2020

The fire wolf howls
A cry of rage and anger
His flickering tail setting alight
A pile of dry gum leaves

The dingoes howl at these intruders
Growling at them to be gone
But the fire wolves only cackle and sneer
And smirk at the dingoes’ attempts to rid the bush of the fire

Bored with the dingoes’ desperate attempts to rid them from the forest
The wolves rush in like a wave
A wave of pure concentrated flames and fury
Flickering tails wave in malicious pleasure
As the fire consumes the forest

The bush animals run
Screeching in distress
The dingoes at the lead
The fire wolves pursue the other animals relentlessly
Hunger sharp in their gazes

But before the wolves can catch their prey
Before they can burn the animals and trees to piles of cinders
The water falls
Tumbling from the human’s flying red metal bird

The fire wolves howl in pain
Their flames once red and bright
Fade to a sickly yellow
As the fire wolves slowly die

A human dressed in PPE enters the bush purposefully
With little difficulty he finds a small, brown, stubby stick
Ringed with white around the edge
The human snorts in disgust at the stick and strides out of the forest

The bush animals stare in wonder and awe
Gaping at how the human picked up the fire wolves’ den
From which they emerged
After being thrown from a human’s car

Musings and Meanderings

Butterfly! These words
 from my brush
 are not flowers…
only their shadows.   Soseki.

The speech of smoke, mountains.

after his father he runs, feet inked in red soil
with the twill pattern of grasses bending.

The spell of ink, narrative.

his eyes scale the fathoms of sky, words of books
nation his thoughts and a bird stops flying.

The smelly hot water, tinny.

ants witter inaudibly and stage-play their
dowry, fifteen inches underground, as it rains.

The sign of sounds, streets.

laundered and black glossed, his trousers
ransom and outlaw the dance floor.

The feel of thought, visitors.

in a baptistery a fallen mosaic tile is replaced
and a shadow is suddenly hung incorrectly.

The taste of waiting, trees.

a bee rests above the soil on a pivoted rock
dead leaves and broken twigs watch instantly.

The shape of things, parking.

when she arrives down river there are pulsed
vibrations through the planking and his legs.

The colour of distance, horizon.

on seeing the moon through the aperture
the craters like emptied kernels of wheat.

The tone of hair, windy.

on a white-grey concrete slab hopscotch lines
drawn with wavy chalk marks, flagstones.

The face of life, wrinkles.

with the sun syrupped in the western sky
coloured birds fly through the open house.

The mood of love, time.

each dug out eye was placed in the boy’s hands
black crystal eyes flecked in scales of shine.

The touch of charcoal, money.

in the sand the thin grasses whisper the words
of feathers as whale bones bleach and crumble.

The look of death, slow.

the crickets make tongue clicks, a door slams
an eyelash left on the marble bench top, dries.

The pace of oldness, orchids.

the mangrove swamp glued into the landscape,
the wallowing sound of earth moving equipment.

The flow of mist, rust.

on their anniversary he gave her a bracelet of tears
and a necklace full of scars as dry as old wormwood.

The patch of grass, caves.

the letter burnt in the ash tray, the envelope wet
on the table from the cut and seeping eggplant.

The safety of poetry, saddles.

in the light box the shrivelled remains of two
balls in a bag, once a laden money belt, cut.

The silence of snow, weight.

grass stuck together, bent over like cat’s licked fur,
powdering wattles, flaking sunlight, a sagging back.

The shuffle of papers, horses.

gossamer breaths warming the crib, shadows genuflect,
the click and throb of the ceiling fan, old fires burn.

The smoke of woodlands, church.

the ship like a house collapses itself over
each barrelled wave, the rigging squawks.

The words of eulogies, rocks.

they drag the memories over cracked earth
with dogs of dust and curling fires, a white cross.

The size of things, voices.

the horses cry for colour in their sleep
there is never a sunrise on any Sunday.

The door of dreams, salt.

in a cave, wet stones, pearled hidden light
water jabs through the mossed wall.

The peace of flowers, talk.

a child traces the prints of a dog across river silt
as an acrobat checks his bindings in darkness.

The kick of spray, harem.

she holds a bone to the dog’s mouth
overhead helicopters skit the neighbourhood.

The chain of shells, telegraph.

in a tiny cramped room a man writes
in a blur of ink about a shaded river

The cloud of sparks, stooping.

a prayer from a scripture not from a
sprawling novel, lambs were slaughtered.

The waves of bark, erased.

the cow has a rolling eye, there is dust
with the neck drawn back, knotted death.

The juice of nuts, willow.

on an old bridge a memory is swept back,
with souvenirs in her eyes, she laughs.

The turn of seeds, needles.

corn silt on his hands, tighten the halter,
moonlight on thistles wet with old dew.

The fog of gasoline, reptiles.

on a sandstone cliff just scattered breeze
a bicycle rusty, her hair painting her face.

Dear May
    He chews his pen

Still in the best of health
    Don’t mention the lice
    sore feet from socks always damp
    boredom and fear like old friends

Hoping this card will find
    Turns it over
    enjoying the bright coloured silks
    bright spot in his day
    red-white-blue ribbons
    bold lion-rampant on shield
    yet undefeated

you one and all likewise
    Sweet darling May and the rest
    ‘one and all’ in his heart
    he’d like to name them
    but there’s no room

From Jim
    He chews his pen
    it’s not much
    it needs a book
    or nothing

Write soon no news

    Only Ypres in the morning

i.
Underneath the biscuit tin,
a photograph of her
dressed up in a man’s suit.

ii.
Smiling in straw boaters,
elderly sisters sticking it out
under outback bottle trees.

iii.
Top shelf of the what-not,
seashells from Caloundra,
the distant ocean in her ear.

iv.
A day before demolition,
cut-glass lightshades
lifted from Mrs Scotney’s.

v.
Underneath the house,
a snake-riddled dump-ground
for her children’s whims.

vi.
Open on the bedside table,
a fancy framed postcard
of the Lord’s Prayer.

vii.
A wardrobe of favourites,
printed pensioner florals
and tan leatherette.

viii.
Watchtower magazines,
the Witnesses let inside
after the accident.

ix.
Slack glomesh purse,
a cousin shaking out coins
on the morning of her death.

x.
Typo on her headstone,
no one left to remember
her birth name.

Hold the line, I’m trying to connect you.
The familiar greeting: What number please?
Five-minute timed breaks to visit the loo.

Bakelite phones were bright black when brand-new,
trunk calls took operator expertise,
hold the line, I’m trying to connect you.

Chest X-rays, tests for spelling and IQ,
‘How to Dial Cards’ for the customer’s ease,
five-minute timed breaks to visit the loo.

Doll’s Eye and corded switchboards put you through,
Supervisors on high chairs watched trainees,
hold the line, I’m trying to connect you.

Bells ringing, buzzing, plugs flying askew,
women working shifts, sore bums and sore knees,
hold the line, I’m trying to connect you,
five-minute timed breaks to visit the loo.

Whatever lies you’ve spun
There are plenty to choose
You better run

You’ve had your fun
Now it’s your turn to lose
Whatever lies you’ve spun

Don’t think I saw none
Of the booze
You better run

I used to won-
der about the clues
(and) whatever lies you’ve spun

I found your gun
That was on the news
You better run

I’m long done
Give up your ruse
Whatever lies you’ve spun
You better run

The car is parked
I have my joggers on
With jaunty steps
I’m off for a run…
I’m in training.

Up the stairs
Two at a time
Platform one
On the Springfield line.
Cautious…
In training.

The hunched torpedo
Is ready for flight
Constrained by rails
Rhythm and might.
Apprehensive…
In training.

Hieroglyphs on the window glass
Scratchings to be free
From constraints
Or responsibility.
Rebellious…
In training.

Hair-brushed people
Fleeing match-box homes
Morning fresh
Attached to mobile phones.
Trapped…
In training.

Without warning, a voice from above
Like Noah and the ark
“If this is your station
Prepare to disembark.”
Obedient…
In training.

Now at command central
The prescribed destination
It’s time to question
Life’s final station.
Challenge…
The training.
But – mind the gap!

A corona of sickness
Embraces our world
Her jar has been re-opened!

Heroes without capes
Stand strong and firm
Before Apollo’s arrows.

Our freedom surrendered
Confinement the cure.
Alone, but all together.

They said he was unrideable – a rogue, a killer, brumby bred
and few there gave a thought to trying to see what was in his head;
just avoided the issue – said he should be used to feed the dogs
or bait the pig traps on the run – for they were plagued with black wild hogs.
But  in somebody’s heart it seemed he held a soft spot .  He stayed on,
although the rider he once had was buried deep and now long gone.

He must have been ’bout twenty years of age – his muzzle turning grey.
The eyes were somewhat clouded on this broken mouthed old rangy bay
who stood ’bout fifteen hands or so – his aged limbs now arthritic, slow –
although the rumours were that in his day he had a lot of go.
But that was when young Joe would ride him – in his Jacky Howe and jeans,
back when life  here was wonderful and full of hopes and young blokes dreams.

That ended when an accident so cruelly one day took his life.
A punctured tyre, a  muddy graveled road, a recipe for strife.
They found him in a terrible state, entreated him “Please Mate – hang on
the Flying Doctor’s on his way” – Alas his heartbeat wasn’t strong.
It faltered, failed – they tried their best – gave CPR and shared their breath
to no avail – he’d passed and gone to the arms of the Angel Death.

And in the paddock stood the bay – his ears pricked forward – in distress,
he whinnied, galloped to the gate, nobody laid his fears at rest.
He pawed the ground, he shook, he sighed, his body broke out in a sweat
that lathered ribs, darkened his hide – not hard to see he was upset.
And when she came to tell the tale, to rub his ears and whiskered nose,
his rough course tongue caressed her cheek and wiped her tears as they arose.

She said – “He’ll work if he’ll be rode – if not then leave him spend his days
in the home paddock close to me, he’ll keep the grass down, let him graze.
He’s earned his rest and earned his keep and though you blokes don’t understand
 I do, his heart is broken now – he’s lost his master and his friend.
I’ll keep him close, we share a bond, for both of us truly loved Joe
and maybe solace can be found for both of us.  I pray it’s so”.

And the so the two lived out their days, both finding comfort in the end.
She fed him apples every day, in memory of his closest friend.
At night when tears fell as they did, ’twas to Joe’s mate that she did run
and he’d stand close and rest his head on hers – until her tears were done.
’till finally calm would return, she’d stroke that muzzle turning grey
and he’d respond with whispery breath, sweet scented from the lucerne hay.

Some claimed he was unrideable – a rogue, a killer, brumby bred
and few there gave a thought to trying to see what was in his head.
But these two shared a secret that was known to none other than they –
at night she climb up on his back, and he’d stand calm, that rangy bay.
And slow and steady they would ride, and pass slow through the stockyard gate.
heading west to the silver gum up on the hill – Mum and Joe’s mate.

And there beneath the starlit sky, beneath the moon and scudding clouds
together quietly they would wait, sometimes for minutes, sometimes hours
until across the nighttime sky they’d see a flash – a shooting star,
then she would rub the old bay’s neck and murmur – ‘Well Joe, there you are,
you’re not forgotten, we are here, both holding on and doing fine’
She turned the old bay’s head for home – They’d both come back another time.

Sorry Lord to bother you,
But here I’m asking again,
If you could send just a little drop,
Just a little drop of rain.

My cattle are all dying,
The crops already dead,
Struggling to find some money,
To keep my family fed.

Last year I had good corn,
With the drought comes the dry,
I have let my dear family down,
And I feel like I could die.

The banker he is here right now,
He’s closing up my gate,
Politicians are saying the funding,
Is “Too little and too late”.

I tend the ground, I plant some crop,
But it is all in vain,
If we don’t get just a little drop,
Just a little drop of rain.

Wishing for something to grow,
No nutrients to be found,
All I see is a huge dust bowl,
For many miles around.

Some give up, others give in,
Whilst few continue to fight,
We work our hands right to the bone,
Until late into each night.

Hay Angels are just up my road,
I can see them very plain,
But their feed won’t last that long,
Without just a little drop of rain.

So here I am on bended knee,
My hope and faith has withered thin,
Storm clouds roll with thunder,
But not with water on my skin.

For the sake of the lucky country,
Join with me in this refrain,
We need a drop, just a little drop,
Just a little drop of rain.

