Remembered Scent


Remembered Scent

 Car ignition

The motor and

a smell

long, long



A long forgotten


of him,

one loved deeply.

The same smell.

And we


The nose knows

and remembers.



Simon C.J. Falk 6 January 2020

To Forget

To Forget


We at table

talk –

to forget.

Muse over a morning

of banter and doings

of what we do –

To forget.

Pick up pages

of someone else’s

story, in a book,

escaping to….


The window hazy

The smoke entering

Open door

We remember.

Lest we forget –

The furrowed and frazzled brow

Of Firies*:

their boots

seared to the soles.

Sear not their souls

too much

we plead

as images roll in,

role in too,

as politicians posture.

The worn weariness

worn like a day’s drearies,

As its been months’ now

that our bush has burned.


We remember

The Firies

and those who

offer water


food and

their love

tapped away on keys

that carry updates.

We remember

sacrifices made

by volunteers

leaving homes,

some leaving


at the call

of the crisis.

Children paddle

families to freedom

Sons bear medals

Meant for their Fathers

Under the smoky

Southern sun.



*Firies is a term of endearment for Firefighters.

Simon C.J. Falk 6 January 2020

Short Read


Short Read

 Short read

Refreshing amid

Verbiage jungles

Containing its own

Compact wildness

Adventures unspoken



Simon C.J. Falk 29 December 2019.



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I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense of A Silo

I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense Of A Silo

At times people use the image of “silo” or “silos” to describe people working independently and for their own ends.  It has never sat well with me as an image. For reasons shown by the poem in this post.

This could be because I spent many years of childhood in the sheep and wheat belt.  Later I would return there again (twice) to live and work.

Perhaps the disparaging image of “silos” comes from the Christian parable of Luke 12:13-23, where a greedy land owner was seeking more and more profits for himself. The image is not a good one for many of us and can increase a misunderstanding between city and country, rural and urban lives. In times of drought and bush fire we are best not to fuel any city-country enmities.

So, before bringing the “silo” image from our metaphorical storehouse, we might spare a thought and dig deeper into our imagination.



Picture: Ardlink Grain Dump just West of Ardlethan NSW a few years ago.


I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense Of A Silo

I am a silo grain dump,

And live on the edge of village and of town,

I often have a fuel pump,

And dot the plains or down.


Sometimes graffiti coats me,

Or I’m adorned with mural art,

But in harvest time they come to me,

And trucks and trains then dart.


They come to me in many trucks,

From farms big and farms small,

And now with massive agribusiness,

I struggle to fit them all!


So scattered near my concrete side,

On specially prepared ground,

Tarpaulin covered grains dumps,

Keep grain stored safe and sound.


I’ve witnessed many tragic times,

And lots of moments of young love,

Of busy and of fruitful times,

Or when no rain falls from above.


School leavers find some work with me,

And uni students do the same,

I’ve taken on some newcomers,

Or those of long time known family name.


Yes, some approach me greedily,

Thinking of number one,

Others come skidding speedily,

To get that fast job done.


I hear some make an image of me,

To talk of people and of teams,

Who keep things cut off separately,

And store isolated dreams.


Before they talk of silos roughly,

They need to come and visit me,

Then they’ll get the message toughly,

That does not describe me.


I don’t hide away people or ideas,

I network the city and country,

And stage people’s tears and fears,

The locals catch up by me.


They may see someone not seen for weeks,

They may see for frequent visits then,

And as harvest season peaks,

They may not be seen again.


Before you use me as an image,

Of some isolated or greedy lot,

Come pay me a visit,

And then you’ll get the plot.


Simon C.J. Falk     17 December 2019


Picture from the Australian Silo Art Trail. More here.  Accessed 17 December 2019





Coming Of Age

Coming Of Age

When an infant small

I could not feed

Myself at all.

My food came from

Your hand.


In brokenness

Of a fall

To our distress

You are fed

But from my hand.

In this maturing of

Coming of age

We are both nourished

For a different stage.

Simon C.J. Falk 19 July 2019

A Neighbour Passed By


A Neighbour Passed By…


I sat


Bereft from the beating

Wasn’t they raised with

“You don’t hit girls!”

Or, do I not look

Like a girl?

Whatever that means.

But I wasn’t letting them off

Easily, with the ‘Big Issue’ cash

Not for their stash

Towards their double-dealt slavery

To their cravings and fealty

To the faceless dealers.

Suit-clad women and men

With important looking papers in their grasp

Tapped a rapid rhythm

As their fashionable footwear

Bore them away

To offices of the clones.


The odd Christian and Muslim cleric

Passed by

Looking furtively from me to there

And where others

May be observing them

From the courtroom of current conventions.


Before they all passed

Another left me lying.

It was I.

I passed me by

Passed me off

Passed on.

I could have called

“Help! I’ve been beaten!”

“I’ve been robbed

By broken people

And a broken society

And my own broken spirit!”

I was not a neighbour

To myself.


From where

Would come the help?



Simon C.J. Falk 13 July 2019

When Life Feels Like a Garbage Tip

When Life Feels Like a Garbage Tip


When life feels like

A garbage tip

And debris around you

Makes you trip

You fall among it

And your clothes do rip

You sit amidst your garbage tip.

As you sit amidst debris

You begin to feel

A little more free

Pausing from adrenaline pace

You set about to embrace

The place.

Some order suggests itself

Before your gaze

Then meaning emerges

From the malaise.

You sit and learn

As you rummage around

And find some treasure

In the garbage ground.

Simon C.J. Falk 28 June 2019

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