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