flux, the bobbing debris, the rags and bags, slaloming condoms and sodden
bonbons, bottles bobbing, water-skiing pots and pans, chemicals, pollutants,
sediments and nutrients, the water snakes, the reeds and trees, the fish –
dead and alive -raked up by Poseidon’s trident?

Tell me Wellies

did the naiads rise up to greet you, or were they gobbled up by visiting, heuristic bull
sharks?

Tell me Wellies

what happened to you in the midst of this Mesopotamian chaos. Were you forsaken
by your god as he impregnated Gaia Ipswich but, somehow, kept afloat? Were you
abandoned by an ADF volunteer or a battling challenger in the mud-run obstacle
race? Did you wade through sucking mud until the Ararat of this embankment?
Were you anchored there in terror or suck-suck vacuumed
onto that silted podium or did you, lpswichian denizen, jump out of your boots,
if not your skin, in a Nijinskyan grand-jete and leave them in that neat, balletic,
first-position, in rubbery memorial to that catastrophic January?

Tell me Wellies

when Cronus and Rhea conceived son, Zeus, was it on a water-bed?

His was a romance with the railway.

He was a familiar outpost,
sometimes monumental, drinking
with a rhythm on the top step,
increments from nightfall
his children, blurring the paddock,
figurines with jam-sticky mouths
and depths of bird’s nest hair.

Hers was an existence of measures.

She was an avalanche of hands,
sometimes, a semblance of a living thing
hovering on the edge of winter
rising up on occasion
like a giant, pancake moon
fierce and bewildering,
the boxed-up parts of her, still luminous.

Between months,
she arranged his artefacts on abattoir hooks
homecomings shuddering
along carefully laid containment lines
the nights swelling with his presence
making corners in the air
in a hand-me-down house thick with sleep.

They both knew every turn of this valley.

Swathes of iron-bark and rosewood
cleared by those before them,
farm-country shaken out in its place
in picnic-blanket squares
springtime lambs tripping over
brand-new limbs,
slips of things, wanting their mothers,
life cycles rolling on and through
in an intimate exhaustion.

They grew smaller.

Shrunk down to the size of a photograph,
as the suburbs advanced,
a farmhouse crouched on the plain
echoes of distance, stretching
from room to room to room.

From the edge of the valley,
the household’s linen pegged out
for all to see – the white-brilliance
of makeshift prayer flags
flapping out the same tired coordinates.

Yeh can’t ‘ave The ‘Ope an’ Worry Uv Yer Lives
Kerploshin about
on Mundys
when yer washin’.
Dinkum.

Best t’ lock ‘er in ‘er crib
an’ if she turns on the water-works
wallop ‘er proper
cause it’s good fer ‘er lungs.
an’ she’ll sleep betta,
an’ you’ll gechya work done.

Gather up yer woodchips an’ yer logs.
If Hubby’s feelin’ poorly from the the shell shock,
Be Grateful yeh Anzac’s home an’ ‘es still breathin’, an’ yeh got water in the tank.

Fill the coppa,
Light up the splinters.

Put out the scrubbin’ board, an’ two tubs, well clear o’ the smoke,
The tank’s a bonza shelter if a soueaster’s blowin.
But keep watchin’ fer the embers, or y’ll ‘ave a bushfire goin’.

Shave one cake o’ Sunlight into the tub.

Nex’ sort them piles.
Whites wiv whites, colours togevver, an’ rags wiv ‘e strides.

Fer makin’ the starch.
Add dust t’ cold Adam’s ale. Stir till she levels. Then, thin, wiv ‘e boiled

Take yeh whites,
Watch fer burs and soil.
Rub yeh spots on the board. Scrub hard, then bring to a boil.
Fish out the clobber with the end o’ a broom.
Wrench ‘n then starch.

But girl, don’ boil yeh colours.

Hang rags on the choc’n bloc, tea towls on the grass.

An’ use ’em hot, leftover, suds, t’scrub the veranda.

Toss the wrench water on the veggie patch.

Douse yeh charcoal,

Turn yer tubs upside down.

Doll yerself up, smoov yer Barney fair.
Unlock The ‘Ope an’ Worry Uv Yer Lives’
Make a cuppa, sit a spell, chew the rag ‘n counchya blessins.

The strawberry dawn sits upon
the endless horizon
We were up before the birds could crow
He says the best catch is as the sun is rising

Woosh, flick flick, a silver flash
There’s movement in the water
Our lines are cast and our reels are ready
We’re fishing, just Dad and daughter

He’s taught me all I know
from rods to reels and braid to bait
I’m full of expert fishing tips
now all I have to do is wait

With a sudden Smack its hit the hook
I clench my fingers tight
My dad nods and tips his hat
Its time to fight the fight

Screaming reels and endless winding
soon my arms begin to ache
But the game goes on, it weighs a tonne
surely the line will break

Just a few more turns then we can see
the silver soldier in its scaly armour
I have won this battle and I reel him in
“He’s a beauty” says my father

All too soon the day heats up
and we must abandon our salty pasture
With our catch in tow we head ashore
Dad and daughter, fishing ever after.

Cool air of early morning, sunrise redder than the dirt
Dusty, beat up singlet and a trusty flanno shirt
An honest pick and shovel (bloody none of that high tech)
Water, check. Sunscreen, check. Worn in old Akubra, check.

Wrens and Willy Wagtails, magpies and cicada sounds
Smell of eucalyptus and the sun warming the ground
Stillness in the landscape. Peace that settles in the bones
A determined, rugged hunter and the quarry: lovely stones

Violet fire in amethyst when held up to the sky
Hematite, red jasper and the gleam of tiger eye
Smoky quartz and garnet – ruby red and rich as blood
Tumbled in a dying river bed, uncovered by a flood

Geometric beauty in these precious stones of worth
Hexagons and pyramids, perfect columns in the earth
Brilliant blue kyanite, lagoon Aquamarine
Silver micah shale and watermelon tourmaline

Fossicking through clay, rocky sediment and sand
At last! A tiny treasure, gleaming in his dusty hands
To him, a warm and living thing. Quiet, old and wise
Presence gentle to the heart and lustre lovely to the eyes

Back at camp before the twilight, spuds a-roasting in the embers
Cracks a tinny from the solar fridge, relaxes and remembers
That brilliant clustered amethyst – the harvest of the day
Foraged near a craggy outcrop, dug into a sandy cave

It’s a vast and endless sky out here, a sea of starry night
Sometimes a falling meteor, a stunning flare of light
In the dark a single fire. A man alone, but not alone
Wood smoke in his hair and a tenderness for stone

He leaned on the fence in a nonchalant way,
tipped his hat down to keep out the sun
cast a keen knowing eye over stock gathered there
but his eyes had returned to the dun.
“owmuchissit” he asked, looking bored while he spoke
as he lit up a durrie and sucked in the smoke
whilst the toe of his boot kicked up dust . Yes this bloke
played his cards really close to his chest.

We gave him a price and he ummed and he aahed
and he scratched at his ear for a while,
then he hitched up his pants and he strolled down the yard
wandered back with a smile on his dial.
“That’s a good lookin’ awse – looks like he knows the land –
It’s a deal then” he said holding out a brown hand
“You can’t beat brumby stock and this blokes from Queensland
so I know I’ve got one of the best.”

Toolara State Forest up near Tin Can Bay
was his home – where pines grow straight and tall,
as a foal he had always stuck close to his mum
and not much had fazed him at all.
But Governments considered Brumbies a pest,
their eradication thought to be the best
approach to now take – though it put to the test
the thoughts of Australia’s people.

The dun was a lucky one, captured and caught.
enticed by salt lick in the yard.
A cull done by choppers would never have worked
in a pine forest – No way. Too hard.
“Wodja rekkun young fellow?” the old ringer asked
“Do yooz rekkun good memories might be amassed
if we look to the future and forget the past?
We can forge a mateship that’s peaceful.”

