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Again - Again (Memorial to Oodgeroo)
You gave your wake up words to the people with no dreaming.
Wrote with a stick on smooth white sand
On the white page
On the white brain.
Waves washed the words away.
You wrote again.
You gave your memories to these new times.
Brought the old times home
Gently, leading by the had, the children of forgetfulness,
Into their land.
You gave your wisdom to the wind to carry -
To drift like the floating seeds of plants
To drop into the dust. To wait for rain.
The seed wind talks -
We will be wise again.
You gave your footsteps to the tracks of many colours.
On dust, on marble, on cement and stone -
On the green moss cushions.
On the loud, brittle leaf fall.
Finding a way to think around the pain
Leading from ridge to ridge
Lead us again.
The spirit time with come and find us waiting -
At the gathering place of birds
By the clean water,
By the low scrub and deep inside the lily root.
Across the wide red plain
Come spirit voices singing the long, long spirit dance.
Campfires gathering up the people.
You gave your spirit and your place.
Come - shimmering through the smoke haze -
Come - dance with us again.
Winner of the Elanora Award for poetry 2001.
Ladies and Gentlemen
August 2000
The World's at war -the hungry cry,
'Give us a gun -or else we die!'
Our leaders pose and ponce and pray.
The hunger does not go away.
The mothers weep - their breasts are dry.
They hold their babes until they die -
and fathers too; they bear their grief
in silence and without relief,
for vicious is the criticism
of manhood lacking stoicism.
As each, who conflict's path has trod
blames vehemently the other's God.
We turn in shame from Hitler's path
yet year by year, in aftermath
we follow leaders with devotion
whose brains contain the selfsame notion;
who crave for power, who crave for fame
who do not know another game
who cannot risk the change of mind
that whispers, 'Leaders must be kind.'
How few there are with guts to dare
to give to each his proper share.
(The votes, you see would not allow
such leaders to remain in power.)
So leaders proud, with epaulets
impress each other with success.
Palaces and private planes
express the limits of their brains.
Why honour in our History books
the dates of Death - the lives of crooks?
We'll write their epitaph in fire;
the world's enormous funeral byre.
So blindly led, we blindly follow
on stoney roads to victories hollow.
Our children's lives a ransom token,
the planet burns, the promise broken.
~~~~
Go back! Go back, in time with me.
Seek refuge underneath a tree.
Tread with bare and reverent feet
the sands of time; the silent beach.
Seek there, before the changing tide,
the courage to go deep inside,
to know the wisdom of the earth,
to feel the sanctity of birth.
Then lean you back against a log
and seek the blessings of your God.
Who'll turn from commerce, glitz and lies
to look into another's eyes,
to find in each care-weathered face -
a friend - a spirit filled with grace,
a hope, for all eternity,
that I touched you and you touched me?
Will each of us not reach inside,
to find his strength, to hear his guide,
to see the way each one can be
a gentle part of history.
Be gentle when you take the lead,
tend gently to the wounds of greed.
Australia Fair
I remember schoolyards
red dust
dago kids
mistrust.
I remember sad eyes
national lies.
I remember IQ tests - whites were best.
'Can't talk English. Don't come here. Take our jobs. Drink our beer.'
I remember very well;
'Go to hell! Garlic smell!'
I remember silent pain
New Australian - new shame.
I remember brave face;
Hard work. Hard place.
Don't cry. Kids happy. Got friends now. University.
Better life than we got.
Better life - polyglot.
Driftin'
I have been watching full ripe orange moons afloat on swirling seas
and palms flapping their wings in a strong breeze
and gritty puffs of sand run up the beach
and better shells than mine, just out of reach.
I've found bits of driftwood and old rope
sat on the sheltered side of dunes,
warmed by the sun - and seeds of hope.
I saw the fragile first leaves of a vine,
its shadow-future threads through the tops of trees and time.
I saw the red clay-blood stain the white sand
where storms had ripped out trees, waves stole the land.
I watched the kites swoop long and slow and calm,
breathed in the smoke of fires and felt their balm.
I've watched the stars above the oaks through long still nights.
I cannot think what I have missed from earth's delights.
Veranda Sleeping
I can hear things,
croaking in the night,
out of sight,
through the quiet.
I can't see the moonshine,
anywhere,
isn't there.
I'm scared.
'cause I can hear the rustling of wings,
and other things.
Outside.
I'd better hide.
Under blankets where I'm safe.
