Ghost.

How do you undo a headfuck?

I don't know, maybe

You walk down a hundred memory lanes

Ducking into darkened bars

Designed by vampires

And sit and drink and think

How did the underworld come to know of this?

How does every venue I enter

Immediately represent my state of mind?

It is as if this city is reading me

Not just my wants and desires

But those things I want to shut down and hide.

What gives such a diaspora of lives

Such cunning and such insight?

I tell you, this place has a mind of its own.

I could stand here, dick in hand,

Shouting her name to cold night air

And it would echo back to me, then and there.

All because I saw her, she who was gone,

In a dimly lit room, and she smiled,

Like we were total strangers...

How do you undo that?

What the heart felt?

What we shared?

Was I ever loved by her?

Was I ever there?

© shaun patrick green 2017

All Is Gone.

Mangroves tend down

Their arm-strong roots,

Like a reef wall against

Whatever sea may throw at shore.

But the mangroves are slowly dying,

Their dense mass a defence no more.

All is gone.

Before the wet, this town guts itself.

Those with a choice head south

And those without stay hidden away

Behind storm shutters, cyclone fences,

And the besser block belief we could

Never again come to grief.

All is gone.

Sure, we are all filtering

Through the grubby paws of Santa Claws,

Families and holidays reasons for leaving,

Just as we are untrusting of a sky with a history

Of violence, and a Bureau of Meteorology

Not known for their omniscience.

All is gone.

In this annual disappearing,

I hear the word whispered -

"Go," before the weather gets you.

But you've already been got, ceaselessly

Watching the radar for a tropical low

That might coalesce, might not - you never know.

All is gone.

Tales of Tracy slip from the dry-lipped:

Houses shredded, bombed flat suburbs, Xmas '74.

These and other visions of devastation

Haunt our air-conditioned dreams

As we hang on, weary and wary,

For the next BIG one.

All is gone.

  

© shaun patrick green 2017

Nursery Rhyme.

Did you tell your father?

Did you run to the door?

Did you pick up sticks?

Did you lie on the floor?

Did you hide in your safe place?

Did the monster get you?

Did your mother drink too much?

Did your daddy say "Boo!"?

Did you find a friend?

Did you sing a song?

Did the lady say "stop"

When the game went wrong?

How many numbers did you count?

How many colours can you see?

How many birds fly in the sky?

How many fish swim in the sea?

How many pills can your daddy take?

How many times can mummy yell?

How many bottles litter the bench?

Why do your parents say don't tell?

© shaun patrick green

She Remembers Light.

She remembers light

The way it is remembered

Filtered through trees

In the month of November

Her mother gathers wood

Winter approaching

Ice on the lake

The cold encroaching

She sews by firelight

Dolls for her nephews

They live in the next village

With soldiers and curfews

Her mother stirs soup

In a pot on the fire

Singing songs her mother sang

Of birds and wires

She will sleep

And dream of him

The blacksmith's boy

With the dimpled chin

Wake to morning

All the leaves gone

December in the arbour

The cold has won

© shaun patrick green

If I Fail You.

If I fail you

It is because I couldn't be

A better man

If I fail you

It is because I didn't have

A better health plan

If I fail you

It is because I couldn't see

A brighter future

If I fail you

It is because I couldn't afford

My daughter's tutor

If I fail you

It is because our triple digit income

Can't fill the pantry

If I fail you

It is because my ammunition belt

Is empty

If I fail you

It is because our crops are dying

While others have plenty

If I fail you

It is because disease

Depletes me

If I fail you

It is because systems have corrupted

Me discretely

If I fail you

It is because the detonator

On my jacket misfired

If I fail you

It is because I am strung out and

Totally wired

If I fail you

It is because my will

Is leached by advertising

If I fail you

It is because my dreams

Have undergone downsizing

If I fail you

It is because the politicians

Have bought me

If I fail you

It is because the Left Wing

Has deserted me

If I fail you

It is because the Right

Is tearing itself apart

If I fail you

It is because I have a condition

Of the heart

If I fail you

It is because God does not exist

There is no redemption

If I fail you

It is because God does exist

There is still no redemption

If I fail you

Don't be surprised; help is on its way

I'm human, only human

Failure is written in my DNA

© shaun patrick green 2017

Below The Waste Line.

Hurricanes batter the Caribbean

Tear through Florida

Like a thresher

Earthquakes hit Mexico

Burying whole towns

The sub-continental monsoons 

Drown thousands

In Pakistan and India

And when the wind dies down

The tides recede

All the debris

Gets bulldozed into a hole

So we can build again

Safe in the knowledge

This was a 1 in 100 year event

Only now it happens every 10 years

And soon every year

So we dig more holes in which to bury

Any dreams of a stable future

Where crops can be grown

Families raised

Lives lived

Hope realised

All of it bulldozed again

Into holes in the ground

And one has to ask

Where do the holes full of waste end

And the real living earth begin

As the planet warms

And storms gather strength

Our own government pinning it hopes

On coal, again

We must ask how much

Political strength is left

To avoid a global catastrophe

We could wipe ourselves out

Through sheer stupidity

We have tried it before

And come close

I am wondering what

It will take for those in power

To realise they too

Will lose that which they love most

© Shaun Green 2017

Party Season.

