Wednesday, 1 April 2015

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...

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.

Friday, 20 March 2015

As the flow cries

As the flow cries
from the moon
to the open seas;
she soars
and trickles
to be free. 

Saturday, 24 January 2015

He is bearded and at the Bar

In Urbino, Granada, Tromso and Melbourne,
he is bearded and at the bar.

His deft juggle of 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 his hand 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,
Bearded and at the bar.

24th January 2015
Sitting in Dolci di Battista Urbino watching the barrista and thinking of my son at work.

Sunday, 18 January 2015


You abort me
you mutilate me
you burn me
you scar me
you stone me
you rape me
you kill me
an X doesn't equal a Y.

Friday, 29 August 2014

We went to Jerusalem

We wanted to find peace
so we went to Jerusalem
the city of peace.

In the city of peace
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.

we found the city on the hill
a light to the nations
the city of peace
was sitting with us
in this room.

"Peace be with you
And also with you."

August 16th 2014
Dedicated to Professor Nick Grief, Human Rights Lawyer, University of Kent Law School

Sunday, 18 May 2014

I carried my world

I carried my world
In a brown paper bag
The day
I came home
To Melbourne.

April 2013

Friday, 11 January 2013

The Girl with flowers in her hair

The babushka sang her mournful tune in a minor key
serenading on Kiev’s ancient cobbled street Andriivsky Uzviz.

Was it a lullaby she sang for you?

“Hush sweet girl, your tears are carried on the crane’s wing.
And your dreams so shattered this day at Dream House are not so lost.
The butterfly will lift your dreams on her delicate wing.
So hush sweet girl.”

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

As you wear flowers in your hair with pretty coloured ribbons 
flying the colours of Ukraine. 

Their song lifts your spirit sweet girl and your dreams will travel home
with the crane and the butterfly lullaby.

 27th June 2012

Poem for Natasha at Dream House Hostel
The title is from and inspired by ‘After the Storm’ Mumford and Sons

Sunday, 5 August 2012

‘Segovia Cafe’, Melbourne

To the right,
flat white and apple and cinnamon tart,
is placed.
To the left I move it.
We of the left always out of place,
We right those wrong moves.
Block Arcade.
Segovia Cafe.
Cool cool jazz
on a cool cool night.
Bright red lipstick.
The cup of flat white.
Sexy jazz impregnating.
Cinnamon spicy jazz.
A place,

 14th November 1997

Saturday, 19 May 2012

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.

 3rd January 2012

Wednesday, 2 May 2012

Time for Port Phillip Bay

Its January 2nd 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.

 2nd 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.

 17th 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

Friday, 10 February 2012

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?

 26th September 2011

Tuesday, 24 January 2012

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
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.

 24th 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?

 26th February 2011

Thursday, 19 January 2012

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”.

25th 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.

 24th 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.

 25th February 2011