2.45am, just one more edit
Cut some words from Stefo here
And put some fire shots there.
Its seemingly never ending
But just one more edit

Bed can wait
If I sleep, we won’t see Rhys’s eagle
Adam won’t grind his gas tank
Garry won’t make it back in his undies
Sam won’t jump in the pool!
Just one more edit

Thousands of tiny lines on the screen
Each precariously placed
To tell Conjola’s story
Place them wrong
The story fades.
Just one more edit

Maybe it’s time to rest
The tiny lines are moving by themselves
I’m losing focus
But the weight of expectation
Makes me do just one more edit

Maybe if I stop
The fire won’t happen
The animals won’t die
The houses will remain
NYE would never have happened!
No.
Just one more edit

The holiday snake is returning home
Slowly crawling North
100kms long
A three day feed, to re energise
For the stressful life it leads

It gorges itself
On all that we have
Coming for the serenity
It’s a hypocritical snake
It creates calamity

The snake is a necessary evil
We use it’s money to grow
But we lock our doors, stay inside
We’re glad to see it go.

I wish my words would glide across the page
Almost like poetry in motion

All I have is imagination
And an average ability
of spelling it out

I'm not rushing this work
As I have those in the past
I'm pausing to think
As we should
When we connect with the world

Of course Focus and purpose are important
Be careful not to be smothered
Take a deep breath, a deep thought
Give it space give it time

For I am guilty of all the above
And the scars of haste are easy to see
I've learnt to relax and look within
It's there where the answers lie.

Poetry is now my muse
I'll let it teach and inspire
Writing is my way forward
The words keep pointing the way

This is not to make you jealous
But more a fantastic idea!
Sitting at my home on the Central Coast
Things with wings are bloody everywhere

The silence of Conjola is what saddens us most
When will the mammals and birds ever return?
If it wasn't for the crash of bulldozers
It would be quiet, sad and alone

But up here we have a wonderful array of parrots, bush turkeys, kookas and hundreds more
And come 6am they give a one mighty roar.

Shane could collect them with his truck
And make Conjola alive again!
I beg you please take them
Please
So I can at least sleep past 7am.

What a wonderful word
'Charcuterer' It sounds out of the mouth like a breath of fresh air

For those unaware of meaning of this French word
It means 'one who prepares bacon, ham, sausage from pork'.

A Charcuterer lives among us
A doyen of the arts.
I've tasted his salami
Believe me, it's off the charts

He spent a weekend to learn this craft,
Up behind Martins Ridge
Making sausage salami
Creating his food art from a pig.

Like he, we must keep moving
To distract from our loss and pain
You'll spot his smile when you see him
The Charcuterer is his name

What’s wrong with earth?
Are we ever meant to recover?
Fires, virus now martial law
Our story is now swept beneath the covers

In our capital, a commission
To stop a tragedy happening again
But Beijing and Washington?
Will they ever learn
And for once grow a brain?

After NYE
We long to see the light
We need to see the world is a beautiful place
To step away from our awful
Plight

I wish I was a astronaut
You know, they just rocketed into space
At least they are in the heavens
Away from the human race

From there they can see the beauty
Away from politics and hate
Their spacecraft is free
And not a dirty police state

Back on Terra Nullius,
our only hope is Canberra
But I’m not holding my breath
If they don’t properly fund our fire fighters
It will only mean certain death

It’s been a very strange year
That is without a doubt
We all long for normality again
Whatever that is,
it will be my bloody shout.

I didn’t hear it coming
I didn’t see the glow
I was in a Hotel room far away
desperate for news from home

‘Kurrajong Cres! The Quarterdeck! A war zone!’
When the news appeared
‘Is that my house? Or is that my house?
The pictures were so unclear
Then I saw it, not so sure at first
But when I saw the gas bottle
It sadly confirmed the worst.

On my arrival I wasn’t prepared
For what I saw
Nothing looking familiar
I only saw trauma,
I can’t explain it at all.

For whatever reason
I was never allowed to grieve
Not just on my burnt down house
But for those who were told it was too late to leave

What would I have done?
Would I fight or flight?
It’s eating me up like cancer
But truth be told
I never want to know the answer

‘The ones who stayed have the Fire in their eyes’
So I was told
It will always be with them
Until they grow old

So now I have been tasked to let our stories be heard
A film, a document for the history book
It will be an emotional tale
Led by the master, Mr Stephen Chinnock

From behind the camera
I pretend not to shed a tear
How did you all survive?
How are you still here?

Producing such a story
has made me very nervous
Thanks to Scott, Kris, Melissa and more
You have given me support and purpose

We shouldn’t compare our loss
Our grief is all the same
Yes, what happened to us was tragic
Despite our anger, there is no one blame

So when I travel south
I feel I need to write a poem
The fire has given me friends for life
Far more than when I had a home

So I’ve decided to Rebuild
in the future rather than the present
And It’s with great pride when I say
I’ll live at 21 Kurrajong Cresent

I often wonder what the dogs would say
about the events of that tragic day
Would they talk about their fear wondering what the hell was on?
Or like many of nature’s gifts,
did they know it was on its way?

While Bundy the dog lies in the sun and dreams
Does he have visions of sitting in a boat on a Smokey lake?
But I hope he is chasing rabbits and birds down at the stream.

I believe they want to talk
Whether in the form or a bark or a yelp
Like us they are still traumatised from NYE and need your help
All they want is a hug, a pat, to be thrown a bone,
and to tell you that you will never be alone.

Through the chill of winters haze
The yellow beasts are at it again
Crash bang fizz screech
Metal brick and dirt
All within its robotic reach

Remember the sounds of birds, the calm
even the odd fishing boat?
The water is just as inviting
A postcard, it still has it’s charms.

But now big machines are a tragic reminder for those who stayed
My heart sinks for those who have to listen and watch this everyday
And who are these men in white space suits?
Ordering the dozers to act this way.
Sweeping our memories, our dreams, our toil
Into the big white truck who drive it all away.

My family’s blood is in that soil
Our parents died and it was bequeathed
So do your best Mr bulldozer
The community, the connection, and family
is what will always lie beneath.