Monthly Archives: August 2013




Who the hell back then would have thought
that I could have traced a path all this way
from the sullen mullock mounds, perils
of half-filled mine shafts, creaking derelict
poppet heads craning high over a quartz
crushed hill rising among Yilgarn grey-green

savannah? My mother? She was raised in green
pastures of Avon River’s winding ways,
so surely not. My father? A derelict
family when his Welsh Da left the quartz
gold reef of Gondwanaland with the thought
of richer tin mining among jungle perils.

And instead, now I face professorial perils
in China classroom, or inspect derelict
Welsh mining towns crouched in the green
mists, finger family gravestones. No thought
there of new factories—crystals of  quartz
in Jiangsu, where they’ve lost the Taoist Way.

Or bursting through snowbanks on my way
to Valtellina peaks rising above green
apple orchards. And who would have thought
I would trudge Tuscan roads—not chipped white quartz
this time, but marble scree amid perils
of Michelangelo’s quarries, now derelict?

That I conversed in tongues all derelict
of meaning to my father or mother, of perils
abroad at Bologna Station bombed, or quartz
carvings smashed by Red Guards on the way
to victory over dynasties of cultured thought,
seems strange, now my voice turns from red to green.

And so, landscape a solace, I sought green
shades of my homeland once again, my way
back to the gold-bearing greenstone of derelict
mining sites, the scars of greed and perils
of collapsing stopes, miners entombed in quartz
or lungs ‘dusted’. Mother, who would have thought?

For me, such perils began on ridge of quartz
with birth thoughts of pain among derelict
desert trees, grey-green. Yet this was my way.






Ashes fall from a hot,

clear sky. Bear Mountain

burns, and we taste it.

The only smell is forest-


Another neighborhood

is evacuated. Police,

hazmat, and federal agents

search for explosives. These

stories are unrelated.

This is a small town. Strangers

nod when they pass on the street.

Cars stop for pedestrians. Doctors

are kind. Two more days until

the surgeon cuts her open.

Then we’ll know.




My first job was as

An apprentice panel beater


I was a bad panel beater

& a bad actor

(hated grease under my fingernails .. )


Once as I lifted a door off

A corner  ripped the lining

No one knew & I never said


The boss caught malaria

On the Kokoda Track


He trembled & sweated

As he held the steel dolly

In his left hand

& hammer in the right


He was a good guy –

He never fired me


Today Kit’s car is parked

In my driveway

with a flat battery


As I reached down to turn a nasty

Little nut it bit my finger


It all came back –

A Pontiac that wouldn’t start

Pushed out  on a dirt road


Mid – Summer in Broken Hill

Rags on our hands


The desert air shimmied

It was lovely


A drop of sweat

Boiled on the bonnet


Being a poet was the best career

Move I ever made



Our furniture’s floating it’s

a thousand miles by coracle

I’ll bet a swim. I’ll advocate a snarling stroke, a win

the bastards will have to accept, no choice. For as

the matter stands: Mother weeps

while Father sleeps – no help there. Get out!

It’s my playpen! I’m here

to frolic with the Romans, feed grapes

to Gratiana. Soap & mirrors, we’re preened

for Feather Pride, some justice foundation

for those flights in blonde, in a nutshell: Dementing

schizophrenia is essentially a regression to the cloacal

level of hermaphrodisan. In denial? You bet. We might

word-dead Mom, let her reaching it to Nurse

as concertina beef, an oxen-aproned blood sleep where she

just a natural birth

complication: twins in a tower, hung, bells, real

cloak & dagger stuff but rang anyway in spite

of back-lane chatter: bus to Bamako I’m on it

for sure what about you let’s become a brilliance. Let’s

the same as Mother but different: Shine

while we span! – Bamako set-down, hear it from a Griot

our story plus. Which, forensically speaking, pretty well

sums it up – a thousand miles by coracle

our furniture high & dry.





Lost Fish #1





Lost Fish #2 (1)









I have given light to this beginning

voiced it, felt it, owned it

my heart suspended

from the kowhai tree

heavy with child

I sob –

these tears for you,

for me, for us,

for change.


Yellow –

you tell me to deal with it

I stand my ground

this time I say no.


After flowering

my leaves fall,

your hard shell softens.


He hears all –

like poison it germinates,

his embryotic psyche

altered by the nectar of your words


young kowhai are frost tender.



























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