Can't see.
And night things,
can't find me.
Granny Stuff
What about?
What about birdseed?
It is very small.
How does it fill
a bird up at all?
What about raindrops?
Why are they wet?
What about jelly?
Do raindrops set?
What about stones?
Do they grow up forever?
If you're a boulder
is bigger more clever?
What about shells?
If you're turtle or snail
you can't fix your house
with hammers and nails.
What about sunsets
up in the sky?
Who lights the fire up?
For whom and why?
What about beach sand?
All this - I've got plenty!
What about kids whose sandpits are empty?
How does my jacket get warm on the inside?
I'm going to sleep now.
I'm feeling quite tired.
Max'n'me
Max'n'me hiding
Under rocks
Dark place
Be careful
You can't see -
we're crabs
Max'n'me.
Shhhhh
Don't tickle.
Don't pinch.
Something's coming
Inch by inch.
Might be turtle
Might be whale
Might bite you -
Not me!
Don't be frightened.
Don't be scared.
Little sharks aren't dangerous.
Look out! Get under rocks! Sharks can see you sometimes.
Shhhhh
It's a whale swimming.
I can hear it in the dark.
But might be turtle.
Might be shark.
Sometimes on a Rainy Day
Making fire
Leaping flame
We made it all with cellophane.
Red and orange
Green and blue
Chop up bits
Stick down with glue
Sticky fingers
Sticky face
Very sticky, everyplace.
Get the batteries.
Here's a torch.
Careful, smell the paper scorch
Now it's finished
Now it's done
Making fire is lots of fun.
Know-all
If you're a turtle
You go very slow
'cause your house might fall off
if you wobble you know.
If you're a tree frog
You hop like a 'roo
If you forget
you're mum shows you how to.
If you're a pipi
curled up in a shell
you hide in your sand-hole
so no one can tell.
If you're a seagull
with shiny red legs
you spend your time fishing
and sitting on eggs
If you're a human
aged about two
you know quite a lot
and know just what to do.
Danger !
( published in Playtimes and Swag of Yarns and winner of ABC radio
funny poem competition)
I didn't chop my fingers.
They're just short and pink and fat.
I didn't chop my fingers
when I went CHOP, CHOP, like that.
I didn't chop my fingers
When I climbed up on the chair.
I've got every single finger,
and there's no blood, ANYWHERE.
YOU might chop your fingers
if you play with Grandma's knife.
Just don't go in Grandma's kitchen,
or you'll get in awful strife.
Grandma keeps the gate shut.
She won't even let you see,
all the poisons in her cupboards,
and hot things for making tea.
She's got knives and forks and scissors,
and electric plug-in toys.
I'm not allowed to have them,
'cause I'm just a little boy.
When I get much bigger,
life won't be such a bore.
I'll have knives and forks and scissors,
AND a bloody huge CHAINSAW !
Ballet
I like to do ballet - it's the best sort of dance.
You point with your toes - then you wriggle and prance.
Grandma does ballet - she sways like a tree.
When a strong wind blows she sags at the knees.
She crashes right over, and then she plays dead.
I say, 'Please Grandma, do ballet instead.'
My uncles love ballet - they visit and say;
'Max, have you practiced your ballet today?'
They throw me up high and they twirl me around.
I do lovely ballet till they put me down.
TV has got ballet. You should see the shows.
All that hopping and skipping dressed up in nice clothes.
Would you like to do ballet? Come over and play.
We can do Batman and ballet all day.
King Arthur's Sword
King Arthur, wearing tousled rose-gold crown,
sat bending to his work.
'I am making you a sword-knife.
It will be a good one.
I am making it from cardboard.
With two blades so it won't be floppy.
Two silver blades!
Two blades of magic shining sliver.
You know that special kind.
It will kill every single monster.
Two blades cut deep.
Two cuts leak out all the blood and power.
Monsters will get dead.
Not just a little bit.
These monsters will be double dead forever.'
King Arthur then explained,
With deep-sea eyes ablaze;
'Monsters might be dangerous.'
Silence settled in the room while we considered danger.
Then, leaping to his feet and slashing with his sword,
King Arthur swore, 'I'm dangerouser !'
'This swordknife is for you.'
Is it possible to own a greater treasure
than a floppy cardboard swordknife
encased in tattered silver foil,
which can slay all monsters,
Double-dead forever?
Is it possible?
The Mystery of King Arthur's Tomb
King Arthur lives with me sometimes.
