George Bush Can't Paint

In his down time George Bush

Took brush to canvas to relax

Mostly paintings of his dog

In royal portraiture style

With faux landscape backgrounds

Truly grotesque Americana

And Clinton painted too

Splatter patterns on interns

Following Pollock's school

I hear Hitler was a water colourist

Made some fine architectural studies

With psychotic attention to detail

But then Nazis were all artists at heart

Aesthetics representing a reality

Their politics never could

Manifestoes on canvas and in marble

Confusing control over the image

In two simple dimensions

With true and ultimate power

While in three dimensions

Each stroke of George Bush's brush

Makes us culturally poorer

© shaun patrick green 2013

In The Garden

She moves amongst the seedlings

Talking to them like they were people

The cucumbers benefit from her lectures

Tomatoes shy but willing advocates

Sweet potato an unruly audience

While the eggplants lack enthusiasm

And chillies chide quietly

The spinach listens intently

Waiting on her every word

      

© shaun patrick green 2013

Sonnet for Stephanie.

Stephanie's smile is nothing like the sun;

It is a mile-wide slice of moon-bright pie

That gladdens the heart of everyone,

A coruscating curve of joy in life

Bestowing a glow of mischievous fun

Upon moments and people, those that might

Otherwise be left shadowed, pale and dun,

A gift of such generousity I -

In instants when it falls on me - am stunned,

Feeling my heart leap high toward the sky.

No, Stephanie's smile is not like the sun,

Though it is my star, my fixed, steady guide

Bringing me home with love and light,

Marking my path through darkest night.

© shaun patrick green 2012

adam and eve.

rusted fence dry grass
she sees faces in rain
dark insidious meaning harm
away like a startled bird
he follows dog faithful
broken earth dying trees
there is no rest here
she points to rock
he lies in its shadow
marks old as time
only she can read
her hand a sign
he will bleed

return the egg she says
stars scraping overhead
he whimpers foetal
says the shell is cracked
there is no going back
moon hiding vengeful
they follow in cars
tracking closer
she spits lightening
he thinks if only he
could see as she
the spear might not
have pierced so deep

© shaun patrick green 2013

Ode to Bunnings.

And on the seventh day everybody dies
Drives to Bunnings, pays two dollars fifty
For a feel-good community-conscious sausage
Trying to remember what it’s like to be alive
As we wander aimlessly from aisle to aisle
Drilling team members on pergola construction
Concrete mixing, baton fixing, soil acidity
But the staff are no use – they’re zombies too
Sold their souls for that red shirt/green apron
Combination that makes them look like Xmas trees
With their lifeless smiles and their heads on TV
What did we do with ourselves on weekends
Before “The Block” turned us into the renovating undead?
Did we find morons interesting before “Big Brother”?
Did we “drizzle” or “plate-up” before “Masterchef”?
Still there is the pull of this big tin shed
Where gift cards buy Own Brand power tools
That die in our hands after a month of use
No matter, kept the receipt, return for exchange
Our shoddy sander tipped in a dumpster with others
And sent for ‘recycling’ to China where it was made
A self-inflicted vicious circle: our need for cheap
Thrills keeps us shuffling over their concrete floors
Nothing new, of course, stole the idea from Ikea
At least in Bunnings you can find the exit doors


© shaun patrick green 2013

Five Lessons.

Teach me to love with a gentle heart
That I might accept your faults and mine
Be not quick to judge and given time
Understand how to be together when apart

Teach me to kiss with gentle lips
Rather than consume with selfish greed
As if all that mattered was my need
A thirsty man gulps - a sated man sips

Teach me to speak with a gentle tongue
Not to hack and slash with words as swords
But to empower, ennoble, encourage, reward
To honour the dead, to inspire the young

Teach me to touch with a gentle hand
To stay the stinging blow, the angry grab
The derisive gesture, accusatory stab
Instead calm, befriend, help others to stand

Teach me to be all that I am not
Open my closed mind, push me further
We have the rest of our lives together
Just as well for I am a slow learner


© shaun patrick green 2013

Cold Turkey.

Nights trussed in kitchen string dreams
Awake,sweating, splitting at the seams
Two weeks on the wagon, I've flatlined
Waiting in my body bag, killing time
Drawn to dark corners like a bug
Inspecting every speck of dust
Everything hurts, even daylight
And insane people like flies
Linger too close for too long
My skin clammy, pimpled, wrong
Half a mind to kill someone
Don't know where the other half has gone
No doubt it slipped out with a fart
Or exploded during some simple task
The remains left on a shelf in specialty meats
Next to the liverwurst, ham and cold turkey

© shaun patrick green 2013