The dun shook his head, flicked his ears, swished his tail
and gave the old ringer a nudge,
his brown eyes were trusting – what more can I say
reminded me of chocolate fudge.
“Orright then old mate – let’s be gettin’ ya back.
Thanks a lot Jim for all ya done.” They hit the track
with the dun tagging close behind – lead rein quite slack
I could see ’twas a match made in heaven.

Many years have gone by since the sale made that day
I was out at an Ag Fest in Roma
They’d some horses there busy at working the stock
A comp of some kind with Diploma.
My ears heard the tannoy say Toolara Ted
and there with a dorsal stripe from tail to head
was the brumby I’d sold – sleek of skin and well fed;
on his saddlecloth – number eleven.

Well I watched as that brumby horse strutted his stuff,
he was quick, he was sure, he was clever.
He out thought those cattle at every turn
and he foiled them at every endeavour.
And old Perc the ringer sat astride at ease
he worked that dun brumby with words and with knees
’twas a delight to watch them I have to say. Geez,
it was one hell of a demonstration.

It has ever been thus in this great Southern Land
our brums roamed free … Nature’s resources.
We used them for droving, we used them for war
they were tough and gutsy Aussie horses.
We built this brown land on their broad sturdy backs.
and used them as stockhorses and ladies hacks,
they carried our children, our produce, our packs
Brumbies are the best of our nation.

Do you want their eradication?

He used to be a trucky but the war gods rang the bell
calling for king and country, calling COOO-EEE. Was the knell
of distant bells heard here at all? Seems not, for all the blokes
were signing up to fight – a ripper stoush, a bloody joke.

They thronged the harbour walls to wave the men a fond farewell.
The old Queen in the harbour wore her battle shades as well
on this day bright and sunny with the air warm, crisp and clean –
unlike where they were going to become a war machine…

The old homestead abandoned now – they left when Jack was killed
around the fields lie fallow all neglected and untilled.
No smoke comes from the chimney and no light shines from the door
the heart of this house left the day that young Jack went to war.

The photos in the album show a picture of those times.
There’s Jack, that young, good looking bloke, and hiding there behind
was Mum – somewhat embarrassed in that tent dress of bright blue
that hid her advanced pregnancy . Yes son, that bump was you.

Geraniums bloomed brightly in the garden near the door
whose white paint fairly sparkled, as did the kitchen floor.
There was washing on the clothesline – ‘twas a bright and sunny day;
surrounding fields were golden with the promise of fresh hay

He drove the highways daily, travelled miles across this land.
Its solitude gave his thoughts rein, he thought about the man,
the Grandfather he never met, who forfeited the chance
the day he disembarked with mates upon the shores of France.

His Dad too was a trucky – of a modest little rig
unlike the huge road train his son drove –that combo was big .
A huge Kenny – a freightliner – an eighteen speed machine
King of the road, with guts and grunt, and power to spare and mean.

And sometimes when he had the time a small detour he took
along the track, out past the farm, taking the time to look
and see the land Gramps died for and in his mind he saw
again, blood red geraniums still blooming round the door.

I’m not good at socialising, often feel I’m out of place,
much more comfortable on keyboard, not so good at face to face,
and I don’t know why I bother ’cause it never turns out well
when I try communicating with ‘real’ people for a spell.

I’ve attended cocktail parties and I’ve met some people who
talk at length about their cruises, those they’ve done or mean to do,
and they boast about their travels, while I drift off with the elves,
as their voices blend together, talking all about themselves.

I have nothing I can offer, I get seasick in the bath,
and I’m not too keen on flying, or the jet lag aftermath,
so I sit and sip my cocktail, tuning out their travelogue,
thinking how I’d rather be at home, conversing with my dog.

You might say I’m anti-social, I’ve been labelled that before,
and it’s true though I like people, I like animals far more.
But I’m hardly Doc Dolittle as I’m sure you would agree
if you only saw the way all living things respond to me.

I tried talking to my parrot but results soon left me cold.
He’s amusing and attentive but repeats what he’s been told
and my goldfish doesn’t listen to my troubles or my fears.
He has fish selective hearing, or there’s water in his ears.

For a lesson in frustration that is even worse than that
just ask anyone who’s ever tried to reason with a cat.
Masters of superiority, they’ll treat you with disdain,
and those fluffy little paws can dole out razor slashing pain.

People say ‘commune with nature’, it can soothe a troubled soul,
so I headed to the country where ‘communing’ was my goal,
and a cow that I encountered seemed quite friendly, she said, “Moo”
and then left me with a nasty mess that I scraped off my shoe.

When I met a kookaburra on my sojourn to the bush,
where I stumbled on a tree root, landing firmly on my tush,
was he kind enough to stop and ask me if I was OK?
No, just laughing like a maniac, he upped and flew away.

So I’d had my fill of nature and of animal discourse,
(and trust me, you don’t want to know what happened with the horse),
when I got an invitation that I thought might be a hoot
and I’d catch up with old friends I hadn’t seen in years to boot.

But my old workplace reunion would serve only to remind
those who’d bothered to attend it of the reasons we resigned.
And some half-forgotten supervisor’s boring monologue
of supposed superiority annoyed this underdog.

When I’m cheesed off at a world that is refusing to play nice
and instead of human comfort unsolicited advice
is the only thing on offer, though the fault may well be mine,
I don’t need another critic all too keen to join the line.

I am weary of the people who advise with good intent
and are quick to point out failings (though offence is never meant)
and I find myself more often than it’s healthy, I would think,
deep in doggy conversation – but she’s cheaper than a shrink.

She’s no substitute for children. I have those all living near
and for ‘grown-up’ conversations I have friends that I hold dear,
even have a live-in partner who sometimes heeds what I say
but a bitchy conversation often is the only way.

So I converse with my canine where I’m almost always right.
There’s consensus of opinion and we never, ever, fight.
She is mostly in agreement, her support an even bet.
She might turn around and bite me but it hasn’t happened yet.

This is Stanthorpe weather: the clouds
draw a fickle quilt over the horizon but
make no rain. We stand nearly in the fireplace,
which is devouring its ironbark like desperation.
One farm over, the guns boom on time,
and the Corella’s rise desultorily, circle
and return to the remains of the crop.
The scarecrow’s salute has stopped worrying
them and there’s nothing else to eat but frost.

This is Stanthorpe weather: so the
rain cuts into me while I carry out
the survivors from the coop’s massacre,
limp and bloody, shocked beyond reaching.
We plugged last night’s entry holes
but the predator has found them now
and will not stop, these hens are lost.
The blood specks the straw and the
guns shout on cue, shaking the chicken wire.

Out of the wind, the town’s women
cradle their lattes in the only café they will
drink in. The other’s owner has a
mad son, the boycotters tell me, a killer
of chickens when he was young and when
that herd of sheep were found with the straight
edges of their throats staring at the sky,
gossip said that he’d have been the one with a
steaming knife stumbling away into the dark.

Everyone knows who the killers are.
A neighbour leans over his fence and tells us
of marsupials we’ve never heard of. Phascogales.
Google has a glamour shot of them, modelling
cuteness and teeth. When your birds are got at
it’s the Phascogales shimmying in, needlepoint smile.
But, he pauses for the sky to roil and brood above,
the frost will bring them to an urgent hunger.
Everyone’s heard of them in town but me.

I never witness what has taken the chickens.
Some nocturnal predator, an opportunist
for easy protein. The weather has turned.
The Fort-Knox coop stands half built, dripping.
I learn later that the pariah café was firebombed
one night and has closed its doors. The town keeps
its own sentences and justice. The guns keep firing
and the birds lift more slowly every time, but no one
expects more bodies until the weather shifts again.

