Serialised

Where do they go to?
Those endless rows
Who once sat, bless,
Pleased as punch
And bright as a bunch
Of tulips essential
To our well-dressed
Red-shoed universe.
They sang a hymn,
They learned a word,
Only ten or twenty years
Ahead to be interred
In brambles and roses
For the wrongs
Of a man, or men,
Or whoever we failed
In our future roles
To only once deter.

Green Dog

A dog painted green in the woods,
A white frog caught in floorboards
In my dewy miller’s youth,
Begins in my memory’s mouth,
A horseshoe over the door,
Rusty, swung another way round.

Those brass horseshoes abounded,
Luck pours out like the entrails
Of stars in the observable universe,
Pouring like turned milk from jugs
Invisible to the naked eye,
Invisible to the soul.

Rio Grande do Sul

My life is the size
Of one grain of sand
On a beach in Brazil
Or faraway land,
Further away
Than the south Rio Grande,
Further away
Than the end of my hand.

Yet my soul beats as big
As the Amazon basin,
As bright as an eye
In the swan constellation,
Further away
Than the blessed and the damned,
At my window sill waits
For the ends of a man.

So if you are feeling
As lost and alone,
Remember the healing
For how hearts atone –
Your soul touching stars
Braiding sinew and bone.

No More For Me The Sun

No more did you need for me,
No more for me the Sun;
Desire’s a mangy bedfellow
When beds are made for one.

He turned my pillow inwardly,
History’s eye disinterred;
Bled salt from me, then westerly,
Fulfillment is deferred.

In crackling ice behind a shed
I found a frozen stem,
Within its roots more frozen there
My love is laid to rest.

Grey River

We knew of ancient love,
But change with an A my lady;
Now I know of sickness enough,
Convalescing whilst all’s fading,
My monochrome existence.

There will come a day
When I traverse Grey River;
I know that day is not today,
Little less strength to deliver.

I was born with arms
Just like you,
I was born with a heart
And lungs and a liver,
But all this lost art,
Immaterial now,
Lonely are those left to shiver.

Aboriginal

Lunar mood fringe,
They placed several tiny pins
In my undernourished sides,
My diaphragm and then
My abdomen.
They did this for a promise,
For prophecy, and yet
When no blood flowed
Nor did I flinch nor wince
Nor died, they hauled
And winched me up
By my rusty flehmen lip,
To survey all extents
Of the damage they once did.

Far away from my vantage
I could discern a dust bowl;
Local Angle diminishes grief.
Despite the best intentions
Of actors and musicians,
Also known as charlatans
And often politicians,
We are worse off now
Than we were back then.
There is a bald eagle at war
With itself, it circles and calls
In brawling self-doubt;
In a dream irrepressibly
Parallel with that downy beast
Four bearded men rode side-saddling
Into a town where football grounds
Are venues for public displays
Of punishment and the schools
And universities and places
Of worship were left deserted
Long ago, long before my desertion.

When misappropriating men
Chase flags or desecrate chalices
Or bulldoze summits
To landscape the world a little flatter,
It is always women out of love
And children out of hope
Who are doled the most to suffer,
And at last I could see
From these barren heights
How Time’s helices reverted
To a more peaceful place
Wherein my less bleak thoughts,
Moreso than all of these,
Became at once atavistic and
Goldenly aboriginal.