The Never Never


Australia, Girt by not just the blue ocean, but by it’s inner unknown sea. All red dirt and tufts of grass for the ‘roos to eat and the lizards to hide. A car drives past. At night the sky’s milky light from millions of stars above.

there a tracks in the earth

of red at this center of mine

under the milky black galaxy’s face

where the night owl’s pass the time

my country where the gravity pulls

hard and hot to Uluru’s place

there the never never lies sublime

 ever in timeless endless space

When the mo-poke calls

Tersiiska Tense Dark Chocolate


night sparks

and the tension starts

quiet – still

the mo-poke marks

the time

of the bitter night dark

Its good chocolate to take just in case. Dark tense and bitter sweet. When memories strike back, I gently push them into the compartments in the train, on tracks of memory creased into the land and  held down by the iron gravity of a slight bend in time.  The time we’re here to make our mark.

Memories start as pages nice and neat and friendly categorized. On floors on stairways and on the darkened corridors of the upper floor.  Pages and pages, but non so organised as to be in a brightened book.  But recently now in November dark, I remember things that happened, the bitter chocolate things that shouldn’t have been and for many years with tense energy I had pushed them. Pushed them again into those far flung corners of the house.  Out of site and out of everyone’s mind.  But now unfortunately those memory doors are unlocked and ghosts coming out of the cupboards with broken locks and swinging hinges.















Para Sol Para Memo

‘Its going to be hot. 40c today  – no rain though – maybe bush fires!’.

‘do you think the spiders hiding behind the lizard thermometer on the window will notice ?’ she’d said.

‘You know there’s only one little black guy – perhaps it ate the other one’

‘Yes they weren’t the same kind – so maybe ?’ – I agreed.

I had dressed looking forward to the early morning walk to the train. Took some care. not too much. Then thought about the hat – perhaps the white one from Seville – been round the world a few times and a great design for the sun. Perhaps the black Akubra with a range if native bird feathers. A guy with a trumpet smelling of alligator had stopped me in JFK. He’d acclaimed how bad the white hat was and perhaps I’d sell it to him – the black hat a bit too formal and winter season – not good and therefore not bad enough.

I stood near the door – looking through the glass at the solitary thermometer hugging spider – – 30c it read  and it was only 8 am.

I remembered of Bogota Columbia where in Chia, a nearby village I remember the band at the local restaurant on a Sunday.  The leader had a parasol which doubled as a conductor’s baton – terrible bad music with raucous trumpets, strident violin and a single side drum, no alligators, but massive strong sun – under the parasol he conducted and sang the lead.

It was the light that reminded me of that time, perhaps the light and the spider, perhaps the light, spider and lizard.  But that’s the beauty of memory for ideas.  They come straight out memory beaming at you like.

I grabbed the umbrella as I opened the door.  Perhaps it would make a real bad parasol para mi.

Spear in Flowers Wake

Teriiska Spears


spear in flowers wake

to the dawn and the dewy slake

when in the garden of eve

the purple mulga wood he kleave

and pound the spiky spinifex

in fire rocks a solid resin bleeds

and mulga bits laid out to dry

among the ashes against the sky

then when in the garden of eve

a solid shaft in hand appeared

faster than that arrow bleed

and split the air with cracking speed

the spear in flowers wake



Photo: Teriiska : Flickr – Used with permission