Mum chips me, corporal style:
saying: settle down, settle down …
it’s just a pile of bullnose sheets
contracting in the Ma/lee cold

& she’ll move them A-SAP.
I hear cheetahs, I say, padding
along the fence line: Creep & stop
… creep & stop … & she goes quiet

like a Kelpie eyeing an edgy ewe.
That’ll be dogs or a fox, she insists,
trying to nudge me into her pen.
Old Reynard … No … hah … hah …

African predators in the Mallee.
Cheetahs, CHEEtahs, CHEETAHS.
Those cut-throat quiet desert boots
Taliban scouts love to wear.

Echidnas, she suggests, as if
I don’t know those quick
& dainty night dancers
from my childhood, as if …

I don’t know the sound of sand
being shuffled across a biscuit tin
packed with knuckle bolts & razor
wire & come-to-Jesus TNT.

Mum grips the slouch-hatted skull
Benji etched on my bicep at TarinKot
with his illegal tatt gun & starts quoting:
If you can keep your head while

others about you are losing theirs …
mimicking Pop’s inflections
& would have gone the distance
milking every: you’ll be a man my son

if I hadn’t bolted the way I did
when Luther, next farm’s pet ram,
who couldn’t take a joke, charged
me with bottle fed malice

& I’m a sling shot again, speeding
for the old gal iron water tank & piling
inside, rust flecks falling like snow,
as Luther hits & hits again.

We were barrelling towards the airport
in a Bushmaster PMC, rifles racked,
packs slung, deployment done
when the Taliban hit us with AK47’s …

RPG’s, death knock PKM’s … a full
supply of hate. Benji, on the wheel,
falling for the cheetah songbook,
veered left & put us over an IED.

We struck lucky. It was only a biscuit
tin’s worth of TNT & the triple steel
walls of the Bushmaster did their job.
Like Pop used to sing in his jungle:

The hangman wasn’t hanging …
But the noise inside
was Luther’s tank to the thousand
when Benji broke his neck.

Tinnitus sabotages high pitched sounds.
It’s the lower range brutes that do
the detonating. Why then, months after
the army cut me free with stuff-all compo

are dog whistle orders arriving
from Captain Cochlear who hears
what no one else in the Mallee
seems to hear. Not even Pop

when he relieves Mum at night
& sits beside me, rolling white ox
smokes, yarning about his war
& how: an overly fertile

imagination can act like agent orange
on your sensitive bloke, just saying ..
before beating a retreat, cunning
bugger, & throwing sand in my eyes

with lines from his favourite stanza:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute …
with 60 seconds worth of distance …
I try to man up. But the sounds

the cheetahs make as they
inch across the power lines
inside my skull: Creep & stop …
creep & stop … get in the way.

Inside the feeble halo of the light
the dog’s nails clatter on the wharf. Their sound
reverberates and echoes off the hull.

We’re under way and head into the night.
I pray the dog is left behind, I’m crowned
with its damned nails hard hammered through my skull

I have the taste of metal in my mouth.
The ferry’s engine murmurs through the wood
I feel the smooth vibration in my feet.

There is a coldness coming from the south.
I turn my collar up, it does no good.
The ice knifes through my neck and won’t retreat.

A curtained mist condenses on my ears.
The river stench chilblains across the stern,
I choke on diesel fumes and on decay.

Rebirthing all my half-forgotten fears
I find my stomach start to heave and churn.
My body has begun to disobey.

My brain eats of itself, it has consigned
all hope to Hell. That damned, black mongrel’s back
and is creating havoc in my cells.

My knuckles knob in crepitus and grind.
I lose the power in my grip and lack
the balance I once had. I hear the bells

call out the watch and know my time is now.
I have to stand alone and pay the fare
although there’s much I do not understand.

I know that it will never matter how
much rage and pain I think that I can bear,
the Ferry Master’s holding out his hand.

Are you coming with us?
We found a giant in the forest,
laid out and fallen like a tree,
splayed and broken like the sky
had unravelled there, like a nail
had hammered and split the rock,
mossed and worn as old mountains
but Joe swears that he is warm
and Maree hiked deep into the craggy
slipping of bush and thought she heard
a beat like a pulse of radar hunting ships
and when the frenzied wash of last
night’s storm was passed I found
uncovered the sharp edges of a
wound on his temple, empty like a star.
Will you come with us? We think
he can be fixed, we think it has
been long enough since whatever
bane of man, whatever unfriendly act
laid him there, we think he may
have forgotten the war that felled
him, the jealous blow of a brother
that brought him down to earth.
Come with us. The rain is holding off,
whatever can be healed, should be.

When the haunting mist of the dawning trysts
with the phantom forest nigh,
while the creatures sleep in a secret keep
‘ere the dreaming sun creeps high,
and the subtle blush from the artist’s brush
spreads a flush of pink on the rye,
will your thoughts bestir, will resolve defer,
will you think of her…and sigh.

When you hike the fell in your flight from hell
and you fight the swelling cry
of a martyred heart in a world apart
from the ardent days gone by,
while the blackbird sings to your broken wings
til it rings in your soul to fly,
will you heed the call, will you breach the fall
or remember her…and sigh.

Where the river wends through the shivered bends
in the snow kissed glens of Skye,
where the naked trees form a sacred frieze
to appease your grieving eye,
is there no release in your quest for peace
does your feeble heart mollify
a defeated love; like a frightened dove
will you flail or will you fly.

When your thoughts rebound to the sun-baked ground
where the bounding roos pass by,
and her flaming hair like the blazing air
was a beacon to imply
there a passion burned that would ne’er return
once decreed to wilt and to die,
do you wonder yet, do you nurse regret
or in dreaming question, ‘Why?’

For the day must come when a man can’t run
from his demon’s evil lie,
when the veil must lift from a conscious shift,
bid his reason rectify
the defective course with select remorse,
his compassion grow, multiply,
ere he greets his tomb in eternal doom
for a creed he’d justify.

While the Wattles bloom under southern moon
in the womb of southern sky,
and the northern snow in the dawning glow
is a morning lullaby,
do you think anew of the inner you
does the bond still cling, mystify,
how a wild haired girl with a flaming curl
will remember you…and cry.

Cannon shot in the desert, the boulders
are falling off their points, millennia delayed
proof that an egg can’t balance on its narrow
end, and one Scout Master, always prepared, has
taken the longest view, that one day far hence in time,
a child may wander under just as the boulders choose
to fall, and be crushed, and someone has to stop it,
someone has to flatten out the world and make it safe.
How will he find them all? The pebble cast on pebble,
rock stacked on weathered rock, the flung toss of giants,
to forestall mouse murder and ant trauma, or stones
big enough to harm a child. What peculiar and selfless fate
awaits him, a man who would defang the world
of its edges? A hell stolen out of Greek myth or Chinese
legend? A curse worthy of a vengeful sprite? How will he
find the uncounted cow-pat stones, the tank-sized rocks
groaning under the own imminence, after the Goblins
have been neutered, there’s the Devil’s Marbles to be
managed, the Druid’s circles, fields in Zimbabwe and Finland,
full of future dangers to be culled, Damocles hanging over
kindergartens. May he be granted all the lifetimes he will need
to complete the mission he has chosen, for implacable
and unperturbed, each overthrown stone begins its slow
negotiation with the wind, its obstinate wrangling with rain
and by the time he passes them again, they’ll rear anew
vertiginous and fluted, newly risen menhirs, columnar colossi,
to crowd their snaggle teeth out of the earth’s jaw
and if he had not been born we would have need to
create him, or all about us perched on gnarled toes
would be stones poised to fall upon us, crush our bones
and for all the timeless ages needed to make a rock
hold itself in impending danger of collapse, there must be
men who will ensure that they do not. There must be balance.

