Forgotten Australians, poetry

Summer’s Cloud

by Janice Konstantinidis (guest author) on 15 November, 2011

Janice Konstantinidis was an inmate in Mount Saint Canice, Sandy Bay, Tasmania, where she worked as an unpaid child labourer in the Good Shepherd Sisters’ commercial laundry. Janice now lives in California in USA. Here, she shares one of her recent poems. Continue reading “Summer’s Cloud”

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

DOCS

by Diane Mancuso (guest author) on 4 October, 2011

‘These are my observations, thoughts & feelings’, writes Diane Mancuso. Many Forgotten Australians bear the burden of  memories associated with institutional ‘care’. In this series of poems entitled DOCS (Department of Children’s Services), Diane courageously demonstrates the intergenerational risk of  children being lost to out-of-home care. The cycle sadly continues.
DOCS-department –  ‘we keep families together’
Deluded I thought that things had changed since I was a child
 
Ethan

Hebrew – firm, strong long lived

First of November, a son is born
Five years of regret, five years of searching my heart,
Not a moment ticks without feeling torn
Questioning my thoughts, my regrets, and my body wracked with pain
1825 days, seconds, minutes spent apart

When I think I cannot go another day

I close my eyes hoping it will be the last time!
I am never granted this prayer

I did not hurt my child for this – evil is a crime!
Ridiculed —society thinking we didn’t care
I am forced to confront another tomorrow
For five years, we walked with our heads low feeling the shame
My body aches pulsating with so much sorrow
Our fault yes! Naeviety was not even considered I was to blame

DOCS-Department of Community Service Mission Statement

‘We keep families together’

Opening the door with my little son nestled upon my shoulder
Accusations, fingers pointed, voices raised, I only heard two words ‘son hurt’
No chance, to explain certain of our guilt their minds already made up
Six weeks old words of abuse, I did not understand! My tiny son ripped from my embrace forever

Not given even an opportunity to kiss his downy hair, or touch his hand
Moments so painful, never to forget, imprinted images to remember every day –
Means to want to die
Snapshots of pure joy, celebration of his birth, joyous moments in time.  That I would come to bring out tracing his face, his first smile, trying to smell his baby scent.
I repeated over & over
But they had already decided I was guilty
I did not see anything nothing I would cry
Over five years the pain was always behind my mask, long days when I sobbed & sobbed till I was spent

My baby gone, my man gone, I felt so alone, desolate only the walls to echo my screams of surrender, pleading to be free from this wretched pain that imprisoned me-to be gone
I was devoid of any feelings numb, a phone call to whisper what I needed
I lay down as he injected us both, I welcomed darkness
I died that night!
He screamed for me, shook me, but I was gone, no more pain no suffering
Ambulance came ‘flatlined’ they said but they did their job I cursed why?? Did they not let me be!?! Leave me be!
Where there was no light!!!

Five years of torment, anguish enveloped in so much pain, a part of me was gone -for ever
My decision not to see him, was not about me, to let him have a better life without disruptions was the only gift I could give him
In exclusion we lived, in fear of my memories, rejection being the norm, we held on together

Five years, have gone past, I yearned to be a mum, another chance to prove them wrong

I do not understand why I stayed with this man of destruction, manipulation, deciet, I cannot answer!
Nor do I know why I did not see!!!
I can only guess that through the years he slowly destroyed any self worth, doubting my every word or thought that I would speak.
He was a master of insencerity a genuine phycopath, I was blind everyone but me could see what he was doing behind the mask he wore.
Too trusting, nieve, or if I was to believe in what everyone said then what did that make me???

Again, I believed him
I thought I saw changes or maybe I just wanted to believe that he had been wrongly accused
After, so long I yearned to be a mother I craved approval I wanted to be the mother I knew in my heart I could be

I was not aware I had to have permission from DOCS-department to be a mum again but I was very wrong!!!!

If only I could turn the clock back I would have put him first not last, but no one can know what a tragedy my decision would be

If only, If only,

Aleayah

The greatest gift from god

That’s the meaning of Aleayah

My daughter waited 5 years then another 9 months to be able to meet the most precious, wanted little baby girl

From the most joyous moment of pure elation to welcome this wide eyed, scrap of such innocence & pure of heart little angel into our embrace

Fresh from the wonderment of her entrance to the delivery into gentle meek, hands of her mother
To be nestled against mother’s breast.
Her baby pink, rosy, skin moist, flushed,
Warm from the cocoon of her mother’s womb
The first hesitant gentle tender touch, that flutters & settles within my heart images of satin, rose petals, a tear drop caught before it stains her cheek.

The dizzyingly euthoria to be able to greet this cherished treasure to know the complete dependency upon our care the complete trust to keep her safe, secure, loved & all the little moments that we will treasure, & guard in our own box of memories to keep & laugh with her when she is old enough to share.

