The Photograph

11/02/2021 – Poem a Day Compilation



Images tell a story

When words aren’t enough

They speak for those who cannot

And when words are too rough



They capture the moments

Too big to have to explain

That change the word entirely

Long after the words they will remain



They seize those intimate instances

That no one else would see

And lifts them up before us

And in doing so sets them free



They catch our breath at the humanity

Held within its frame

From life to death and all between

Without thought of fortune or fame



They encapsulate history

Like no retelling ever could

And showcase all that we are –

The bad, the ugly and the good



They depict those who have left us

That we might remember their smile

Or never forget the evil

That causes such revile



They sum up all our hopes and dreams,

Our triumphs and our joys,

The devastating grief and loss,

The stoicism and the poise



They portray the world around us –

The near and very far –

The ant upon a shining leaf

And the twinkle of a distant star



They denote the very best of us

And the worst that we could face,

The funny and the furious,

The absurdity and the grace



So, cherish all those images

And the stories that they tell

Because sometimes words aren’t enough

And the photo casts a spell

Stolen Australia

26/01/2021 – Poem a Day Compilation



My white skin burns in the sunlight

That has graced this land for millennia

Far longer than my meagre history

Longer than those first peoples



        This light shines brightly now

        On the dark past

        We’ve had hidden from us

        For so long



        Never taught in classrooms

        The blood-stained pages

        Of colonial history

        Finally glowing before my eyes



The knowledge of my privilege burns

Scorching its way through my heart

Hotter than the summer here

More fierce than those raging fires



        It is a privilege born of a sacrifice

        Not my own

        That I must still live with

        As my national shame



        The many who had their lives stolen

        Simply for existing

        The generations stolen

        And traded like cattle



The sting of history burns my soul

A past that I cannot change

Yet cannot accept

While its truth is whitewashed



        The massacre after massacre

        Their lives deemed worthless

        Against the value to a motherland

        Intent on exploitation



        A legacy of children

        Ripped from their parent’s arms

        To be denied their culture

        Their future and their identity



Bridges burnt are slow to rebuild

Generations upon generations

Separated from each other

By more than time



        Covered up by power and greed

        At all levels of society

        Denied by those set to lose

        All they had gained by those misdeeds



        The stench of dishonesty

        Slowly seeping out of the pores

        Of the institutions and associations

        That benefited from those crimes



Would the burning of this candle

Erase the wrongs

Of the country I love

I would light it a million times



        Would it bring back Pemulwuy, 

        The Bediagal killed and maimed

        Or the Awabakal men butchered

        And the nine Yuin people slain?



        Would it resurrect the Dharawal?

        Sixteen shot on site

        Dozens more driven over cliffs –

        The slaughter of men, women an children



There is no cleansing fire that burns

Hot enough to erase the past

And we all must remember

Lest history repeat itself

Mother Earth

13/01/2021 – Poem a Day Compilation



Long before the cradle of civilisation

Was a twinkle in some long dead ruler’s eye

A mother birthed a world

That would spawn all of life itself



A hellish birth in the depths of Hades

Cannibalising poor, youthful Theia

Her bones cast adrift to form a ghostly spectre

A sister unable to cast her own light



A heart of fire warming its frame

Its skin boiling and bubbling

Bombarded by foreign bodies

Formed in distant stars



Irregular vessels supply that life sustaining thing

That cool drink to parched lips

The scars of a millennia of battles fought

Healing over, only pock marks remain



Anaerobic organisms fed on a chemical soup

Free from the oxygen we hold so dear

Create the conditions for life to flourish

By their very humble existence



The age of unicellular forms ran rampant

Microbes, bacteria and algae galore

Making up the primordial ooze

From which all other creatures crawled



Tiny forms found in the bosom of the earth

Microscopic witnesses to the dawn of a world

That would deliver every known organism

And nurture them all their lives.

Two Lilies

11/01/2021 – Poem a Day



I stood by the road,

Amongst the lilies

White as the driven snow.



Listening to the planes fly over,

I lifted my chin

And shielded my eyes from the sun



Their engines rumbled,

Sending shivers through me,

Frozen to the spot where I stood.



The ground beneath my feet trembled

The dust stirred before me

But still, I could not move.



I felt the trucks rolling by

Before my eyes registered them

And brought them, sharply, into focus.



Before I could move, I saw

The cold, blunt end of a rifle

Pointed at me from the darkness.



