Immediate access code

I don’t know all the names
by which you are summoned.
Sensing the many-layered resonances
in the stillness between
this heart-beat and that nerve-pulse,
where the breath lies empty,
time is even weaker than gravity.

Wading through the torrential
outpouring of carefully cultivated
bits of data, coalescing into
a category we might call news,
I am becoming as one attuned –
the seer of mysteries and
the oracle of plutocratic expediency.

The keystone for every good joke
is misdirection, like that time
they drained the oceans and provided
desalination-in-a-box kits for arid lands,
quiescing the climate protectors
with seven generations of indenture
for the privilege of a drop of clean water.

The drunkard, drowning in a deluge
of his own illusions will do anything
to extract one last drink, ad nauseum,
spewing out slack-jawed solutions to
supply chain problems – fracks himself
some lubricant for the road to annihilation.
Mate, we’d better hide his bloody car keys
before he kills us all.

I don’t know all the names
by which you are summoned.
In this bottomless cycle of avarice,
the accretion of our histories is forged
in the bodies of children and tattooed
inside our eyelids. No matter how we’re
chained up, we have always been free.

Our immediate access code,
the soul-memory of our ancestors,
is written in the blood of love.


Walk with me

Treading these multi-hued lands
The history of this place unfolds.
It’s a song with a unique melody
Humming, low, sweet, melancholy
Whispered without words
Beneath clouds and trees.

Make my back your place to rest.
When you walk with me we both exist.
Abuse and ignore me, I become less than grey.
Come home again so I can flourish,
Vivid and diverse,
Walk with me not on me.


The inspiration for this poem is this post over here Reflecting on Rituals – An indigenous perspective on process as transformation. I’m indigenous but I can’t lay claim to any passed down knowledge from the ancestors. What occurs to me though, is that over time I’ve learned similar types of ideas as the author presents – from walking and listening to the earth of this wonderful country. It’s obvious to me – we regularly and repeatedly miss the point of what indigenous people and cultures, in fact, everyone that has arrived or will arrive on these shores, truly has to offer…  hmm… except perhaps Tony Abbott and that crazy Sydney hostage bloke… ignorance and assertion is not only ugly, it frequently ends in violence.


“I hate it when you do that. I can’t read you.”

“What does it matter? I had nothing to contribute.”

“But it always happens and I don’t like it,” she said. “It shuts me out.”

“Out of where?  If it helps, I’m not doing anything in particular but I feel kind of weird.”  The fleeting image of a football flies through my mind towards invisible goalposts. “I suppose it’s a response to what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything.”  Continue reading