If you don’t believe in God,
I ask that you try again,
To pray to him and ask for,
Just a little drop of rain.

They once adorned all normal Aussie backyards.
Gaunt and grey, with arms out-stretched,
They bask in the sun.
They are turned by the wind,
Like a weather vane.
Festooned in washing,
The intimate items rubbing shoulders with the outside apparrel,
All are equals here,
With one purpose,
To get dry,
In sunlight and air, wind and warmth.

There are reasons why they stood time’s test,
No power hungry appliance can take the place,
Of sunlight and air, wind and warmth.

Time bought by a dryer is worth far less,
Than time spent outside,
Some solace from the day’s burden,
A breath of freedom,
In sunlight and air, wind and warmth.

Is that rain?
Helter skelter, watch them run!
Mum yells a call to arms.
Quick! The washing!
Gathered in, no worse for wear,
Disaster averted as the rain comes down,
We watch, panting, laughing and damp.

Children dangle like strange fruits on a galvanised tree.
They laugh and yell with delight,
Turned til they are dizzy,
Til they are caught in the act,
Echoing their parents childhood antics.
Playing outside
In sunlight and air, wind and warmth.

God hears whispered prayers,
Over loved ones garments, clean and fresh.
Gratitude for what we have,
Tears for what we have lost
Little limbs that grow so fast
In sunlight and air, wind and warmth.

Run when they first see the signs
Run when you can’t explain why
Run like you can’t stop
Run like they’ve taken a shot

Run from the cries
Run from the pyre
Run ‘til you’re tired
Then run some more

Run like you’re free
Run like you always have been
Run like your feet haven’t started to ache
Run like you don’t need a break

Run from your fears
Run from your fate
Run like you’ve wronged them all
Even though
This was how you were born

I never knew I’d need so many people – David Bowie

Imagine a hot night.
I walk past a sign
on Johnson Street, saying:
THE PALE ALE
EXPERIMENT.
A cool green bottle
perspires gently.
I consider this,
not quite understanding
what it means to me.
But I’m running late
for the N.A. meeting,
and I hurry on.

At the bus stop,
the seat looks into a bar
full of sunset people –
middle aged, worn out
jeans, women with bangs.
Janis Joplin sings
a scorching blues
I’ve never heard before.

And I think, Maybe
I should ring my ex,
see if she wants
to come down here.
Because it’s hot,
it’s almost summer and
she works a job she hates,
and oblivion and
then the bus comes.

Walking down Wellington,
I see a few smokers
out front of the church.
One person is bundled
on the ground. I walk up.
She’s an ancient woman.
She has a felt tiger’s head
on top of her head.
As she turns toward me,
dirty tassles swing out
on either side of her head.

“I turned 57 the other day,”
she says in my direction.
“Oh yeah?” I say.
She looks at least 80.
“I never thought
I’d make it this far.”
“Well I’m glad you did,”
I say, “or I’d be talking
to myself right now.”
I guess she sort of laughs.
She has no idea
how much I need her.
Everyone heads inside
at the same moment,
by some herd instinct.

A young guy is asked up.
“I feel like using today.
I don’t know why –
I’m three years clean.”

Next guy is much older.
He says, “I’m just feeling
so much gratitude.
My life is simple –
I work, I have a home
of my own. I never knew
what living was.”

While the basket
is being passed around,
the chair asks if there are
any newcomers.
Everyone claps
someone up the back.
I can’t see him
until he is helped
to the front of the room.
He’s perhaps 50,
using a walking frame.
He turns to face us.
Words won’t come,
and then he starts to cry.
“I’m fucked,” he says,
“I’m fucked…”
He apologises, and
he is helped down again.

The room
explodes with applause.

Afterwards, I walk back
to Vic Park Station.
It’s dark in the way that
Collingwood gets dark.
The orange streetlamps
look like the sun does
when the bushfires are on.

I come here to see
all the people I have been,
and who I could become.
I take them all with me,
and hold them close.
And by the time I realise
I didn’t notice the pub,
I’m already halfway home.

It is early morning.
Shadows, not yet sunlit,
dull the green of berry vines
and soften the grass tread
of the man
who was once a conductor.

His eyes take in
the sweep of vines
note the newness
and burgeoning of flowers
nubbing their way to fruit.
His hands rise
as if marionetted upwards
as they had done before
long ago
when the dawn of music
lay before him
when he’d drawn notes from
oboe
flute
violin
cello and
clarinet.
Intertwining sounds
of shadows and light.

He lifts one leaf
after another
and another
revealing tiny balls
of green –
and from these
will come ripe berries.

And with the swelling
and swooning of days and nights
they come –
rich and deep.
And the bassoon and the bass
resonate with their plumpness
and the trumpet heralds
their triumph.

It is a day of sun-glint and
the man, who was once a conductor,
bows in thanks
raises his hands
and begins to pick

the berries.

Look at you
Fresh faced moon

Shining through
my kitchen blind windows

Not many
days left now

Before you
and me

Drink wine
and wine
from small white cups
of blue veined porcelain

And sing
and sing
lost songs of spring

For no other reason

Than you
are a moon
and I am
a person

And green green
my quiescent plants
New shoots of buds
cautiously blooming

Today is Tuesday
Next month is spring

And already
wine is song
and song is wine

And your face
and mine
Rudely glowing

Butterfly! These words
 from my brush
 are not flowers…
only their shadows.   Soseki.

The speech of smoke, mountains.

after his father he runs, feet inked in red soil
with the twill pattern of grasses bending.

The spell of ink, narrative.

his eyes scale the fathoms of sky, words of books
nation his thoughts and a bird stops flying.

The smelly hot water, tinny.

ants witter inaudibly and stage-play their
dowry, fifteen inches underground, as it rains.

The sign of sounds, streets.

laundered and black glossed, his trousers
ransom and outlaw the dance floor.

The feel of thought, visitors.

in a baptistery a fallen mosaic tile is replaced
and a shadow is suddenly hung incorrectly.

The taste of waiting, trees.

a bee rests above the soil on a pivoted rock
dead leaves and broken twigs watch instantly.

The shape of things, parking.

when she arrives down river there are pulsed
vibrations through the planking and his legs.

The colour of distance, horizon.

on seeing the moon through the aperture
the craters like emptied kernels of wheat.

The tone of hair, windy.

on a white-grey concrete slab hopscotch lines
drawn with wavy chalk marks, flagstones.

The face of life, wrinkles.

with the sun syrupped in the western sky
coloured birds fly through the open house.

The mood of love, time.

each dug out eye was placed in the boy’s hands
black crystal eyes flecked in scales of shine.

The touch of charcoal, money.

in the sand the thin grasses whisper the words
of feathers as whale bones bleach and crumble.

The look of death, slow.

the crickets make tongue clicks, a door slams
an eyelash left on the marble bench top, dries.

The pace of oldness, orchids.

the mangrove swamp glued into the landscape,
the wallowing sound of earth moving equipment.

The flow of mist, rust.

on their anniversary he gave her a bracelet of tears
and a necklace full of scars as dry as old wormwood.

The patch of grass, caves.

the letter burnt in the ash tray, the envelope wet
on the table from the cut and seeping eggplant.

The safety of poetry, saddles.

in the light box the shrivelled remains of two
balls in a bag, once a laden money belt, cut.

The silence of snow, weight.

grass stuck together, bent over like cat’s licked fur,
powdering wattles, flaking sunlight, a sagging back.

The shuffle of papers, horses.

gossamer breaths warming the crib, shadows genuflect,
the click and throb of the ceiling fan, old fires burn.

The smoke of woodlands, church.

the ship like a house collapses itself over
each barrelled wave, the rigging squawks.

The words of eulogies, rocks.

they drag the memories over cracked earth
with dogs of dust and curling fires, a white cross.

The size of things, voices.

the horses cry for colour in their sleep
there is never a sunrise on any Sunday.

The door of dreams, salt.

in a cave, wet stones, pearled hidden light
water jabs through the mossed wall.

The peace of flowers, talk.

a child traces the prints of a dog across river silt
as an acrobat checks his bindings in darkness.

The kick of spray, harem.

she holds a bone to the dog’s mouth
overhead helicopters skit the neighbourhood.

The chain of shells, telegraph.

in a tiny cramped room a man writes
in a blur of ink about a shaded river

The cloud of sparks, stooping.

a prayer from a scripture not from a
sprawling novel, lambs were slaughtered.

The waves of bark, erased.

the cow has a rolling eye, there is dust
with the neck drawn back, knotted death.

The juice of nuts, willow.

on an old bridge a memory is swept back,
with souvenirs in her eyes, she laughs.

The turn of seeds, needles.

corn silt on his hands, tighten the halter,
moonlight on thistles wet with old dew.

The fog of gasoline, reptiles.

on a sandstone cliff just scattered breeze
a bicycle rusty, her hair painting her face.

You flew into a window of the donga
a soft muffled thud
then dropped to the brick paving
wafting your left wing at the air
This excited the dogs
but I reached you first
and holding you light and stunned in my hand
I ushered them inside and shut the door.
I had been reading William Cooper’s book on bird illustration
especially the tract on the old art
of the measured drawing –
taking a freshly dead bird, still malleable
stretching one wing out as though in flight,
the other tucked flat against the body as though at rest,
and drawing the bird exactly life-size.
Unwilling to kill for art
I’d so far acquired just one subject
a Carnaby’s black cockatoo
killed on Chittering Road by the car ahead.
And now, to my shame
I hold you in my hand and imagine you as my second.
But you still have life
and the greater part of me wants you to live
so I carry you to the deep shade at the base of a Marri
and prop you quiet and safe against the trunk.
I keep the dogs inside
and clear my afternoon
in case you will die and I will draw you.
For the next half-hour I watch through the window
as you lie immobile
then sit upright
then flutter and fluff yourself straight
and finally, fly off.
I saw you again today
You missed the window
I put away the pencils.

{In the summer of 2019, excessive upstream irrigation, drought and water releases created a perfect storm which led to ecologically disastrous fish kills on the Darling River at Menindee.}

Dry. Bone dry.
She exhales,
blown
hot-rust baked
from lace-wing lungs,
the dregs
of the Menindee.

Bony bream,
tipped belly-ward
up-stream,
down-stream
breathless
in stagnant pockets,
the death pools
of the Darling.

Trapped,
fish-bowl tight
blue-green algal
oxygen suck,
jostling for
the last tiny breath:
Murray Cod,
among the last
to succumb.

Dry. Bone dry.
Her masters,
and the primal
drive of thirst:
cotton and citrus
wheat and rice
– ballot papers.
The thirst of it,
the thirst.

Irrigation.
The lakes
up-stream
drained again,
the take
over-allocated.
The basin fills.
The Barkindji
watch on.

By bit
she muddies,
slows,
she blooms algal
takes on salt
runs a temperature
bakes poisoned
for 3 thousand-
2 hundred clicks,
the death litter
scooped out.

Choke-hold.
Federation hands
at the last gasp
in case
she gets any ideas:
jurisdictions
politicians
players
canvas the length
of her body.

In Canberra,
suits talk,
travel west
for photo-opps,
point at things
from speedboats,
wear
RM Williams boots.

Dead river, dead fish
dead river, dead town
dead river, dead policy.

Which death
will matter most?

Her zoographic counterpart
an elegant giraffe,
she had an air of natural
hauteur concomitant with height;
wore a Bond’s men’s singlet,
purple-dyed, with enviable
aplomb, along with outsized
sunglasses and Quant-bobbed hair
(Vidal Sassoon). She was a paragon
of pared-down style, original,
looking lithe and bored while striking
languid poses of sang-froid
at school Assembly, owlish lenses
filtering the light, concealing
any signs of wakeful nights; stifling
a yawn as Mr Polkinghorne droned on.

In class, she liked to sit en face
on the front desk, long legs crossed,
whipping out her gold compact
and gouaching expressive lips,
fixing us with witch-green eyes
above the compact mirror’s disc,
gaze alighting on a student, Lloyd,
who only fancied boys,
as she intoned a mantra
she exhorted us to take to heart:
“Never underestimate
the power of a woman!”
before snapping the compact shut,
instructing us in Schools of Art.

