2021

Lined up over the Highway like so many way-posts,
the kestrels measure their holding patterns, explorers
eagerly searching their atlas, the red bellies writhe in
the ruin of our tyre treads, while sprinklers hoisting a
league of green sorghum turn widdershins over their
own magic circles, starlings blow smoke rings of
themselves, anvils, dreidels, sculpting the air and
the wind turns the pages on the last of the wheat or
like fingers combing the rough on the back of a cat.
I’m heading westwards, already too late and getting
later, with the big rigs and stock trucks, like beads
on a string, the abacus shuffling of some strange
calculation, spreading towards me the ink of a squall,
which is just like my own mood, tears out of nowhere,
sun shower and sorrow, sudden elation, Jokerman
snared and harmonica’d over Dylan’s rasped croak,
loud in my throat. What will I do when I get there?
Make my apologies, note contrition, pass hors d’oeuvres.
The blue tongue does not confess to the semi’s wheels,
the echidna does not negotiate with the caravan, we’re
all late and getting later. The farmers I pass in their
overwrought tractors, stare at the horizon with a look
of doubt, their itchy hessian bag potatoes, their hot
splitting tomatoes, strawberries in their foggy punnets
are being bundled from their sheds by the roadside,
clapboards closed, trust boxes shaken on their chains.
No matter when I might arrive, I’m already too late,
inevitable as taxes and the other one. The phone call
came while I was busy with my self-absorption and
now my car rattles from the passage of a truck smoking
over the rise in the overtaking lane, piercing the sunset’s
showy entrance, all feather and cymbals. Another two
hours. The night doesn’t apologise for turning up late.

The forest whispers ‘Welcome’ as I start,
a ripple shadow flutter-waves and weaves,
soft rhythms pulse to sync and slow my heart,
my boots crush musty tang from rotting leaves.
An Illawarra flame tree sheds her pods;
they curl like lovers snuggled close in sleep.
A fiddle-headed fern frond dips and nods
while thornbills tizz and finches chitter-cheep.
When atoms date, divorce and date once more
the forest floor recycles life and death.
As air snaps to attention, stirs my core,
the fern frond stills and finches hold their breath.
A presence swells with spirit-peace so strong
the pregnant forest whispers ‘You belong’.

Yes? he says. The steepled fingers,
hammer-voice framed by a silky smile.

And how may I help you?

The words flutter in my throat,
frantic birds in a lowering sky.

The five o’clock mornings,
water pipes frozen,
mist hugging the valley
before the sun grips daylight in an iron fist
and hurls its heat over the escarpment,
whipping dust-devils into a frenzy,
emaciated beasts staggering to shade
in a patch of gidgee, a boneyard
of hopes and dreams.

His eyes wander.

The chains that can’t lift a starving cow
from the bog at the edge of what was once a waterhole
teeming with ibis, pelicans, finches and lorikeets
as a wedgie soared on a thermal,
cloud-pinioned against the blue in the glory days
when monsoon rains came and the red dirt
was a kaleidoscope of yellow rattlepod/purple
fuchsia/green sand lily/blue crowfoot/red desert pea
in a landscape we called paradise until the big dry
took all we had.

He fiddles with a paper clip.

The death-stench of the pit, flames
obliterating the toil of years, smoke
choking life from generations
bred to the land, nurtured by the turn
of seasons, tempered in the furnace
of disaster.

Now this, a steel-and-glass tower
with a pinstripe suit-and-tie man
who has never put a bullet in dying beasts
because he can’t afford the feed, never
found the body of a childhood friend
cradling a shotgun.

He frowns, purses his lips
as if to kiss a mirror,
makes a note with a flourish of a pen
that dismisses those generations of toil
as no more than neat lines of legal ink,
and I am suddenly outside the door,
dispossessed.

His secretary doesn’t look up.

I plough through thick carpet
the colour of ripened wheat
and take the lift down thirty floors
to the city street, exiled from my own land,
with nowhere to call home.

I dreamt
I was late to your funeral.

It was raining
as I entered the church through
large wooden doors,
hooded,
water dripping.

The room was anchored
with sorrow,
words stillborn,
and heavy shades of black.
Everyone was seated,
chins lowered,
fingers twisted in laps.

Golden candlelight
flickered,
casting shadows across
the walls.