He often stays the night.
He whispers stories in the moonlight
From deep inside the doona cave where we are hiding.
Whispers can kill monsters.
That big one hiding in the cloud.
That one needs some whispering to make it go away.
Look out! Here comes Arthur galloping!
He's throwing stars and pointed spears
And ripping open fluffy monster guts.
Now the monsters are all dead.
Or gone to bed.
By daylight Arthur has a vast realm to control
Uprisings to put down
Long speeches to make
Ceremonies to attend
Banquets to partake
And daily ritual retrieval of long swords from the lake.
Then - the slashing off of heads
The righting of all wrongs
And loud singing of songs
Are arthur's contribution to his nation.
It's never easy for a man of higher station.
Arthur reigns with dignity and pride.
With passing time Arthur steals inside
to take up his abode with the cavern breast
of every growing lad,
of every dad,
of every grey-haired pop.
There's Fred and Tom and Lancelot.
All are eternal residents of Arthur's Camelot.
Oh Camelot, that sacred ground
Where Arthur's tomb was never found.
We gather now but not to grieve,
We gather here to loud proclaim
The majesty of Arthur's name,
King Arthur lives - he never died
In every man, he lives - inside.
The Surfer
(Published in Close Up and Far Away anthology)
I have washed my soul in the water,
I have made my peace with the sea.
The tall pines and the white salt sand
will know and remember me.
My spirit rides on the shining crest,
of the fat, green rollers.
I am filled with the power of youth's unrest, and
the Sun-God gilds my shoulders.
God Bless
God bless those who choose to hate
who guard their hearts with armour-plate
who close their mind to love and hope
and choose to live on booze and dope.
They guard their soul from things sublime,
live mis-er-able, all the time.
God, reckon up the price they pay,
and choose to bless them, anyway.
Heartstopped
So often I am heartstopped by the beauty that I see;
Sunrise.
The endless daisy fields.
Stark skeletons of trees on blood-red hills.
Or mountains,
shadowcut on purple skies.
Emerald forest pools.
Deep seas of opal hues …
then I am heartstopped, silent, sigh,
then sometimes I remember,
sometimes I think of you.
Walking
Walking the ghost-white sand for miles.
The purple sea,
the emerald, shadowed bush, pink skies, and me.
Hovering overhead the coming night.
One single star and one lone kite.
The cobweb thread of burning eucalypt,
Reels me toward the fire and human voice - breeze ripped.
Still I withstand and stay alone,
to savour fragments I will not take home.
I leave my thoughts pearl-scattered on the edge of waves,
to swirl, sucked down into the deepest mermaid caves.
Elder Statesman
His hands were brown and lumpy as he gathered up the sticks,
to start the fire going, to cook the damper mix.
His shape was large but graceful as he shuffled here and there.
From beneath his hat protruded strings of greying crinkly hair.
His clothes were clasped about him in ripples and in folds,
by broad and aged leather - a belt with ripped-out holes.
There was little indication of the things that he had done.
The image on the surface showed what he had become.
He turned his head towards us, his eyes lit up with smiles.
He said,'I'll be a minute - you just sit there for a while.'
He gathered his tobacco and he rolled himself a smoke,
as he gazed into the distance, then he drew a breath and spoke.
He poured out all the stories of his family and his land,
The laws, the lives, the history - the making of the man.
He spoke about betrayal, though he spoke in loving tones.
He spoke about great courage and the need to have a home.
He spoke about the open skies and miles of red sand plains.
He spoke of joy and fear and fun - he spoke of inner pain.
He opened up his life to us - shared everything he had,
As he passed around the damper. Then he rolled another fag.
I knew, as we were leaving and I shook his leathered hand,
That he'd somehow changed my thinking, that he'd helped me understand.
Men in suits and men with guns ring out the battle cry,
when the body bags are counted - it is other men that die.
The men in suits and men with guns are leaders up for hire,
but the man that rules inside himself is the leader to admire.
~ ~ ~
These days I tread with caution past glass walls on marble floors,
I view with justified suspicion, impressive swinging doors.
I look around the boardroom at each member of my tribe,
and I pose myself the question, 'Who rules him, inside?'
I feel the hand of guidance on my shoulder, bearing down.
My glance takes in the outline. It's a leathered hand - and brown.
Then I'm pushed for a decision, and I dare to question, 'Why?'
Will there be an answer for me? And will it satisfy?
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