The dry season seems to bring on

A rash of children's parties

For all those parents lucky enough to have had

Kids born when the weather is decent

They start in May, usually low key

With fairy bread and pass the parcel

In the park, under trees

The way kids parties used to be

By June, some mums, enthused

By the occasional night under 20 degrees

Up the ante

And let's face it: it is the mums.

Dads absent themselves from the process altogether

Or in a nod to marital harmony,

Those fathers without the luxury

Of being able to turn sausages on a barbie

Might hang a streamer, tape up a balloon,

Stand around handing out fruit,

Beer in hand, hoping another dad will show up

So they have someone sympathetic to talk to -

For the parties are now themed:

There are Dinosaur Train parties,

Peppa Pig parties, Octonauts parties,

All thanks to the good people at the ABC,

Whom all parents turn to in times of need

And whose marketing strategies are just as coercive

As those used by commercial TV.

By July, things have reached fever pitch,

With more outlandish cakes,

Bigger, more expensive presents,

More decorations and complicated games

Face painting, jumping castles, piñadas,

Ballons bigger than the toddlers themselves,

Kids high on sugar whizzing like laser guided missiles

Given goodie bags with even more sweets to take home

So they can continue torturing their parents

In a cruel, backhanded way to say: thanks for coming.

In August, after the recycling bins are stuffed

With wrapping paper and boxes and bunting

And all the broken plastic toys and food scraps

Have been bagged and kids down from sugar highs

Go back to leading normal lives

Memories of an event that took 4 weeks to plan

And 4 days to clean up already fading,

There are the facebook photos to share,

So that mothers who held parties in May

Can look on and feel inadequate,

Grumbling under their breath, stifling their fear

Knowing they will have to go even bigger next year.

© shaun patrick green 2017

Toilet Training.

Recently I've been teaching my youngest

Where's the best place to do a poo

And when I listen to our politicians

I reckon they need training too

Except their problem isn't knowing

The toilet's the smallest room in the house

It's that every time one of them talks

The shit comes right out their mouth

Ask them to put policies on the table

They just smirk and lay a cable

Whose fault is it the economy is flat

They point the finger and take a crap

Ask what their response to climate change will be

They'll serve you up a chocolate bilby

Try to get a statement on indigenous affairs

Suddenly there's chokitos flying everywhere

And when they say: trust us, everything's cool

You know they're just dropping babies off at the pool

Now they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks

And whether that's true, I don't know

But if I can get a 2 yr old to dump in the dunny

I reckon we oughta give it a go.

© shaun patrick green 2017

Star Dust

In Manchester a mad man kills children

By strapping on a bomb for an idea

So pure and ludicrous that it makes Nazism

Seem like a fun family picnic

Man’s inhumanity to man knows no bounds

My daughter watches the news without sound

But the images are enough to tick

Boxes in her head about whom is who

And what is what in the world

People killing people for ideology

Or in some cases even for fun

I cuddle my daughter in the midst of brutality

Try to instruct her in the ways of humanity

But I feel a creeping fear the warlords are winning

Especially while Donald Trump keeps grinning

All the focus on Mars while Earth

Goes to hell in a hand basket

It’s video game logic

Hope was the last out of Pandora’s box

But her walk on the wild side has run us out of luck

The cycle repeats as generations are born and die

We are all dust in the mote of the Universe’s eye

© shaun patrick green 2017

Constance Mary Thompson.

We think we know the living, enjoying the confidence

That they will be around to share their experiences

And opinions, proving us right or wrong in our assumptions

Whereas the dead ask only questions:

How much did you really know me?

How much did you understand me?

Do you know the difference between lies and truth?

How much did you actually need me?

How much did you really love me?

Do you know how much I loved you?

Constance Mary Thompson asks me now

And I wilt under her gaze, as always,

Feeling guilty yet not knowing what I have done.

She demands answers and I have none.

I knew her as mother of my mother - the root and centre

Of family so firmly planted that I failed to see our lives

Without her branching tree of distant brothers and sisters,

Tales of Yorkshire, the War, Western Australia, nurses and doctors,

Jesse Macpherson Hospital and the ever-present ghost of her husband,

Phil: an amalgam of experiments with omelets, Shakespeare and carpentry,

A violin in search of a player, a late-night never-answered prayer.

His framed photo sat beside her bed, the smallest of shrines,

A bespectacled face, also asking questions

Perhaps he was a lesson in loss Connie learned well,

Perhaps it was the legacy of her War Generation:

We go on because we must, holding the burden close, suffering in silence.

