Rouen 1431

With her last breath Joan prays...

'Laudate omnes gentes laudate dominum...'

The hum of laudate dominum

breathe in omnes gentes...

breathe out laudate dominum...

breathe.

Feeling the firey breath of flames

licking young flesh

worn and made old

as a chess piece in this endless 100 year war game.

'Am I a white pawn?

Or a black pawn?'

God my beloved said to me like to Moses of old

"Free my people!"

Miriam was in my my ear whispering, "For this you were born.

Be not afraid! God will lead you and be your salvation."

Viva la France!

I will free my people!

I am woman!

And I roared as the flames singed my flesh here in Rouen....

"Mama save me for God has abandoned me!" 

as the white and black pawns burnt with me.

And only Mama saved me, as she bore me. 

Her child, Joan.

As the flow cries

As the flow cries

from the moon

to the open seas;

she soars

cascades

and trickles

to be free

He is bearded and at the Bar

In Urbino, Granada, Tromso and Melbourne,

he is bearded and at the bar.

He deftly juggles the beer pot

while his smooth moves with the cloth

glistens the glass

and the glass reflects his smile

as he serves.

Steel sparkles as he manoeuvres

the up and down thrust

of the La Cimbali machine.

Steam froths and his warm banter

serves the cappachino.

He is the hospice of home and hope

for the gypsy global traveller.

His tea is his telos

his vodka is his vocation

his water is his welcome.

He is the host and L'chaim is his food

in Urbino, Granada, Tromso and Melbourne,

He is bearded and at the bar.

24th January 2015

Sitting in Dolci di Battista Urbino watching the barrista and thinking of my son at work.

 

Chromosomes

you abort me

you mutilate me

you burn me

you scar me

you stone me

you rape me

you kill me
because
an X doesn't equal a Y

We went to Jerusalem

In our silence

In our prayer we went to Jerusalem.

We wanted to find peace

So we went to Jerusalem

The city on the hill

The city of peace.

 

In the city of peace

In Gaza

We found layers and layers

And pieces and pieces

Of people.

 

The people were in pieces

Messed up in their minds

Bombs blasting their bodies

Spirits suffering and seared

 

And we sighed.

We want to find peace in the city of peace.

 

Together in the silence in our prayer

We found pieces of peace

sitting with us

in this room.

That's all there is.

Pieces of peace.

 

"Peace be with you

And also with you."

First written on August 16th 2014 after a Vigil for peace in the Holy Land at Kent University, Medway Campus

Dedicated to Professor Nick Grief, Human Rights Lawyer, University of Kent Law School

Updated  December 9th 2023 Advent 2 Peace

I carried my world

I carried my world
In a brown paper bag

The day

I came home

To Melbourne.

April 2013

The Girl with flowers in her hair

In a mournful key, the babushka sings her mournful tune,

serenading  Kiev’s cobbled street Andriivsky Uzviz.

Was it a lullaby she sings for you?

“Hush sweet girl.

Your tears are carried on the crane’s wing.

Your dreams so shattered this day at Dream House

are not so lost.

The crane will lift your dreams on her delicate wing.

So hush sweet girl.”

As you wear flowers in your hair 

with pretty coloured ribbons 

flying the colours of Ukraine,

all in Kiev so gentle and kind serenely sing and join in the song.

Their lullaby lifts your spirit sweet girl 

as your dreams travel home

on the wing of a crane.

 27^th June 2012

This poem was written for Natasha who was sobbing her heart out at Dream House Hostel, Kiev Ukraine.

We were in Kiev during UEFA EURO 2012 hosted by Poland and Ukraine. 

The title is inspired by ‘After the Storm’ Mumford and Sons

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMsTSdHIJds&feature=related

‘Segovia Cafe’, Melbourne

To the right,

flat white and apple and cinnamon tart,

is placed.

Place.

To the left I move it.

Move.

We of the left always out of place,

righting.

We right those wrong moves.

Block.

Block Arcade.

Segovia Cafe.

Cool cool jazz

on a cool cool night.

Bright red lipstick.

Kissed.

The cup of flat white.

Sexy jazz impregnating.

Cinnamon spicy jazz.

A place,

Left.

 14^th November 1997

Agapanthus chime

Mornington Peninsula

your amethyst agapanthus and red flowering gums

flash the colours of summer days.

From Flinders, Cape Schanck and Boneo, Rosebud, McRae and Dromana

coral peach pinks and tangerine orange flowering gums

dazzle and shimmy her colours,

while agapanthus chime the hours of our radiant summer days.

 3^rd January 2012

Time for Port Phillip Bay

Its January 2^nd and 40 degrees.

On a bus to Sorrento as my vision arcs out through the window to the sparkling waters,

I notice my watch stopped on New Years day at 8.19pm.

