NUSAKAMBANGAN

They must come for you at night

For deceit detests the light

That exposes the day

And makes motives

No longer politic grey

But dreadful darkest black.

Some say the families

Could hear the shots

Fired at eight of them,

Tortured and tired

And tied to a plank

With eyes wide open.

A churlish end

To a malicious plan

Of cheap deceptions

And sordid trickery.

So the police smiled

Because it went well.

Today a weak man will wake

In the propped-up palace.

He will drink again

From the callous challis,

Frothy with foul poison

Distilled from corruption

That defines his frailty.

Has he not heard,

Does he not know

The words of his prophet?

Life for life,

Wounds equal for equal,

Mercy for men

Who show mercy.

One night they might come for him.

The painting is by Myuran Sukumaran, one of eight men executed in Indonesia this morning.

DIGGERS

So many distractions;

But can you stop awhile?

Stare at the ocean,

Imagine it lapping

On coasts far away

In other places

And, even, long ago.

On that narrow beach -

A fortress cove,

Impregnable.

Across the channel -

Trenches in the mud,

Ballets by Spandau.

Fickle waters

That fail to drench

The dreaded deserts

Of a once holy land.

And ports and harbours

Throughout old empires -

Now benighted lands of other gods.

Warm tropical streams

That wind around

The islands to our north

And the jungles

And cities

Beyond their beaches.

A hundred years?

Where have they gone?

All the men are gone -

Some then and some,

It seems, only yesterday.

Sentenced to death,

Or life in a prison

Of melancholy,

Memories

And late friends

Missing from the march -

Men sacrificed for us.

They can protest

No more

When we recast

Their history.

Best not to glorify

With postmodern words

That actually belittle

Their spirits

And fling false motives

Into the restless sea

Of history refined.

Best only to be

Thankful, humble, silent,

And stare at the ocean,

Imagine it lapping

On coasts far away

In other places

And, even, long ago.

The painting is one of Ben Quilty's depictions of veterans of the war in Afghanistan.

GOLD GHOSTS

Stars streaked with bullion,

All gone now,

In bribes,

Telltale trinkets,

Cocaine and shards of ice.

All that glistens now are Japanese brides -

Passengers on cheap planes to paradise.

The streets are strained to the borders of trust,

While the highways wail

And whine with the weight

Of cars bent on a circuitous rush

And trucks stacked with scraps,

Chronically late.

The noise never ceases,

Heavy metal raging

Even at dawn,

Mocking the peace

Unknown by these natives of middle hell,

Boiling alive in molten gold’s caprice.

False promises ever entice the fall,

Above the din –

Gilt sand,

Glitter's waves call.

The artwork is by John Dahlsen, an environmental painter.

It is entitled 'Gold Coast' and made from plastic objects collected on Australian beaches.

MY LAST POEM

Lately I am tiring of the conquests,
Showing up and pitching in the contests.
Knowing that I'm only growing older,
And should give way to younger and bolder.
For they have no respect for ancient ways,
They spurn and deride my warm fiery blaze,
And cast aside rhymes and rhythmic phrases,
Laughing at meanings hidden in mazes.
So I will put aside my feathered quill,
And sail away into my old age chill,
Where I will find a hollowed hermit's home;
But I will never write another poem.