Our Matron Nature

One can barely control


Let alone


Twice more we


than men.

His design
Smothered the earth
With her love

If the world ran wild
Along maternal lines
Would there be twice less


There is passion in the making
Of love and war
There is pride in the taking
Of power and appearances
(What purpose is the peacock?)

Our nurture
Eternally felt


Our nature
Tragically felt

Just as strong
As love

Created and redeemed
Overthrown and unseen
Hidden self…
God knows

Yet loves
So, do I?

For Kate..



A long flowing snake
Of people sauntering
Through the streets
Crowds caterpaulting
Upon signs of
Sweatshop treats

Colours and shapes
Draped upon a
Myriad of skin
Matching one another
Like a false array of kin

Heros take their stand
While the audience applauds
Criminals remanded
Even angels take a fall

Think the worst if you will
It’s your bitter pill
But think of all the
Panic when the crowd
Have their fill

In the Box


I picked them all at random
Not noticing the package
I did not want the wrapping
To prevent me from partaking

The first one burst into my mouth
A liquid sweet liquor
The remnants of the cherry
Relished for a moment more

Next was slightly square and hard
But sweet all the same
The longest chew did skew my jaw
Relieved the end it came

Several more of various shapes
Tasted much the same
A smooth blend of flavour unknown
Coloured in different ways

Then the most shocking ones
A sour batch of bites
Some so nasty I spat them out
Hastily cleaned my mouth

For a box labelled favourites
I found so very few
The hard ones tiresome and long
The good ones gone too soon

Shipping label image

Word to the mother


Wiping crumbs off cafe tables
Scooting glasses from their deaths
Scrubbing spit off spotty faces
End of day, treasure rest

More they learn, more the chatter
Philosophy of small talk
Wonder where your mind escaped
Once I had learned to walk

Hear your voice in mind over mother
Tea sipped lips kiss mass of curls
Broken record breaks the silence
Time revolves, their lives unfurl

Chords of chaos wrap up fondly
Softened by warm blood lines
Endearing past, forbearance endless
Nagging finite-ness of time

For Andrea

“I would love to have more time with my mother…
She is part of me.” – Crown Princess Mary of Denmark

Hidden mother Victorian portrait

From the Frontier


Rural fringe
Dwells common cringe
Cardboard-cutout street
Set like flint
Hinterland where
Lawn and forest meet

Cliff frontier
Carved face looks on
Ranks of timber felling
Sinking ales
Saloon servants
Stirring tales a’ telling

Piano stool swing
whisky jar fling
Rest old timey den
Battle weary
Laden pilgrim
Poised sword of pen

For Liam Hugh

“We take up task eternal, and the burden and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the past we leave behind…” -Walt Whitman

Honky Tonk Piano

A town called Sunshine

Construction grey and rubble blue

Fluoro fashion, steel cap boots

Not a namesake, urban glare

Grinding metal jack-hammer blare


Plank and rail winding on

Milestones leading to no end

Nestled in a corner cave

Industrial music blend


Like a gold tooth in a cavity smile

Where tools, utensils, blades and brushes

Create a different landscape

If only imagined, constructed


Paint explodes outside its doors

Spraying over asphalt floors

Footprints of an architect

To renovate our minds


Pop up places, lounge lattes

Created art resides in spaces

Amid the mesh and metal maze

True sunshine on their faces


“But we do try to turn our backs on the fog and squarely face the sunshine.’ – Vladimir Nabokov



Sunshine Art Spaces Victoria, Australia

Photographic project, Sunshine Victoria – Brad Axiak