And all I want to do is float horizontal in the aqua waters of Port Phillip Bay.

 2^nd January 2012

The Rabbit and the Drought

At 4pm an afternoon tea of greens.

The rabbit she munches

grass of this land

new green after rain,

the rains that

ended the drought.

Her kind they did come,

a few little rabbits

for sport in 1859

for an Englishman farmer

he be named Austin.

Just 24 rabbits

they came to Geelong

for play.

Her kind

they escaped

and multiplied like rabbits.

They munched and they chewed

A colony of rabbits

across this southland

and decimated

the land

the size of old Blighty.

Clearing the land and eating her host's food

She greedily ate

and bred.

Too late now for the introduced virus

Myxomatosis and Calicivurus

to do their deed.

Her rabbitting ways continue today.

The rabbit, so sweet.

So Beatrix Potter.

She pleasantly eats her greens on this day.

The land it is green

this day as well.

And distant the memory

Of drought.

 17^th December 2011

The Birds of Flinders

The seabird

the hang glider

the twin engine

all flew in formation at Flinders.

From ancient of days

the seabird has soared and glided

caught the jet streams

and winged her way

above the cliffs

and around the point at Flinders.

He holds the bar

and leaps off the cliff at Flinders.

holding the bar of the Da Vinci inspired glider

weaving and ducking and whooshing

he’s carried by air currents

high above the cliffs of Flinders.

The twin engine jets above

the glider

and seabird

is fully controlled

by diesel and throttle.

In straight lines it flies

above currents and jet streams

leaving behind

the sea bird and glider forever

away from the point at Flinders.

The sea bird and glider

thread through the air

hover and hold

beholding it all

as they glide by the sea

off the cliffs

and the point

at Flinders.

17th December 2011

Do you Remember?

Do you remember the last time your baby’s milky mouth pulled away from your nipple and she gave you a gappy smile?

Do you remember the last time she clung to you like a koala bear?

Do you remember the last time you washed and hung out her cloth nappies?

Do you remember the last time you read her a bed time story, prayed “God Bless mummy, daddy, the boys, and all the family” and kissed her warm forehead, nose, chin, each cheek and her sweet rosebud lips?

Do you remember the last time you folded her school socks and hung up her navy school uniform?

Do you remember the last time she sat on your knee as you cradled her, calming her tears and her fears?

Do you remember the last time you hugged her and whispered “I love you more than life itself”?

Do you remember watching her with her ballerina steps and hair flowing as she turned her back, pulled her bag along and disappeared through the Departure gates?

Do you remember these …. last times?

 26^th September 2011

Open Me

You open me –

Like the unfolding petals

of a Georgia O’Keeffe flower

at the New York Met.

You open me –

like a lace curtain

untied

in a Bruges home.

You open me –

like an origami butterfly

taking flight

in Narita.

You open me –

like the No. 12 tram

snaking through

The curves of a Lisbon street.

 24^th February 2011

Who is that man?

Who is that man?

Sitting in Alfama Square

pen and paper in hand.

The flowing hair of Jesus,

the charisma of Che Guarvra.

Is he a liberator,

liberating us with a word?

 26^th February 2011

Only the Poets

Lisbon is littered with livraria.

Through an alley

under an arch

over cobblestones

I find a Portuguese bookshop.

I ask the nice young man,

“Do you have Portuguese authors in English?”

He answers,

“No authors, only the Poets”.

25^th February 2011

Portuguese Wine

Does life feel any better?

Sitting in a Juliet Balcony

in Alfama at midday.

Bare shoulders and bare feet.

Gentle February sun

with a kissing midday breeze.

Getting drunk on Portuguese wine,

Portasda Herdade Vinho.

Getting drunk on joy.

 24^th February 2011

Lisbon’s medieval post modernism

A blood perfect warm sun 

and smooth caressing breeze

rustle the leaves

of the olive and cumquat trees in white cylindrical pots.

The Black sofas under the Lisbon sun

are body warm.

White tables and chairs,

white rectangular tin side tables

and a double shot expresso.

Portuguese ambient pop wafts out through

this outdoor cafe on the expansive flat concrete.

Looking out from this high vantage

to iridescent sparkling waters

and jagged, jumbled dwellings

which are impossibly perched and sandwiched in the hilly terrain

painted greens and clashing but surprisingly pleasing with

the pinks, mustards, siennas and terracottas.

The seabirds are calling to the sound of

the No. 12 tram rattling up and down the alleys of Lisbon,

and to the sounds of kind construction noises

making music with teenagers on excursion laughing.

Modernist and Post-modernist sounds

contrast with medieval bells,

as the Bell tolls 11.

 25^th February 2011