narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One

by narrator AUSTRALIA

  ~~~

  Despite what my father believes, Emily wasn’t the one who was selfish.

  It was my father.

  Emily craved his attention so much that it’s what made Ryan Caldwell so attractive. Lost in the man’s charms, near-living together while my father slumbered drunk, she fell for a man whose heart was already with my best friend.

  Having no-one love her is what scared her the most, and now I understand.

  I take a breath as I enter my father’s place of work. He can’t remember any of last night’s conversation, and it was what Ryan was banking on: my word against his. I hold Emily’s diary page in my hand, and in time, Brandi can speak for herself but today, while my father is sober, he’s going to tell his superintendent everything I’ve told him to say.

  He’s going to help free one butterfly, and crush the other.

  It’s the least he can do when neither of us was there to break her fall.

  Wednesday 27 June 2012

  Whales In Motion

  Alex Gardiner aka The Auld Yin

  Bullaburra, NSW

  Save the whales an’ save Antarctic’s ecology

  without whales, no plankton.

  Without plankton no krill.

  without the krill no whales.

   

  Do you ever think in ecological ways?

  I often do. Aye! In many, many different ways.

  Recyclin’ of all kind of things,

  one way, to my mind, this does bring.

   

  Poo, aye poo is one great beautiful way,

  now poo, I ken, you must be au-fait.

  Aye poo recyclin’ is now all the rage,

  except for poo, from a budgie’s cage.

  Have you ever seen a wee budgie’s poo?

  If not, I’ll just explain to you,

  Wee tiny black thing with wee white swirls,

  an’ it does not matter whether they’re from boys or girls.

   

  Well now, you cannot recycle such wee things,

  so another animal to my mind doth spring.

  Whales!!! Big ginormus humongous whales,

  They boggle my mind, aye! They never fail.

   

  We need whales for all the krill they eat.

  millions an’ millions they scoff, it’s quite a feat.

  Now, the krill eat green plankton, aye, they do,

  tons an’ tons o’ plankton until they are fully foo.

   

  Now for all this tons o’ plankton to grow,

  it needs rich fertiliser, aye, I tell you so.

  Where on earth can you get fertiliser from, I ask?

  way down in Antarctica, it would be an enormous task.

   

  Whale’s poo!!!! I tell you is what you need.

  to give all that tons o’ plankton a blinkin’ great feed.

  Whale poo – to fertiliser, for plankton fills the bill,

  an’ all this plankton for the hungry krill.

   

  That’s what ecology is all about,

  I ken some folks out there don’t care a hoot.

  Well, I tell you, this Auld Yin does, I care a lot,

  so, I’ll tell yea more information that I have got.

   

  Whale’s POO!!! Is a marvellous thing,

  an’ to your imagination this info I’ll just bring.

  Now it’s not tiny like a wee budgie’s poo,

  Just let your mind boggle, aye, let it accrue.

   

  Imagin’ making a chocolate drink,

  come on now that’s not hard to think.

  Well, it’s like the hot chocolate without the milk,

  would not spill out a glass that you gave a tilt.

   

  The colour is also a reddish type o’ brownish green,

  The bloomin’ likes that you have ever seen.

  Oh an’ the fertiliser through aerobic ways,

  gives the plankton food in a most exotic way.

   

  So you see this ‘motion’ of the bonny whales today,

  gives credence to be ‘au-fait’ the ecology way.

  One thing puzzles me though’ afore I part,

  can you imagine the turbulence of a humongous whalie fart?!!!

   

  Thursday 28 June 2012 8 am

  Sing Me There

  Graham Sparks

  Bathurst, NSW

  Imagine there is such a thing

  as resonance of place.

  I could pick that special note

  and sing myself to ‘there’,

  without traversing space,

  or land or sea or air,

  poetic licence of displacement.

   

  And you may think from reading of my poem

  that I take liberties where language is concerned,

  you would be right, it’s true, I do,

  beginning ‘here’ conceptually,

  I bend and twist and fold to get us ‘there’.

   

  As language is a living thing,

  in symbiosis with ourselves,

  poetic licence is a tool I use

  to assist it in its evolution.

  Duty bound are we

  to help it morph and grow.

   

  Thursday 28 June 2012 4 pm

  Sensible Fools

  Pat Ridley

  Sandringham, NSW

  Why do sensible people like me

  think about committing suicide on days like this

  When it’s raining, and babies are dying in Bangladesh

  And there is no hope any more

  And I send fifty dollars and try to forget the bombs and the dying

  And native trees cut down to make paper

  And whales slaughtered for perfume and rhinos for old men

  And monkeys tortured every day in the name of science.

  And in my country, men kill each other horribly trying to free it

  And only succeed in tightening the bonds.

   

  Why is there no answer now

  I do not have time to sit and wait

  While another child dies in agony or another bomb

  explodes in Afghanistan 

  I do not have time or patience anymore because there is no hope.

  Is it not easier to die than pretend it will all get better

  When in reality it will only get worse and worse

  And there is no end.

   

  Try to remember the good things like the birth of my son

  All pink and slippery with my blood

  And perfect, straight limbs and a strong heartbeat

  And now at seventeen a wish to see where he was born

  And not be killed for looking

  And always asking why, why must it be so

  When there is nothing more precious than life.

  How can I love my country when it has destroyed so many

  And for what – supposed loyalties and old-fashioned superstitions

  of a religious nature.

   

  So why not let go now while there is still time

  Why wait for the inevitable cruel ending

  Surely death is better than this slow torture

  Watching all that is beautiful growing straight and strong

  Change and grow warped and twisted like men’s minds

  Unless there is a light in the darkness there is no point

  Not now not ever.

   

  Search the high skies and look for the hope

  The silvery chink of light on the dark horizon

  There is beauty to be found even in this mayhem

  Tiny flowers under the stinging nettles

  Glittering rainbows and diamond cobwebs

  Perhaps there will be life after death.

   

  Friday 29 June 2012