As The Dust Settles

This one was based on an unsavory accident in 1997 when the ACT government demolished the old hospital on the edge of Lake Burley Griffin in Canberra. Thousands lined the lakeside to watch but the explosives were incorrectly set and flying debris littered the lake, reached the far shore and killed one poor little girl. Sad, very sad.

As The Dust Settles

As the dust settles

media moths migrate 

en masse, 

attracted from the capitol, 

wild accusations 

like shrapnel fly, 

imploding the myth 

of Sunday by the shore, 

lake’s shores 

safe shores 

Lake Burley Grieving, 

ask whose is the shame, 

ask whose is the blame?

As the dust settles

back peddling 

politicians nit pick 

the community picnic, 

conceived of 

mass marketers 

now counting 

their electoral cost; 

old union heads, 

after the event, 

wax wise in lament 

of such cost effective, 

but non traditional 

solutions; oh yes, 

and dangerous too.

As the dust settles 

over the shattered 

sanatorium, 

once life’s savior 

now turned harbinger of death 

in its own deck of cards 

demolition demise, 

keen sighted 

legal eagles 

hover above the carrion 

that was Canberra’s child, 

but the dead 

will not arise 

from class actions, 

even on the third day.

 

 

History

 

History

when a word can recount the full story

when a tear can flood the whole world

and a sigh, a breath fierce storms provoke

yet our flag of life remains furled;

when a dream disappears in an inkling

when a sliver seems mountain size

and the flame of your candle flickers

free in the instant before it dies;

when a glance can engender a pageant

when silence can sweetly serenade

and moonlight at dawn in dappled skies

is the catalyst for our love’s crusade;

where an echo fades before its return

where two parallel lines intersect

we dwell in the rhyme of my poetry

through that mirror, darkly, we reflect.

 

 

The Doorway

 

The Doorway

Faint breezes puff impotently at the heavy metal security gate,

but only rattle the loosely latched wooden door behind;

two currawongs, couched high in council's potted jacarandas,

warble their musical morning alarums in perfect counterpoint,

their echoes eerily climb the graffiti clad concrete stairwell

cross sensory paths with aromatic coffee and crunchy bacon

sliding stealthily under the door, wafting out to the unlit mall;

lazily, dawn drags the dank cloak of darkness from the doorway.

Despair, in various guises, played, worked and slept here last night;

uniformed hope and charity did their very best to coddle fallen kin,

but even now, as dawn's first light floods the cold concrete floor,

one shivering legacy of the dark side's frantic trade, curls up

foetus tight in unconscious mental bondage amongst the bed mates

of her addiction, discarded syringes, heroin caps, tablets and the

crumpled condoms, her credit card in the alternate economic society;

poignantly, her life now poised on the point of a state issued needle.

 

 

Bush Anthem For Australia

 

Bush Anthem For Australia

(As read nightly for the last eighty years at the Mount’n Lagoon pub!)

 

With just a snatch of light remaining from a perfect autumn day

observe the cloudless sky continuum of red through ginger, then dark grey

which last lights the lofty eucalypt with its cockatoo congregation

reflective sun turns white to red faking a tree born conflagration.

Its a special time and to welcome night catch nature’s form of praise

as a poignant Aussie chorus forms to farewell the best of days;

there’s poor cohesion, lack of harmony, voices laced with some discord

but prize your days in this unique land and accept this aural reward.

To some its just dusk, crickets chirping and cockies ceaseless squawking

but drink it in, its the spirit of our great land that’s really talking

and it only takes a second for the cloak of darkness to descend

and bring the resonance of Australia abruptly to an end.

Keep these idyllic scenes eternal, help our land to long survive

love our people, love our fauna and learn to keep the bush alive,

believe in the spirit of nature, keep faith with natural ways

entrust your god with the power to deliver such perfect days. 

 

Bill The Artist

Bill The Artist

Bill is a tall, wiry, older guy

very softly spoken, almost shy

has arthritic fingers but suffers the pains,

prefers to sleep right through his dreadful migraines,

tills his backyard garden for sustainable food,

through his art seeks inspiration to sate his mood

and deliver a subject that justifies

his artistic skills and his mind satisfies.

Yearly April when Aussie minds turn

to historic lessons all should learn

of futile past war games the sorrows of death,

the loss of loved ones having breathed their last breath

ably serving our country no matter the end,

belief in our freedom always theirs to defend,

built an ANZAC legend based on their demise,

on display now the Gallipoli art prize.