*In Utah, a Scout Leader was sentenced to jail for knocking over a 160 Million year old rock formation in Goblin Valley. He said he did it to save some child’s life that might walk under it when it collapsed.

Think before feeling.
Come to questions only
when you have their answers
securely in your grasp.
Touch pen to paper
always with trepidation.
Fear the critics. Accept
nothing but perfection.
And you will produce poetry
fit only to be studied.
No mark of you will
be left. As though your
poetry were an act
of suicide. Write
ecstatically. Seek out suffering
and find joy in it.
Descend into thirty-six hours’
sleepless purgatory
and awaken to dreams
dreamed in all
dimensions. Write letters
to your congressman
asking him how
his days go by. Write
letters to strangers
telling them what
must be done.
Unmake yourself.
This is the only way
to slip piece by
piece through the keyhole
of a meter. Breaking
your heart as often
as possible will help
with this. Have an
affair. Try it. Write
exclusively for children.
Literacy declines
with age. Love
your reader violently. Hate
your reader with
ecumenical passion.
Love the fool
foolish to love his
fate. Write it
all down. Ignore all
advice. Including this.

Emerging from the shifting rubble
whose shape suggests it might, once,
have been a city – here
a mordant of stonework
from the baroque façade of a church, there
the form of a wide, sonorous boulevard –

a disparate mass of hungry people,
shuffling with its newspapers
for feet, its bent heads and
sticks for hands, its
longings shrouded in overcoats,

lurches as one towards the concert hall.
Onstage, I croak my reed
to split the silence.
The maestro has returned
from sleepless Odessa, the baton
nods in his grip,

his eyes, darting, count
the chairs that stand
empty, marking the places of those
among us who have gone
to play second fiddle to the angels

and left the music of the groaning world
behind. If, in the instant as the baton rises,
there is a hush, no one notices;
if for a moment the voiceless heart
betrays the speechless mind
neither heart nor mind know it.

Last week I died,
anonymous among
the rubble of my apartment;
a chair is left out for me. I

will have no other gravestone.
Amongst these harmonies
that leap like sheets of fire
into the air, between the pinnacles

of all the awe and suffering
those trembling hands could summon,
I am laid to rest.

Those wind-swept people wept to hear it.

They say you drive men mad,
silent siren in the sky.

They say you make them beasts:
you pull hairs through their skin
and claws from their fingertips you pull
teeth from their meaty, red gums, pull them,
pull men, like you pull the ocean tides.

Virgin Diana, they call you coquette,
they call you flirt and they call you tease.
You drive them mad: pale body
writhing in the night sky, waxing curves
now bared, now cloaked in misty cloud.

Goddess, you have a heart of rock
Goddess, you have no heart:
You orbit the earth, you never touch,
you madden men with lust.

Chaste Moon, you have a heart of rock,
and blood and skin and flesh.
A heart of rock? You are a rock,
unliving and plain and beige. We see
you shine ruddy and wanton and warm –
you only reflect the light of the sun.
We mis-see you, ruddy and sex-filled
and breathing: we see our maddened selves.

They say you drive men mad, O Moon.
O Moon, men drive themselves.

I. Echo Sees Narcissus
You were initially observed cradled in candy coloured blankets
howling into baby monitors for candy coated praise,
lied to about the bogeyman and Santa and Jesus and the tooth fairy,
told truths which meant nothing, carried distances called nothing.

It was night-time apple puree dribbled down your clothes
Apple puree smeared, apple puree squished
in your hands your parents wanted to cry and you griped the brand-new tablecloth
(they eventually understood)

You grabbed onto VCR tapes with those chubby hands you
placed them into players and watched shapes colours voices cried
not because you were overwhelmed with emotion – you didn’t have the capacity – you were hungry
–

Meanwhile there was a constant hum but
It wasn’t summer so it couldn’t be the cicadas.
The apartment was quiet so you deducted the source,
the sounds, the two albums playing on loop.
(cd 1) an instrumental series of lullabies
(cd 2) the cackling of your neighbours paired with the croon of their television quiz shows news
shows drunk babbling ONLY

You’re napping again.
You wake up and you’re old
Old enough to be told off

“Barbies abound like kangaroos in the bush: why haven’t they been shot their clothes are
everywhere
and so are yours please brush your teeth please stop your tantrums please start making your bed of
your own volition.”
Your face is bloated
“ “ “ red
“ “ “ snotty
“ “ “ a mess
“stop crying” maybe not this time.

If you grow up you’re pretty sure the bogeyman will retire move from his cavern in the wardrobe
find somewhere quieter,
settle down with a wife and with kids, with
less cars and some pine fresh pollution free air he’d probably find so nice that he’d leave you alone,

but you still wonder what growing up means:
trading in stripped barbie doll bodies for a barbie doll body of your own?
swimming in ignorance to the point of self-destruction?
will it be inevitable?
will it be serious?
will you finally become emotionally viable?
(you know the next time you cry probably won’t be due to hunger)

II. How Juno Altered Echo’s Speech
In the high fantasy of an ancient woodland
Lived a young nymph Echo who loved trees and earth and sand
She was gossipy and garrulous
To a point that made other querulous
So from saying words that she wanted was banned

In suburbia lived innumerable teens
In an age of industry change and so many machines
They witnessed the world,
into worse shape it whirled
And they were promptly dismissed due to the influence of screens

III. Narcissus Sees H**self and Falls in Love (radio edit)
There’s my grandiose delusion scr*wing me up the ass
moaning Oh My God Ur Basically God
fillingmewithfantasies:famefortunefabulousfirstclass
Goals and obsessing should I really start progressing;
Impulsive choices Who? Fatal flaws Where?
for some reason I still seem nonchalant / for some reason I can do what I want
Mirror, mirror on the wall I’m a strong independent w*man & no inanimate object can sway my self-promoting pitch
Mirror, mirror falling face first falling off the wall shrieking praise glory ¿is that a catcall?
There’s envy coursing through my veins don’t mind me I’ll drive u insane
Favour me, love me, hold me up like Simba,
I can climb over you, can’t wait 2 be king to you
Waiting for my perception to flip while riding on some ecstatic trip
I’ve been told for my behaviour there no malignant cause so I’m just waiting for more and more
(Ap)p-( l )-a-u-s-e

IV. Narcissus Laments the Pain of Unrequited Love
Midnight, stars bright, empty road and in the
backseat. Radio droning, radio bopping,
50s country tired to pop classics less tired
earphones in anyway.

Senses heightened but there’s no real danger,
because if you die this late at night you don’t die in real life.
Are the voices in the fog from Lady Gaga
or from God telling me that I’m going to be stuck in a bad music bad car bad loop for at least a
bad week and there’s nothing bad I can do to stop it?

There’s a phone in my hand I’m wasting battery and data (time and money (or a light source and a signal and a connection to home))
She said red heart I said red heart red heart red heart
Red heart and I wish she meant the same in her heart
and I sit and close my eyes again and my brain is rattling again.

Maccas chips used to be less oily and their drinks less sugary and their bread less rubbery,
so if I throw up all over the seat do I get monetary compensation?
How valuable is currency in the confines of a car?
When Will I Be Able To Sleep.

V. Narcissus is changed into a flower
Shrieks of laughter haunt my reverie,
they skim rocks across the water, my reflection restarts.
I never know what will ever be.

I think I’m clouded by delusion but that can’t be
(Unless the Gods have concluded this is the punishment to impart).
shrieks of laughter haunt my reverie.

I think I’m in love but it can never be,
who is that girl (beyond a work of art)
I never know what will ever be.

My hand grazes the water. I feel sensory
overload some exponential euphoria I could plot on a chart.
Shrieks of laughter haunt my reverie.

The Gods have assessed and judged and made me an accessory.
The nymphs have won, transformations will start.
I never know what will ever be.