Modigliani’s many models
had her eyes and neck and looks:
Jeanne Hébuterne and our Miss Cox
appeared uncannily alike,
although our Art Mistress was born
too late to be a muse to M. –
a girl who would aspire to paint,
not sit instead for gifted men;
became the mistress of her fate
and graduated from the Slade.
(Though later jettisoned her plans,
to crew for a seafaring man…)

The seats stank of smoke and humanity
though the carriage was spotless. At eight
I knew the fixtures were old-fashioned,
but I had no clue as to era. As usual the family
squashed in, all six disliking each other.
It was just a train. I was fed up.

I liked the hoots as we set off, and the rickety-rickety
rolling motion. This was more like it. If only
it would zoom upwards, fly me to the moon.
Instead it surprised me. That smell! Hot excitement.
Steam and dirt and magic. A pressure cooker
that wasn’t under my parents’ control. If you stuck
your head out of the window, you got a dirty face
and felt all that smoky power in the smuts.
Or your head might get cut off.

“What Scotsman was it named after?
Could he really fly?” They laughed at me,
which was fair. Eight is plenty old enough
to get metaphors. Sometimes the steam cleared
and we saw what my parents called
A Lovely View. That bored me. But the smell,
the steam, the rickety-rickety, the smoke
– this train was a living dinosaur-dragon,
a creature of speed and power and fire.

Photos always show it from the outside.
Even captured in motion it looks still,
a coloured tube with wheels. Only the steam
tells you the true story of a wild ride away,
away, away, away.

Under the metal muscle scaffolding of callipers
my old friend’s left leg is limp.
Polio, almost the last year of the last great plague
here in Australia. She was a toddler.
The virus left no muscles to support that hip or leg
or foot, and calliper technology
hasn’t moved far in sixty years.
It’s a dying business.
Only the nerves for pain remain unharmed
in what she calls her little leg.

Trapped between shame at my own family failings
and awe at her tensile strength, I asked
how she coped as full-time carer
for her beloved, fragile father in his nineties
when she, so stoical
could have used support herself.

Her laugh was over fifty percent groan.

You find reserves of coping
that you didn’t know you had, she said.
I was unconvinced. My own tank
rang hollow-empty
at nowhere near her mileage.

Every day she rose to make the dawn breakfast
when she might have dreamed
filling up on patience for the day ahead.
His structure rusted through with age
and clogged with melanoma
he needed oats, or beans on toast
but couldn’t work the gas hotplate
wouldn’t read instructions
taped to the new-fangled microwave.
Then all day maintenance: my friend constructed
morning tea, a wholesome lunch,
hot dinner with three veg, cocoa before bed.
Old fathers must be fed, especially a dear one
who’d make grasshopper-shrunk Tithonus
look like Hulk Hogan.

Add the constant droning misery of TV news
or – even worse – football’s loud tedium.
She bought a TV for her father’s room, but no.
It was no fun if she didn’t watch too.

How did she motor on,
her care campaign longer
than his World War Two in PNG?
Why not give in, surrender him
to experts – the sterile dressings
on any prick in his threadbare skin,
the food, the pans and bottles,
endless medications?
She said,
But he and Mum looked after me.

he summer when my Grandfather got old,
my Grandmother boiled jars of gooseberry jam
and marmalade like pots of molten gold,

we took some to her neighbour up the road,
my younger cousin and I with fallen branches
for swords, my Grandfather followed

falling back and fading, until we’d crossed
so many streets and turns we could not
see him and we knew that we were lost.

When he found us, stumbling streets away,
it was nearly dark, but we could see the fear
in him, the things he couldn’t say:

if he couldn’t watch two wayward boys, sent
to him for the holidays, would they let him
ever again? Don’t tell your parents,

he asked us, and we did not. A hard
conspiracy for children, but I was the
older cousin and could keep my word.

He taught us how to crack walnuts in the vice
he used to make my Grandmother’s frames, we
poked at coiled millipedes, set traps for mice,

and on the lowest bookcase, Alexander Dumas,
Agatha Christie, Dickens, story tellers all
for little boys, but none surpassed

his stories: two children in the rocking chair,
the light’s dipped down, the evening cold, and
my Grandfather, spinning wonder out of air.

I’d forgotten all of that, the past pales
within the picture frame, until I saw
a spray of flowers they call foxtails,

and recalled the flowers my Grandmother snipped
and arranged on the mahogany table, just beneath
the row of tiny liqueurs we would sip

when no one watched. The summer before he sold
the car because he was too dangerous to drive.
All the errant memories we hold,

that summer when my Grandfather got old.
Great story-teller, long gone into the tale,
Well I’ve told one too now, Grandpa, I have told.

Black lives matter
Yesterday’s heroes
Today’s fallen statues

Take a knee
Raise your fists
Lift your hearts

Global response
Awakening consciousness
Nations divided

Dreams of Freedom
Normality redefined
Fight or flight to safety

All lives matter
United we stand
Divided we fall 

Not just black or white
Let’s hear your voices
We hide no more

Two pencil pines, like sentinels, in far Gallipoli,
stand guard beside a lonely grave that rouses poignancy.
There’s sympathy for one long-gone, though few might know of Bill,
Australia’s greatest war-horse, one of solid iron will;
but Bill the Bastard looms above all others of his kind,
and represents the thousands left so cruelly behind.
Bill symbolises, too, the bond between a man and horse
when Light Horse troops and Walers followed war’s most deadly course.

Beyond Bill’s grave, atop each ridge, the fallen Anzacs lie,
the headstones bearing epitaphs exposed to foreign sky:
and, sad to say, so many there, are nameless, where they fell –
like Bill, who saw them come and go, they had grim tales to tell.
The massive, chestnut Water, one whose fame had known no bounds,
at War’s end – new assignment – travelled back to Anzac grounds.
Bill’s headstone gives his name and ‘rank’, a full identity,
inspiring countless visitors to seek his history…

Bill gained attention readily throughout ‘enlistment’ days,
impressing with gigantic size and wily, strong-willed ways.
He bucked off all would-be recruits, then gave a taunting sneer
which earned the ‘Bastard’ accolade that tended to endear
the roguish rascal to the hearts of horsemen, far and wide,
inspiring ‘Bill the Bastard’ yarns the troops would tell with pride.
Bill’s legend grew, his exploits told by men of rank and fame –
before long, he knew men of note whose mateship he could claim.

En route to war, aboard the ship, Bill made one special friend,                                                                                                               
Horse-Master, Banjo Paterson, his mate till battles’ end.
Now, Banjo had an old-school pal, Lieutenant H. Chauvel
who came to be amazed by Bill, in one forsaken hell –
Bill caught his eye, so many times, at work, Gallipoli:
with hefty loads, while under fire, he strode on steadily.
He bore John Simpson from the field – one quickly raised to fame:
John and his donkey, heroes both, became a household name.

Lieutenant Michael Shanahan, best horseman, Allied Force,
soon noticed Bill, reputedly the strongest, fittest horse.
He watched him lugging giant packs up-hill, where duty led,
then plunging down the deep descents with bodies newly dead.
He witnessed, too, Bill’s famous run along the Suvla trail,
in sight of Turkish sniper fire, delivering the mail;
then, riderless, twice shot, distressed, he aced the five-mile task,
a champion, without a doubt – what more could Light Horse ask?

In sick-bay, vets attended Bill, with Shanahan as well:
he’d seen Bill flinch and thought they’d find two bullet-holes to tell
that Bill had raced on, injured, knowing what he had to do.
The soldier yearned to ride that horse – and into battle, too.
Unlike so many, both survived, and left Gallipoli,
evacuated from the Cove – to Egypt – secretly,
and Shanahan was there for Bill, to care, caress, cajole,
to win his heart with gentleness and claim his very soul.

Four months of war inaction let the pair combine as ‘one’,
and Shanahan, now Major, felt the hard work had been done,
that Bill was battle-ready, and that he could trust his mount
in time of fierce action when each move would surely count.                                                                                                               
The Oghratina massacre set both of them a test
when Bill, by saving others, proved he was the very best.
When leading out the column, he stopped dead, displayed his fear –
his rider’s reconnoitre showed a deep ravine, too near.

Bill showed he was intuitive, alert both day and night,
protecting well his rider and equipped to stand and fight.
Thus, reassured, the Major, was prepared to lead his men
to battle at Romani – and it didn’t matter when.
The ‘Bastard’ and the Major made an awe-inspiring team
that shared, with all the Light Horse men, the Anzac troopers’ dream
of mighty charges that destroyed the dreaded enemy,
avenging all the Anzacs lost at grim Gallipoli.

By 1.00am, on August 4th, the battle had begun.
Sheer force of greater numbers meant the Turks could over-run
the front lines of the Light Horse; but they kept to Chauvel’s plan
to fight from horseback when they could, and not fight man to man.
The Light Horse staged a planned retreat while noise of battle raged
as mounted troopers, Anzacs all, a mighty struggle waged
against the savage Ottoman who’d crossed the Sinai sand
to take the Suez, Egypt too – they had it all ‘in hand’.

Beside a blood-soaked dune, the Major found four Light Horse men:
their Walers dead, they needed mounts so they could fight again.
By sliding back his booted feet he left the stirrups free.
“Get up on Bill! Get up!” he cried, while Bill stood steadily.
“Here, one each stirrup, two with me.” He gave his mount the rein.
Strong tension in the neck revealed the horse was feeling strain.
Bill’s knees were almost sagging from excessive, jostling weight:                                                                                                      
he struggled to stand upright and escape before too late.

With bulging eyes and nostrils flared, Bill gagged and gasped for air,
then felt the Major’s gentle stroke, the touch of loving care.
Advancing foes began to fire. Bill’s passengers did, too.
A guiding hand, a gentle voice, and Bill knew what to do.
That horse had strength and fortitude, great loyalty and pride –
he groaned to match each painful step; but settled into stride.
He carried five men and their gear two miles that fateful night,
a measure of his courage and his super-equine might.

For Shanahan and his mate, Bill, their work would not be done
until the dawn when help would come – Romani would be won!
The mighty team fought six long hours against prolonged attack,
inspiring fellow Light Horse men to fight while edging back.
The Major, gravely wounded, slumped straight forward on his steed:
with no commands, no signal-touch, Bill sensed his rider’s need.
The Major was unconscious; but Bill understood the case –
with level canter, smooth and safe, he took him back to base.

With light of day, fresh Anzacs fought, and tide of battle turned.
The enemy were parched with thirst: the sand and sun both burned.
The Turks’ attack had been repelled. They scurried in retreat;
but other battles would be fought before their next defeat.
A left-leg amputation took the Major from the war,
and Bill became a packhorse, just as he had been before.
No guiding hand upon his neck, no Major on his back,
Bill galloped on for glory, guns and bullets in his pack…

In Harden – Murrumburrah, Bill the Bastard strides once more,
a hero resurrected and retrieved from tales of yore:                                                                                               
skilled hands of Carl Valerius revived Bill’s claim to fame
with focus on his history, his near-forgotten name.
The statue is a work of Art, its stark reality
a credit to the sculptor’s craft and his integrity.
There, borne upon Bill’s huge, bronzed frame, four Light Horse men to save,
and Shanahan, the Major, always selfless, strong and brave.

Bonds forged in heat of wartime never break and cannot fray –
the greatest horseman, strongest horse, they live again, today.
They symbolise the iron bonds once wrought in fires of war:
between a trooper and his horse, they last for ever more.
United, in their finest hour, but deepest agony,
they fought, as one, for freedom and for our democracy.
The massive, classic cenotaph fills patriots with awe,
reminds them all of wars long-gone, what we were fighting for…

In the book of Jeremiah and Leviticus they say…
‘as a man shall sow, then so too shall he reap!’
It would seem the world has changed a tad since Jeremiah’s day –
as the only things I get to sow are sheep!

I’ve been burying their carcasses to keep them from the crows
and the flies who always seem to find them first.
It is easier to shoot them, than ignore them I suppose,
or to wait until they starve and die of thirst.

We have hardly had a drop of rain since summertime began,
and the creeks and clams and bsllabongs are dry.
And according to predictions from our local weatherman,
it appears El Nino’s here till mid July!

I’d always thought that I was sound and made of stronger stuff,
till I started hearing voices in my head.
They’ve been telling me../ it’s over, and enough’s e-bloody-nough,
and to take the gun and shoot myself instead!’

