top of page

Series Of Poetry

A fault of my own yet not a fault I committed


Faces in this place not representing this place, 

Faces with cases containing places that stained this place,

Faces seen yet faces that have not been under the surface,

A surface covered by feet beating history into a mystery, 

Bursting the seams into what seems a clean sheen of history,

A scene we see is a scene we created,

The real scene obscene,

The real scene holds lost ones,

Loved ones knowing love is not found here,

Just in the ground here,

It was dug up and burnt just like their family tree,

Come near me we said

They did

And we hid them in burnings beds

With heads full of dread that they may not be dead,

So, we took their beds, 

Took more than before,

Took it all,

Made the small even more,

Tore all,

Took it down to the bone,

Left them no home

or

House

Just a hellhound chewing,

Gnawing,

Makin sure it was never as it was before,

They are now no more than creaking floorboards,

Stored under-cut feet,

Clawing to get out,

To see out onto land now so bland with our touch,

My touch, 

I know I did not murder

Yet 

Blood is on my hands. 




Summer is still winter


The sun

             Burns 

                         As I yearn,

I earnt this,

To be a part of this,

Yet it all goes amiss,

                                    The happiness in the sun,

                                    The fun in the sun,

Yet months past,

Times moves fast as I get stuck in the past,

Staring into the sun to be blind,

Digging feet into the sand to not move,

Watching the waves brush the beach beaching thoughts in my mind,

Time

In

Time

In,

Yet time in this place reminds me what this place is not,

The sun hums yes, I know,

Yet the funeral drum does too,

I escaped here

Yet

I trembled here in the golden country

                                                                    Which now rusts.




The lies of the eyes of a poet.


This country was sold as a great one,

A nice one, 

Green and shaded lanes yet lanes running with pain,

A plain of existence existing with the decaying,

Ones moulding form hands that stole from them, 

Hands that now try to save them,

A paradox of another’s creation,

An oppressor

Trying

To be a saviour,

The confusion confounds even the others,

The others are me who have come to see the opal-hearted country,

Yet only seeing a cold heart beating nothing but sharpened parts trying to cover the past,

Even though the past is me,

Us,

He who sits in the cell just because we never treated them well,

I am in the majority and yet the majority are not frightened

Even as the truth tightens and constricts showing that my country

Is not mine,

Its rather a malign man standing on a benign man in a burning land he set on fire,

I do tire at it all as I am so small in it all,

But all is not right,

The night darkens to reveal the bright day no longer shading a dark past

Which now stutters past,

The farce faded,

The forests black,

The animals on their backs and yet a knack for blindness still prevails in the poisoned ales we all drink from. 

It easier to run from than to accept what we are running from.




Blind eyes of a flag.


Let us rejoice,

Soak in joy as they have fallen for the ploy,

They thought we were young and free,

Except we are neither,

Old in ideals,

Trapped in what we steal,

Feeling nature's gifts give way into a tar-black day and revealing the lack of care in what we call rare,

Rich in nothing but our ignorance and taking a stance on what we never glance at,

Yet we still sing glories and wonders in a place of neither, 

A place we toil for yet spoil,

Taking the spoils for ourselves,

The lands, the expanse shrinking in our calloused hands,

As people come to this land, 

they see the bland and not the grand, 

Not the renowned we espouse,

Just a lousy attempt at advancing Australia fair with unfair care.


bottom of page