all being welcome

17 May

get born

sweep the mountains of all sorrow
encompass compass
let direction decide un/divide
the unconquered we
the children, divine a route
through/to perfect harmony mute
for in towns now sleeping
naked underbelly exposed
in rippled corridors of light latitudes
carrying broken attitudes
owning everything including
failure to assimilate with ancients
waking spying shying undying civilisation
sits forever forgotten in aged care homes and hidden homesteads
watered by rolling rivers in northern hills
these too many hearts and hearths standing
unsheathed and empty
and infinite at dusk
looking sidelong/ingly
to long distant fuller dawns
with a becoming bucolic plague
revealing buried inheritance from forebears
of forebears who forswore forwent without
to give all to phantom cutout tomorrow hopes
including terror memories
all leading to our now one day bubonic rage
where we shake our fists on empty page
to see we are all but pawns
standing forever so on our limited green lawns
crying crying for shame for shame
but who of us would not be born?
sweep encompass unconquer divine:
there is a route to harmony
but first we must get born.

08 Apr


the irrelevance of the sacred
true chaos of geology
explode containing more than pseudo sacred geometry
relentlessly existing
in the remainders of a surviving rim
a deep botanical heart
in a gondwana of wonder
where water away moves always
falling or fallen
coursing rendering clean
will coursing clean me too
come course with me
down a wet wild valley
if I were the valley
green with a secret heart
of trickle tickle and
scale that dwarfs the so far tiny (who cower knowledgeably)
receiving early reminders or just awakenings
to cellular truths never not known
by those who not so long ago
were not born
then we
lying on fragments of the exploded
now a millennial residue
just beautiful debris
and bigness
all the way up to light at the ridges
golden and glory
a heartshaped hemisphere
the face of the rock
the face of love
i would wear the delicate raiment
of forever’s fine fungal lace
moss green
but never with envy
for falls will fall, or fall silent
and cannot protest the loneliness
of the simple charge to
to forever be left by water

17 Mar


Your wistful wish images
stolen from my dreams
day and night
the same exact images
characterised by absence, with
details, delightful and perfect
fruit on the vine yet to be picked
kiss and caress yet to be bestowed
all manner of delicacy stored
for a winter yet to come
of which I will be
your solstice.

IMG_3447 (1)

17 Mar

islands and forests

Coconuts abound but
I miss the scent of gums
the dry crackle underfoot
and that particular silhouette;
leafy dangle
laconic descent
down to scrub
(accompanied by a cacophony of bird)
but under this it is the
birch oak ash
of ancestors I miss
forest not bush
the epigenetic inheritance
of everything I don’t remember
and can no longer claim
having been orphaned over eons
over oceans
to wake one day
with whatever it was that meant anything
replaced by the eucalypts of now
and by a longing to make a home of unhome
and all this anyway
on the here then there now
continuum of time space place
to be later usurped by the coconuts
of lovers and children
(who could not love a coconut?)
where I found a banyan for a brother
(who could not love a banyan?)
and where I learned that jacarandas, frangipanis and framboyans
come from somewhere other than my childhood
and belong nowhere and everywhere as much as youme
and if my heart is girt by seven seas
then all the twenty seven islands of my identity
are still home for what I once was (for sìle, for morwenna, for fiona)
and who we might still be
on this
the long walk of forgetting
we pass under and amongst the tall cousins
or we see them on screens and having lost all their names
we hold tight to the ones we still know
that belong now to the meta language of human;
the frangipani, the banana, the palm, the fig, the fern, the gum, the coco;
ignorant of borders and transcendent of tongues
we plant them (again)
in the islands and forests
of hybrid hearts
grafted for growth in foreign lands
escaping soil
to survive our own disaster
and after (again)
shoot new.

17 Mar

now and then

IMG_6098then the surface simplicity
of catholicism in the australian nineteen-eighties
was a made to measure mould
within which little more than children parents
might bring up a brood in what was
in spite of dogma
for me, an ecstasy of childhood
then if i was confirmed
i was confirmed in
wonder and awe
now knowing these as
the only and the best
to take from sunday’s schooling
(i pray to find them once more)
now my children think
they want nothing more
than for me to kneel down
and be a child with them
but after three decades on the planet spinning
and the various
and the ongoing
of innocence
i can finally see that
needs a shield to be
and it’s only me between
the unadulterated garden they inhabit
and that hungry machine
that awaits their adult selves.
now i realise i am a human shield
taking blows and wounded
but not wallowing
and still smiling
and when I die
then will that make me
collateral damage
in life’s campaign
for continuance?
now i sometimes wish to take me back to then
to pre language memories in
dark green corduroy overalls
a being becoming
sitting on the front steps
of my childhood
feeling an ant up my nose
holding sweaty tight to
a toy harmonica
and in my heart the first time sensation
of siblings in plural
already going off ahead
away from me
up front paths and
over the hills and far away
out leading me
leaving me
in a number four’s forever attempt
to catchup matchup
starting with the
sharing of a womb
yes, I was the last one to use it
through a common
time space continuum
of places that can only be got at
by magic
for what else is
my mother’s womb
a place where only we four have been
just like a wave’s curl
a forest’s pool
a mountain’s peak
a deep’s cave
magical places
the off limits
that we are only ever always
leaving in lament
even as we arrive in a now
that was a once might be

17 Mar

inky pool

I step out of the inky pool
to look upon its surface
glittering back
on shiny black
are galaxies of love and purpose.

Now by its edge I stand and see
all water falls away from me
flowing back
to shiny black
will I too dive or am I free?

If I step up into abyss
take leave of love and purpose
no singing back
into womb of black
will take me soul nor surface.

So dive I will, I shall not flee,
deeper into source I’ll go
joyfully back
to expanding black
I dive down deep to surplus.

17 Mar


Down highways
into open arms of love, we go
into the immediate expanse of place,
to listen for the roar of childhood oceans,
to take shelter from the glare of fiercer sun,
to speak of ties familiar, and always
to yearn for homes to come.


17 Mar


Sun rises over pink horizons with a
fading moon in the morning sky.
Pet rainbows appear and deliver
daily messages from cloudy heaven:

First footsteps in cool sand and the
surprise of silhouettes of earlier souls.
Short paddles in paradise into lineups
where conversations are carried over
waves, days, weeks, decades.

Laughter swells and intersecting sections
are made or missed, down meridians of liquid life.
Swells roll in and rails and hatchets are buried.
Lives are lived around the rhythm of the tides.

17 Mar


Only half here
and completely elsewhere
I’ve been swept
bit by bit,
like sand in a desert hill
in my new direction.
Parts of me have gone ahead
but my roots are still in place
impatient to dissolve.

17 Mar

stormy teacup

in silence there is everything
but when hope leaves
mostly there is nothing
just a silent everything
that takes up all the space.
a muffled measured maybe assent ghost
of a slow motion imaginary ascent.
if i was tickled gilt by baroque tongue
now i’m only guilty
with forever guilt
of broken language
and trauma translations in tone
your measured muffled schism
and dirty sarcasm hateful disingenuous ungenerous prism prison
woven words with integers of cynicism
and interstices of thoughtless/ness
all leading onwards and away/hateful away
into above absence
so big it fills the cup
stormy teacup
that once upon a time runneth over
and the gusts of wind
that blow only in ghost towns
once upon a time wild and alive
now blow back my tumbleweed hair
and force tears sideways in tracks
of dirt dust upon my barren cheeks
kiss my cheeks.

all being welcome