So I chose my caliber of choice, an Enfield Three ‘O’ Three,
with an action that was steady, sure and sweet.
It was definitely guaranteed to stop the likes of me,
and could drop a ‘roo at seven hundred feet.

I was taking down a photograph that hung upon the wall,
when an angel suddenly appeared on cue.
She was dressed in frilly lace and barely stood a metre tall,
and her eyes they shone like diamond chips of blue.

“Hello, Poppy, where you going with that photo of my mum,
are you shooting kangaroos again today?
I’ve been baking cakes with Granma, and she said to bring you some.
Can I come and feed the hungry sheeps some hay?”

When I looked into her baby blues, I felt a surge of shame,
and I laid the photo down beside the gun.
Could it be that I was crazy, or was something else to blame
for the wicked deed I’d very nearly done?

I had thought I’d taken every punch that Old Man Drought could swing,
till the day I’d copped one right between the eyes.
T’was the day my daughter drove to town to hock her wedding ring
for a load of hay and grocery supplies.

She was heading home and hauling quite a heavy, awkward load,
when another truck had clipped her on a bend.
She had swerved and lost control along the graded, gravel road,
and then hit a ditch and rolled it end on end.

We had buried her on Christmas Eve eleven months ago,
on a day that should have been a joy to all.
We then covered her with roses and a sprig of mistletoe
that we’d taken from the local chapel hall.

I was bearing up until the final service had begun,
and was coping, as a bloke’s supposed to do.
But I lost the plot completely when the eulogies were done,
and the coffin slowly disappeared from view.

It’s the brutal, harsh finality of death that’s hard to take,
when you lose a loved one barely in their prime.
It will cut you to the bone and leave your heart and soul to ache,
and then haunt you till the very end of time.

It was though she stood before me now, with baby blues ablaze,
in the frilly lace that little angels wear.
So I picked her up and hugged her, as I’d done in bygone days,
and a strange vibration filled the morning air.

There were thunderbolts and lightning flashing all about the sky,
and the wind began to howl as if in pain,
when the angel turned towards me with a twinkle in her eye,
and she whispered, “Poppy… Mummy’s making rain!”

It began to trickle down at first, like dew before the dawn,
and then hammered on the iron overhead.
And in that magic moment all the shame and fear was gone,
and the spirit that had haunted me had fled.

It was pelting down and filled the empty corrugated tanks,
as the rusted gutters overflowed and spilled.
It continued fill the river peaked to burst its lower banks,
and the dams and creeks and billabongs were filled.

As the sun emerged, a rainbow formed around the angel child,
and refracted from the sodden ground below…
and the image in the photograph had turned to me and smiled –
and she whispered…“Dad, it’s time for us to sow!”

Each sunrise at the homestead was a beauty to behold –

with Nature’s palette at its splendid best:

the colours of a bushfire mixed with clouds and edged with gold,

stark contrast to the darkness in the west.

Each new day brings such promise to the people on the land –

for them, hard work and hope are much the same.

The pristine glow of dawn revives their faith in all they’ve planned,

and gives them strength to play life’s complex game.

The cattleman’s worst nightmare is that fire burns his run,

consumes the last of dwindling Summer feed,

takes lives of men and cattle, ruins homes before it’s done –

the last thing that bush folk will ever need.

We watched the dark smoke rising, one hot day in ninety-four.

Mum said, “There’s nothing more that we can do.

We’ll set the sprinklers going, beat the flames back from the door,

survive the hell this bushfire puts us through.”

In pre-dawn chill, we went outside to face the world, next day,

the burnt-out landscape not a welcome sight.

A pall of black surrounded us and stretched so far away:

no miracles had happened overnight.

Some fifty miles of fencing-wire lay tangled on the ground,

the horses huddled near the house-cow’s shed.

Three hundred head of Herefords were nowhere to be found.

They’d seen the open gates and, wisely, fled.

The native birds had flown away, the kangaroos had left.

The bloodwoods and the gums were deeply charred.

Scorched fruit trees in Mum’s orchard had her feeling quite bereft:

she’d nurtured them when times were very hard.

Mum worked the place for many years. Oh, how that woman tried

to prove that she could manage on her own.

She lived out all the dreams she’d shared with Dad until he died:

she lived the life they’d planned, but all alone.

Mum gazed at blackened, empty fields, and seemed so frail and small,

her former love of life no longer there:

her shoulders bowed down underneath the heavy weight of all

the extra burdens that she had to bear.

Although Mum always seemed to take each challenge on the chin,

the task of bringing home her precious herd

had caused a constant worry that she always held within.

She did not share, with me, a single word.

Through day and night, Mum fretted for her house cow, Smokey Jane.

She’d pampered her old pet for many years,

and though she tried so hard to make a secret of her pain,

I often saw a sudden flow of tears.

Some eight months after bushfire day, clouds built up in the East,

the dark and churning kind that signals rain.

A heavy clap of thunder crashed to tell both man and beast

our world would soon be set to rights again.

I sensed the mixed emotions that my mother tried to hide:

the long-feared muster would be no mean feat.

Oh, yes! That made her anxious, but she felt enormous pride –

the fencing restoration was complete.

Where would we find the cattle and how could we bring them back

down timbered gullies, steep and overgrown,

through miles of unfenced country, all without a single track?

Two women had to do it on their own.

I listened to the welcome noise of heavy rain, all night,

and thought about the round-up days ahead.

I heard the strangest noises as I waited for the light:

they added to my growing sense of dread.

I peered out through a window, saw the faintest golden sheen

to signify the coming break-of-day,

and heard a measured shuffling, sensed slight movement yet unseen,

saw shadows shifting not too far away.

I heard impatient lowing and then, all at once, I knew

that Smokey Jane was waiting by the fence.

The darkness lifted slightly, and the herd came into view!

I’ve never felt elation more intense.

My mother was delighted and, until her dying day,

she loved to share her special ‘dairy tale’ –

how Smokey Jane brought home the herd by leading all the way,

then led her month-old heifer to the bail.

Each new day brings such promise to the people on the land –

for them, hard work and hope are much the same

The pristine glow of dawn revives their faith in all they’ve planned,

and gives them strength to play life’s complex game.

I often saw a frail old man while on my morning walk,

he’d sit and feed the pigeons but I never stopped to talk.

He knew each bird that came to him and gave them each a name.

I’d hear him call out softly – Windy, Storm and Hurricane.

Most people took no notice but complaints were sometimes made.

“He says he’ll stop” the ranger said, “but when his debt’s repaid.”

and no one thought to question, or to ask the old man why,

he went on feeding pigeons and the people passed him by.

How fast the days were rushing past, each time I came around,

the old man growing weaker, fewer pigeons on the ground.

I think I felt a fading in the seasons of that year

and so it was one autumn day I stopped and ventured near.

I smiled and introduced myself and shook his time-worn hand

then sat upon the bench with him and watched the pigeons land.

“Why do you feed the pigeons sir, I’d really like to know?

Most people think of them as pests and wished that they would go.”

The old man straightened up his back, he held his head with pride

and told me of a brutal war where many good men died.

He spoke of nineteen forty-five before the end of war

and how an army boat had floundered off New Guinea’s shore.

She carried men and cargo that were destined for Madang

but ran aground in Huon Gulf when savage storms began.

The radio was useless, it was damaged in the fray,

but luckily a pigeon road along with them that day.

The little bird with message held was set against the gale.

He circled twice above their boat but then began to flail

and when the men lost sight of him amidst the driving rain

they all had thought the bird was downed and would not fly again.

But as their thoughts turned back to home and where they’d never be

the pigeon flew on through the storm and crossed the open sea.

He landed on the shore at last with battered, broken wings,

his little body scraped and bruised from storm related things.

His message was delivered, all the crew and cargo saved.

The pigeon earned a medal for the hurricane he braved.

And yet, explained the man, the bird had never had a name,

just issued with a number, and then treated as the same.

For though the birds saved countless lives they never made it home

the army wouldn’t run the risk and let diseases roam.

So, then he started coming here, to thank them every day

until the ranger’s forced to act and chases them away.

The tears rose in my eyes to know the reasons why he came

to feed these feral birds and to give each of them a name.

I sat with him upon the bench and learnt about the war

until by winter’s end he wasn’t coming anymore.

I guess its signs of changing times, that endless rise and fall,

when what was once a hero, now’s forgotten by us all.

So now I feed the pigeons and I know them each by name

and you can hear me call them – windy, storm and hurricane.

Have you ever had a day that started out in total bliss,

and then suddenly it turned to bad and worse?

I will wager that you’ve never had a day as bad as this –

it was though I’d been afflicted by a curse.

It had started out so splendidly, remarkably in fact,

on the sunny shores of Sydney’s Woolmoo’loo,

and although it sounds incredible and somewhat inexact,

I will swear that every word of it is true.

I was visiting the city and was keen to have a go

at acquiring half a dozen local bream.

Having come from Cootamundra for the Royal Easter Show,

I had bought a new Shimano on a whim.

They were meant to be the ultimate in fishing rods today,

though the cost had left my mortgage in arreais. .

They supposedly were suitable for river, surf or bay,

and were guaranteed to last a hundred years.

It was fitted with the very latest Multiplier Reel

and a hundred feet of eighteen kilo line.

They had even tossed some tackle in to sweeten up the deal,

and a bottle of McWilliam’s finest wine.

So I chose a lure from somewhere deep inside the tackle box

and I gave the bottle’s cork a gentle tweak.

I had learnt the art of fishing, catching yabbies from the rocks

on the muddy banks of Cootamundra Creek.

I was keen to show these city boys a bit of country style,

though I’d never used a rod or lure before.

So I picked it up and gave the lads a reassuring smile,

as i plodded down the rocks towards the shore.

But no sooner had I cast it, than the mongrel thing got stuck

in the weedy patch where no one else had gone…

so I pulled it and I jerked it, and I cursed my rotten luck –

to be snagged with half of Sydney looking on.

When the lure was finally exhumed and shaken loose and freed,

it had shot up like a shiny bat from hell.

It resembled Haley’s comet with a tail of dripping weed,

as it landed down behind the Crest Hotel.

So I gave the rod a gentle nudge and felt it catch and grab

onto something that was flexible but firm.

It was moving slowly westward like a Cootamundra cab,

and my fancy reel began to squeak and squirm.

Then ! saw the line and lure attached to something hanging down

from the shoulder of a lady dressed in red.

It appeared to be a leather bag to match her fancy gown

and the ribbon tied around her pretty head.

So I gave the rod a mighty tug and felt the bag come free,

and it flew across the boulevard to land

in that mongrel patch of seaweed drifting slowly out to sea,

with the only thing now visible – the brand!

It was written in Italian and I’d recognised the font

from a poster I’d seen hanging in the street.

It was advertised that Gucci was the label women want,

when they’re mixing with society’s elite.

Now the lady dressed in red assumed her bag had just been snatched

and began to tremble, holler, fret and screech.

She had seemingly been unaware her Gucci was attached

to the fishing line now drifting out of reach.

I had learnt the art of swimming back in Cootamundra Creek,

so I figured it was time to take a dip.

So I shed my duds and singlet to reveal my fine physique,

which was symmetry from shoulder down to hip.

As I waded in I felt my vital organs start to shrink,

while the crowd around the pier began to grow.

But the Gucci bag had finally begun to slowly sink…

so I dived into the chilly depths below.

It had drifted back and lay there smack bang underneath the pier,

so I grabbed it and I freed it from the snag…

and no sooner had I surfaced, than the crowd began to cheer,

when they saw I’d found the lady’s stolen bag.

I was shivering and standing there, completely in the nude,

with my daks still hanging by the jetty wall…

when the lady dressed in red emerged to show her gratitude,

and to wrap me in a fancy woollen shawl.

Now I never caught a fish that day, and heaven knows I tried –

but I guess some things were never meant to be.

And because the thief has never truly been identified…

the reward she said was payable to me!

I declined of course preferring to be tactful and discreet,

and I wined and dined and courted her instead.

I am uptown now and I have joined society’s elite –

and I’m married to the lady dressed in red!

He stepped down off the Royal Mail a gaunt and haunted looking bloke,

His hair was long his skin was pale and from his lips there hung a smoke.

I thought, “This guy won’t last a week he doesn’t even own a comb!

Employing this long hairy streak will soon be seeing him back home!”

And as the mail truck pulled away beneath a searing summer sky,

He must have heard my thoughts that day or my exasperated sigh.

