For Douglas*

In a land well trod
not flat but deep,
etched in lines of song
on ridges red by ochre
and once upon a time, by slaughter.

This at the hands of our fathers.
Now hidden in history’s shadow
the ancient’s heritage not well understood
or anguish felt for them, whose suffering
echoes across seven generations.

What could be cherished
with such spirits – the gentle natured wisdom
that does when recognised
nourish and unblemish
the white wash of ignorance
that once invoked atrocity as necessity.

To pause and touch this capacity
for recognition, to offer meagre apology
as but a humble first limp, albeit powerful beginning,
to the ongoing actions of forgiveness and compassion to
heal this red land and join in unison
the lines of ancient song.

MCHALLIS © 2015

How she sat there
with movement in her head.
A churning of learning
the ways to get ******
and slaughtered by
other people's
sons and daughters.

And how I sutured a gust
of her brain exhaust
into my chest, into my lungs--
I breathed her like I was
******* the end of a
tailpipe.

Her hands ran like busted tires
as she massaged my temples,
revving her voice,
my ears on her
suicide door lips.

There is no green light
in her red light country.

I met that man in a coastal town
over his face beards flowed wild
his eyes they knew only to look down
his years didn’t count he was a child!

He smelled of bile feces and phlegm
his skin was a thick layer of tar
from his **** hung loose his shame
they said he was a castaway who came from far!

Sun and rain found him a barren rock
a sculpture that birds could err to perch
standing unmindful of the passing flock
as if he was lost in a deep search!

He just stood there holding his ground
eyes cast down on the paved road
none had heard him utter a sound
muttered neath breath even one word!

To the townsfolk he was a statue on the square
that losing his way hovered on the brink
but I had a feel within him somewhere
was a man looking for a long lost link!