I Met A Man With A War Inside.

I met a man with a war inside

He opened his chest, ten miles wide

A void where his heart used to reside

I met a man with a war inside

I met a man with a war inside

Didn't ask for help, he drank and he lied

His wife now gone, his children hide

I met a man with a war inside

I met a man with a war inside
Every deal a sabotage, every meal a bribe
Suspecting the enemies might be on his side
I met a man with a war inside

I met a man with a war inside

Couldn't put a name to his pain or describe

The mortal horrors that within us abide

I met a man with a war inside

I met a man with a war inside

Lost his pole star, his only guide

Deserted in the desert, brain completely fried

I met a man with a war inside.

I met a man with a war inside

Thrashing against the rising tide

Didn't want others to think he'd never tried

Said he never met a man without a war inside

© shaun patrick green 2019

Another Lullaby.

(for Zoe Eszter Green)

There will be a time to cry.

It is not now, child,

It is not now.

There will be a time to hide.

It is not now, child,

It is not now.

There will be a time to be afraid.

It is not now, child,

It is not now.

There will be a time for deals made.

It is not now, child,

It is not now.

There will be a time when justice is done.

It is not now, child,

It is not now.

There will be a time when battles are won.

It is not now, child,

It is not now.

Now is the time for dreams

Of a world that is fair and good,

Where everyone gets what they need,

Where everyone does what they should.

So may this night protect you,

Keep you safe from harm.

Take this kiss upon your brow,

This warmth from my arms.

Close your eyes and sleep in peace

For I will chase the monsters away

So that you may yawn and wake

To another sun-bright day.

© shaun patrick green 2019

Rum Jungle

We stared at the Gamba Grass,

A wall of imported infestation,

And dreamed what this place could be

With time and hard work -

A locus of loss

Transformed into gain.

Our daughter revels in the space,

Hardly knowing which stick to whack

Or which anthill to dismantle

With her enthusiasm.

We pat ourselves on the back

For getting her outdoors,

Away from smartphones, iPads and TV,

Jumping on her trampoline

In the shade of an African Mahogany

Where the red dirt cools

And shifts to grey.

There were warnings:

First, a Kingfisher skewered

On the barbed wire fence,

Still breathing, beak moving,

Opening and closing slowly

Like a rusty hinge;

Then the apocryphal tale

Of how this place derived its name -

Bullock train drivers

Stranded on their northward trek,

Wet season trapping them

In cages of Pandanus,

They consumed their entire consignment of rum.

I imagine them half insane from drink,

Humidity and insects, lying prone

Inside sodden canvas tents

Turned crimson by sunset.

In the evenings

A breeze picks up drying sweat,

Flocks of parrots flit busily

Seeking secure perches,

Fruit bats flap languidly,

Eucalypts curve anthropomorphic,

Tinged pink by a reddening sky

As we sip G 'n' Ts on the deck,

Contemplating dinner,

Hearing no car horns

Or telephone rings.

Night drops like a wet tarp

Spangled with shards of glass.

This place cares not for us.

Tomorrow the wallabies might visit,

Keeping low in the morning mist,

Silent and watchful as they graze.

© shaun patrick green 2019

Homecoming.

If I don't offer you comfort

It is because my mind has gone

Packed up and left in the

Middle of the night

No forwarding address

So I cope on a day-to-day basis

Not bad for a man in stasis

But I'm not entirely sure of who I am

I weed the garden

Cook dinner

Listen to my wife complain about work

And wonder to myself:

Where is this?

How did I get here?

What do I do now?

Apparently, lawns are mowed

Sunday mornings

Pools are cleaned

BBQs scraped

Gas bottle filled

The leaf blower is given a workout

And when the noise stops

Only a breeze moving leaves

You sink back into the aircon

And wonder what

All the fuss was about

You sleep tight

Alcohol assisted

And if it rained last night

You definitely missed it

Then you wake

Check the calendar

See another day has passed

Each day following each day

More teleological than the last

Until time stops

Wouldn't that be a grand thing?

No more lawnmowers

Or leaf blowers

Only the cold mineral glint

Of stars slowly dying

The notion of peace at last

In a universe reduced to dust

If one day my mind chooses to return

I don't quite know what I would say

"Welcome back," or "I missed you,"

Or "Did you forget your wallet?"

Or "How was your day, honey?"

None of these are funny

But they express the banality

Of a homecoming finally

Where ones best friend and companion

Has been away.

© shaun patrick green 2019

in the bending river.

in the bending river I see her

head lowered

so mother could wash her hair

from a cold bucket

tin shed for shade

out on the boat from England

to a red paradise

she would hide

in the long grass

tricking her sister

ants biting like a shot

in scant places to hide

running pink skinned and semi-clad

between the workers huts

where the blokes ate bully beef

sipping ale till morn

then standing up to labour

crack of dawn
she rising with a big sun
golden fingers in her hair
promise of grand things

river bending beneath them

a curve in the land 
beyond understanding

she digs between the weeds
hoping to find wonder
but the river does not lie
flowing ever onward

to bend upon bend
meeting a man in a band
dancing hand in hand
then horizontal 
in the back of his car
bending over to come so far
marriage a shotgun conclusion
then having children of her own

a bending river teaching her

how to dip and sway

through the midway

where dreams die and we grow

accustomed to comfort

until death is done with this

and we meet our end
bending again to some winding river 
so that she knows where it all began

© shaun patrick green 2019

Petrichor.

Without asking it fills you

As thunder rolls around your shoulders

And those first crashing drops

Smack down with force

Water passionately kissing earth

Dirt hissing, aerosolised

Rock yeilding its mineral secrets

For the promise of rain

Air ionised and charged

As if expectation could have its own scent

This living planet exhaling

Its breath in our face

Like the musky sweat of a lover

Gathering us in an embrace

Or the milky tang of a mother

Who tucks us gently into the warm bed

Of yet another wet season storm

© shaun patrick green 2018

These Are The Days.

These are the days

Of terror and silence

When every friend becomes a foe

These are the days

Where infamy shall follow you

Like a black shadow wherever you go

These are the days

That hunt in packs, dog days

Ready to tear flesh from bone

These are the days

When the last of your strength leaves you

And you realise we all die alone

These are the days

Without mercy or compassion

Locking you behind a barbed wire fence

These are the days

Of madness and rage

Where mass murder makes complete sense

These are the days

Of share-holder angst:

You sold your soul for less than its worth

These are the days

Of micro-plastic pollution

The suffocation of planet Earth

These are the days

Where you are defined as sober

When you would rather be drunk as a lord

These are the days

That creep up on you like a spy

And strangle you without a word

These are the days

When nights last forever

Giving all days a bad name

These are the days

Bearing witness to stupidity

Each new day bringing more of the same

These are the days

That thrash you like a red-headed step child

Leaving you trembling in a corner

These are the days

Of gnashing teeth rising from the deep

The shark days dragging you under

These are the days

Which, given half a chance,

Would see you cast into the blackest pitch

These are the days

Of acceleration: they mow you down

And leave you lying in a ditch

These are the days

When you think banning all future days

Sounds like a good idea

Then there are the days

When you strike a seam of hope

And think it possible to live without fear

© shaun patrick green 2018