Rain drops
pinged across the roof
like a disjointed drum roll
across the skin
of a tightly tuned snare.
The church swallowed
and swallowed
‘til music
echoed white.

The floor was made of stone.
I walked in slow motion,
heel-toe;
my footsteps were
hollow, melodic, unnoticed.

My stomach pulled.
I –
I had been trying to look
anywhere else.

Your closed casket sat
at the opposite end of the hall,
far too small
for a person who had lived
so grandly.

Suddenly,
the world felt treacherous,
inescapably lonely.

You were… gone.

You smiled at me
from within a silver photo frame,
to the left.
Your emerald eyes
had that carefree gleam.

I began to tremble –
from shoulders to knees,
to the leaden boots
at my feet;
it had nothing to do with
damp cotton clinging
to my body like
memory.

I screamed your name –
a barked gunshot
from my sandpaper throat,
a slip of trigger.

Not a soul turned.
Not a single soul acknowledged me.

Time pulled at my ankles.

I ran toward you, stumbling as
my kaleidoscope vision
began to swirl
and gently
fade.

“Don’t leave me!” I cried. “Don’t…”

I awoke abruptly –
arms
outstretched.

I awoke
with the sun

and your
face

in my eyes.

This home,
it knows me.

It heaves
when I say I’m leaving.

Halls lean in,
stalling me,
stained wallpaper
restraining.

Steam beads
the bathroom mirror
like a panicked brow.

Desperate floorboards creak,
speaking my name as I walk,
needy,
greedy,
pleading for me to stay.

‘I’ll be back,’ I lie,
closing the door for the last time,
sealing an old box of memories
I’d rather forget.

When boys approached their 18th birthday with a sense of dread;
When many of their older friends were being sent home dead;
When young men feared that they would be the very next recruit;
When they were taken to the country, drilled and taught to shoot;
When dense and steamy foreign jungles were the war’s front line;
When every step a soldier took could trip a trap or mine;
When choppers in the sky could mean another deadly rain;
When weary young men took up arms to go and fight again.

Then people in the street were asking ‘War, what’s it good for’?
Then movements round the world were out there shouting ‘war no more!’
Then people said ‘we’ve tried war many times, now let’s try peace’;
Then armies went back home and you could hear the bombing cease;
Then governments decided they could try another way;
Then boys could see a future beyond just the current day;
Then people in the street stopped asking ‘What’s the good of war?’
Then movements round the world demanded ‘war, no never more!’

To fulfill a childhood dream, and make the old man proud,
I’m glad I had the chance, in front of our home crowd.
To join a list of players, to wear the white and green,
Our city stocked with talent, some of the best the game has seen.

Like back in 1968, when we held the Australian Front Row,
Parcell, Beatttie, and Kelly, three of the best we had on show.
And the Walters clan of Booval, they sure knew how to play,
Some of the best local footballers, we had back in their day.

A name well known to us locals, our visitors came to learn,
Synonymous with toughness, is Danny Coburn.
One of our greatest local legends, to represent the Jets,
258 times, a club record that he sets.

But if there’s one who stands the tallest, like a Jet inside its hanger,
It must be our favourite son, in Allan Jeffrey Langer.
The pinnacle of Ipswich, diminutive in size,
He rose to the very top, winning almost every prize.

As a child we chipped and chased, and hoped it for our self,
That just one day, a dream we may, one day be just like Alf.
As we followed him along, and joined him for the ride,
Ipswich, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia, our colours worn with pride.

The locals swarm through the gates, no matter what price to pay.
An experience like no other, is Ipswich Grand Final Day.
When the city comes together, and gets behind their team,
A city now divided, one winner to reign supreme.

So, as you head back out along Brisbane street, and make your way for home,
It’s Rugby league I’d like to thank, for making it our own.
For giving a kid a place to dream, a ground to train and play,
“The Oval”, is what I remember the most, an icon of Ipswich today.

Ipswich Cash and Carry,
Not your average Tom, Dick and Harry’s
Just phone -843
To take advantage of our free delivery.

The Look Boutique,
Not your average way to get chic
“Can your Singer make me look slimmer?”
“We cater to any physique”.