You see I got him just on spec a single bloke no ties or wife,

A bloke prepared to make the trek and share our country way of life.

I showed him to the ringers hut but spoken words were scarcely said,

He gently pushed the screen door shut then promptly fell down on the bed.

“Well that’s the last we’ll see of you.” I thought, “For you’ll be gone by morn.”

But give him credit where it’s due our man was up at crack of dawn.

Somehow he made it through a week and then a month and than a year,

But of his past he wouldn’t speak nor did he write to kindred dear.

We’d try to quiz him now and then but just as he had done before,

He’d clamp up like a vice again and stare out through the homestead door.

And though he was a city man he learnt the bushman’s trade with ease,

He’d cut his hair and got a tan as country life became a breeze.

There were odd times he’d drop his guard and let us see a happy face,

And then he’d set his jawbone hard and put the mask of old in place.

We knew he had a cross to bear he’d come out west to leave behind

A haunting past he loathed to share until he was that way inclined.

We never probed or delved again we thought it better not to push,

He’d come around and tell us when his mind got sorted in the bush.

And then the strangest thing occurred while listening to the radio,

We watched him hang on every word while turning white as winter snow.

It said a car had crashed last night the driver drunk the news flash said,

The driver walked away all right a female occupant was dead!

He got up from our dinner camp and walked down by the billabong,

His face was drained his eyes were damp as haunting memories came on strong.

I followed in his sombre wake not knowing what to do or say,

I knew a tragic past mistake had come to haunt him on that day.

He sat down on a leaning tree and stared across the water clear,

Then turned to me and said, “That man was me this time last year.

We’d been out drinking on the town my girl and all my mates from work,

We all were drunk and like a clown I gave the steering wheel a jerk.”

“I lost control and hit a pole that dark and tragic summer’s night.

I killed my girl God rest her soul and yet I walked away all right.

I walked away without a scratch and from that bent and twisted wreck

I stroked the blonde and bloodied hair that fell across her cheek and neck.”

“While moonlight shone through shattered glass I cried and begged her not to go,

I dragged her to the verges grass and told her how I loved her so.

I begged her not to leave me there beside that Godforsaken track,

And though I knew she heard my prayer her lifeless eyes just stared straight back.”

“I’ve done some time inside a jail and paid a pittance for my crime

And then I caught the Royal Mail to give myself some space and time.

So now you know what haunts me so my past has caught me up at last,

And as you’re surely bound to know you can’t outrun a shameful past.”

He seemed to change in person then a burden lifted from his back

And as I put this down in pen I see him riding down the track.

He’s sitting straight and easy now behind a lazy Brahman mob

And he’s in charge of every cow as I’m too old to do the job.

Yes he’s in charge and I’m in here in charge of nothing much at all,

He runs the place from year to year and makes the stations every call.

His children play outside the house those children are his very life,

And then of course there is his spouse my only daughter is his wife.

I’ve handed down the place to him and kept his secret all these years,

But when he hears a tale that’s grim I see him struggle with his fears.

He sort of stares across the plain a muscle tics upon his face,

And for a moment in his pain the mask of old is back in place.

The locals said it was a booming little enterprise

That sold the nicest curries, stews and finger licking fries,

A range of sausage rolls and even tasty homemade pies

Until the village villain brought about that shops demise.

It happened in a little town out back o’ Bourke I’m told

When horses ruled the tracks and roads way back in days of old,

When camel trains across the desert gently swayed and rolled

Towards their destination where this story did unfold.

Now in this town there lived a man of eastern origins

A funny little man who greeted folk with toothless grins,

Who ran around in double time on dusty shoeless pins,

A bamboo pole across his shoulders holding woven bins.

In spite of how he looked and dressed this little man could cook,

They came from miles around to try his famous spicy chook.

They scoffed it down in bucket loads without a second look

And not a soul suspected that his chicken wings were crook!

They complimented him endorsing his unique cuisine

And praised his little dining room so neat and squeaky clean,

His kitchen skills were said to be the best they’d ever seen,

He even had this potion that could fix a busted spleen!

His range of jars and potions cured warts and wind and gout,

A common cold was beaten ere a drip dripped off your snout!

A migraine wouldn’t last a sniff of something snuffed them out

And painful boils would disappear before they shot a sprout!

He had a cure for everything from cramp to sandy blight,

The doctor up and left his clients left him left and right!

In search of magic medicines for snake or spider bite

Regardless if the potion gave them colic half the night!

And so it came to pass that in this little town out west

This funny little man had built himself a handsome nest,

A quickly climbing bank account to put his mind at rest

Until one night when he and guests were subject to a jest.

The place was packed that fateful night when trouble came along

The cafe was abuzz aromas drifted o’er the throng.

He hovered round his kitchen wielding ladle fork and tong,

When all at once it happened, everything that could went wrong!

The local larrikin arrived with sugar bag in hand,

His face was flushed and glowing from a session at the Strand.

He strode across the cafe in an entrance rather grand!

To stop beside the counter where he made this bold demand.

He beckoned to our little man now cooking at his grill,

Undid a tie around his sack with deft and sudden skill,

Then emptied out three feral cats beside the counters till

And yelled, “Yer won’t be getting more until yer pay yer bill!”

Our little man was greatly shocked too stricken dumb to talk,

A customer she poked at food the menu said was pork!

Another pushed and prodded something with his knife and fork,

Then all at once they bolted through the door and down the walk!

You’d never seen such mayhem in that little town remote,

One gentleman in frantic haste forgot his dinner coat!

1                                                                                                                 Open Bush OB-32

And Fanny May knew straight away what happened to her goat!

Another on the landing had his fingers down his throat!

That cafe owner closed his doors and left the town it’s said

And some that lived around that place went off all meat that’s red!

They all turned vegetarians and lived on fruit and bread

And wondered how that little man could sleep at night in bed.

And shocked were some that lost a pet and thought it ran away,

To find their furry friend had been the special of the day!

It never crossed their minds to look inside his warming tray

For bits of ‘Tiddles’ or the towns flea bitten mongrel stray!

Old Missus Jones declared she’d eaten some of her own cat!

And Tiny Thomas lost some turkeys out at Chambers Flat.

And Rusty Reagan’s bitch had lost her pups imagine that!

Their little legs all rolled in crumbs and fried in boiling fat.

Pet pigs had disappeared without a sign or single trace

And no one even thought to check that little man’s old place,

And fox’s got the blame for missing chooks in any case.

Oh how they wished that little man would show his ugly face.

Now if you’re dining wifey in some restaurant at night

And she insists on chicken wings to ease her appetite,

I wouldn’t mention missing pets unless you want a fight,

I’d hold my tongue a while, at least until she’s had a bite!

I had met him at the orphanage in nineteen sixty-three,

in a hellhole named Saint Patrick’s Armidale.

We were similar in age, but he was different to mehe

was black…and 1 was pure Caucasian pale.

I had never met a native aboriginal before –

it was though he came from Jupiter or Mars.

And although he wore the hand-me-downs we other children wore,

we were different as sun and moon to stars.

There was something in his eyes that seemed to linger like the spark

of an ember left to smoulder late at night.

It was something inexplicable…yet primitive and stark

as the difference between us – black and white.

He had come from somewhere further out the back of Inverell,

where the Catholics had claimed him as their own.

They had built a Koori mission there, a mile or so from hell,

and occasionally threw the dogs a bone.

We were introduced by Sister Jean, the nun in charge of ward,

who’d adopted him like some abandoned stray.

As he had no home or family, except for Christ The Lord,

we were told to call him simply… ’Freddy K’.

All the other kids had mocked his strange abbreviated name,

and began to call him ‘K’ for Koori Boy.

He would slink away to sulk and bow his shaggy head in shame,

till I told them ‘K’ was for Kamilaroi.

The Kamilaroi, he’d said had been his family and clan,

and were older than the sun and earth and moon.

They were children of Eingana and the Gamilaraay Man,

who was coming back to free his people soon.

When I looked into his eyes I saw the misery and pain

of a puppy dog I’d found some years ago.

He had crawled into the culvert of an open council drain

and was stuck inside the opening below.

He would follow me around just like that puppy used to do,

and was there when no one else had seemed to care.

He would come and sit beside me and instinctively he knew

that a load that’s shared is easier to bare.

I’ll admit at times I snubbed him as the other kids had done

when they mocked his western gibberish and drawl.

They had thought it was hilarious, a bit of harmless fun-

was just another Koori after all!

It is true that every dog will have his day upon the hill,

and our Freddy ‘K’ was soon to sample his.

For it seemed he was endowed with an extraordinary skill,

and at football was a natural – a whiz!

He was faster than a rabbit and as slippery as glass

and could run around the other kids with ease.

He was gamer than Ned Kelly and was twice as bold as brass,

and could bring a crowd of hundreds to their knees.

He was poetry in motion and had played from half to wing,

and could kick a ball to kingdom come and back.

It had seemed at last his time had come, for Freddy ‘K’ was King,

and they didn’t seem to mind that he was black.

But as kingdoms come and go, as they inevitably must,

then a king concedes his kingdom and his crown.

When a season is all over and the fields have turned to dust,

then the final curtain slowly tumbles down.

When they’d folded up the jerseys and the boots were puy away,

all the footy fans had found another toy.

Then the King was soon forgotten and the famous Freddy ‘K’

was again the simple country Koori Boy.

On the day I left Saint Patricks, I had finally been freed

of the shackles that had bound me for so long.

I had left behind a brother there, a friend in time of need,

and a confidant who’d taught me right from wrong.

I remember how he brooded as we said our last goodbyes

and then lingered till the car was out of sight.

It was then I came to understand and sadly realise…

that our worlds were now divided – black and white.

EXHIBIT A

patron age 5 years                  patron age 16 years
mummy and baby                  m)Other
 
She feeds him 
breathing in his love              breathing in his Otherness
             heartbeat to heartbeat 
swaying and swaying            undulating and syncing
            beside the stove 
            sweat 
stroking                   sapping
            her skin 
soft like melted butter            supple like melted candlewax
           the colour of her milk 
  
           Silken fingers 
           trace his arm to elbow 
that feels like my butterfly net               textured like fraying gauze
seeking new ground;              mapping his callous;
exploring new creatures                       an early circumnavigator sketching
along my garden wall             a new and ragged coast

           reaching towards 
crossway between limbs                       jeering join where
          no hand sprouts 
          she intertwines 
          hers with his  
claws,                      claws rotten like abandoned ivory tusks
         helpless now 
         but sharp as sabres 
  
         She nurses him 
         on terracotta tiles 
with every hug of her love                     drowning in his Otherness
her helping hands                her mired palms
         cushioning 
beetroot red                   blister red
         webbing 
         between his talons. 
  
        Oneday… 
        nurtured, he’ll augment 
And he is brave as a ship’s captain battling an angry storm,                                                     Yet will milk
the maternality now oozing from his lips
digs moats with his concave claws                                                   His Other limbs will find floor
and builds castles of mud in my                                                       His Other heart will beat stronger
garden, nodding and blooming with fresh herbs                                                        still syncopating with her weary
pulse
And within the space of no time at all                                                        minutes slowly separating seconds
I call him just as his Mummy does now,                                                    on the raise of Sabre claws she exhales
Jonathon, or Jo, just for short                          Into a quaver of warm milk
my adventurous friend                                    with empty cradling arms

In.

The golden hue of the lowering sun transforms into a dull red compass, robbed of all rays and warmth, as if readying to leap from a faraway cliff.

Rousing the hunger of our extinction record.

Out.

The ensuing gloom smothers the last breaths of a dwindling population as it encircles, like a lost strand of hair, about the salty estuary below.

Welding the sea and sky seamlessly.

In.

The veil of Mother Nature condenses into a shadowed mist as she broods over the upper fjords.

Enveloping the distant peninsula.

Out.

But we rush like poison through her veins as we are carried out with the tide into the depths of the strait.

Polluting all.

In.

The bruised peaks of our waves fail to re-colonise the rugged headland as we grope desperately at the limestone clefts.

Eroding our last solid refuge.

Out.

Our gnarled hands tighten upon emptiness as we are torn from our forlorn search in the shallows.

Prying us from her embrace.

In.

The muddy clouds churn low upon the horizon as another white blanket of froth crumples upon the sand.

