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

Possums in the roof.

Between the winter blossoms

And whatever the hell other plants

You want to ascribe to feeling jolly

I sense a smell of shit

Granted it is vague

Slightly disturbing

Pervasive in a weird way

Yet the sky shines bright

Planes criss cross like dreams

Everybody is going somewhere

Or so it seems

Yet the smell lingers

Possibly fanned by those

Right wing possums

Who like to scamper

About the ceiling

Could politics be our conscience

Our epileptic fit

How do we deal with it?

Spasm as we always do

Wave the flag oi! oi! oi!

And leave the healing out of sync

A broken country torn in two

© shaun patrick green 2016

Darwin

If you had to pin me down

Which you will

I would blame it on the heat

It drives one to do

Strange things

Like walking around

In your underwear

With the blinds up

Wear thongs to restaurants

Walk shirtless through

The Botanical Gardens

As if it were a naked

Free-for-all

Expecting shit service in shops

A five day wait for express mail

30 bucks for a tray of lamb chops

Mangos by the box in November

And a bombing by the Japanese

The rest of the country wont remember

Mangroves striating the shore

Black fellas camping

Down in the sand

What could be finer

Than a box of wine

And seafood dinner?

This city exists at the precipice

A frontier town liable at any moment

To fall into the old dialectic

Of what ails us

Will ultimately define our generation.

© shaun patrick green 2016

What My Father Taught Me.

He stood tall and facially hairy

In that 70s style with thongs

Short stubbies and a singlet

Kicking a ball to me

Applauding when I caught

Consoling when I dropped

Disappointed when I kicked it back

Lesson: if you want approval, learn to kick

Our dog Sandy had pups one night

We were ushered in to witness

The miracle and marvel at the

Three blind, yelping, helpless

Bundles of fur clawing at the world

In the morning they were gone

Dad had drowned them in a sack

Lesson: never appear helpless

My father constantly belittled his wife

Our mother, shouting down her

Opinions and beliefs,

Calling her:"The Bear of Little Brain"

After Winnie the Pooh

Making her look foolish at every turn

Lesson: women are inferior

He cowers now behind four walls

Considering the outside world

A tyranny upon the senses

That is beyond his strength to deter

Our mother his only helper

In a dramatic role reversal

Lesson: profound appreciation of irony

Yet in his fragile state he softens
Accepting help and love and family
In a way he never would have before
Becoming more the man than we as children
Ever thought he was capable of being
Undercutting every stricture taught

Lesson: "family" is always a work-in-progress

© shaun patrick green 2016

Sunshine Coast.

In her dreams she remembers the shoreline

Could sprint to it from her door

Her mother cooked white bait and crabs

Over low embers while the men drank

And they danced in the sand as the sun set

War came and took her family to a different land

She wakes now to parrots in palm trees

Radio blaring strange words so fast

She barely understands

Her uniform is washed and ironed

It will dry as she waits for the bus

The keys rattle on her belt like jewels

In her own land she might be a princess

Here she cleans houses for tourists

She alights from the bus

Adjusting her head scarf

And walks the rest of the way

Following the map given to her

By her employer the previous day

Square white houses all look the same

But the map steers her right

She puts key to lock and enters

Adjusting her eyes to the light

Polished floors, walls white

Two stories of empty space

She considers how many family members

Of hers could live in such a place

So she wipes down benches, empties bins

Mops floors, dusts shelves

Refills the air fresheners

With a vanilla scent reminding her

Of medicine mixed by her mother

She once took for a fever

And exits, leaving this house empty

Just like the house next door,

And the house next door to it,

And so on,

Catching the bus back

To the one bedroom apartment

She shares with her mother

Brother and his son.

© shaun patrick green 2016

Mantra 42.

When the forgiveness I seek

Hides in shadow

Let me breathe

When the freedom I need

Ties me down

Let me breathe

When the person I want to be

Is out of reach

Let me breathe

When love turns to hate

And lovers leave

Let me breathe

When life has run its course

And I am at peace

Let me breathe

One

Last

Time

For this breath is so sweet

It verges on the divine

© shaun patrick green 2016