She seemed to see in me his spirit renewed, a trace, a mark,

The way I walked, talked, something in the eyes.

So, unknowingly, I began to share her burden, becoming a totem, a sign,

That nothing is ever completely lost, merely transformed,

Becoming a voucher or coupon you can claim on

If only you could remember where it was stored.

We all shared her burden by adhering to her idea of family,

Even if we never truly understood what that was.

Nevertheless, she defended it with a determination bordering on ferocity,

Which is not to say she wasn’t giving and caring, no –

She was loving and caring to a fault and it showed,

Just so long as you saw that invisible line she expected to be towed

One memory remains strongest: my younger brother and I 
Were in Tennant Creek when we were told Nan was to visit. 
We were so excited we could hardly sleep.

We woke up at some ungodly hour to find she wasn’t there and so

Returned to bed disappointed, only to wake later and find she was there,

Like some inexplicable magic trick, she had appeared from nowhere.

This was a moment of wonder and joy I thought I would never see again,

Until I saw my daughter born. So you see:

Things are never truly lost, merely transformed.

Still there are no answers. The questions linger, disturb our sleep,

Play out in life like the patterns of choice at the tips of our fingers.

All these words unsaid or words said in anger, all this unresolved history,

Mislaid plans and misadventure are, as The Bard said:

“A tale of Sound and Fury, signifying nothing…”

Perhaps not "nothing", and if something does remain it must be this:

The pure fact of our existence. I would not be here if not for her.

A light has gone out but the glow remains, as it does and must.

Constance Mary Thompson rest in peace. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

©shaun patrick green 2017

April Fools’ Day.

Can it be possible for a country

To be entirely composed of snow?

Canada on April Fools Day

And the weather has tricked

This part of the world

Into a late white Christmas.

My two and half year old daughter

Stomps unsteadily,

Occasionally dropping to her knees

In fluffy white powder and squealing

In the delight only children can muster.

I trail behind, filming, shepherding,

Vaguely amused, slightly flustered,

Knowing that snow is like the sea:

A surface of calm and beauty

Hiding horror and savagery beneath –

Teeth that tear, traps that ensnare,

Despots and extremists dime a dozen

Freedom defeated, ice retreated

CO2 at four hundred parts per million.

But we are happy to be played

For the fools we are and build

Snowmen in parody of ourselves.

Death can wait until Hell freezes over,

So long as there’s beer on the shelves.

©shaun patrick green 2017

From The Sky To The Sea.

A once hard sky seems softer

With the prospect of rain,

Portentous and grey,

Fussing like a broody hen,

Then letting fall,

Gentle at first like welcome,

Lightening and thunder to follow. 

Soon, it is comforter no longer, 

Torrents tearing through suburbs, 

The ground beneath you a river.

You will swim in the shallows,

Get sucked down into drains,

Listing out into the sea

To be fish bait,

Prey to tentacles and teeth,

Eternal return to our birthplace:

From the sky to the sea.

This is why our children wander -

The sea is blue and free -

And inevitably why they wonder:

What waits down there for me?

© shaun patrick green 2017

School of Life.

Christmas again and the usual minefield

Of family drama, excess of gifts

Masking lack of understanding

That we have traveled 4000km

With minimal baggage and don't need

To lug 30kg of crap back to Darwin.

Stuff is no compensation for distance

Yet empathy goes a very long way.

Still, no teaching old dogs

With three legs new tricks

Unless one of those tricks is how to be a tripod.

Every year I feel less engaged, less involved

Like something in me is dying slowly.

I am witness to my own demise,

Until I feel the touch of my daughters hand in mine

And know this is not about me.

Having a child is a profound

Lifelong lesson in sacrifice.

It is a not a lesson I ever felt

I needed or wanted to learn but here I am,

Sitting at my wooden desk, writing lines,

Watching the clock, avoiding the teacher's gaze,

Waiting out detention in the school of life.

© shaun patrick green 2017

Trump Card

Games with trump cards are anathema to Americans

For they are a gambling people by nature

Holding fortune in their hands on a turn

Lady Luck clucking in their cotton-picking ears

So loud she could be accused of assault

With a deadly weapon, unless

They are all, as a nation, made to reali(z)e

The game is rigged, the dice are loaded

And like life, no one gets out of here alive.

So was it because of or in spite of this reali(z)ation

That America elected Donald Trump its next president?

I would say there has been no reali(z)ation

And that America is still playing the odds

Laying down chips of fear and resentment

Turning over cards of racism and xenophobia

Going all in, betting everything on the next deal

The next roll of the bones

Nice to be a spectator in history's biggest crap shoot

Only problem being we are all now casino chips

In a winner takes all high roller blackjack deal

Where the winnings might be measured in body bags.

I only hope America's newest president has experience

When it comes to counting cards.

© shaun patrick green 2017