Irrational emotions remain trapped in memory.
I’m a vine, a blossom, white petals decorate my yellow heart,
shrieks of laughter haunt my reverie,
I never know what will ever be.

Tracing the looping scrawl
of his Cyrillic cursive
across the storm-grey landscape,

worrying at the silence
frozen two feet
beneath the earth, and

sinking so deep into solitude
that the days he spent
making fools of the foolish

became interludes
in his long conversation
with the sweep of the stars;

did he ever wonder
just what, exactly,
he was doing?

Even once, did he plumb
the depths of motivation,
seek purpose, meaning, the unanswerable

why?

Or did he twist
his doubts up
in his moustache

and journey on, knowing
only the desperate necessity
of his task,

and the impossibility
of seeing it
fulfilled?

Thinking these thoughts
it seems to me that
it was not incomplete,
after all;

that the old man said
exactly
what he

meant
to say.

If only, if only thorns never grew.
If only, if only the world never knew.
The prick of the thorn, that many would mourn,
The dear sweet rose would never be born.
And on her head, she would never bear,
The crown of thorns she was to wear.

Yet history will tell you it is I,
Your Lord and Saviour whom would not stand idle
In the face of mankind’s vile.
And so I fashioned myself a second child.
One whom would tame the wild,
One whom would purge the sin
Of my world from within.

And so, many, many years ago,
On the eve that marked thirteen winters,
I summoned mother nature to the child’s bed,
And the thorns grew like thread
Streaming from her head and coiling around her dread.
Weaving and sewing beneath her skin,
Working to abolish all sin.

She screamed and clawed,
Until her delicate body could take no more,
And her skin was rubbed raw.
But the thorns had weaved into her heart,
And now the two would never be apart.

After the thorns claimed her heart
She never again cried out.
Not even when I pressed upon her head,
A crown of thorns, that pierced the flesh.
And on the snow dropped just one drop-
Of scarlet red.
For in her broken mind she knew,
Just what she had to do.
Who to punish and what to punish them for,
Until sin on this earth was no more.
For seven days and seven nights,
She would clear the earth of all those unworthy.
And with no time to waste-
The clock was already ticking.

On the first day she collected the audacious, the cavalier and the conceited.
And she pressed upon their head,
A crown of thorns, that pierced the flesh.
And on the snow dropped just one drop-
Of scarlet red. And from their mouths they screamed “Have mercy!”
But contorta Rosaceis had none.
And so she made them kneel until their pride fell apart,
And from their chest she ripped their very heart.

On the second day she rounded up the resentful, the jealous and the covetous.
And she pressed upon their head,
A crown of thorns, that pierced the flesh.
And on the snow dropped just one drop-
Of scarlet red.
And from their mouths they screamed “Have mercy!”
But contorta Rosaceis had none.
And so she ripped from them their tongues,
While the birds pecked out their lungs.

On the third day she summoned the corpulent, the obese and the bovine.
And she pressed upon their head,
A crown of thorns, that pierced the flesh.
And on the snow dropped just one drop-
Of scarlet red. And from their mouths they screamed “Have mercy!”
But contorta Rosaceis had none.
And so she starved them to withered flesh,
Until all that remained was death.

On the fourth day she sought the aphrodisiac’s, the wanton and the adulterous.
And she pressed upon their head,
A crown of thorns, that pierced the flesh.
And on the snow dropped just one drop-
Of scarlet red.
And from their mouths they screamed “Have mercy!”
But contorta Rosaceis had none.
And so she severed their head,
So they would never again lie in their bed.

On the fifth day she visited the enraged, the bitter and the furious.
And she pressed upon their head,
A crown of thorns, that pierced the flesh.
And on the snow dropped just one drop-
Of scarlet red.
And from their mouths they screamed “Have mercy!”
But contorta Rosaceis had none.
And so she set them on fire until their bodies could attest,
To the great fire that burnt within their chest

On the sixth day she gathered the rich, the wealthy and the greedy.
And she pressed upon their head,
A crown of thorns, that pierced the flesh.
And on the snow dropped just one drop-
Of scarlet red.
And from their mouths they screamed “Have mercy!”
But contorta Rosaceis had none
And so she buried them in gold,
Until their bodies were covered in mould.

On the seventh and final day,
She called to the unemployed, the lazy and the indolent.
And she pressed upon their head,
A crown of thorns, that pierced the flesh.
And on the snow dropped just one drop-
Of scarlet red.
And from their mouths they screamed “Have mercy!”
But contorta Rosaceis had none.
And so with thorns she bound to their hands a boulder of lead,
Until they dropped dead.

And now came sweet Rose’s final task-
The one I never asked.
Yet she gripped in her delicate fist,
The scythe and the sickle that first cut her wrist.
And drawing them to her chest she took her final breath-
And with the coup de grâce she dropped stone dead.

And from the thorns that chained her heart,
And the scarlet red where she bled apart-
The first rose grew in mourning-
And at last the rose crowned the thorns.

there you sit
by the window,
a lit cigarette
between your fingers,
smoke spreading from
between your thin lips;
grey like your lies.
you are picturesque
silhouetted against the lights
of the city at night,
grey spirals rising
over your head.
I breathe in,
allowing the
sweet smell of cancer
to fill my lungs
and take my breath
away

A child stumbled
Dropped sticky lollipop
Billions happy

it always starts with,
“when he left”
but it never begins like that
they don’t tell you how the pain approached
how it stalked you like a slinking panther
hiding in your shadows
talons carefully prodding at your cracks
finding a way to slip in
and kill

they don’t speak about the moments before
the touch of his palm turned cold beneath your shoulder
and how you couldn’t tell if he was the iceberg or you
how a single finger crushed the bones that you called burdens
and made them barren wastelands

they don’t tell you how he began his departure
long before he left
it was the build-up, the knowing
the unknowing
of what shape this scar would leave
what shape does the kindest smile
and the softest words
tear into your flesh
and mark?

they won’t tell you about the withdrawal of winter
how he wasn’t even cold
even as he turned his cheeks away from you
and pulled his hands from your pockets
into his own
how the lifting of his jacket
he let you drape over your chest
was the last
of the absence of denim
and the first
of the presence of pain

they never talk about the practiced tidy
meticulousness gathered from years of awaited spring
it was the quiet cleaning and sweeping
dusting every corner of himself
cobwebs dotted with innocent spiders
made friends with the waste basket
the brushing snowflakes from the rafters
sprinkling the sadness in disguises on the floor
but the too soft carpet
was devoid of his footprints

they don’t tell you
how you can taste it
the subtle undertones of decisiveness
the full richness of regret
a regret that you will never convince yourself
belongs to leaving
but instead belongs to you

I will tell you
that is how heartbreak begins
and in the end?
well, you just read the end
and now, he leaves

Four babies born every second,
Nearly two people to death beckoned,
Humming bird flaps its wings seventy-fold,
As flowers wilt and the Gouda molds,
What if for a second that were not the case,
And the world nothingness must face.

If for a second the bees wouldn’t buzz,
If a child’s kite wouldn’t fly, as it usually does,
If the seas became calmer and barely waved,
If winds didn’t steal hats and briefly behaved,
If not a single boat bobbed on the open ocean,
If for a second there was little commotion.

As if time had stopped, yet still moves on,
As if no one aged and yet a second was gone,
As no woodland creature sounded in the glade,
As nothing was broken, and nothing was made,
As Earth pauses, nothing cast into dark or light,
As day remains day and night remains night.

Not a single person dies, nor is one born,
Not a reason to rejoice, nor one to mourn,
Not a thing is wasted, except maybe time,
Not one good deed, not one single crime,
Not one accident, not one miracle to cherish
Not a bud to bloom, nor fawn to nourish.

Countdown of milliseconds comes to an end,
So that that was paused can resume again,
Births, deaths, movements, nature all at once,
As if not a second had frozen but months,
If all were for naught in the length of a second,
What time would we lose, if longer we reckoned?

