MICHAEL DOM

Awoken at night;
Stray winds bring dirty smells that
rain washes away.

Daylight is breaking
Over the Waigani Swamps;
Red hills and gum trees.

White curtains billow
Bang! Swoosh, bang!  Two doors slam shut;
Enter lahara!

Shaking tree branches;
Shaggy old dogs snap awake
Barking in the wind.

Air drowned in humming,
Petrol fumes and dying grass;
For twenty kina.

Red lines march then swarm
Each host six-hundreds of arms;
Mango season wars.

A desert road runs
Along borders of three worlds;
‘Savannah City’.

Hot vapours dancing
On baked red earth and burnt grass;
Gnarled old gum trees bloom.

Kunai grass waving
Across Hohola’s hillsides;
Smoke and dust rising

Kunai ashes lay
Sprinkled across Waigani;
Near Haus Tambaran.

A fat clown on strings
Waddles down office hallways;
In parliament.

POM Siti’s blood flows
Along a tarred artery
Called Waigani Drive.

Morata buses
Hissing air-breaks through the crowds;
Breakfast on the run.

Ancient sweat and grime
Soaked into the wooden seats
At Gordon’s bus stop.

Buses cram sidewalks
Spilling people like garbage
Onto filthy streets.

Forty-four gallon
Drums and overflowing sewage;
Clogging drains and roads.

Twenty-five seated,
Crew and me in the doorway;
Best view on the bus.

Laurabada waves,
Racing buses down Two Mile;
Koki is ablaze.

Crowne  Plaza towers
In a cirrus-striped blue sky;
Pine trees on the beach.

No one’s there at dawn:
Gasping in the chill sea breeze,
Whistling through pinecones.

Leave only foot prints;
Night camping at Ela  Beach
In warm, dry sand dunes.

Last week’s groceries,
Entangled in seaweed, strewn
Across marbled sands.

Betel stained pavements,
Walls, posts, grass, leaves, shirt-sleeves;
Like new-age street art.

Tanubada melts
Frostily down my parched throat;
One-way bus fare home.

University
Of Papua New Guinea:
My alma mater.

Where cool grey pillars
House young minds in a smelter –
Where leaders are forged

A grey cockatoo
Stands on a turn pike, waiting;
Enter or exit.

Serried marmar trees
Stand still, where men read law;
And there poets walk.

On a long green field
Where sweat and blood is mingled;
History rises.

A tiny kingdom
Nestled on Morata Hill;
Where Fourth Street ends.

Grey concrete brick walls,
Spiked rooftops of Fort Banner
Survey the campus.

Tin roofs clattering
With the sound of scrabbling feet;
Boys play at being king.

Colours, flags, war-cries –
Touch footy at Fuka  Park,
The Mumuts homeground.

Here parakeets race
Airways of marmar lined streets;
Wagtails dance on roofs.

Those streets were made for
Quiet strolls or morning runs
With a dog on heel.

Pathways I have walked
Through childhood and adulthood;
Renew what I’ve known.