The Nek, Afrikaans for mountain pass,

bottleneck in truth a planning farce,

unsynchronised watches officer’s mistake,

barrage stops early still decisions to make,

so lacking protection the light horse hop the bags

go over the top, some succeed raise marker flags

lure more waves of young men to an early tomb

in twenty ten Bill depicts their gunned down doom.

A solemn moment maternal tryst,

embracing the son she always wished

had not enlisted to fight did not have to leave,

his father there too firmly grasping his sleeve,

but they cannot restrain him the train whistle blows

soldier son off to battle this mother’s fear grows,

tears well in her eyes as she prays to heaven

Bill captures this scene in twenty eleven.

Mates, cobbers from small towns in the bush,

farmers, ringers become diggers push

back forces of evil in overseas lands

lives recalled today where this monument stands,

names of men carved in stone unfairly sacrificed

a cost to their families much too highly priced,

cattle graze nearby help our feelings to salve

in Bill’s praised contribution for twenty twelve.

Bill’s quiet, humble, just gets on with life

calmly fades into crowds never seems in strife,

not a complex man and with aura serene,

but deep inside forces powerful and keen

relate to the real world his experience knows

in passionate study of what history shows,

to thoughtfully create such skilled works of art

pose questions, force answers from deep in our heart.

Secret Garden

Secret Garden

There is a secret garden

a place I often go,

sanctuary

in a world of chaos

where the colours of all seasons

are guaranteed

to be on show

So when I’m fractious, angry

or simply cannot cope,

recovery

in a world of turmoil

is walking through an everglade

where I’m inspired

by nature’s hope

My garden is full of people

around each shrub and tree,

our destiny

in a world of learning

locked fast in peace and harmony

with equal shares

the simple key

Forever in my garden

our essence is retained,

'Eternity'

in a world surviving

etched in chalk upon the pathway

this way of life

will be sustained.

'Eternity', a symbol inspired by Arthur Stace (Mr Eternity), an Australian soldier and reformed alcoholic who converted to Christianity and spread his message by writing 'Eternity' in chalk on paths around Sydney between 1932 and 1967. The eternity message came from Isaiah 57:15.

Passing Time

Passing Time

The train was rapidly passing a station

Whilst she was just slowly passing time

I was engrossed in observation

A commuter bred habit no reason or rhyme.

Oblivious to the noisy intrusion

Schoolchildren in scrambling homing haste

Uniform led hysteria infusion

With energy latent not a second to waste.

Bags slipping, legs tripping and slurpee spilling

All talking all listening one to another

Some thumbs cocked in raunchy text thrilling

Others phoning home today’s tales to their mother.

But she remained still, intent and focused

Propped casually in the far corner seat

Unruffled and tranquil, not at all nonplussed

At the physical fuss milling round her feet.

Her interaction with people was mental

Fictitious characters plied her mind

Through inspiring creations from Ruth Rendell

Or rather her alter ego Barbara Vine.

Totally absorbed she did not disengage

From the English author’s newest tale

The Minotaur’s intrigue on every page

Captivated her senses, was her Holy Grail.

Slightly hunched, bent forward with both feet planted

Perching her rucksack to suit her need

She formed on her lap a firm book prop slanted

For easy reading while traveling at high speed

On this trembling train in a giddy carriage

Chasing the warm winter setting sun

She read of four daughters from a weird marriage

And of John the haunting sad and self absorbed son.

Whilst she made no movement, did not flex or blink

The train’s rock n roll sideways traction

Made her pendulous aubergine earrings jink

And jive in a true sympathetic reaction.

Natural grey tints, subtle, rightly expressed

Her age, not young, just nicely mature

Oval glasses clearly not for reading best

Sat balanced atop of her neat, short cropped coiffure

Reflecting filtered sun, a prismatic look

Like the matching aubergine dress ring

On her left hand steadfastly gripping the book

Tight fingers the soft plastic cover impressing.

Her gaze still fixed, not at all animated,

The only gesture was her slim wrists

As from right to left she manipulated

Completed pages with deft repetitive twists.

On her well defined, small and elegant bones

The pallid skin seemed still young and taut

Her thin lips smiling, still erogenous zones,

Instilled in me base feelings I ought not have thought.

My stop was due and with her mind in the tome

I left her to the novel sublime

And an unknown ending to her journey home

We were just passing ships, she was just passing time.