I broke my glasses yesterday
I’m not sure what happened
They were happily upon my nose
Hugging my porous face
Then, a magic trick
A disappearance of great mystery
I stepped forward
A piteous crunch
Beneath my soles
What a shame, what a shame
No glass between me and the world
No screen for me to watch through
All those years I lived my life
Like my mother, before a telly
But mine was a prescription
-14.00 to be exact
No matter, no matter
But my spare pair was not to be found
Uneaten by the dusty sofa
Absent from the bedside drawer
Who knew eyewear could be such escape artists
A regular Houdini
I have a business trip to Japan today
A week of sightlessness ahead
I hope my optometrist misses me
They’re the only one who calls
To wish me happy birthday
I arrive with them on my mind
Myopic and vulnerable and in Tokyo
What am I doing? What am I doing?
Faces melted together
Eyes, nose, mouth
Like vellum
I want to draw their smiles back in
How else do I know they like me?
Someone approaches
A facade as featureless as paper
These are origami people
A thousand of them will not save me
Radiation eats everything
The someone asks in a foreign tongue
A high pitched voice
A flight attendant
But I don’t like Japanese
The vowel separated sounds
Why can’t they let consonants be free
Unburdened by blinders of ‘a’s and ‘e’s and ‘i’s
Of ‘o’s and ‘u’s and the occasional ‘n’
I run out the airport
Offended by this slavery of words
The muddled hieroglyphics that they write in
Taxi, taxi
Save me from this society
Collapse in the back seat
Take me anywhere
We arrive in a world of noise
I throw money at him
It’s not the right currency
He complains but drives off
And I am on the streets
Of the biggest city in the world
This is quite the conundrum
Surrounded by colour
Fluorescent signs
Neon fake words
A bokeh of hues and shapes
Over and over again
38 million voices speaking
In an orchestra of broken syllables
The sky wants to be navy and dotted
A fine work of pointillism
But the barrage of light from earth
Winks out the stars
And bleaches the atmosphere
Pink and yellow
They are the ugliest colours
At least they are not touching me
I sit on the curb
I left my suitcase behind
I imagine it going around the baggage carousel
Around and around and around
I hope it’s having fun
I wish I didn’t break my glasses yesterday

Is a mother not god?
With how she gives life
And breathes existence and being into her children
Nurturing far past mere mother’s milk
Despite the whorls and eddies of pain
That fester in families throughout years
She contains heaven and hell within herself
She loves without reason
She cares without reward
And the world she gives to her children
Blooms and thrives
There are mountains of worship for your patience
Seas of gratitude until my last days of this gift you gave me
I will build temples to honour your existence
And prostrate myself to this deity of love
While I climb this never ending staircase
In hopes that one day I will reach the realm that is motherhood

Consider a city. No, more than that. A metropolis. When humans first started constructing these towns on steroids in the late 19th century, I didn’t know how to feel. They stained me a myriad of different colours with belching chimney stacks, and sometimes I liked the new shades. I wore them how you would wear a dress, and I still do. But I’ve been around a long time. Change, no matter how inevitable it is, can be difficult to be accustomed to. 

I’ve grown rather fond of skyscrapers though, the modern man-made monoliths. They are an impressive feat. I like how they reflect my image, in their glassy mercurial surfaces. The slight change in the quality of the colours, perhaps darker, but no less valid. You rarely get such a perfect surface in nature. Oceans are messy, awash with rippling waves, and lakes are rarely so still. There is always a fish that has to move, water striders sending tiny ripples and minuscule tsunamis upon the muddy shore. A breeze has to blow, a leaf has to drop, a child’s boat has to putter along. Nature is never pristine. Of course, this all on a small scale. On my scale. I have little to do with the universe and the heavens; I am simply a separation.

Humans have changed me and how I view myself. I frequently see the gentle undulations of clouds bisected by the contrail left by an aeroplane. I watch until it dissipates and melts into the colours that I am made up of. Often I enjoy cities and their towering geometric buildings that hold a slice of colour upon their surface, the hues sometimes being polished by a window cleaner. A slice of me. They are my mirrors. Humans have always watched me, and now they have allowed me my vanity. They’ve built these mirrors for me to admire myself in, and I am grateful.

A sonnet

To suffice an act of altruism, is an egoism in all integrity.
For we ourselves are an ethical schism, defined by individuals; a heredity.

Alas, albeit thee prosper with such,
thy organic yearn, equally constant.

As, isolation a quiddity of much,
a distinction of disarmed content.

Yet we disdain an act of depiction,
thus we bleed the reaping of ignorance.

To then bathe ourselves in jurisdiction,
ensuing compulsive belligerence.

To dismiss: naive, acknowledge: vain,
humanity deemed of inhumanity.
Irony.

Note: A description of the ethically disregarded human premise, in each and every living entity consisting
of the ironically, contempt-ridden trait of selfishness, the motive for all action; one’s self.

She stood once, a grand old tower,
First among all, with the corridors of power.
A dangerous spark flew and in time, she crumbled,
Consumed in flames, burnt and down she tumbled.

Beauty was seen among everyone who passed,
But now, in the pageant, her place is last.
Once, she was cared for, nourished and loved
But today, like a crippled hand, she is gloved.

Kings and queens once sat in her arms!
Gardens, music and dancing – oh what charms!
A smile and a song to all passing by,
Now derelict, it seems all a terrible lie.

Oh why or why did she have to suffer?
Now the streets grow meaner and tougher.
I dream of the day she will be rebuilt and last long,
Like glorious days past she will stand tall and strong!

In the world, she was once the most majestic spot.

But now, she is the mansion that time forgot.

Aren’t you tired of the decline in human conversation
Technology has taken over the nation
All the talk we do is through a screen
Our lives are now in our machine
Our brains are being overtaken
With images, social affirmation
Our lives controlled by instant finger reactions
We are the generation trapped in technology distractions
A laugh with a friend can be done in a tweet
We seem to live in endless repeat
Of waking up and selfie taking
When inside you’re breaking
Devices are now our only connection
To other peoples fake reflection
how perfect life can seem
when you’re looking through a screen
When the Wi-Fi breaks so do we
Intent on putting through one more meme
in the midst of a technology infestation
We download 20 million applications
The technology we invented
leaves us demented
We look at our screens for inspiration
When in fact there’s a whole world needing our dedication
We are all part of this technology nation
This useless mutation
What are we doing staring at screens?
When we could be doing so many bigger, better things or has that time been?

I watch the flocks of native birds take flight,
high above me
Soaring towards the painted Western sky
And wish it were me making my way home.
But the desert is wide and vast and empty
And the heat taunts me with visions of cool waters
Around a beautiful billabong,
where birds and animals seek respite
Amongst the coolibahs and deep ferns.
The deep crevices and fissures
Within the ancient rock formations
Sheltering against the relentless heat
Forty five degrees.

But there is no shelter for me,
Alone, amidst the vast, lonely spaces
Of the great Tanami Desert.
Stretching interminably across time and space
An ancient land.
Endless horizons of sweat and sparse spinifex
And rocky hills, where the scorpion and snake reside.
Oh, there are water holes in this vast wilderness
Secret rock holes full of sweet water
To drink. And survive. And never die.

But, I cannot find the water holes neither can I locate the billabongs.
like the ancient Kukatja, Tjurabalan and Walpiri peoples
of this land, Chanamee
Those who knew the stories and the tracks
That made the difference between life and death.
And could read the signs to safety and family
And the warmth of shared campfires
Under a million glistening stars.
At one with the Heavens.