Hands grabbed me, leaving impressions

Marks of a war I was not fighting

But that landed at my unmoving feet.



The world blurred before my eyes

As I was uprooted from the spot

Leaving those white lilies far behind.



Brutal metal, cold against my back,

Cracked my skull as the road bounced below

And I saw nothing more than tears.



Foreign voices spoke demonic words

But my screams were silent

Lost to the cavalcade of horrors.



The cloying smell of sweat and gun grease,

Dirt and stale bread, filling the air

As I gasped against the closeness of it all.



The weight of men grown but weak

Bearing down upon my barren chest

Robbing my heart of its innocence.



I do not know how long I lay

Pinned by cold, unfeeling beasts

Their wickedness tearing through my soul



Until I fell into that unforgiving light

Surrounded by the devil’s own

And knew my life belonged not to me.



My existence outside this place

Stripped away from me forever

And replaced by the shackles of inhumanity.



Broken women surrounded me

Their eyes vacant, no tears left,

And hope evaporating into cloudless skies.



Some had been promised work

But the employment to which they agreed

Looked nothing like these tattered sheets.



Some had done this all their lives

Traded like cattle, treated like meat,

Until all that remained was a husk of a woman.



Each day, all day, for months on end

No rest bar fitful, dreamless sleep

For nightmares came when we awoke.



Sometimes officers, but never gentlemen,

Took great pleasure from your pain

Only to rob you of your short youth.



More often, rank and file defiled

Those once beauteous flowers from the road

And shared their conquests far from battlefields.



For these women, there was no comfort here,

Only an existence paid for with all they had,

A gift tarnished by the dragging years.



Now, long after those guns have fallen silent

And scenes of battle long since been erased,

I see their faces in front of me.



No apologies too many years too late

By men who do not believe the words

Will sate my soul or comfort me.



They cannot return that which was stolen

Or revive that which has died inside

For what passes their lips are empty platitudes.



My purity stolen before the gates of hell

Where angels took flight before their time

And noble women fell on dirty swords.



Though you may see me here before you

I do not exist as you do now

With hearts that beat and souls that breath.



Yet those who would torment me then

Lived and loved as I could not

Unincumbered by their selfish wants.



These animals faced no justice here,

Unaware of the damnation that they wrought,

Save the orange lilies I placed at their door.

The Significance of Childhood Possessions

05/10/2020 – Poem a Day Compilation



There are so many material objects

From our younger years, our childhood,

That we manage to let go of,

Never understanding their significance,

Yet hanging on to the insignificant

For the remainder of our years.



They’re not so insignificant, really,

But their significance is just to us –

A cheap locket with a faded photo,

A trophy from a spelling bee,

A dress worn to a cousin’s wedding

Or a teddy bear given at birth.



They are the ties to our past,

The anchor for our futures,

Our life jackets in times of need

And the safes for our memories

That we dare not throw away

For fear of being haunted by them.



They are the parts of us

That will live on long after us –

That tangible link to our lives,

Speaking stories of our adventures

When we are no longer able

To generations we may never meet.

The Last Call of Boudica

03/10/2020 –  Poem a Day Compilation



Prasutagus, my love, my only,

My husband dear and always beloved,

With whom I bore two daughters true

Of such strong will and character,

Passed without due recognition

For the loyalty that he bestowed

Upon the great Roman emperor

And it’s vast and mighty empire

That encompassed land so far

From its own home and hearth

That rulers rose and fell without word

And were barely noted in the histories

Of our own glorious people,

Let alone those of that terrible realm

Who send their soldiers to abuse this land,

Its occupants given no sovereignty,

And living in awe of what may come

Over some horizon at any moment.



My husbands will, his spirit, his desire

For his kingdom to go to those two

Who bore his resemblance so well

And carried his name with pride,

Was usurped by unfeeling goons,

Annexed by those not of this land

And his property thieved before our eyes.

This was not the worst of his humiliation,

Thankfully inflicted after his death

So that he would not bear witness

To such a brutal beating of his wife,

My skin torn by lashings harsh and cruel

Simply for daring to be wife and mother,

For being only of the female persuasion.

My horror was at once compounded

By the screams and cries of those two

To whom I promised fair protection

And all a mother’s love and care,

Yet there I lay,

Unable to move for pain and grief,

Tortured as they were tortured;

Their childhood ripped from them

As soldiers ripped their clothes

From bodies yet undeveloped,

To carry out that horrid deed

Made from the corruption of their power

And the absence of affection,

That plucks that which should be left to grow

Without permission or any care.



