No visa

The strong young man

who trained Olympic athletes

now watches daytime TV

in a Sydney suburb.

Refusing to fight for a dictator,

he vaulted a virtual queue somewhere,

was deemed unworthy

of our way of life

and now lives in a no-mans-land

of shadows and uncertainty.

Some days you may see him

feeding ducks in the park

like an old man.

Olympic aspirations

I want to kayak up your river,

shoot your raging rapids,

dive below your surface,

swim across your channel

and surf your every wave.

I want to climb your every mountain,

rove along your tracks,

jump over your chasms,

lope beyond your plains

and explore your hidden valleys.

I want to swing on your vines,

ski your slopes forever,

map your every moon,

race your fastest pulse,

cycle all your circuits,

lift your biggest barbells

and push my luck too far.

Treasure Island

Within our happy harbourside retreat

we celebrate a life that’s rich and free

as round the barbie with our friends we meet

or watch the footy final on TV.

Our leaders stop the boats, turn back the tide

of those who seek to storm our country’s gates,

to let them know that God’s not on their side

nor will we ever count them as our mates.

The people smugglers cram them in the hold

of boats that are already overfull,

so join the queue, no need to bribe with gold,

and get a proper visa in Kabul.

Or if we must, illegals to prevent,

we’ll just excise the whole damn continent.

Shells

in memory of Andrew McNaughtan, 1953-2003

Over the harbour coves today

the air feels thinner.

On the sand near Castle Rock

I pick up a faded purple shell,

its outer ridges gnarled

as an old boxer’s knuckles,

the inner surface

smooth as a sigh.

I’d put a note on his door,

“Call me urgently”,

but the house already felt like a shell.

He had no children

but the children of Timor.

It hadn’t rained for weeks

then, at the funeral,

torrents burst.

It won’t feel the same

going down to the bay.

I rub my finger over the shell,

comforting as Andrew’s smile

even when our despair

was deep as the harbour.

Geography

How distant I am from your suffering.

Why, it would take a long plane ride

to get there

or for them to get here.

I mean you.

The tyranny of distance, someone called it.

Well, thank god for geography.

Nothing wrong with distance,

good fences,

even the door between us,

even the skin.

Iraqi moon over Sydney

like the face of a damaged child

this full moon

climbing through angophoras near the zoo

will also rise over Baghdad

good for Iraqi gunners

not for our side

we like to bomb in the dark

so the kids can’t see our faces

Circus family

Between heaven and hell

we walk a tight wire.

We leap into the air

hoping to land

on some safe and distant platform.

We poke chairs at tigers,

try getting bears to dance,

elephants to tiptoe,

dogs to stop barking,

monkeys to be wise.

We juggle weighty clubs,

breathe fire,

choking on kerosene,

balance on fragile pyramids of chairs

trusting their thin legs.

We spring, we vault, we soar at times,

rebounding off the frayed trampoline.

We gamely dive through hoops,

leap over a dozen barrels,

sometimes colliding with number twelve.

One day the animals escape their cages

leaving the ringmaster

and the clown

to slug it out.