Palms, acacia, and eucalyptus trees
Long, white beaches
Red, hot sand
Down under
Far from home
A spark lits up
Like the stars shining
Over the spread-out city

Oak, spruce and pine trees
Long, deep fjords
White, cold snow
Up in the north
Somehow far from home
Cloudy and raining
A glimpse of the moon
The same as you see

The wind whistles by me lightly cooling my warm sun struck skin,
Each drop of sweat instantly freezes sending shivers from within,
As the breeze picks up, so does my hair whipping and curling around my face,
Then in just a single moment it’s dead still, the wind has won it’s race.
I can hear the birds now laughing and watch them race from tree to tree,
I wonder what they’re chatting about, and if they know they’re free,
Without the wind, it’s almost as if the world stopped turning now,
It’s hot but I don’t care, let the sun keep burning down.
I can feel the temperature is high but the scent out here is low,
Traces of hay and cattle rise slowly to my nose,
A gentle soothing marinade to compliment my day,
“Smells like home” I thought to myself, but did not say.
My barren tongue lingers with tones of dirt, hay and dryness,
In my throat remains a hint of burnt bush, just the finest,
Sealed by my lips it all comfortably works there,
There is a certain peace with this landscape that I share.
Without my shoes, I feel the Earth beneath my feet,
I feel connected rather *****, I can hear my own heart beat,
Once my muscles tire of standing, I lay down in patches of dead grass,
Not long after ants are here, and they all just move so fast.
As I lay there watching, growing itchy – Though not from the ants,
A giant grasshopper visits my chest, so majestic in his stance,
He moves to face me with his intimidating position,
Whether I jump or not is completely his decision.
While my hands grow numb under my head, I squint uncomfortably at the sky,
I see a colour blue as blue, so far away, up so high,
It’s clear and clean, not a single cloud in sight,
Just the sun gleaming down, preparing the world for night.
As I lay here in the outback wanting it no other way,
Listening to the leaves rustle from wallabies that play,
I think about where I’m going to be soon far away,
But I stop and fill my lungs, and just enjoy this gorgeous day.

fifteen hours.
fourteen, depending on
where in australia you are from.
but for me, it is fifteen hours.

los angeles is fifteen-hour flight from melbourne.
fifteen hours on a plane, and you’ll be in america.
you’ll be in a ****** country, where it almost seems like
the new craze is to be a shooter,
and you only get noticed if you get shot.

they are begging, pleading,
“please stop them from killing us,
our families, our friends!”
and the others say
“oh, but i really love my gun.”
“and i care about my gun more than i care about you.”
“and i care more about my machine made to take life than about you
getting to keep yours.”
and that’s just that, i suppose.

i am fifteen hours away from a ****** country,
and i can’t tell if i’m too close
or not close enough.

i am fifteen hours away from a ****** country,
and for some reason,
that’s just fine.

I say thanks though it's not enough
To the war torn, the weary, the fearful, the tough.
To those who returned and to those who have died.
To those shunned at home and to those met with pride.
Our lives of freedom, joy and vice,
gifted at immeasurable price.
Lest we Forget

There once was a man from Sydney
who said, 'That man stole my sheep, didn' 'e!'
He chased him to Illawong,
pushed him in a billabong,
and stabbed him twelve times in the kidney.

[i]

No soaring pain could match her, draped across a dying flame.
Like cinder,
                    she whisper-whistled through lungs thin, teeth sallow,
a promise in song.

“Towera jinner mulbeena,
Poodinyoober mulbeena.”
        
    It was a good promise;
    belonged to everyone
                                   and wouldn’t change for Tomorrow’s ranges.
It asked for nothing
but patience and faith.
                          From where she lay,
                                              the trees, gums, were akimbo.

[ii]

                          For generations she had walked, through the wettest of wets and driest of dries.
       With hope in her ribs and a nature savage and pure.
                     You could break her, throw her to the cockatoos,
                                                      ­And yet, ***** and punctured,
                                                 like driftwood, she would drift back,
                                                           ­                                                                Blossoming in your lap again.

[iii]

                      When the kangaroos have done their dance
                                                 in the twilight.
There she'd been.
Supine. Broken open and
lily-white (on the inside).

                                                  
    ­                                        and we did this.
                            with our prospecting and land grabbing

                                      we did this,
                      with our parking lots and Starbucks cup

         she was dismembered, priced, "loved," owned.
                    
                                     discarded.
                                            to the meek edge
                                       of an eternal flame ****** to embers.