This physical pain was but temporary –

A slave’s scars born by the wife of a king

Would live long after the wounds healed

And remind me of that horrific ordeal

For which the might of Rome would pay

With the blood and lives of their own sons

And the sons of their sons

Until my vengeance was duly sated

And my daughters bore the crown

They so rightly did deserve,

Earned by the theft of their modesty,

That which was theirs only to give

But was taken by force by those dogs

Who had not yet learned to heel

Before the Queen of the Iceni.



Though the tribes that surrounded me

Harboured me no good will

The enemy of mine enemy stood true

And their hatred for those from Rome

Outweighed the many petty disputes

Over trade and resources and soft borders,

And we Britons came together

To defeat a common, hated foe,

Though there was little choice for them

As my reputation preceded me

And I laid siege to Camulodunum

Burning their city to the ground.



The temple to that emperor, Claudius,

Of whom the Romans thought so high

They deified and worshipped him,

Was no match for my warrior band;

Its façade crumbling before those men,

A mere two hundred unarmed men,

Who were sent to protect that which I ruined

By leaders so far removed from battle

As to underestimate my conviction

And send so few as to be in humour

But I spared none in my endeavours –

Those loyal to Rome were soon dispatched

By sword and spear and the fires of hell

While those brave Britons joined my ranks

As we marched on to Londinium



On the Island of Mona, far away,

Roman governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus

Made easy work of those feared druids

Where he murdered all he came across

And pillaged villages with reckless abandon,

Yet when he heard of my exploits

He though me no match for his wiles

And travelled towards that same town

As I was accordingly headed

With a force that would be no contest

For the army that amassed behind me.



With each passing town I gained still more

For it was barely a choice to fight with me

Or be trampled under the weight I bore

Down upon any resistance to my will,

That Suetonius turned tail and ran

Before the complete destruction

Of that settlement of Londinium

At the hands of what was a rabble

Turned torturous, bloodthirsty militia men

Under my stern and watchful eye.



Onwards to Verulamium we marched,

Swelling in numbers through fear and favour

A combined tribe of some many thousand

Outnumbering any opposition met

And absorbing those rebels who wished to join

Our noble cause of justified vengeance

Against those who would oppress our people

And spill the blood of the innocent

And I would make a firm example

Of those who stood against my command

And all who ever heard my name

Would know the destruction that surely followed

Was nothing compared with that which befell

That legion ninth of the Roman Empire –

Their fate sealed by their misplaced loyalty

To a long distant crown who abandoned them

To fight my own massed soldiers then

In ambush all but a handful lay deceased

Running off to masters unprepared

For my now all-consuming passion.

Three cities I had laid to waste,

Burned to the ground by fires fierce,

Their protections decimated in my wake.



This caused much consternation over seas.

In Rome, Nero weighed up options few –

To fight my vast army undermanned

Or withdraw to the last the soldiers of Rome –

But that thorn in my side, Suetonius, returned

To thwart my plan to rid these isles

Of those invaders and traitors all

Who sided with a foreign enemy,

And I was draw into a battle once more,

Yet my troops of far superior strength

Showed signs of that one defeating trait:

Hubris, that over bearing pride,

That allowed them to bring their kith and kin

To observe them engaged in battle from the rear

Preventing retreat from certain death

When caught by treacherous tactics of war

Where, squeezed into a valley fine and

Flanked by the enemy on higher ground,

We were exposed by that coward of Londinium

And he claimed his undeserving victory

But without that scalp he prized so dear

As I lived on to tell my tale.



But what am I without a fight,

Without an enemy at the gates?

My vengeance never wholly gorged,

For Romans still inhabit my land

And demand my taxes for leaders afar,

A tribute I will never pay

So long as I draw breath in to my lungs.

I would rather die by my own hand

Than give over my pound of flesh

To men who will not stand face to face

With that woman they so feared,

That nearly brought them to their knees,

And whose legend will live on forever more

In mistold tales of feminine heroism

When all that drove me in my ambition

Was a wife’s grief and a mother’s anger.

The Violin

14/07/2020 – Poem a Day Compilation



The stairs creaked underfoot,

Their tread almost pristine from lack of use.



I didn’t know what was up there,

No one ever took the time to explain

And now I was the only one left with the keys.