On the corner, I spot a small paint shop
Who’s sign lacks hue, out of this crop
No time to take in the irony
My bus has just pulled up to the stop.

is to have 6 legs, 2 wings and 1 pair of antennae
capable of blending into, never joining
the chaotic grace of the kaleidoscope
as it obliviously assumes an alluring parade
of flashing colours, poignant elegance
and universally acknowledged beauty

                                                            is to hide, amongst the scraggly groundcover, near the glass walls
                                                            away from sight and the flower-lined paths
                                                            for fear of getting crushed under the same sweat-slicked hands that cradled
                                                            a butterfly in the left and took a photo with it using the right

is to emerge, only when the guests are gone, under the dark velvet sky
to do at night what bees and butterflies are venerated for during the day
in a garden now swept by a broom of silence and solitude

                                                            is to observe, beauty but never one’s own, striving to emulate grace
                                                            on the borders of destruction, attempting to shed dull colours

is to die,

                                  with weeds 

that                                                         share the

                          plight

of                                                                                  arbitrary

ugliness

Crying alone at the nail salon
night falling slowly,
I look at my mood ring
telling me how to feel when I can’t do so myself.
The city streets are empty
as darkness takes over
but I can’t stop speaking
so I don’t have to think
and confront the emotions I constantly step around.

The ocean rises and falls around my feet;
I stand still,
hoping the broken fragments of my heart
will wash away with the riptide
and while everyone tells me I’m okay
the voices in my head
keep me awake at night.
Whispering;
constantly saying otherwise.

And when summer comes,
I disconnect
secluding myself from all sense of reality.
Only the guitar
truly knows how I am feeling
and though I have painted my mask well,
each conversation tears me apart.
I dread to think what will happen
when my soul finally gives in
and the last rose petal of winter falls.

I am the fallen fruit
discarded from society;
unmoldable no matter how hard they try,
forever bound by the chains of freedom.
Try to save me if you can.
Though my conscience won’t allow it;
alone.
Too proud to apologise.
Crying at the nail salon.

Thank you for knocking on my bedroom door rather than just barging in
I imagine you standing in front of it
one calloused fist in the air hovering timid and hesitant,
because maybe behind the door is a string
that will snap with our mercurial bond whose fraying constantly has to be patched and rewoven
you’re probably recalling the time you could just clutch the handle, turn it, step in, swoop me up
and spin me around like we were the only two people on Earth
like father and daughter meant invincible, infinite
with our mismatched hands intertwined; second-hand toys; sticky fingers; patience

first smile for you
first tears wiped away by your rough fingers
first-word: “da-da”
first day of school
quickly turned into the first day of high school,
where nobody calls their father “daddy”
you’re probably recalling the closed doors, that would shake our small home
the too-short shorts; boy talk never talked; space I crave; attention I need; warnings I dismissed;
the intransigent distance between us on silent drives.

I know you’re scared of me, what I might do,
or what the world might do to me
scared of losing me to teen boys, angst, and a life separate from you
but we’ve had this discussion
so you bring your knuckles to the patchy white paint
a question spoken, softly,
and the sound reverberates in my ligneous heart that I am still learning to carve.

waves twitch and scream, thrashing against the concrete shore. I know
we aren’t meant to survive the storm. you’re all wrong for me. I’ve accepted that.
I really don’t need the seagulls to point it out.

silence is not a docile creature. it mouths at my shoelaces, clamps
slavering hot jaws to my ankles – and when the tide rushes in and grasps
with greedy violence at my knees, I swear I can hear you breathing from
ten
stories
down.

cars snarl down the road in slow motion
bitumen glistening fluid smooth under the blistering lights of their artificial glares
frantic white eyes searching, whirling
hungry, tearing pieces of my dizzy body from the burning night
and when I clench my fists, bring trembling hands to my skull
my skin splits under the pressure. I barely even feel it.

another set of tires rips through the ocean’s still surface
and I’ll admit, I find a trace of you hiding in the reflections on the windscreen

because you’re everywhere, everywhere
in orange peels and the scent of rain,
in the lavender growing bright and lovely in the bookstore driveway

and this current is everywhere, everywhere
in every sideways glance and on these unforgiving steps,
searing hot behind the flimsy barrier of my least favourite coffee mug

and I often wish that I could leave both the sunrise and the sunset behind
but they’re a part of me too –
pressing their frail lips to my eyelids as I
drown.

