He's been in that circus. These days, it's strictly for his own pleasure.

However, at the end of each year, he shares 10 of his favourite new poems with a group of acquaintances, the composition of which only he knows.

And once more, Richard has kindly allowed me to share some of his ‘Ten Poems of 2022’ with readers of PNG Attitude.

Revenge Ready

R J HAUSER

At the end of February Russian troops were lining up
along the Ukrainian border at the same time as a huge
rain depression was lurking off the Queensland coast - RJH

Fat capitalists still scrape black coal
from the gaping open-cut wounds
in the Queensland countryside
from Acland to the Bowen Basin
and pile it on the waiting trains
which seep along the railway lines
like swollen veins of septic infection
to the open sore terminals
from Mackay to Townsville
and then secrete it out to sea
to settle on the smothered reef
which bleeds a dark smudge
on the weather map where radar
images pulsate like nature’s heart
revving with rancour in its blood
while a naïve and pensive population
wait appalled by the impending flood.

In the garish tasteless décor of
a secluded presidential palace
in a hidden Russian parkland
a leftover thug from the cold war
with the face of a cruel ferret
and the heart of a vicious hyena
plans his crude comeback for affronts
a bit real but largely imagined
railing about the plots against him
buoyed on a tide of national myths
manipulating the levers of stolen rule
to pour firepower like leaked sewage
at the fence of a peaceful neighbour
while the mothers of young soldiers
both sides of the trembling borders
prepare their hearts for casualty lists
that will follow the marching orders.

Summer Son

R J HAUSER

When we built our new church at Noosa, we installed
stained-glass windows featuring vivid pictures and
themes from the Bible. It made me wonder what it would
be like to encounter Jesus in a more familiar setting – RJH

I thought I heard you sneezing on the farm
as we forked the mounded stooks of drying hay
and we paused to take a breather and a drink
and from a puff of swirling lucerne dust
your nostrils pricked with memories pouring back:
the gentle smell and rustle of manger straw
and a lone cow lowing quietly near the door.

Was that you walking along the beach
in dark shades and a pair of rubber thongs
taking in each tumbled grain of sand
facing too the foaming troubled surf,
looking for your friends on fishing boats,
your thoughts of pressing crowds by the sea
and the night it stormed on Lake Galilee?

I could have sworn I saw you at the Gabba
with zinc cream striped across your nose and chin,
peering over the wooden picket fence
your eyes wandering to the smooth willow bat
as you glimpsed again the curls of lathed timber
on the workshop floor in distant Nazareth,
and the splintery cross the day you faced your death.