More powerful than any gun

Are all these flowers here, my son

Laid in respect for those who died

Defying terrorists who tried

To frighten us and make us hate

I’ll promise you they’ll meet their fate.

As you are sitting on my knee

I beg you, listen carefully

I hope the seeds my words have sown

Will blossom once you’re fully grown

And you will be a man one day

Who has no hateful word to say.

Let every race and creed unite

Together we will win this fight

If we agree to walk as one

There will not be a single gun

To threaten or destroy the powers

We have invested in these flowers.

Annette Herd November 2015

Inspired by the interview of a father who helps his little son understand what happened in the

terrorist attacks in Paris in November 2015.

Their land we walk

Ochre red dirt

Under white feet

Ploughing through country

We take we don’t talk

Without treaties or contracts

We took what was theirs

Without sorry or thought

We pass it on to our heirs

Their land we use

Breaking Earth’s skin

And digging deep

Wounds that won’t heal

In the end we all lose

With little attempt

To make right what was wrong

We debate we discuss

Make them wait far too long

Their land we farm

Creating great wealth

But unwilling to share

What nature provides

In the depth of its palm

Without remorse or regret

We can’t reconcile

What our ancestors did

In colonial style

On their land we’ve built

Cities and towns

Into blue sky

We close eyes and ears

As we fear our guilt

If we don’t honour Country

And stay deaf to its Song

If we don’t respect Spirit

We will never belong

It’s their land we walk

Ochre red dirt

Under white feet

Let’s acknowledge the hurt

Then sit down and talk

Annette Herd August 2014

I give you the gift of Silence

Of words that don’t have to be said

Of conversations that don’t have to be had

I give you the gift of Silence

The gift of the absence of sound

Of noise that doesn’t have to be drowned

I give you the gift of Silence

Of comments that don’t have to be made

Of music that doesn’t have to be played

I give you the gift of Silence

Of communication that need not be heard

Of understanding without a word

I give you the gift of Silence

Of sound that doesn’t need to be killed

Of space that doesn’t need to be filled

I give you the gift of

Annette Herd January 2014

Blood flows dark and sluggish

From a waning womb

The realisation

That reproductive responsibilities

Can be put to rest

Dawns on you

As the world opens its window wide

To creativity of a another kind

The land of Self is beckoning

With a smile and the promise of pure delights

Winter becomes your season

And airflow a necessity

You dread days over 25

But nothing quenches the joy in children

Who like you are

Finding their own way.

Annette Herd October 2013

I am strong.

Not now.

Not at the moment.

Not today.

But I was in the past

And I will be again.

Tomorrow.

When a decision needs to be made.

Annette Herd March 2014

There are times

When something hits you in the guts

And you get the wind knocked out of you

Good and proper.

The sense of certainty

That all your hard work

Will pay off

Drops out of your hand

And shatters on the hard ground

Right next to your body.

Your achievements

And your goals

Suddenly feel tainted.

You lose faith

In your capabilities.

You feel foolish

You ever had dreams.

You seek solitude,

Because you are wounded and raw.

The image of you

Walking into the sea

And sinking to the bottom

Is strangely soothing.

But the world and its demands

Haul you back to the surface.

You switch from living to functioning.

When you hear something positive and uplifting

You feel too numb

To let it close,

Let alone touch you.

But a seed gets sown

And somewhere in the back of your brain

A little voice whispers:

It’s only a phase.

Life will find you again.

Annette Herd March 2014

The flies are very friendly here.

They share your tea, they share your beer,

And with much jollity and cheer

They settle in your eye and ear.

They buzz around you all day long

Singing their low-pitched buzzing song

Immune to ointment, spray or pong.

Science’s got this one very wrong.

So in the end you ditch your pride

And don a net to save your hide,

But even if it’s tightly tied

There’s always one that gets inside.

Annette Herd October 2014

It was not me
Who created concentration camps
In the country of my birth.

It was not me
Who hunted homosexuals
And experimented on the disabled.

It was not me
Who refused
To shake Jesse Owens’ hand.

My guilt is not personal. I say sorry all the same.

It was not me
Who invaded
My adopted country.

It was not me
Who massacred and stole
Its first occupants.

It was not me
Who trampled on Dreamings
And created nightmares.

My guilt is not personal. I say sorry all the same.

What else is love, but hatred in disguise,
For love demands as much attention as does hate.
What’s love to me is hatred in your eyes.
They are co-joinéd halves that share each other’s fate.
Love, hate, hate, love, each is a coin flipped twice.
That what is hate to me you may adore and love,
I may judge something wrong and call it vice,
Whereas for you it has a place in heav’n above.
I’ve often wondered about love and hate,
The games we play, the ever-present need for fight.
Could there be room for all in a debate?
Does sun make judgements about moon, does day judge night?
If we, with ease and grace, allowed all else to be,
There would be neither love nor hate, and we were free.