(but in the morning
though I spend most midnights licking crimson from my bloody knuckles
I’ll be glad you can sleep
always
swept up in the rise and fall of your fragile chest
as mine strains against the silver thread
woven by your delicate surgeon’s hands as you worked to mend
skin
tendons
ribs – and I know you’ve written something there
something I always search for when my life turns indigo.
I wish I could read your handwriting.)

I’d never fall for a saint and
I know you love to disobey but
could you pretend to be a merciful god?

show me that quiet grace
laugh diamonds into hazy air
glance fitfully at our divine ceiling and tell me
a storm’s rolling in
(and I know, I feel it, tumbling over the sea where
water turns frenzied turns furious)
press me to your side and drape your jacket over my shoulders and
shelter me from the waves as
Zeus’ hands spread damp and grey
across their horizon.

please be gentle with me, love.
I’m not as wise as I want to be and
I’m not strong enough to fight like this
but I know I’d brawl every night
if I could waste every sunrise watching you sleep.

grey. the water is grey now, and as dawn trembles, unfolds its paper wings
my fingertips breach the surface – and then I’m gasping
greedy for air, hungry for sleep, coughing cherry syrup from empty ribs

and silence swells around me
tinted peach-rose-crimson by the new light
shattering off dew-slick flowers on the other side of the road
and when the waves rush out, wailing, clinging to my wasted body
I let them claim a different victim, throw our ugly porcelain to the vicious tide

twice I’ll dodge the frantic hungry eyes bleeding white smoke onto the highway
to pinch a piece of you between my fingertips, carry it up, up, up
past the front steps where I’ve spent nights laying bruised-cheek-to-stained-pavement
and when I reach my alter I’ll take a quiet moment
to lace perfumed thread through your hair (as you once stitched together my skin)
and rest lavender’s bare stems on the bedside table.

don’t turn to me as I close the curtains
and don’t stir as I hide behind my eyelids
please let me listen
(a little impatient, a little greedy, always)
to the honey-sweet river kept tame, rushing in, rushing out, playing
in the safety of your ribcage
the force of a

new

current consuming me completely.

on a meek Tuesday
though our presence was slight
we existed on Ambedo Street

in the depths of the dark
under murky streetlights
was a solace that tasted so sweet

cicada rhythms throbbed
the night was sultry
gentle drafts eased the mood

the uncut tall grass
the thinly split asphalt
flowed like a river askew

four legs, back and forth
laces danced to-and-fro
sweaty hands tucked into pockets

moonbeams stroked the mailboxes
fountainous willows tinted indigo
collarbone adorned with shattered locket

black and white, the houses arrayed
like a twisted spine on the ground
they were draining to gaze at, all evenly spaced
sitting still, remaining earthbound

on Ambedo street
where cares were whisked away
frigid, bony fingers of the wind
caressed your face

take me back to banana milk days
i dont want to know that world history just means european history anyway

before i knew what calculus was or how to write A+ essays
i knew happiness didn’t only have to occur in hypnagogic haze

the avoid at all costs cracks in the pavement were ablaze
the answer to atlantis and escalators to exoplanets were hidden in sunshine rays

i miss floaties, flying, fruit juice boxes and fingers sticky with doughnut glaze
being held rather than being held accountable on display

remember when laughter was light and friendships were always
cant recall the last time a mirror gave me praise

back when I didn’t know how freeways differed from highways
i craved the snacks passed around during traffic delays

i dont want creepy men glancing at me not me sideways
let me cry without asking if its my menstrual phase

take me back to banana milk days
when I could scream and not be made to capitalise punctuate paraphrase

a teenage boy
inside of a girl’s body
that’s what my life is

I see other guys
I feel hatred burn inside of my body
the envy and doubt that forever haunts my mind

this isn’t just a phase
you don’t feel the ache in my chest
the one that never leaves, no matter how hard I scratch and pull

I’m in the cuffs of her looming presence
the constant ache and anxiety that attacks me
I can’t look in the mirror without wanting to smash the glass

the scissors that sit on the desk
I want to take them
I want to cut off every female part of me

she is taking away my true identity
she is trapping me in this body
she is keeping me from being him

Little Blue,
Flutter of hope,
Flies like a fairy,
Dances on the afternoon breeze.
A song like your favourite memory,
Like a whisper of a distant dream.
And time or age can’t steal it away,
So I’ll sit and listen to your stories again.
Together, we remember your memoirs of the little blue wren.