Repressing her last attempt at salvation.

Out.

The melancholy whisper of her lullaby echoes hauntedly about the rocky bluffs as the tide slouches in retreat from the coastline.

Bidding a slow farewell to Mother Earth.

In.

Her deepening shadows close inwards upon the headland as she unburdens herself of the weight upon her chest.

Levelling our deep footprints impressed upon the greying sand.

Out.

mild chatter stumbled andante
through afternoon’s soft heat
past the orchard and
into the living room
met by the pleasant sight of
stale gingernuts and tepid earl grey tea

I sat numbly perched on a drab beige armchair
senselessly blowing against that chipped lip
beside that vague scent of autumn decay
as I shifted uncomfortably fixed in this dull space
of organic bleach and rust

urged to display some form of distant politeness
I drifted into a gratuitously dolce exchange of nothings
lost at the shape of their words
aided by quaking gestures of lost passions
yellowed smiles of faint memories
and sightless eyes of old and young alike

in that space air sat heavy
dense with canary days long forgotten
that first anxious downbeat
spurred the movement of those laden autumn leaves
stilling the beating of my restless limbs

she spoke softly through those keys
the politely lilting tune of hers
cyclical elegant familiar
nothing of the blustered crescendo

a song sought only a subtle existence
past the crass youth of spring
wearing the faded colours of fall
missed by the careless notice of us seers
she played brightly blindly kindly
that autumn afternoon

and so it sustained
that pulsing rhythm of marigold leaves
betraying some yawning notion of comfort
but my eyes too wide to hear
the stale breath of those mindless afternoons
swept on past that final fallen fermata.

try not to make a mess.
i scrape out my ribcage
and serve it on a silver platter.
“now delete all the capitals,” i say.
“it looks better that way,”

Tết arrives at our home on Peach Street – incense
welcomes returning ancestors, papayas and
oranges set on the altar as offerings. Yellowed
photographs, tablets with ancient names glowing,
as my eyes follow the contours of Buddha’s
round belly and elongated ears.
Your wandering spirits float
through the fatherland, searching for us,
looking to bestow good fortune,
unaware that we have drifted to foreign shores
across the Pacific.  I do not even know if you understand my prayer,
for I am so distant from the past that I have forgotten
my mother’s tongue.  I trace mother of pearl inlayed in lacquered panels,
chanting in unison with my family, mạnh khỏe, may mạng,
reluctantly, faithfully
to restore my lineage.

Tết = Vietnamese Lunar New Year
mạnh khỏe = good health
may mạng = good fortune

Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the shop,
People ran busily,
Not wanting to stop.

In a box by a shelf,
Sat the last wrapping roll,
All covered in snowmen,
With eyes made if coal.

A gentleman spied it,
And made his way there,
As another appeared,
Out of nowhere.

They both reached for the roll,
Grabbing it tight.
They glared at each other,
Ready to fight!

“I got it first!”
The bald one proclaimed.
“That is a lie!”
The stout one exclaimed.

“It was I,” said the stout one,
“Who had it in hand,
I need all this paper!
You don’t understand!”

“It is you, my kind Sir,
Who is sadly mistaken,
I need all this paper,
to wrap up my bacon!”

“To wrap up your bacon!”
Stouty said, with a huff.
“My presents need wrapping,
I don’t have enough!”

Back and forth, to and fro,
They fought over the paper.
Unaware of the company,
Observing their caper.

It was a little old lady,
With white hair and a cane,
Watching the pair and their
Tug of war game.

With a snort and a sigh,
She snatched up the roll,
All covered in snowmen,
With eyes made of coal.

“You snooze, you lose!”
The old lady shouted.
The bald one was speechless,
The stout one just pouted.

“I think my bacon is cooked,”
The baldy one groaned.
“While my presents go naked,”
The stout one sniffled and moaned.

Twas the night before Christmas,
And they left the shop, sad.
But there’s something, my friends,
That I just have to add.

Its the moral, my readers,
I’m sure its quite clear,
You should buy all your wrapping,
Before Christmas is here.

shut up
back to the wall
repeat after me:
god please help me to be pure
take your shitty poetry and
hide it, under your
mattress, of course
keep the porcelain
polished, keep your
voice down. you can
cry when the door is
locked, but then again,
do people only lock
their doors when they
have something to hide?
(godplease help me to be pure)
now that the cornerstone is
dismantled you have
to put your head
under. you have to
let His hand guide
you to the surface. repeat after me:
abomination
(godpleasehelp me to be pure)
abomination
abomination
carve it into your
skin, although they
will do it anyway. carve
it on the back of your
porcelain. a pillar
of salt. fire and
brimstone. wade
in it. bathe in
it. drown in
it. carry your fuckin
cross like the
rest of them, maybe
you’ll be saved? repeat:
godpleasehelpme to be pure
let’s run that through
one more time. too
little feeling. too
much feeling. smile,
then laugh, then again, this
time with feeling. now
exit stage left. faster,
faster; stop looking at
her, pervert/one, two/and
away. godpleasehelpmeto be
pure
you’re
ready to shed those
useless wings. feel
your skin, your porcelain,
and hasn’t it always
been? don’t react;
don’t forget;
let the words crumble
in righteous palms;
revel in it;
drown in it;
watch them bleed into
the shower drain with
the spittle and salt;
scrape out your rib cage (put
your back into it; get
the edges all clean)
repeat (with feeling)
godpleasehelpmetobe pure
inhale
exhale
i n h a l e
godpleasehelpmetobepure
a reminder: the yard and shovel is ready
don’t forget to bury
everything you’ve just said

angels

            rose                                                                                    and

turned aside

                                                             I

                                                                                     the
                                                                                     alien

                                                      unable

                         to destroy

                                                                   this place                                                    the city

                                                                                                                                                       of salt

                                                                         
                                                                                                               Ravish
                                                                                    this                             vile
                                                                                                                              concubine

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        put to death;

                                                                                                         creation

                                                                                         lusts

                               for
shameless
error.

                                                                                                                                          (the kingdom                                                      deceived

                                                                                                                                                                         me)

Footnote: this is blackout poetry of the ‘Clobber Verses’ (the verses in the Bible used to justify that homosexuality is a sin).

I sat with my cheek pressed against my cold bedroom window
Rain splashing against the pane
Many people see rain as cold and harsh
I don’t
I see the beauty in these tiny little water droplets
They would be nothing on their own
But together they’re powerful
Together they have the ability to wash away cities
And leave nothing behind
But they’re being nice to me
Even though all that separates us is a thin glass wall
Surely the rain could burst through this window
Leaving a thousand little cuts on my face
I wonder why it spares me
Perhaps we have more in common than I thought
Our biggest difference may just be the way we show our emotion
Rain lets everyone know exactly how it feels
Whereas I hide my emotions
I guess we balance each other out
And together we make the perfect storm.

When she transferred last semester,
I spotted her sitting in the front row of the class,
eagerly raising her hand.  Her hair

pinned into a bun as if restraining hurt, painting
a portrait of a proper schoolgirl with a pleated skirt
and nylon stockings.  Books neatly stacked,

oblivious to her classmates’ disdain,
she shared her IQ score and boasted
about her parents’ success

to every new acquaintance.  Behind the veneer
of a flawless student, a melancholic gaze
lingered above smoky bags, the swollen lids

hinting at countless sleepless nights,
while a faint veil of red obscuring her eyes
hung as a remnant of ocular waterfalls.

Masking the shadows with concealer,
striving for perfection, not wanting to provide
any reason to treat her with pity.

Turning toward the windowpane,
I shook hands with my reflection,
silently instilling solidarity

for the years of our shared trauma.
Students laugh in the halls. I remain in my chair
and study my quaking knees, averting the stare

of the girl reflected in the glass, wondering
if our mirrored souls will ever discard the past.

The earth shuddered in the ink black darkness
from this small disturbance,
The Titan rose
flexing his muscles
raging from sleep.
A colossus from the depths
driving his fury to the land
with lethal intent.

At that moment the sea sparkled
bathers revelled in its beauty.
Through caressing waves
tiny silver fish darted
in a pattern of azure light
tickling the small feet
of those who
loved its beauty.
Unaware, as yet,
of its power.

The Satanic Verses
An exploration of Dante’s purgatory as portrayed in his Divine Comedy.

Pillaging vessels in the seas of fire,
Inferno o’ be bless ’ed.
Spitting liturgy, eulogy, epithets and elegies,
Syllables racing; the vomitories blanched.
Vows spent faster than vapours, 
Chivalry: There is no such thing.
There is the pillaging and the pillaged,
The raped and beaten,
The princes and the paupers,
The sinners and the holy,
The dead and the living.
But we are all Human,
Armed with human breath.
And we will all sow our seed in the fields of hell,
Breaking soul to break bread,
Ordained to an eternity of dolour.

you’ve changed me in little ways. from you
I’ve learnt that angels smell like honeysuckle, and sunsets taste like caramel syrup, and
June belongs in November
(laughing in the heady copper heat, lying dizzy under burning skies).

when I remember summertime, I remember us
daisy chains and cherry stains,
sweet bright daylight on my tongue,
lemonade and sunflowers and butterflies and coffee and you, always you, dancing like a goddess in the afternoon glow.

but I met you in the wintertime
(and you were a fragile creature
hoping but never dreaming,
praying every morning for the sun to bring you flowers)

I used to find you in small quiet places
in dollar shops and clothing stores
in galleries and libraries and
drinking weak coffee on park benches.

and you were heavenly in the small quiet places
cursive handwriting and vanilla perfume
and art and music and wide white smiles and
gifts of warmth and laughter.

and I can still see you in the small quiet places
see you in your favourite books and in strings of pearls,
and even though you hated being trapped, I’m still drawn to the
pieces of you caught in your coffee order and in thick impasto daisies.

summer was like rapture
and you blossomed in the long days and mild nights
all sweet scents and bright colours
drawing me closer, a moth to your inferno

perfect. imperfect in your perfection. frayed lace and
fumbling fingers and
freckled cheeks and
Narcissus in disguise

and I clutch onto every detail, afraid to lose you and
your summer in my fairytales
terrified that I’ll forget you like you’ve
already forgotten me.

so, in the winter, I cling to every memory, every hint of you, every piece of paper with June scrawled in the margins
your name
(still warm under my fingertips)
painting my daydreams golden.

my mother’s tongue
filled with words foreign yet familiar to me
they twist and wrap around my lips
they are an anchor that attaches to me, and pulls me down deeper and deeper
trapping me underwater for the rest of time
 
she speaks so freely
as if the words roll off her tongue
the words let her breathe with ease
they let her float in the deep end of the pool
 
they sound so strange and alien to me
they do not belong to me
they never did

Warm ceramic kisses the table
And like a child cradling a periwinkle
and through the bluest lips
the first sip

Floral salts
adorn the tongue
Of earth gently wet
ripe, whole
and sunlight warm

Crisp armoured bread
Wallows upturned, brittle
Small currents of gold dissipate
Butter-falls falling

Grains of length, truth
With veins of fruit
flicker-float
like congregations of tetra
caress shipwrecks

Shank fragments red
are passion flags
Raw from the bile of war
Flown atop armies
And their castles
History’s tapestries, frayed
Delectable muscle of past

Starchy vessels
Drifting
Absorbing sweetness
like little sisters
clasped by the family