My family is gone.
The wild dogs howl in the darkness.
Silent midnight sands
gently cover the body of my father.
A lonely burial for a man
entombed in a shattered aircraft.
And Help was late in her coming,
And so I set off, foolishly.
Against all good sense and advice
And everything he had ever taught me.
But I couldn’t stay the loneliness crept up on me as
The haunting winds called his name and so into the desert
I wandered, vaguely off into the unforgiving desert
Running away putting all of my trust into hoping
That Destiny would save me.

So once again I turn my face to the waning afternoon light
Towards the flocks of birds that race towards the gently sinking sun
Pinks and oranges light the sky in a beatific vision
But soon it will again be night, and cold
And I will still be alone
And tomorrow, with the rising of the sun,
I must start again.
To find a place of rest
Until Help and Destiny come find me
And deliver me home.

In the old hotel there was a door,
The door on the 3rd floor.
But it was no ordinary door, you see.
It was made from the wood of a magical tree.
No one knows what’s inside, it could be whatever,
But whoever goes in is stuck there forever!
For it’s an enchanted door, the door on the 3rd floor.

Staying at the hotel was a boy called Fred, who always told a lie.
He was just walking through the 3rd floor when the door caught his eye.
He had to go through, he had to see!
What was on the other side – what could it be?
Fred forgot anything else and turned the knob slowly.
His parents disgraced that door, they hated it wholly.
For it’s an evil door, the door on the 3rd floor.

The people in town had had it, that was enough.
They couldn’t keep letting people disappear so rough!
They decided to find out, once and for all
What was behind that door standing tall?
Along came police and the trained experts
Who had come prepared, with lots of alerts.
One expert stepped forward, she was strapped in tight.
The others were holding her rope with all their might.
She plunged through the door, but the rope snapped with a crack.
There was a blinding flash, then all was black.
For it’s a hungry door, the door on the 3rd floor.

One summer evening a woman noticed a light,
Coming from inside the hotel, glowing bright.
The glowing light spread, flickering higher.
The woman ran down the street screaming “Fire! Fire!”
Soon the whole town had gathered outside the hotel
Everyone inside was out – except, well…
The people watched as the flames licked and swirled
Crunching on the old wood as they twirled.
The hotel soon turned to ash,
The fire vanished as quick as a flash.
Where was the door? Did it burn down?
Then someone cried “Look!” pointing to the ground.
There were a few people lying in the rubble.
Who had come from the door that had caused all this trouble?
They were finally safe and sound!
Lying on the hot, hard ground.
For they were out of the door, the door on the 3rd floor.

Fred, the expert, and many more were safe at last,
Although they couldn’t remember their past.
But they were out of the door,
Which was seen no more.
It could be anywhere, from Sydney to Rome
So when you finish reading, make sure to check your home.
For it’s a mysterious door, the door on the 3rd floor.

Sometimes, life gets tough, you know?
When waking up becomes less of a part of your daily routine,
And more of a chore, you know?
The whole, home to office, 9 to 5, and back home
Life becomes an ongoing treadmill, and there’s no stopping anytime soon.
When you choose the constant struggle,
Behind a desk, on a chair,
Instead of doing what you truly desire,
It’s all bound to happen,
When you decide that it’s success, over happiness, you know?

You expected success to bring happiness
Well, that’s not always the case,
Let’s just say that life is full of disappointments.
Maybe it was less about the balance in your bank account,
And more about satisfaction in the blessings you count,
Maybe, happiness is the biggest success,
There is a difference, you know?

Sometimes, you lose trust, you know?
Heartache, after heartache, after heartache,
Every day is an internal earthquake,
Every breath you take,
Is another heartbreak,
It’s a never-ending cycle of pain, you know?
When a simple expectation
Unfulfilled,
Leaves you with nothing but empty promises
And a void within you,
You can’t really help but question,
Who you can really call your own, you know?

In the end, you’re left all alone,
In the middle of a field of built up walls,
And a hollow well within you,
Not obsessed with being empty,
Just afraid of being full.
Because once trust is gone, it may never come back
Once broken, it may never be mended,
Trust is really something priceless, you know?

Sometimes you just lose hope, you know?
When every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day
You become more and more sure
That you have no one,
That the owl who sits on the tree branch
Outside your bedroom window,
Is really the only one making sure that
You aren’t at the mercy of a blade in your right hand,
Piercing through the veins in your left.

Sometimes, it’s hard to keep going, you know?
When it feels as though the depths of the ocean
And every cloud in the sky above
Is pulling you towards them;
They push and pull in both directions,
When all you want to do is swim freely.
Instead, you get pushed and pulled and thrown all over
Loops and loops and loops
Of compromisation, frustration, digression, rejection, depression
Sometimes, it just gets to you, you know?

Sometimes, you just lose faith, you know?
It feels as though every prayer sent to the heavens above
Was a redirected call,
Every penny flung into a wishing well
Was a desperate plea, so heartlessly ignored
Every night, spent wide awake
Hoping there is light at the end if this never-ending tunnel
Was a night wasted in tears
With layers and layers of skin
Covering scar after scar,
All of this, while trying to figure out who you really are.

Sometimes, you just lose your smile.
You just lose yourself, you know?

Over the ocean,
When the sun is high,
The dolphins dance,
Oh, how they fly!

The turtles paddle,
The sea lions lay,
And the seabird soars
In the warm air today.

With the air so sweet,
And the sky so blue,
Could anything possibly go wrong,
Of that no-one knew.

But later at noon,
When the sun starts to set,
A baby turtle,
got stuck in a net.

Oh how it screamed
And ear-piercing cry,
“HELP ME PLEASE!!
I could possibly die!”

The dolphins swam over,
The sea lions too.
The fish, the whales
And the birds who flew.

All were in shock
and trying to help,
But still the turtle
did nothing but yelp!

They pulled and tugged,
And worked as a team.
Until the whale found something,
That made him scream.

What he found was quite alarming,
The turtle ate a straw,
It was awfully harming.

The seabird took charge,
And grabbed it with his beak,
He pulled the straw out,
How the turtle did squeak.

But attached to the straw,
Something they found,
Was more and more,
Of a plastic mound.

Out of the poor turtle’s mouth,
It kept on coming,
The rubbish, the plastic,
It felt quite numbing.

After lots of hard work,
It was finally out,
The turtle said thanks,
And was free to swim about.

But again and again,
When the tides get high,
The rubbish flows in,
And the sea creatures cry.

They hope for an ocean,
Like it used to be.
Clean and calm,
They want the sea.

Surfing on Waikiki beach
Oh, the sun sets too soon
But surfing on Waikiki beach
Is different with the moon

For the moon comes out to haunt us
In ocean waves the old ghosts come
But we know how to greet them
And what is to be done

We’ve been here for many years
And every year’s the same
The screams, the shouts that pierce our dreams
They put our town to shame

For many past have surfed this break
Amongst the wave’s white foam
And many a woman has cried out to sea
To bring her loved one home

But the sea is a savage master
It shows iron will and no care
And so we come to honour the dead
And swim into the waves’ deep lair

We’ve called up all the family
We’ve called up all our friends
Against hope, we are all praying
That this adventure will soon end

All sorts of monsters call to us
Emerge out of the deep
But when they see our surfing army
They’ll bid a quick retreat

The battle has been fought and won
With the ocean and the tide
And now the battle is over
And it is we who have survived

Surfing on Waikiki beach
Oh the sun sets soon
NOW surfing on Waikiki beach
Is NO different with the moon.

Humans are such fickle creatures,
We say life is not fair
But then we turn on each other
And strip our homelands bare.

While some are drinking lemonade
In Hawaii, on the beach,
Others are fighting famine, hunger,
Wanting for food beyond their reach.

Its things like these that make me wonder
How humans came to be
The selfish, self-serving creatures
That today we all see.