The afternoon breeze gently ripples through the peaceful billabong,
Perched high on gum tree branches, rosella’s sing their sunset song
Children climb wattle trees, picking clusters with delicate care
The winds are their ancestor’s whispers, floating gently on evening air

As the sun sinks slowly in the west, darkness descends upon the land
Ancient people gather by firelight, families, hand in hand.
Songs, dances and stories, illuminated by the moons delicate light
The land breathes soft and peaceful, on this crisp Autumn night

But one morning, the peace was shattered, the birds, they did not sing
For over the eastern horizon, the restless tides did trouble bring
On sailing ships, the White Ghosts came, their colours hoisted high
They raided our sacred places, fire sticks raised to summer sky

And so, the storms of terror broke, with violence unforeseen
Our tranquil billabong destroyed, where our people’s spirits had always been
The invaders brought separation, destruction and decimation,
Stole our land, some our lives, but never the heart of this, our nation

Listen carefully, if you will, to the secret trickle of the billabong,
And surely, if you are still enough, you’ll hear our people’s song
Never to be swept away, we are eternal footsteps in golden sand
Always was, always will be, our sacred land

We aren’t in the same boat,
we are merely in
the same storm.

You sip a pricey citrus chardonnay
on your opulent yacht
while I cling to driftwood
on the cusp of drowning.

My hope is tearing
tearing
tearing
torn.

I don’t have the energy to weep.
I’m too tired from shivering.
Trying to find warmth within my bones
is impossible.

My body is wearing
wearing
wearing
worn.

Your gargantuan haven dodges lightning
like my rotting plank never could.
You’re in sight.
Maybe there is hope…

My withering body you’re seeing
seeing
seeing
saw.

You’re hardly struggling through the storm
while I’m a victim of the tempest
but you see your slight hardship
as more important than mine
and I find that unfathomable –
much like the ominous cerulean ditch
beneath my treading feet.

Glistening waves lap gently against your vessel
as you sit perched calmly above,
so why do sinister ones drag me deep
leaving even my driftwood
out of reach?

My time has come.
I’m going
going
going
gone.

We aren’t in the same boat,
we are merely in the same storm,
and that is where the difference lies.
That is where society lies.
The boat does matter if you want to survive.

I stand on the edge, the horizon spreads before me
The wind hits my face, I feel like I am free.
The beauty of my country, the colours of my land
Come and share it with, come and take my hand.
Let us journey on together, let us fly, let us soar
Walk the land of our ancestors, breathe life into our core.
The rain hits the desert sands, the rivers start to flow
See the green of the rainforest, as the plants begin to grow.
The sunlight filters to the ground, the land comes alive
If we care for country, we can make it thrive.

Take my hand, and come with me, our journey has begun
Bask in the glow of our love, warm our faces by the sun.
For we may not always be right, we may not all be free
But together as one, we take a stand, open our eyes, and see
Let us stand up for injustice, let us close the gap
If you cut the tree, it will bleed its sap
The fires they are burning, wilder than before
Our human hands have created this, we need to heal the sore
The earth she is crying, she is warming and distressed
We need to act together now, not wait until we’re pressed
I am a child, but I am strong, I am willing to take a stand
I hold the knowledge of my ancestors; I want to heal my land.
Let me dream, let me speak, let me cry my tears
I will try to lead you, wise beyond my years.

Bullets rain on us.
One skims my arm,
Another
finds a mark on a friend.
The taste of blood hangs,
metallic,
In foreign air.

Blinding light
Illuminates an Afghan landscape,
As we claw our way through
Loose, golden sand.
We are told to never trust.

“That young man,
For example,
who shook your hand?
Perhaps he plants landmines
with the same ones.”

I stop making eye contact.

One day,
They tell us to retreat.
And, when we do,
We are passed red-faced, wailing infants.
Their parents’ voices masked,
Among tears and shouts and screams.

And my thoughts
Return home
To scorching red earth and blue sky,
Beach stalls and ice-cream,
A night cracked open by lightning.
Birdsong in morning sunlight
And at dusk.
Australia –
Wilful, wild, free.

When I wake up,
The world is dark, colourless.
I can’t see my own hand,
Let alone my window.

I wait.

A drop of sunlight inches down from the sky.
It glows in the dark of the night,
Holding me enraptured –
A moth to flame.

