Selected poems
Our handsThe church is an old man with heavy robesHeavy lidded, head bowedStoopedWe are twisting, clutching, writhingPointing fingers, fists stamping tables or shaking in furyBut the old man is deaf and blind and besidesHis head is lowAnd he sits within a prison cellIn time (strange hope from here)Our rage and bodies softenAnd a bell is heard againOur hands find the gentle reality of our own skinAnother's warm palm and a voice that says it's okay to mournThis is compassionThe pain of being human— Clare Locke
we are sorrythere will come a timewhen we bring these young oneshome from oblivionname themdeclare their age and their home of birthadmire and respect themfor their courage in their plightif only we had the national imaginationand the heartto do it nowfor it will come to passa leader stands and exclaimswe are sorry for those who sufferedfrom our pacific solutionfrom their forced stay on Manusfor the damage done on Nauruwe are sorry about the temporary protection visafor the policy of no visafor the tough and mean treatment at our handsin your moment of most desperate plight.and the people now scarredby loss of homelandsand the dash of hope they heldwill look uplistenand struggle on— Colleen Keating