Still our home

when the woods whisper
the sand of the first foreshore
bleeds where they landed

it is still our home
despite them stabbing our land
with their silly flag.

the oldest trees speak
the language of our elders
rivers know our tears

All seven seasons
harmonise with our singing
our lines link our land

we are love’s dreaming
stewards of our land, story, sky
dancing our healing.

Here the woods whisper
of Bla(c)kness, beauty, culture
of Land, Love, Our Home.

21 December 2021, 3:10 pm
Narana Aboriginal Cultural Centre

Thanks so much for our talk, Yalanda & Ngara. I am Muskogean or Black Creek. It is interesting, the overlaps between Indigenous experiences globally. What speaks in visual art and music to my own genes? This globe has so much to learn. I hope hearts and minds open to ancient wisdom and bravely heal our world.

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once along the riverside
in time with the paddle slap propulsion
whisper thin rumours hunched under
the stairs.
our share of common time swing
syncopated with bourbon, ice crackles
melting between hot solos and summer.

once there was time to hear breath
between wax and needle,
reflection between raindrop and pond
heartbeat before and after moonlight
laughter before skipping rope turn.

in time paddle slap surrendered to roar
propellor chops, smokestack billow,
progress.
common time was lost

solo screens illuminated some of us
too few looked skyward

we listened to walls
mute to water music.

16 March 2019, 12:19 pm
(written between barks…) New Folk Café, Newtown, VIC