It runs down the roof,
Down drainpipes,
Down walls,
And stains the landscape
Turmeric-gold.

trees burnt, grass course,
hearts hurt, throats hoarse,
people stuck, praying, hoping,
animals burnt, dying choking,
people trapped, people stuck,
try to get out, no such luck, the raging dragon, pursuing its path,
killing the livestock, mother and calf,
the demon comes closer, burning everything in sight,
the red flame kills, and turns day into night.

Gunshot overhead
Bombs released from planes
The screaming children
Running far away
To a different life
My people, my home
Torn apart by war
Diversity has lost
I’m constantly searching
My old way of life
Is just a fantasy
My stomach lurching
As I leave my home
I am starving
I’m skin and bone

the crisp, fresh breeze
blows against my face,
crystal, deep blue waves
kiss the shoreline,
sand moulds to my feet
then melts away beneath
a memory embedded in the sand

always remember the promise we made
the trust that we have is a secret we trade
two souls intertwined, a line with a hook
one pinkie promise was all that it took

always remember the ups and the downs
how every embrace could wipe away frowns
from bruised and scraped knees to broken hearts
we were there for each other when things fell apart

always remember the memories we made
the contagious laughter whenever we played
all our adventures exploring the land
monarchs of the playground, we ruled hand in hand

always remember the bond that we had
that if separated, we’d die or go mad
our friendship runs deeper than any ocean
more profound and intense than any emotion

I will always remember you, and always be true
I loved every moment we shared and went through
and now let me say with my final breath
I will love you forever, even in death

Walking through the streets,
Shoving your way through crowds.
The sky, dark grey.
Factories making plumes of smoke.
Excited, deafening chatter,
Blocking all other noise.
Houses empty, roads full,
Everyone has places to go.

Lockdown.
The streets are empty.
An odd car, here and there.
You can hear the crows,
Screeching as they fight over food.
The ocean is roaring,
Battering the shoreline.
Few people on the paths,
Expressions unable to be read.
Small stores, out of business,
Employees desperate for work.
Everyone searching the news,
Hoping, against hope, that this will soon be over.

You can see the fireworks
But my gunhi heard the gunshots
You celebrate with your family
But my gunhi was in riots

You tell me I should celebrate
But  today is one for mourning
All I need is empathy
for my heart is still hurting

Our land is burnt till it’s dry
What worse could happen
For you still look in the pretty sky
And yet for me today is the day to cry

Hope is a beautiful thing
It is what turns a box into a fort,
A book into a world
And a game into a sport.

Hope is happiness,
The gift of life and the gift of new.
When old makes way for young,
And the blessing of you.

Look up at the sky and say
Thank you, thank you for the stars.
For when leaves fall off their branches
You have broken through your bars.

It’s ok to fall over,
So long as you get up.
For falling is an accident
But you choose to stand back up.

Always search for a drop of hope,
Because that’s what life is for.
Just stop for a moment and enjoy what you have
Before you run to war.

But once again, the Earth will devour.
There will always be an end.
Sooner or later, the night must arrive.
But then day will rise again.

It’s real. It’s there. Growing.
Bigger. Stronger. Powerful.
It’s always there. A void.
Infinite. Unending. Awful.

Can’t stop now!
Faster, harder, run!
Before it engulfs you.
Then you’re done.

You’re nothing!  You’re worthless!
Your feet are pounding!
Give up no one cares!
Your heart is racing!

And just like that,
You’ve started sinking.
Inky black depths.
Go! Start swimming!

But nothing helps.
Your silent screams,
That no one hears.
“It’s just a dream.”

It’s real. It’s there. Growing.
Bigger. Stronger. Powerful.
It’s always there. A void.
Infinite. Unending. Awful.

I take a deep breath before I step inside the school gates
my heart races faster as I try not to shed tears
I walk towards a crowd of students
who taunt me with their stares

their whispers repeat over and over again
playing in my mind like a radio track
exploiting the insecurities, I never had before
the words sting and keep me back

it doesn’t matter if you’re black or white
if your eyes are small or big
everyone is beautiful in their own special way
everyone should feel like they fit in

The crack of lightening, the roaring wind
The force that rattles my stained glass pane.
Amid the howling of the wind, I feel a drip, the start of rain.
I wrestled with the bellowing force, it twirled and whirled me round
The damage that the wind had caused cost much more than a pound.
Raging through the great big city, twirling with no stop
It ripped my roof clean off with a great big lengthy POP!
I think that this enormous storm will never end
It uses all its strength and might to rip around the bend.
The wind dies down, the rain stops, it all comes to a halt
My house destroyed, my things are lost, and none of it’s my fault.