Liquid
Primordial
The sea at the start
Farmhouse Soup

[Start] Are you ready? YES No
[Level 1] Achievement unlocked: A new start.
[Level 2] ???
[Level 3] ???
[Level 4] Broken memory: Candles on a birthday cake.
[Level 5] First day of kindergarten. Achievement unlocked: A new friend.
[Level 13] Introduction to high school.
[Level 14] Meeting first love. Achievement unlocked: A confession in Summer.
[Level 15] Status: Heartbroken, under-performing. Event: Struggle in the dark. Achievement unlocked: A friend in need is a friend indeed.
[Level 16] Achievement unlocked: The first job.
[Level 17] Achievement unlocked: All-night scholar. Status: Stressed, tired.
[Level 18] High school graduation. Achievements unlocked: The burn of alcohol, driver’s license upgraded, thrill seeking at the casino, voting rights, etc. Status: Relieved, free.
[Level 19] A new love. A new university. Status: Unemployed with crushing debt.
[Level 20] Achievement unlocked: A new job. Status: Getting on the right track.
[Level 22] Achievement unlocked: First boyfriend. Status: Insecure, questioning.
[Level 23] Achievement unlocked: Communication through tears. Status: Confident, healthy relationships, growing as a person.
[Level 26] Moving in. Status: Unsure, hopeful.
[Level 28] Achievement unlocked: A happy marriage. A honeymoon in Paris. Status: On top of the world.
[Level 30] Achievement unlocked: A bigger family. Status: Pregnant.
[Level 31] Achievement unlocked: Motherhood. Status: Overjoyed.
[Level 33] A family holiday with dolphins.
[Level 34-48] Achievement unlocked: Supporting another’s LIFE.
[Level 49] Achievements unlocked: Time flies, son’s graduation. Status: A few grey hairs.
[Level 54] Death of parents, son has a child. Achievement unlocked: The family tree grows as old branches fall. Status: Grandmother.
[Level 65] Achievement unlocked: Retirement. Event: Adopting 3 cats. Status: Carefree.
[Level 70] Achievement unlocked: Green fingers, more fluffy friends. Status: Relaxed.
[Level 74] Relocation. Achievement unlocked: Ocean breeze, eating cheese.
[Level 78] Death of partner. Achievement unlocked: A missing piece. Status: Alone.
[Level 79] A great-grandchild is born. Achievement unlocked: Branches wither as flowers bud. Status: Satisfied, great-grandmother.
[Level 80] Warning: the end is near. Status: Happy?
[End] Achievements unlocked: 291/???.
Operator Message: No second chance.
Comment: A fulfilling LIFE with no regrets.

the field ran red with blood
with the stench of death
corrupting the air,
and the fallen bodies lie
finally at peace,
after the violent melody that ended,
a decrescendo into silence.
now only the soft rustles
of the lilies swaying in the zephyr
drift through the stained land,
an accompaniment to the final journey.
the lilies watch over the battlefield,
their fine legs arching upwards
waving goodbye to the drifting souls.

falling into a world
that does not exist
your mind plants a lie
that you cannot resist

down into the depths
of a spiralling hole
the hell that awaits you
will swallow your soul

your vanity
has become the killer
no longer aware
of yourself—just the mirror

but good looks could not save
the girl who you missed
falling into a world
that does not exist

no one dances with scarred Artemis
her wounds, her crater trails
eyes like molten arsenic
Stars rumour her tales
 
she longs to be welcomed
but the light sets her apart
Stars take notice, but seldom
have words to impart
 
the Stars fear losing their light
in the darkness, they believe in her
they burn away the darkness of the night
and remain the brightest flare
 
at the summer solstice
her endeavours falter
the star-maidens’ Eros
a sacrifice on the altar
 
she retreats into darkness
away from the glittering light of Stars
the twilight accents
the harshness of her aged battle scars
 
precipitously, a blaze scorches the black
luminescence, it ignites the room
it drags Artemis’ gaze back
to the centre of the ballroom
 
then Sun emerges from its slumber
and greets her with a smile
Artemis cannot remember
a dancer with such guile
 
her touch scalds the trails
that run down her face
and the crescent moon pales
put back into its place
 
yet still Artemis glows
in the light of the Sun

The Chocolate Soldier
A tribute to the untrained and ill-equipped Australian conscripts whom defended Port Moresby against the Imperial Japanese Army.

Canopied light untouched,
Wails over crimson shades of men,
Air thick like desert dew,
Aroma’s known all too well;
The empty fruits of war.

Men turned shadow,
Contours of decayed men,
Armed with naught, but oxen drive,
And memories of a sleepy, red-dirt land.

With bound-arm and waxing hope,
They endured, and thus,
In that fiery crucible,
They are become transcendent.

Fire, the timid dog,
Leashed by the blacksmith to craft perfection,
Whimpering quietly in the corner, casting shadows against the wall,
Emitting warmth and light to all.

Fire, the savage wolf,
The primordial beast that rages through the forest,
Reducing the proud pines to smouldering piles, with a swipe of his fiery paws.
Exhaling tendrils of smoke that seep through the carnage, he gnaws.
Howling with delight at the countless villages succumbed to flame.

We do not see the fury hiding in the flickering flame,
Nor do we see the justice within the inferno.
We do not realise that it is the two that ignite the shrivelled wicks of our hope.
So, fire and canine will do what they do best.

They will surprise us when we least expect it.

there was a time that we lived there
in the land of smiles and laughs
the fast food and shopping dates
captured in photographs

every other Friday spent
at each other’s houses
watching favourite movies
and eating ice cream on the couches

together we would live there
in the land of inside jokes
and share each other’s clothing
like we shared our dreams and hopes

now all I have are photographs
and memories of that place
since you included someone new
by unlocking the gates

they said their place was better so
you left and took the key
now I am trapped inside our place
with no way to break free

I try to reach out, searching
for the comfort I once knew
my hand becomes invisible
my body is see-through

my thoughts are now consumed
by all the words we left unsaid
like a cancer growing slowly
like a poison, they spread

our place becomes a wasteland
and the ruins begin to rot
I grow accustomed to the smell
of the mildew and moss

now in this place which we had built
once glorious and grand
there is nothing more than rubble
desolate, barren land

a return to former glory
is impossibly hard
when every entry is sealed
and every exit is barred

you erased this place from every map
and now I find myself lost
when you abandoned this land
I was alone, I was tossed

aside like our hopes and our dreams
and the old photographs
the movies and ice cream
the memories of our past

there is a term for it:
natsukashii it is called
a nostalgia for something
that is forever stalled

and that is what I feel
because now I have learned
there is no use for love
that goes unreturned

now here is my place
I made it my own
I no longer care
that it is overgrown

it matches my heart
with its crumbles and cracks
the barbed-wire fences
and skies painted black

for black is the colour
of grief and remorse
a spark is extinguished
deprived of its source

and though this may signal
the ending of us
alone in the darkness
my eyes will adjust

I am Yirrganydji Dreaming.
The Rainbow Serpent Gudjugudju, shaped my world, 
the landscape and all that lies within and beyond.
Barrany, the sun as orange as flowering eucalyptus blossoms,
rising against early morning skies.
Birring, the deep, blue stretching waters, where sky and sea meet.
Dulubu, the shining stars, scattered amongst limitless skies.
The stars are our ancestors, the spirits, of my people.
And afterwards Gudjugudju slept, rested, under the warm sun at Wangal Djungay,
You know the place, Double Island. where dolphins swim among warm waters
glide so close to our canoes that you can reach out and touch them.
Today, there are barbecues and surf carnivals and swimming nets in the summer.
We used to live there.

Gudjugudju, the Rainbow Serpent shaped the land,
Moved through the landscape forming every creek, every billabong.
Which filled with djilibirri, barramundi, and dawugan, silver bream,
Their scales glistening under the silver moonlight.
Binda, the waterfall, refreshing amidst summers relentless humidity,
Where we stand under cascading water, surrounded by deep green ferns,
that sprout beside streams and moss covered boulders.
You know the place – Milla Milla, the place of the rainforest vine.
We hunt buurrarra, the agile wallaby, through golden grass plains.
As the evening wanes and garri, the setting sun becomes night,
We sit around bright campfires, under the midnight stars,
For our corroborees –  storytelling, singing and dancing.
And in the morning, the laughter of Goo-goor-gaga, the kookaburra,
Awakens sleepers before sunrise.
Now, there is farmland where gumtrees once stood.
Fences for places we can no longer explore.
Quarries and geotechnical investigation bores
And governments who sell our land for nothing at all.
Girramay country,  1996, bulldozed and fenced by an American pastoralist.
Two dollars per acre for our forest, two dollars per acre for our history.
Yungigali, our sacred site, destroyed.
We used to live there.

I stand at Lake Euramoo, Ngimun,
Lake Eacham, Yidyam  and Lake Barrine, Barany, are his brothers.
I remember the Dreamtime stories of the two men who angered Gudjugudju,
He split the ground with his wrath – water flooded the crater,  the lakes were formed.
Djaban, the sleek skinned eel,  darting through water lilies,
Always so much food here. We visit in the summer, to swim  – it’s cooler.

Now, you do as we once did –  swimming and fishing and camping.
But now you bring plastics that choke bajirri, the water goanna,
Empty beer bottles scattered around, dirty barbecue plates.
We used to live there.

We live in the same world, you and I
And for the most part, we are the same.
And yet, we are different.
We have walked this land for 60, 000 years
The land is our Mother, and we are her Children.
I am Yirrganydji Dreaming. – the world, the landscape
and all that lies within and beyond
Lies in our hearts – part of us forever.
Woven into our very being, never taken from us.
We used to live there.

Smoke coils in the sky
Lashing like a silver whip
A deathly streak of grey
A grey whip of choking death

The smoke twists in the air
More dangerous than an angry cobra
It hisses in delight
At the pain and panic it will cause

Silver tendrils spread across the sky
Grasping at the weathered clouds
Spreading to cover the sun
Air pollution has begun

I. Sun

medallion yellow, sandstone orange
cherry red, and cobalt blue on white
the colours of the sun in our sky
mixing like liquid on high
lapis blue, reflected in the eye
tints of lipstick red and dull apricot
above sky blue, peacock, and spruce
golden among the cerulean

II. Cloud

pearl white cotton clouds
dot the unending firmament above
percaline reflections of infinite colour
that turn charcoal black and iron grey
that drip Aegean, stone, navy, sapphire
glow daffodil, blonde, honey, Tuscan
and an absent berry-blue beyond
chiffon mist on umber dirt

laying in the cold room
a river of tears flow
no one loves me
I have never felt so alone
 
my throat is sore
and growing rapidly
as if something is growing
like a flower blooming inside
 
coughing uncontrollably
my lungs long for air
as I grab hold of the sink
it all hurts so much
 
crimson red liquid
pours out from my insides
along with white rose petals
stained with my own blood
 
I look in the mirror
to then see a white rose
dipped in blood
inside my swollen throat
 
horror eats up my soul
there is only one thing
that could be the cause
Hanahaki: one-sided love
 
he never did love me
he went after her
now they live happily together
as I lay on the bathroom floor
 
only surgery can remove this
but that means losing him
I would rather die in this state
than lose these feelings
 
but I know, however, that
everything is not going to be okay
I only have a few months
before I depart this world
 
I am not willing to say goodbye
besides, I am only seventeen
he is the only reason I live
and now, he will be the death of me

The fire wolf howls
A cry of rage and anger
His flickering tail setting alight
A pile of dry gum leaves

The dingoes howl at these intruders
Growling at them to be gone
But the fire wolves only cackle and sneer
And smirk at the dingoes’ attempts to rid the bush of the fire

Bored with the dingoes’ desperate attempts to rid them from the forest
The wolves rush in like a wave
A wave of pure concentrated flames and fury
Flickering tails wave in malicious pleasure
As the fire consumes the forest

The bush animals run
Screeching in distress
The dingoes at the lead
The fire wolves pursue the other animals relentlessly
Hunger sharp in their gazes

But before the wolves can catch their prey
Before they can burn the animals and trees to piles of cinders
The water falls
Tumbling from the human’s flying red metal bird

The fire wolves howl in pain
Their flames once red and bright
Fade to a sickly yellow
As the fire wolves slowly die

A human dressed in PPE enters the bush purposefully
With little difficulty he finds a small, brown, stubby stick
Ringed with white around the edge
The human snorts in disgust at the stick and strides out of the forest

The bush animals stare in wonder and awe
Gaping at how the human picked up the fire wolves’ den
From which they emerged
After being thrown from a human’s car

as you walk past houses
amazed by their fabulous gardens
or disgusted by their state of repair
or annoyed by their dog barking
do you ever wonder
if the house reflects the person inside it?

if the house is poorly maintained
does this mean the person
is sloppy? or poor? or lazy?
if the garden is well maintained
does this mean the person
is a gardener? has a lot of free time on their hands? or are they rich?

these things cannot be proved
by just looking at the house
but they can be proven
by knocking on the door

after rubbing the magical lamp, you may be pondering what to do
you may be thinking about wealth, fame, or health
how about it all?
you just need to broaden your mind

want to wish for anything, anytime without running out?
now, you may be thinking, this all goes against a main condition:
“no wishing for more wishes”
that is where you are wrong

do not wish for more wishes
wish for more GENIES

I am doomed to sail the sea
For forever and never be free
Waves lap at my phantom hull
I hear the ear piercing squawk of a gull
I am destined to never port
Dead souls traveling to the underworld I escort.
I am the flying Dutchman ghost
The most famous phantom ship along the coast
My captain foolishly cursed God
So now we sail aimlessly with the cod
I am an omen of gloom
I signify certain doom
All who lay eyes on me should expect death
And quietly await their last breath
If you see me prepare to travel to the light
For I am the ghost ship of the night

I could almost hear its tiny scream
its tiny eyes began to gleam
 
flashes flew past her eyes
the executioner, and angel in disguise

as I confined the ectoparasite in a cage
my kitchen bench became a stage
 
as I sprayed the bottle of toxin
she was laced in the deadly concoction
 
at first, she struggled, suffocated by my glare
then her eyes fell into a stare
 
gleaming balls of jet-glass perfection
a shame she thought my blood her confection
 
in a second of animosity
I had no issue taking her

The sound of pouring rain
The burn of spilt boiling water
The faint bark of dogs
The sweet taste of morning coffee
The slow sear of a hot coffee cup
The serenity of peering at rain droplets as they slide down the window
The smell of something burning
The rush of the early morning rides
The yell of a disappointed mother
The blasting of music

Unexpectedly, like a rainbow in a desert, I arrived,
successfully catching the beings of Earth off guard.
Mistakenly thinking I could be contained, they let me roam.
Overnight, I changed the world.