At the top of the flight, on the landing,

Little plumes of dust rose from the carpet

With every step I took towards the door.



The keys were cold in my hand

But my palm was sweating in anticipation,

Maybe in fear, as well.



I don’t know exactly what I felt.



It’s a bit of a blur if I’m perfectly honest.



I put the big key in a lock

That looked original to the house,

Chunky mid-1800s, I thought.



The key jiggled, rattled, not wanting to turn

Until it suddenly found its home

And sprung around in my hand with a click.



The lock opening was just the start,

The door wedged shut over the years

By the expansion and contraction of its boards

From season to season,

An era of dirt and other detritus built up

To make an almost perfect seal.



No amount of pulling and pushing would help

To free the stubborn door from its frame

So, I lined up my shoulder with the door

Braced against the inevitable impact

And threw my body weight forward.



It felt like the whole house shook

But the door remained closed.



I braced again, this time hitting it harder.

I could hear the screech of the door,

The wood being forced apart

After so many years of happy coexistence.



It took several more hits before it swung open

And I found myself staggering forward

Into the darkness of the attic room,

The air thick enough to taste,

The smell wanting to make me heave.



I fumbled for the light switch on the wall

As my eyes somewhat adjusted to the dark

But there was no switch to be found.



I could make out vague shapes,

Boxes, maybe, piled haphazardly,

And a boarded-up window

Filled remains of a thousand cockroaches.



There in the dark,

My eyes now adjusted as best they could,

I saw a string hanging from the ceiling

And I hoped it was for the single globe

I could just make out on the ceiling

And not part of a monstrous web

With an enormous spider at the top

Waiting to devour me for lunch.



I flicked the cord gingerly and,

Not finding myself become a meal

For a hungry arachnid or something worse,

I tugged on its grime encrusted end.



The light flickered to life,

Casting a dull yellowish glow

So different from the bright white

Of the LED globes downstairs.



I looked at the boxes, layered with dust

And who knows what else,

Thinking that I should have put the gloves on

At least twenty minutes before this point

But better late than never, as they say.



Slipping on the gloves, My hands swimming

Despite them being the smallest size available,

I tried to read the writing on the boxes.



I scraped the muck away from the carboard

Revealing delicate printing –

Oma’s Music –

And took a deep breath.



It wasn’t my Oma, but hers.



Die Groβmutter meiner Groβmutter.



I opened the box and, there,

Neatly stacked inside,

Were bundles and bundles of papers

Filled with the music of a lifetime,

For piano, for violin, for clarinet.



The piano she’d played these on

Stood proudly downstairs,

The focal feature of the drawing room,

Grand and kept perfectly in tune.



The clarinet had been broken in a move

Long before my time,

Even before my mother’s time,

Reduced to a memory shared

From generation to generation.



But the violin, locked away for so long,

Sat in another box, still inside its case,

Longing for someone to love it

And to play it, just one more time.



It would have to be restrung,

Its wooden body polished

To restore the stunning handiwork

Of a young Matthias Klotz,

His instrument now so far from home,

But once again loved as it had been

At the hands of a beautiful lady

From the forests surrounding Mittenwald.



I dared not touch it then,

My gloved hands caked in dirt

And shaking from the find I had hoped for

But dared not expect,

Lest I come away sadly disappointed

By what I had found.



A third box, more reminiscent of a chest,

Groaned as I lifted the lid,

The ghosts of more than a hundred years

Spilling free from their crypt,

Leaving only the photographs,

Yellowed and curling at the edges,

Of family, of friends,

Of places and events on dreamed of

For the likes of me.



A child posed at the piano,

Her dolls laying casually atop,

Her fingers perched on the keys.



A teen at her first ball,

Glowing radiantly in the throng,

Her gowns train spilling away from her.



A family portrait of stuffy men in suits

And women in far too many layers

For that time of year.



A couple just married,

Their love and devotion

Shining through the years.



A mother and her brood,

She looking too young to have so many,

Unaged by the trials and tribulations.



There was life in those boxes,

Love and heartache, fear and triumph,

A never-ending story of joy and sacrifice

Never forgotten, but sometimes pushed aside

As the day to day struggles took over

The caretakers of those memories.



Now I was that caretaker,

Duty bound to bring new life to old stories,

And to treasure that which remained

Of a woman I never met,

But to whom I belonged

And to whom my children belonged

And whose blood flowed through our veins

As a living reminder to all she was

And all that we could be.