For 40 000 years, our culture has survived.
The oldest known people on our prized planet.
Surviving through stories, through music, through dance.
Dreamtime weaves itself into our beings.
Ancestorial songs flow through our veins.
Numbin janigam.

Custodians of country, we respect and protect the surrounds.
The animals, the landscapes, the language, and people.
Past, present and future.
From the ngarehr screeching in the sunny sky, to the nguhnybah slithering beyond
Our feet; we cherish them all.
Garihmala gali jagun

I stand a proud Kombumerri girl,
Committed to my culture, my connection to land, and Dreaming.
Yet, my reflection speaks a difficult truth.
Sapphire eyes and paperbark hued skin contrasts that of my father’s elders.
Flowing locks, not dissimilar to bark of an ancient ghost gum, portray my mother’s heritage.
Jundi wunjar-jam

Displacement. Disillusionment.  Disenchantment.
Dreamtime remains within my soul, yet a larger dream calls.
A dream that celebrates differences.
A dream that unites our nation.
The dream of acceptance for all people.

Note: Translations from Yugambeh Language
Numbin janigam – The house is strong.
Ngarehr- Black cockatoo
Nguhnybah- Red belly black snake
Garihmala gali jagun- Respect this land
Kombumerri – a clan of the Yugambeh people
Jundi wunjar-jam – Speak truth

Blazing fire dancing on the roof
Tendrils of blue smoke billowing mystically
Heat prickling my skin
A metallic taste in my mouth
People chattering as if nothing’s happened
Laughing, having fun

                        Panicked people pushing
                        Evacuation buses
                        Coming
                        Coming
                        Coming
                        Pounding of feet
                Parents crying as children are taken away

                                    Nothing
                                    Abandoned buildings
                                    Alone
                                    Red trees growing through windows
                                    Lonely textbooks left in school classrooms
                                    calling out for kids to use them
                                    Masked raccoons roaming the streets

How could this happen?

I just sit and stare, hardening
It’s not fair! They love her more than me!
They use her for drinking and gardening
She makes them live and I kill them you see?
I want to be useful for something
Something not horrible and cruel
I used to be nice and lovely  Steaming your relaxation pools
Water was Natures’ favourite That made me steamy and mad
Mother Mountain adopted me And for once I was glad
Now Mother Mountain’s a volcano with me inside
But there’s only so much a mother can take
She gives me a place to hide Away from Waters’ Lake
Water lives in a hole like me But hers is where people can see
I live in darkness and fear hiding
Knowing only mother cares for me
When you mortals upset Mother Volcano
She rumbles at me to leave with stealth
So with her help I head for the city
To tell you, “I’m lonely and don’t care for your health!” Water is now lonely
And the lucky ones who made it won’t be coming back
Sure I’ll  harden but we’ll both find ourselves
           Back in the city coming for you and I’ll  attack

The gun fires
I’m not expecting it to happen,
I stumble, I fall,
I catch my breath

I try to keep with the pack
I run and run and run
I’m with the pack
I’m catching my breath

The other people burst with speed
I try to keep up with them
My lungs burn with fire
I’m losing my breath

The crowd roars they scream at me
Yelling to make me run faster and faster
I stop for a breather
I’m catching my breath

I start to run
The others slow down
I sprint fast to get ahead
I’m wasting my breath

I’m half way now
I’m in fourth place
I start to breathe quickly                                                                                            
I’m losing my breath

I get a stitch
With every step it gets worse and worse
I do big breaths in and big breaths out
I’m catching my breath

My muscles ache
I feel like I am running
through quicksand
I’ve left my breath

I see the finish line
My adrenaline takes over
I finish
I can’t feel my breath

I fall over the line
It’s done
I grab my chest
I find my breath

In my mind I won
But this silver makes me proud
It was the race I feared
But my breath took me over the line

As I awake, I gaze around and glimpse at the dullness of the Earth.
I stagger from my room and destruction assaults my eyes,
Each day passes by, desolate and glum,
My heart yearns for rebirth,
Softly, I close my eyes,
Where a world of aspiration awaits me,
Immense in beauty, bold and bright, my refuge.

