Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 5, Number 2. November 2022. ISSN: 2581-7094
Godoomba
I was here
marked only by the words on the
page
abstention from the outside world
affording space for deep
listening
Godoomba, Godoomba
Godoomba, Godoomba
words roll lightly across my tongue
drinking it in like sweet water
from the swollen banksia flowers
after the rain
words awake a conversation, a susurration
that comes up from
deep within the valley floor
they remember, I have been here
before
a long time ago
body is sore
assailed by doubts
caused by unsympathetic orators of
past critics
time spent lamenting
for unfinished poems
that sit
just outside my window
hanging in the morning mist
just out of reach
or stolen at dusk
carried on the antiphonal call of
the currawongs
Baarka
(first published in Too
Deadly Our Voice, Our Way, Our Business by Us Mob Writing 2017)
bulging banks, sodden with water
nature’s
refuse washes away downstream
dry
branches bounce, to the rhythm of the current
ripples form,
turn
and
disappear
tree trunks, freshly painted with
the river flow
turn to marble
scars made by the Old people, are
reminders of past floods
farm fences delve into the river
and straight up the other side
they
fence the rivers too
crumpled water tanks lie on their
sides
kerosene tins
bed
frames
broken
glass remains, in memorial to those who once lived by the Baaka
Listen carefully
You can imagine the women from the
Mission
talking
as
they care for their children playing in the river
a place of respite from the
government gaze
and
control
Unfinished
cool
damp air
finds
bare thighs
warm
palms slide
my
hands dig deep
into
sandstone grit
last
of the light
lilac
shadows
contours
of
armpits
and pelvic bone
I
take Country home to bed
in
my hair and on the soles of my feet
Ghost
Gum
(first published in Too
Deadly Our Voice, Our Way, Our Business by Us Mob Writing 2017.)
upon the once young creamy,
pink-tinged skin
pooled blood appears on the surface
caused by previous contusions
leaving her discoloured
recent lesions
continue haemorrhaging
old sores still
weeping
the disfigured
and swollen skin
now tight
shiny, ready to
split
her veins draw the healing sap to
the surface
to medicate all wounds
seasonally white, powdery, bark
scales
are shed
stolen by the hot wind
saucer like
seeds fall out of wide-open woody mouths
of those who
sing, as they regurgitate
the beginning of
another
in the cool of the night
respite
she reaches up
and gently sways
dancing in time
with the stars
as they sweep
across the desert night sky