‘Mama, mama!’ cries the girl.
Soaked in tears and her mind a swirl.
‘My true love, handsome prince!
Has left me long since.
He used to braid my hair and kiss my cheek,
But now he’s left me, I feel like a geek,’
The mother just rolled her eyes and said,
‘Honey, I told you he’d leave you for dead,’
The girl ran off, crying her eyes out,
‘Why did he leave me!’ she cried with an ominous pout.
That is why, if you concoct this terrible disease,
Broken-heartedness will never let you out with ease.
The young girl, streaked mascara and all,
Called upon her wits and decided, overall.
This boy was a jerk for treating her like this,
But, he was still just like her, in the ageing abyss.
So she wiped her tears and came to her mum,
‘Mother, I’ve been an absolute pain in the bum!’
The mother laughed and said,
‘My dear, another one will come along and make you blush red,’
The mother was just right, a few weeks later, a boy, with a smile of the sun,
Came along and made the girl have some memorable fun,
The laughed together and walked along the boardwalk,
The thought of this new boy, made the girl gawk,
But happy. She’d found her new love.
As the horizon levelled with the sea,
The young girl felt she was completely free,
When the boy held her hand and kissed her cheek,
She no longer felt like a geek.
He’d buy her chocolates and roses,
Candy-floss, but what he never brought with his money,
Was his love for the young girl,
That was already in his heart.
The two had found their matches,
Each other, their love had no dents or scratches…
Yet. But that was still to come.
But for now, they were happy, Everlyn and Harry.
The newest and happiest couple.

As the ink spread across the paper, I felt the little girls’ fear
As I recalled their sorrowful story, I shed a silent tear
Those two darling little sisters all alone, now so very lost
For a touch of a lily’s petal, two little girls payed the cost

So fragile and so unknowing of the dangers they would face
For the lilies beckoned softly, in their elegance and grace
Skipping to their neighbours’ homestead on a sunny autumn afternoon
Little Kate and Bridget found the danger of Walloon

The love the sisters cherished was their life’s greatest gift
As they floated to the bottom, their love, it did not shift
My sorrow for these little girls never falters, nor will fade
If only someone could have saved them, or Heaven come to their aid

I touch the delicate, rosy cheek of my young girl, my Martha
And wonder how I could live in this world, to be a man, without her
And I remember the two lively, little girls lost far, far too soon
Lost to all of us, in the tragic waters of Walloon.

Can you remember growing up on a farm,
playing with brothers and sisters and sharing a yarn?

Can you remember that long ride to school,
balancing on handlebars and playing the fool?

Can you remember my little baby face,
your children growing up at a crazy pace?

Can you remember playing tennis and board games,
fishing all day and camping by the flames?

Can you remember the smell of fresh bread,
the stories we told and all the things that we said?

Can you remember the delicious cakes you baked,
the beautiful gardens you grew and shaped?

Can you remember my name as you look at my face,
am I a stranger to you in this place?

Imagine going to war and sacrificing your life,
Imagine the telegraph boy coming to notify your wife.
Imagine your young children, asking, “When will daddy come back?”
Imagine your horrified mother, who knows that its life you lack.

Imagine your name being carved into stone,
Imagine your family, all thinking, “One of our own.”
Imagine the world leaders, making a speech,
Acknowledging the honours that you did reach.

Imagine wreaths being laid, twice every year,
Imagine “Lest We Forget”, being whispered in each ear.
Imagine blood red and death black poppies, being inserted into pockets,
Imagine your image, being engraved in your great grandchildren’s lockets.

Imagine you’re a young Aboriginal man,
Imagine you’re going off to fight for your people and your land.
Imagine your image, long forgotten and collecting dust,
But there’s no stone carving, like for the others they must.

Imagine not being remembered.

So today we will remember them, those that we lost,
They fought with their hearts, and their lives were the cost.

They take you on big exciting, adventures,
a journey through your life,
things and feelings you’ll never experience again.
Journeys with family, like a butterfly fluttering and exploring its’ world.
Laughing and giggling with friends, extreme happiness, nothing could matter more.
Silly faces, funny jokes, laughing so hard we might never stop.
That’s what friends are for.
Sometimes sadness creeps in,
Then hugs and comfort make life peaceful once again.
Growing with family and friends, like caterpillars squeezing out of cacoons,
spreading our wings,
transforming; what will our journey bring next.

From walking along soft Bondi Beach
To Hasties Swamp, where you don’t want a leach

In the Great Sandy Desert, feel the harsh Aussie heat
On the barbecue cooking is great Aussie meat

The glorious sunset above Ancient Uluru
And at the wide grassy plains feeding native kangaroo

Feel the thundering of the mighty Baron Falls
And the joyous laughing as the kookaburra calls

Where nature is perfect – no fear of failure
A land of Hope and Freedom…This is Australia

I look towards me,
Watching as my reflection.
Being the mirror of my future,
Ripples cross me.
Bubbles lift me to my feet,
Standing face to face,
With my enemy.

Touching the mirror,
I see sadness, I see victory,
I see pain and sorrow,
I see death, I see war
I feel the war I hear the war
I touch the war I see smell the war.
I am the war.

Listening to the ringmaster
Calling my name
Trapeze artists, magicians
Lions and elephants
Listening to the mighty roar
Of the rippled image
Of me.

Put on your bib, enter the court
Listen for the whistle, I love this sport.

Defend your player, stick like glue
Stop their goals, I need to get in front of you.

Attack the ball, shoot a goal
Just remember in front of the pole.

Encourage your friends, watch what they do
Make sure you listen so you can do it to.

When the game finishes, say well done
My team and I had so much fun.

While we sing on stage
Conductor controlling the wand to our voices flow,
We are proudly dancing in our heads as we stand together
We each hear our victory but
I still taste my fear…

I wish I was the sun so I could be bright and shiny all day
I wish I was a dog so I did was play.
I wish I could I grow big and tall but still be small and cute.
I wish when I was bigger I could have a cool green ute
I wish I could be like a bird so I could soar and fly
I wish I could write lots and lots without having to try
I wish things could stay the same and we did not move our home
I wish I never had to be by myself alone.
I wish I was amazing so I could do a flip
I wish I had a pool so I could hop in for a dip
I wish I had lots of things as you can kind of see
Really but, I’m happy and I’m super glad I’m me!

In Nana’s cream-colored kitchen is the bubbling sound of her famous Maltese slice.
The sound of ingredients mashing and smashing.
I hear the sound of lips being licked.
I go in and smell the smell of life.
Nana is not there.
I quickly rub my finger across the chocolate filled bowl and taste it.
12 hours later I taste the legendary sensation that is Nana’s Maltese slice.

My best friend is a harmonica in
my back pocket ready to have
fun any time

He is orange like an energy drink

He is like a Lamborghini racing
through the streets

He is like New Year’s Eve
celebrating with marching
soldiers

He is like a brother from another
mother to me

I lay in bed at night, shivering with fear
I hide in my doona in pitch black.
There was nothing I could hear
Except the slow ticks of the clock.

The ticks became thundering footsteps
The shadows prowl up and became a monster
I held my breath as it came near
The door knob turned… Oh, it’s just her.

The mighty lion stalks his prey
He waits for just the right moment.
He pounces!
His speed is quite alarming,
The little zebra flees of fright
The might lion roars,
His prey now gone
He waits once more.

I give shelter to all animals big and small
With my old trees standing proud and tall
The depth of my presence sends calmness to us
Tell me your secrets, in me you can trust

Rivers full of water with fish swimming deep
But I hold my secrets carefully, for I have promises to keep
I invite through the moonlight for the animals to see
The soft humming of cicadas brings peace and tranquillity

The touch of my leaves brings hope, no doubt
And I send my little seedlings to begin to sprout
I feed all my children, that’s just Nature’s way
I care for my children carefully, everyday

So come into my forest, I promise you peace,
Sense nature’s beauty, its spiritual release
Tend to me carefully, for I am fragile and fair
If you don’t comfort me now, I may not be there