I was born in the late 1960s at Coburg, Melbourne – so it was documented. Nothing but a blur for me. I first wrote with my pointing finger in the sandbanks on the Rosebud foreshore. Just as I became comfortable with my words, they were covered by the rising tide. I tossed and turned all night, somehow hoping my words would reappear but when the tide receded, the words gone. I wasn’t angry though, just lost for words, but now I like to think those words still float somewhere in the sea and occasionally wash up around the place or reveal themselves from the sand.
My first dabble at poetry was writing limericks on the back of building site toilet doors as a teenager. If you’re lucky enough or perhaps unlucky enough, you may stumble across my fading black Texta in those forever reusable but temporary amenities.
Writing seriously began for me in 2001 with a collection of short stories called Seven Ways in response to the suicide of my brother’s best friend. In 2012, I obtained a Diploma of Professional Writing & Editing at Gipps TAFE. I’m thinking that means my writing will become far too serious, but I’m hoping it will just be easier to read. In any case, I desire to give voice to those that are never heard.
I was born in fields of barley, raised by rats,
one night I escaped, chased by bats,
the sun rose, I saw an albatross soar,
a lion in me began to roar.
I followed a tortoise down to the sand
where a dolphin smiled, curiously,
a voluptuous figure splashed, gave her hand,
the butterfly in me flapped furiously.
We followed a dingo, back to her clan
where a rooster displayed his chest so grand
monkeys and apes swung in endless trees,
mosquitoes, bees buzzed in joyful pleas.
A python entwined us, late at night,
we rode a giant turtle, back to the sand,
a dingo dug deep, released the eggs, moonlight
revealed a hungry child, a clenched hand.
The albatross headed back home, early,
glided gently between a cloud of bats,
settled to look down upon a rabble of rats,
we slept comfortably, on fields of barley.