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

At Sea.

No tree nor trunk nor poem

Wishing against odds for change

We still slaves to the bottle

Roots sparking out

Just another infestation

The family stem has taken seed

We watch with expectancy

Still the waters run

Amongst the mangroves

Will do till the wet

We are at sea

again

Ode to the Baby Boomers.

If you twitch in your seat

Will the world give an inch

Not likely

You remain in place

Yet ever so slightly

Tectonically shifted to the right

It happens as you grow older

Plates of perspective slide

Like greased glass

You once smoked weed under trees

At university when education was free

And protest was a luxury

Now you no longer

Weep for the spread of inequity

Only the spread of your own arse

Your stomach follows too

Protruding like a balloon

Forcing you to buy elastic waist pants

You hang around malls

Wearing socks with sandals

Watching children with a creepy zeal

Not that you mean harm

Just that pace has outstripped you

Leaving you a vampire

Feeding on your own past

You watch the stock market

Cooing over your superannuation

As if the numbers were real

All those investment houses

And ironed seam trousers

Are the scaffolding for your generation

You had the best of times

Now you pout about the future

And wonder why your children are frustrated

© shaun patrick green 2016

a queerly gentle kind of hell.

the shrink tanks have sat us down

to deliver their diagnosis:

its post-traumatic millennial malaise

a first world condition 
known to cause sufferers

to snatch at crumbs of serenity

like starving animals

their minds distracted, unsettled

waking in fright each night

to another ghost of christmas past

all illusions we know

but the panic is real

as real as this face in the mirror

older but never wiser

floating balloon friendly as an IED

buoyed by a lighter than air gas

called absurdity

is it just that we are all

trapped in a cul de sac of our own making

faking coping skills

while the clothes dryer turns

and the dishwasher churns

reality TV harangues us ragged

and the world suicide bombs itself

into next century

us fervently praying to the virus

that will finally wipe out humanity

waiting for someone with the foresight

to please, please, please

press the reset button on life?

has the hope-compassion bubble

priced these qualities

beyond our reach?

if we cash in our cultural capital

will we have anything left to sell?

we take the pills

and walk the streets, guns loaded

our souls clearly in need of quantitative easing

whatever it takes to numb this queasy feeling

that our corner of the universe

is a queerly gentle kind of hell

© shaun patrick green 2016

Dangerous Times.

Newly two years old

My daughter clambers over her climbing frame

Babbling to herself in lists of names

While on the other side of the globe

Europe comes apart at the seams

I appreciate our lack of proximity

It limits contagion

But in a globalized economy

The enemy is always and already within

Seeing as how we have now

Strapped ourselves to the back of a beast

As fickle and insane as “The Free Market”

I see my daughter reach for handholds

She watches her feet, seeks a sure footing

While the world falls away beneath her

Spiraling down into fear and uncertainty
Should I hover over her like a helicopter parent
Or let the chips fall where they may?

We live in dangerous times, so we are told

Dangerous times call for strong leadership

Potential dictators wait in the wings

Like excited amateur actors

Ready to strut onto the world stage

And erase history with a hand gesture

My daughter reaches the top of the frame

She pauses for a moment, smiling to herself

Then turns to me: Daddy, I did it
She had no vision of a utopian ideal in mind
Simply a child's joy and euphoria

I reward her achievement with praise

All the while aware of the scaffolding

Of parochialism and xenophobia

Being erected around us

A frame for all those other

More adept and ambitious climbers

© shaun patrick green 2016

Taste Every Pearl.

You were lost on the first day

When you saw each other and thought

Kingdoms may come and go but this will last

Fresh in youth's folly you were game

Though the goal posts kept shifting with age

A subtle motion, like tectonic plates sliding

Almost unnoticeable until your house falls down

And the mutable things turn to mutable crap

Compromises turn to tit for tat

The little things become mountains so high

You cannot see above them to glimpse the sky

Yet you know the sky exists, out there

Only you're stuck in weeds looking at your dick

Thinking: remind me what this is for again?

That's right. There is a child: think quick

Too late. The state has intervened

And you, as a father, have been quarantined

So the shit thickens as it does when left to fester

The law is an ass, your life is a farce.

And you accountant says your finances

Will not pass muster

So you hit the booze like slapping a mate on the back

No doubt she'll have an investigator keeping track

That won't go down well in the custody battle

Will you fold, acquiesce, settle?

Now you literally have nothing

Except that with which you came into this world:

A penis, half a brain 
And the need to taste every pearl.

© shaun patrick green 2016