A kaleidoscope of vibrant colours, tantalises me.
Seemingly endless, draping over my shoulder,
A sweet, perfumed aroma permeates through the air,
Luscious leaves swaying swiftly through the warm breeze,
A forest of flora waltzing with delight,
Such natural beauty is magnificent,
Immense in beauty, bold and bright, my refuge.

Burly and broad, to dainty and small,
Breathtaking beasts begird,
Enjoying freedom without boundaries,
Flocculent, plumate, hirsute,
Each unique and astounding,
Affectionate and nurturing to humankind,
Immense in beauty, bold and bright, my refuge.

Wild waterfalls to soft, sabulous shores,
Majestic mountains up high to voluptuous valleys down low,
Towering cliffs to powdery, talc-like snow,
Enrapturing to the senses,                                                                                
Captivating, entrancing, spellbinding,
Free from destruction, volley and smog,
Immense in beauty, bold and bright, my refuge.

This world brings happiness,
This world brings pure joy,
Full of warmth, tranquillity and love,
Like a hot chocolate on a Winter day,
I feel cared for, I feel brave, I feel free.
Immense in beauty, bold and bright, my refuge.

My teacher is an adventure story.
He makes the students feel the jungle …
He sees the unexpected!
His excitement always growing; sharing the joy inside his heart.
He has so many adventures, but he doesn’t take the plane
Instead, he takes the students
Carried away on his words.
Then he returns, like a happy ending.
But sometimes…
He just gets carried away on his own story.

Last year we camped out in the bush
The worst night of my life
It truly was so terrible
Here’s what caused the strife!

The possums got into our tent
And ate near half our food
The cockatoos woke me early
And put me in a mood!

The rain got through into our tent
In the middle of the night
The dingoes scared us all to death
They gave us such a fright!

The phone reception was really bad
Trees fell down in the storm
Mosquitoes got the best of us
I wish we’d booked a dorm!

We packed up and left early
We played games in the car
I wish we’d not gone on the trip
It was the worst by far!

Before the white man
We were at peace
Then they came and we were torn
Everything of ours was gone

One by one they took us away
Children from mother, without a say
They planted their flag in our sand
And took away all our land

We were herded like cattle
And since that day it’s been a battle
The big man said he’s sorry
But didn’t take away the worry

Health, education, employment and housing
Are but a few of my people’s feud
Now there’s a new big man
But no news of how he’ll light the fuse        

So the boys and girls can learn their grammar
And won’t end up in the slammer
In our future we’ll decide
You’ve done enough, now step aside

My home is a prison cell
and Covid is my prison guard
as long as it exists,
I cannot be free.
Threatening to make me sick if I ever leave
the only thing I can do is wait,
for hope.

As a spark flies like a bird of prey,
The devil awakes to end the day.
Hot forks spear the trees,
As the animals all fall down to their knees.
The armageddon has started,
The world is destroyed and parted.
The birds flee to the east,
This is a fire feast.

The forest is old,
The ground is cold,
And the earth is big and bold.
The trees are growing brown and tall,
The animals are prowling with their paws,
As the planet heals from its fall.

The wind blows throughout the forest,
Mother Earth is never here to bore us.
The devil was here to tear us,
But the earth is here to repair us.
The birds glide to the west.
The planet is doing its best.
To tidy up this mess.

The tadpoles tickle my toes,
cicadas begin to chirp,
swans dance around pastel pink lilies.

The sun dips into reflecting water.
Verdant vines sway to a gentle breeze
gliding through my hair.

A bearded dragon places itself on my rock,
flipping his stomach over towards me,
revealing his scaly fragile skin.

I watch the horizon
with a bubbling happy feeling.

I close my eyes,
breathe,
smile.

Rubbish,
Disgusting, Revolting,
Killing, Hurting, Dying,
Oil, Poison, Ribbons, Balloons,
Paining, Wounding, Painful,
Scary, Disgraceful,
Pollution.

Soaring over cityscapes and  rocky mountain cliffs.

Spreading her golden wings, ready to attack.

Cunning, fast and quick to protect her baby chicks.

She stiffens her claws and dives to the water.

Her babies feast on salmon, and now they’re ready for sleep.

She stays on guard through the night, no predators hunt or seek

They wake at the crack of dawn at morning and their day starts once more