Climates Walk Governments Talk
The banana leaves cannot be used, they have been tainted by rising sea water – there are no bananas. The coconut milk is curdled. The fish are dying before us, the evidence is the lack of food on our plate. We are the cockerel that has crowed more times than three, yet you still deny our obvious truth. You don’t know my island name because I have almost disappeared. You certainly won’t know me when I am lost forever. It will only take a small rise in the Liquid Natural Progression, before we are all gone. We are a family of islands, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, we cannot swim and there are no lifesavers. Our people are an ocean people, a boat people, but they have been sabotaged like the Rainbow Warrior. It was not necessarily the French. We were told a truth that we believed, but it was nothing more than a cold call scam. Our richness was our people and culture, but the rich and greedy stopped noticing us when slavery was outlawed. Why help anyone when there is no profit. We would welcome you to our home with leis and kind words, even when you thought of us as ‘quaint’. Our hearts were big. We have asked you for help, but we are not too sure – we have seen how you treat others. We have history with the custodians of your land. They welcomed us, as they did you, but you return no favour. Rising from our bed each morning salt water laps around our ankles. You tell us, “just move your homes”. Your ignorance shows, you can move a house but you cannot move a home. You, with your harbour side and mountain views, you, just live in a ‘thing’ – with no heart and no soul. As the water rises, I can feel the cold of the ocean – I pray it is not the coldness of eternal death.
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Would I Lie to You
When nothing is written
nothing is gained,
we’ve seen the devils avarice
consume the soul
of a closed minded man
with a button dick brain
Assaulting our senses
those crowing stories of
vaginal conquests he, feels no pain
thinking smarter than the rest,
reality says he’s a geological flat top
with a tiny closed brain
It’s what men can do
what all men could
and too many men do,
they obfuscate truth, befuddle
the masses, ignore the evidence
then ask the question “would I lie to you?”
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In the End
I was laid on a bed
Because my muscles ached
Because my bones creaked
One day they will be as white as the sheet I rest on
Smoke fills the sky
Ash floats on breeze
Afternoon sun draws through cotton
This bed is warm, this bed is not a bed
After the fire
After the tears
Before the rain
To see a funeral pyre from the inside out is strange
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Calavera
So now is the time of the ScoMo
A fair dinkum talking guy
His calavera as thick as his waist line
Rational thought turned to fungi
In the world of political leaders
No one leads a long life
For la muerte will be unpredicted
At the end of a political knife
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A Paul Kelly Moon
I see canyons, tracing each crevasse by finger line
So much silver all in one place makes me small
I stand in a tunnel without a roof, but, no rockfall
As hours pass we glimpse a little more, see a little less
Sounds from far away embrace me, feed me, Paul Kelly me
Sound floats in on a lazy wave of night chords, he is my gravy
I can hear the trees on either side of me whispering
Their strong trunks retaining the tunnel walls from falling in
I sit in a new space, my feet dangling in cool clear water
A reflection on the rivers surface shows another heavenly body
One of us now lays on their back, the other lies face down
We stare at the moons until they’ve gone, for me that’s all there is
You turn your head, smile and begin to rise, like a silver ghost
You will follow the moon while I wait for its next waxing gibbous
That’s the difference between live people and dead people
They move on but we remain in this valley, unable to leave
The sun rises in leaps and bounds, by daylight my MCG has gone
It’s now just another winters day hovering around 11 degrees
I will have to learn how to make gravy
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To Pope Francis, the 266th Pope
of the Roman Catholic Church,
(do you mind if I call you Frank,
I’m not much of a one for formality)
Dear Frank
I’d like to pass you a petition,
or edits if your please,
that are blatantly now needed
in that bible thing you preach
So it may have been a while
since you’ve done a full review
but as CEO of the catholic church,
the responsibility ends with you
There’s a few things now outdated,
though they’d never have been right,
like the way you designate women
as chattels without a life
And those words from old St Peter,
you know that annoying slavery thing,
I can’t say why a slave would revere
masters good or bad to please
Reading Genesis tell all daughters
that getting father drunk to lay
would do the world a Lot of good
can’t be preached this day and age
Then there is the stoning,
the murders and the rapes, if
you tell me you are good with this
I’ll call liar to your face
So come on now dear Frank
yell it out across the pews, that
the bible is to be rewritten, for
you are not the Murdoch news
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Winston Smith
2017, Orwellian times are here
This future from a past of fiction
Winston Smiths we all became
Our re-education now
Seems so utterly complete
Existing in this totalitarian state
A time of perpetual death
And unwinnable wars
We seek the Winston of old
He who was once in us all
He who would question the Minitrue
(Even if quietly)
Why do we believe the Newspeak?
Have I misspelled?
Is the truth really the truth?
Or is it only as the truth is written
Have we now become the Proles?
The uneducated, the working class
In new age terms we are the 99%
Of middle class, the Outer Party almost gone
Those thought police control the minds
The shock jocks on the airwaves
Where ruling elite behold only to their own
Have we become the unpersons of our time?
They watch us now, most every day
Every place, every way, every time,
Do we really love the big mutha
Or are we so saturated, our ideas so controlled
That we cannot think an original thought
Where we believe that black is white
Is really black is white
Doublethink the contradictory beliefs
The names may change yet the intoxication
Of the ideology still remains
Where the O’Brien’s of this new world lead
And everything’s right until they’re caught
Where the Hates are funded and contrived
Under the spreading chestnut trees
Who has betrayed the revolution?
By whose hand does this world now turn?
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