They’ll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you. Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay



I want to go back to the bush again,

To the bush, with its lonely skies.

I want to be back with those bushland men.

With the loneliness in their eyes.

I want to be back with the horses, too,

With the dapples and roans and greys.

To ride through the grass when it’s damp with


As I did in those bygone days.

And perchance before I depart this land

I will go back there again,

To the wonderful place that I think so grand

And the wonderful bush land men.


MY ONE DESIRE. (1932, October 22). The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), p. 9. Retrieved January 29, 2014, from


Is this what God meant you to be?
To revert to what you once were?

As we lust for more power and grow wiser, stronger
faster, wilder and less inhibited, do we revert like you
and not redeem the better qualities of soul we aspire?

Karl H. Cameron-Jackson

‘A slave’s life is all you understand, you know nothing of freedom. For if you did, you would have encouraged us to fight on, not only with our spear, but with everything we have.’ Sparta

The Queenslander (Brisbane, Qld. : 1866 – 1939), Saturday 5 September 1885,

The Queenslander (Brisbane, Qld. - 1866 - 1939), Saturday 5 September 1885,



The main courtyard was filled with warriors – mermen with fish tails from the waist down and human bodies from the waist up, except their skin was blue, which I’d never known before.Some were tending the wounded. Some were sharpening spears and swords. One passed us, swimming in a hurry. His eyes were bright green, like that stuff they put in glo-sticks, and his teeth were shark teeth. They don’t show you stuff like that in “The Little Mermaid.

― Rick Riordan, The Last Olympian

Il n’est pas certain que tout soit incertain. ( It is not certain that everything is uncertain.) Blaise Pascal, Pascal’s Pensees



Lee Emmett, Australia



indecision paralyses
confusion mounts
with new advisors
listen to this one
then to that
tip, and waver
then stay where-at
wasting time
considering choices
mind is cluttered
jostling noises
wait for lightning
meanwhile suffer
watching waves’ foam
break on shore
inner turbulence
grows some more
endless tides
of feeling low
will joy return
with ebb and flow?

History is a string full of knots, the best you can do is admire it, and maybe tie it up a bit more. History is a hammock for swinging and a game for playing – Jeannette Winterson


Huon Times (Franklin, Tas. : 1910 – 1933), Friday 3 June 1921,

Fotor0129172628 Huon Times (Franklin, Tas. - 1910 - 1933), Friday 3 June 1921,

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota


Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life

Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?” ― Terry Pratchett, Going Postal



The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 13 February 1926


The morning spits up the sun
Below my bed my lips peels
Yo our childs Hullabaloo over
Keeping our first abo culture good
Clean shaven back lands
And we sunstruck by a colourless talk by Americanos
The afternoon spits up the starred night
Below my head lays eyes looking
At the noses arse-end of this world
A first fella said I want to be oblivious
‘what for?’ cos midday squinting toward
a trespassive on Murri land
Rumour field the house of every Peoples Spirits of;
‘how come a sickle moon kisses earth and found out what heart’
Toned cry sitting love makes
So fuck love for yesterdays dump
So lullaby away dreams that don’t come true
Those Murri skills remain are
Future clumsy flinch with business
Those Murri hobnailed on naming
Each other cabs calm in drawer for a bit of money
The rituals gentle Murri sorcery
Gives ancient weathered faces
Stout to taut the looter?
Awake now readers and seed basic
Eternal life humble shipped out
Of man’s sorrow affairs
Murri old commanded us us
Murri young commanded us us
The morning wings me to supreme sacrifice
According to the perished
© 2010, Lionel Fogarty

What are men to rocks and mountains ? ― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 16 July 1932,

The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 16 July 1932,

aflowerhunterin00rowagoog_0243 - Version 2

written by the very alcoholic Australian Poet Henry Kendall


    By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,


    And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:


    It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges


    Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.


    Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers


    Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;


    And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,


    The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.

The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.

October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.

Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.

Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; –
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.



The mind Is so hospitable, taking in everything Like boarders, and you don’t see until It’s all over how little there was to learn Once the stench of knowledge has dissipated. JOHN ASHBERY, “Houseboat Days”


Read more at World's News (Sydney, NSW - 1901 - 1955), Saturday 5 March 1910,  2 The World's News (Sydney, NSW - 1901 - 1955), Saturday 5 March 1910,


The World’s News (Sydney, NSW : 1901 – 1955), Saturday 5 March 1910, 28024-pdf_0026

His voice was cloves and nightingales, it took us to spice markets in the Celebs, we drifted with him on a houseboat beyond the Coral Sea. We were like cobras following a reed flute.”

― Janet Fitch, White Oleander

Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker? Garth Nix, Sabriel

article16349333-4-001 1 costumeofrussian00hard_0252


Desire paths

An Easterly scribbles havoc

flagfall wind-scriptin semaphore sedges
winter and dawn
filigreeswamp’s fringe beach spinifex,  halophytic grasses and marram flex, unquietly.
The regolith is etched
with roo paths and clawprints bandicoot
heron rabbit fox.
We focus our telescopes
and settle into contemplate shorebirds