To the sound of screaming,
turns the eyes and the ears of the ordinary
agape in horror at the desperation of a jumper
as he splashes through the glass
fixing a final flickering gaze on tear-welling faces who,
with tightened lips let pass a whimper “oh no, oh no oh no”.
The rain of rock crashes chase away trivial reality,
the lattes, the must-do meetings,
the synchronization of calendars
in a kerosene flash; thanks to religious brutality.
There, urgent amongst the
surging clouds are those in
black turned gray. Gold-hatted
knights who shout for your own good.
Scared like the brokers,
fathers like the chairmen,
rushing like the insurers
but they choose to run the other way.

You can be anything you want, we give that to you
you can squander your money, or get filthy rich too
(though the poorest can be President, he is equal to you),
but before it all, friend, you’re an American too.

You can walk into danger and shrug off alarm
you can use, if you want, your right to bear arms
you can say God is everything or deny he exists too;
you can be anything you want, we give that to you.

You can starve in your millions or eat nought but cake
you can drink to St Patrick and tour drunk, state to state.
Green beer if you choose it, Irish jigs, all for you
but before it all, friend, you’re an American too.

You can extend hands of friendship to an unclenched fist
and vote for a change to dodge financial abyss.
You can be anything you want, we give that to you
but before it all, friend, you’re an American too.

This is the reality worm that spits on your
breakfast so you lose your appetite.

This is the hitch-hiker who steals your
dreams whilst you sleep, scribbles out
days on your calendar and adjusts your
priorities without asking if it’s ok.

This is the bringer of a vain hope that
God exists, or that at least love really
can conquer all, despite the odds.

This is someone else’s epic battle that you’ve read
about and it loomed unplanned on your horizon
whilst you are still far too young and have so
many things left to do.

This is the teacher of new words, new statistics
and new ways of saying things, like “whipple” and
“procedure” and “chances” and “affairs in order”.

This is the pink ribbon and the races in
memory of you.

This is how you get to be yesterday’s
face in a photograph.

This….is….It.

Fight It. Don’t give up.

Campbell Park Hill

Click this text to hear Alex read this poem

Come if you will, come with me
and let us call out to nature
for our new beginning.
Let us walk carefully so we do
not step on the ants and crawling things
that live amongst the gravel until
we are at the crest of the big high hill
in the park.

Let us stretch our arms wide at the
edge of the drop and
turn our palms up towards the
blue sky so they catch the weight
of the sunshine and head back, eyes shut,
allow the beams to drip between our fingers.

Let the ancient soul trapped
within us scramble to the surface
and escape through our mouths
as we call out an old wordless song
to the valley and the little rivers below.

We shall feel the warm wind gently
tug at our hair and flick our collars
about us and mingle with our calling
voices so they are borne like kites
made of sound to the sheep in the far
fields and the dog-walking people who
lumber their sticks in arcs to their
lolloping furry companions.

In that moment we must close our eyes
tighter so we can let the glory of this
simple pleasure flush out the modernity
of us until we are once again
cavemen at Piltdown, hunters in the
rainforest and dust-covered people
who dig honey from bee’s nests with
a pointed stick.

Today we go to Cassie’s Park
we go to lay the wefted sheet;
the Christmas love her parents give.

Today she runs amongst our minds
and plays upon the hill
the little girl in guarded hearts
who lives amongst us still.

She never had her running start
a wisp of here and gone.
Denied her chance to make mistakes,
a brief but shining light.

In Cassie’s Park, we stoop and
brush the autumn leaves and twigs
and shed a tear, we brush from cheeks
all reddened from the cold.

In Cassie’s Park, in Cassie’s Park
there’s a hundred years of love.
Of folks who came and stayed a while
and left us names in stone. The
builders of our country,
the merchants of our youth,
the moms and dads and kith
and kin; we let all our
loved ones in.

But tiny tiny, amongst the trees
is one be-jewelled corner
where Cassie lays for all our days
still loved and not forgotten.

So when your Christmas bird is cooked
and laid upon your table,
please raise a glass
and toast the past that
graces Cassie’s Park.