Initially, chaos was deemed my only friend,
as I swiftly plunged society into isolation, and economic descent.
Social distancing restrictions opened, borders closed.
Overnight, I changed the world.

Like a misunderstood mythical monster, I brought global change.
I returned animals to their habitat, and reduced pollution in the atmosphere.
Families reconnected, creativity heightened, opportunities explored.
I am Covid 19, and overnight, I changed the world.

I stare down at my broken shoes
that no-one thinks are cool,
I get pushed around by other kids
I’m the poor boy at my school.

All the other kids tease me
and twice a day they say,
‘You’ll be a servant, when you grow up
and get me drinks, hooray.’

I try to leave but I just can’t
they grab my ragged clothes,
they have always bullied me
but life’s that way I suppose.

When people always tease me,
It seems a little cruel,
but that is just what happens I guess,
when you’re the poor boy at my school.

We used to live there,
Under the ghost gum tree
We played and laughed and ran about
Together with family.

We used to live there
In the bush down by the creek
We caught our fish and yabbies there
And feasted for a week.

We used to live there
Until the others came
They took away our children
Our country’s ongoing shame

We used to live there
But now are scattered wide
Disconnected from our country
Our families, how they’ve cried

We used to live there
Now slowly we come back
We greet our kin and hug them tight
Trying to repair the crack.

We used to live there
Our land, our sky, our air
I am proud of who I am
My culture I willingly share

We used to live there
Young, proud and free
Now we stand up against injustice
It starts with you and me.

                                The ground sizzled, a fire leaped. Baby tree cried as Mother tree burned.
                                              Mother tree was brown but now she is black.
                                                               Baby tree was now alone.  
               The red smoking monster whipped around! Hope was only a sliver, but a sliver is enough …

                                Justice came, they came, they came with red jackets, they came in trucks.
                                                      Red was replaced with black and white.
 
                Stumbling voice’s, dust in the air, tears fulled eyes, this is where hugs are better then gold.
                                                              Time goes by, they come and go.
                The world began to start again. Green was growing rain was falling smiling over my head.
                                                        And the circle of life began again!

Earth
Below
Wings beating
Swiftly soaring
A concoction of smell, sights and textures
Cacophony sounds from the world beneath
Playful, carefree
Swallowtail
Proudly
Glide

Down by a stream and through a meadow, a mother sat cradling her new arrival.
And she sang.
“May she be reckless and may she be kind,
may she enjoy drinking nettle wine.
May she be brave and may she be humble,
may she be tough and love to tumble.
May she have logic and may she have wisdom,
may she live in a world with freedom.
One day I will die,and my ashes will fly,
and dance on the breeze over mountians and trees.
And still on the earth, feet on the ground
a girl of Tomorrow, hope is abound.
Soon she will find the man of her choice,
kind, polite, and lets her have a voice.
Love, she will find and soon after that,
a red, plump baby in a soft woolen hat.
And then she will die, her ashes will fly,
And dance on the breeze, over mountains and trees.
But still on the earth, her feet on the ground,
A girl of Tomorrow, hope still abound.”

The seeds came one day in a craft-paper package,
Small and oblivious so.
They each were like brown crumbled-up bits of a cabbage,
But little did I know.
 
As time passed by, they grew up to healthy little plants.
Green as emeralds,
Tiny like ants.
A blade of grass, was what it resembled.
 
At last there came a flowering bud,
But that didn’t make it impressive,
Sprouting up from the mud,
But the message was really quite expressive.
 
The bud soon turned into a lighter blossom,
Extremely good-looking.
Though someone thought it would taste awesome,
And almost used it in the cooking.
 
A little kitten passing by in the mid of July.
It twitched its nose and came to smell the fragrance.
Then it went to chase a butterfly,
And forgot about the flower’s humble radiance.

The daisy was now one of a kind,
White, pure, beautiful so.
About it I had changed my mind.
But little did I know.

I see children lining up for class
Like cars waiting for the light to change                  
Students devouring their lunch
They are lions that haven’t eaten for years
Teachers watching students with eagle eyes
Senses honed for danger, nervous meerkats

The scratching of pens, pencils and crayons
Paper on blue desks, like monkeys itching their heads
The crunching of dead leaves on a cool autumn day
Watch as the cheetah cubs come out to play
The chitter chatter of children, like crickets, 
cheeping and chirping, through the moon filled night

I cartwheel over the the delicate grass
Cartwheel like a graceful gazelle
the luxuriant, green lawn, freshly mowed
Bitter metal, cold, as I sit on the bench
eating my lunch
Laughing and shrieking with my friends,
We’re a pack of hyenas
Climbing monkey bars like leopards climbing trees
The starter gun cracks, coloured flags wave,
Parents clap and cheer, Athletics Carnival is underway
We run like antelope, racing over the open plains
As the hot African sun begins to wane

Beef pies from the tuck shop, sour Granny Smiths
Strawberry, passionfruit and watermelon ice blocks
Cold sushi, teriyaki;  fresh stir fry, with garlic pepper
We eat like a hungry herd of elephants
After a long day’s trek in the savannah

Have you ever lost yourself, in a distant land?
Have you ever fought dragons, or been lead singer in a band?
Have you been a wizard, casting lots of spells?
Or have you been a little boy, doing lots of smells?
Have you ventured into space, sailing past the moon?
Have you swung through the trees, like a pink baboon?
Have you lived underwater, like a mermaid or a fish?
Or are you a fairy godmother, granting one last wish?
It doesn’t matter what you say, or even how you look
It really matters what you read, get lost in a good book!

Brass
Tarnished
Frayed edges
Endless courage
Imperfect, but to us it’s perfection
1914-1915 Star
Honour and pride
His medal
Special
Star

Mist in the morning, nice and nippy,
Petals in the basement, wet and slippery.
Blustery breezy, behind the tress,
Icey wind cools the breeze.
Russet autumn leaves falling down,
Saffron, scarlet, crackling brown.
House windows opened early,
Really foggy moist and blurry.
Sparkly blue, freshly clean,
The dew flows down,
Oh, what a sight to be seen.
Paintings blasting light and furry,
Long vivid colours flurry.
Rain dripping dropping down,
Large beautiful showers rundown.
Calmly spreading earthly fragrance,
Tingly blowing lovely essence.
Birds humming and singing in May.
Oh! What a wonderful autumn day!

Evil
Evil people
Carrying fire wood
Starting a fire
Whilst having fun

Burning
Raging inferno
In a small yard
Smoke high up

Evil smiling from men

Burning ashes
Hideous laughing
Growing inferno
Pollution fills the air

The day was gloomy
A bon fire was being created
Night begins to fall
The blaze was dense

The inferno was rapidly growing
Flame gained land
Out into the street
The creation of chaos
It slowly drifted

Through the urban
Sea of flame
Once a calm place
Now full of chaos

The sound of sirens
Water splashing
The inferno shrinking

Fire fighters take control
Flame was small
Finally it was over
Once and for all

Sunrise
Ascending
Bright sun
A crystal, clear valley
Soft pink puffs in the sky
Glowing globe, rising majestically from the horizon

Sunset
Blazing
Light through misty greys
Golden clouds over the valley
 The triangular mountains
Off in the distance a bird flying high

I have a lot of pets
Which one will be first
I just can’t pick a favourite
But I do know who’s the worst!

My first pet is Murphy
He’s a very lazy cat
He gets stuck on the roof sometimes
What do you think of that?

We’ve got a second kitty
And Willow is her name
She’s very sweet and kind
But whining is her game!

Our newest pet is Clifford
A dog that loves to play
He’s got a lot of energy
We walk him every day

How could I pick just one
I love all my pets the same
There’s one more pet to mention
But I can’t tell you his name!

He likes to play some games
And although he’s lots of fun
He can be very naughty
And gets in trouble with Mum

Sometimes he’s very stinky
And could use a real good scrub
He likes to go on adventures
And get dirty like a grub

Even though he’s trouble
I love him just the same
Clearly, he’s the favourite
And Daddy is his name!

Red is the sight of poppies when we commemorate ANZAC day,
Red is the sight of pretty carnations when we celebrate Mother’s Day.

Red is the sound of fire engines blaring loudly as they rush to the rescue,
Red is the sound of crisp autumn leaves crunching under my feet.

Red is the toxic smell of bright-coloured paint on a fence,
Red is the smell of fragrant roses blossoming in my beautiful garden.

Red is the touch of a burning hot fire blazing uncontrollably,
Red is the touch of my cold numb nose on a freezing winter’s day.

Red is the taste of salty blood when you bite your lip,
Red is the taste of juicy, sweet, ripe cherries in my mouth.

Red is the colour of anger,
Red is the colour of love.

Spilling milk from a cup,
Whoopsie! Mummy cleans it up.

Crying loudly, Waah! Waah! Waah!
Hush little baby, sleep in the car.

Mama! Dada!  Baby babbles,
Lots of tickles, happy giggles!

Toddling clumsily, falls down, Thud!
Oh no! He’s all covered in mud.

To the bath, off we dash,
Rubber ducky, Splash! Splash! Splash!

Time for bed! Switch off the light,
Tuck into bed, say Goodnight!

Sleeping soundly in the cot,
Shhh! Do not wake up our tot.

YOUNG

Playful, energetic

Running, eating, learning

Little and fast: big and slow

Stumbling, complaining, resting

Wrinkly, grumpy

OLD

If I had to be any colour at all
Then I think I would like to be orange
Like lava erupting from a big volcano
Or a shining sun in the big, blue sky
Like a California Poppy sitting in the soil
Or basketball getting passed on the court
Or orange juice getting tipped into a glass
With bacon and eggs and toast for breakfast
Like a Jack O Lantern in Halloween
Or apricot hanging from a tall tree
Or a Pumpkin getting baked
Or a clam washed up on the seashore
Or a clown fish in the coral reef,
Just swimming around, looking
A goldfish in a fish tank
An oriole making its nest
Or an Irish Setter playing with its owner
Chasing an orange ball around the yard
I think orange is the best colour for me.

The Black Jaguar is Beautiful.
Darker than their grassland cousins,
So they can hide in the forest.
Soft black fur.
Ears can hear from a long distance.
This animal is a hunter.
I like cats.
The Black Jaguar is Beautiful.

I am…
Eyes sparkling
Finger licking
Spicy or sweet
Covered in brown skin
Collected from a window
Fresh and hot
Ready to go
Very famous
Choose me instead of McDonald’s
I am… KFC!

One little skater dances on the ice,
Her beautiful dress looks very nice.

Two little skaters jump up high,
Looks like they really want to fly.

Three little skaters spin,spin,spin,
I wish they can win,win,win!

It’s zero degree,
And I agree,
It’s just not
The right weather for me

While riding my bicycle,
An icicle drops
right on my knee,
And Fred, Ned and Ted
Start laughing out with glee

Then after I throw the balls,
The snow falls,
Right on my head
Then I have to stay in bed.