GEHENNA

So this is how it ends -

Days of thunder without rain,

Skies the colour of pain,

Air exhaled by Satan's friends.

Could there be new beginnings -

Birds rising from the ashes,

Fish that thrive in the heat,

And weeds that taste like meat?

No, we are the damned –

Chosen to die in a scorched climax,

Without understanding anything,

Deceived by almost everything.

HOSTAGE

I can see so much if I care to look

Out of the cage that my black dog has built,

Beyond the pages of my latest book,

And through the gauze curtains of ceaseless guilt.

My name is unseen,

No one views this ageing face.

I am just an empty space,

Vanished and spent without a trace,

But please don’t ask me how I died.

I hear so much noise all ‘round me these days -

Voices that argue and accents that coax,

Shouts rising above the muzak that plays,

And laughter that follows dubious jokes.

My name is noiseless,

I live on the edge of sense,

Just beyond all resonance,

Silenced in the present tense.

So no one asks me how I died.

I watch the cars approach and then go past,

Making long drives to vast weekenders;

Or on the road for fun, having a blast,

Utes with plastic plates stuck fast in fenders.

My name is linger.

I live where there is no go.

Every day is mean and slow,

As if there’s nowhere else to know.

Please don’t ask me how I died.

I forget when my green heart was hollowed,

Scooped out and ditched like avocados’ skins,

Destined to bleed for someone I’d followed,

Forever punished for another’s sins.

My name is stigma,

Even though I made no gain.

I wear another’s ball and chain,

And bear tattoos of shame and pain.

Just don’t ask me how I died.

POTTERY

On a shoreline shaped by heaven’s potter -

Wet sand shining like glossed terra cotta -

Day’s end bequests another work of art

Under skies set with clouds, halfway sunny:

Peaceful pictures that soothe a ruined heart

As sandhills laze, bleached pale as creamed honey,

Beside sky-dyed sea singing and talking,

With pearly foam dancing on curling waves,

And graceful gulls swooping, soaring, squawking,

While whipbirds crack calls from scrubby enclaves.

Then when the weary sun dips low and sets

Fire to frills of any cloud that lingers,

Comes creations no child of clay forgets –

Flourishes fresh from the artist's fingers.