To protect her, cuddle her, sing her lullubys,
Watch her 1st step her 1st words, her giggle,
Her skinned knees that a kiss will make it better
All the years to tell her stories, to wipe away any tears,
To allow her to be just her
To let her run with the wind at her back

To embrace her when she hurts
To allow her to make her mistakes
To be there to pick up the pieces
To listen & not judge, praise her, cherish her

We adorned her room with pink, frills, a room for a princess, a theme of angels, & little girl trinkets
We wove a tapestry of love,
A testimony of our devotion of simplicity, warmth, to protect our most precious treasure.

Visions, dreams, hopes, promise, faith, shattered damaged, destroyed, ruined, hearts completely broken

Not 2 hours old they came with their ID’s, security, their legal paper work vocalizing their prepared speeches!!

DOCS-department minister, care, emergency, foster, say goodbye

The house phone rings sobbing’ ‘Mummy, Mummy come back to the hospital their taking my daughter’

No I scream, oh god no!!!

I entered the entrance just as they were taking my grandaughter away

Stop, I say leave her with me??? I repeat let me take her?? ‘No I’m told you can not have her’ why why why????
Given contact details then they left with my precious grandchild!!!!!
I stood there numb, devestated, bewildered, no, no, – not again please god don’t do this!!!

I could only watch as they wheeled my tiny grandaughter away from me to an unknown stranger

I ran, ran, up stairs to my daughter who was so distressed she could not speak, sobbing ‘Mum Mum just let me die now’
Feeling so helpless I sobbed with her rocking her in my arms

Her arms though were now empty!!!

My daughter the most gentle, kind, vulnerable, childlike lay inconsolable curled in a feotel position trembling with raw pain

When you are a mother & your child is suffering so badly & you can’t do anything
I wanted to take her pain but I knew I could not!
No matter how much I wanted to protect her
Visions of extreme murderous intent fluddered my mind
To inflict the same ravage pain I saw in my daughters eyes
To the people who did this to my child!!!

And so it came to be
To go home to a nursery decorated for a little angel
Close the door, close the door,
Oh if we could close the door to our pain!

Every day is a struggle the insane suffering never leaves, we battle on and on, for our little gift from god will come home
Not today, not  tommorrow, but maybe, maybe next week

As the weeks turned into months my daughter, struggled with severe suicide thoughts, I was very afraid that I would lose her & my granddaughter.

She did everything she could to have her daughter returned to her, she seperated from the man who had made her life so unbearable, she took out an AVO, we went together to all the contacts to see her daughter, even though It became extremly distressing to see Aleayah bonding with her carers.

We went to every court date only to be rebuffed each time by docs. She sought therapy & goes each week, she supplied DOCS with a drug test it was clear.

Now the nursery sits empty a cot with no Aleayah, toys untouched, musical ornaments to keep her entertained get dusty on the shelves.

If I have to go into her room, I rush in & out so quickly disturbing the dust moates & to avoid the sadness & the shadows in her empty room I run out slamming the door behind me as if this could keep the pain locked away.

Sometimes, I think I can hear her crying but it is only the night wind, for Aleayah is lost to us now my tears I hide my heart breaks for my beautiful blue eyed little tiny grandaughter.——–who I will never know

This is how DOCS keep families together …

Last entry ——-I was given an assessment to be able to raise Aleayah but it is so ironic I failed due to being bought up in care … poetic … justice … will it ever go away do I have this stigma for all of my life. It  cost me my grandaughter & my childhood
Family we fought in the courts my ex-husband again paid out thousands to a barrister & lawyer but no amount of money could restore Aleayah to us.
DOCS refused to even give my family the opportunity to raise Aleayah with her biological family.

It also came to my attention that they knew my daughter was pregnant from 3 months. My question to them was ‘why did they not contact us to be able to give my daughter some options other than to react with such mallisious, insideous, so callerously remove, rip her away from my daughters breast?’
I would not wish this inhumane treatment dished out by DOCS -department

To any family god bless please keep her safe let the angels watch over her tonight & every night

Diane Mancuso.

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

The Crucified #1

Carole May Smith shares a poem written by her deceased brother Christopher Peter Carroll. Chris grew up in homes in three states. He died just before Carole was to meet him after a 15 year separation.

Chris grew up in Largs Bay Cottage Home, SA; St Michael’s Home, Baulkham Hills, NSW; Bridgewater Care and Assessment Centre, WA;  and, Hollywood Children’s Village, Hollywood WA.

Carole writes:

My brother wrote this poem in 2001 not long after the Salvation Army found him for me after some 15 yrs at least apart.

He wrote these words while in rehab in a bout of depression trying to deal with the horrors and terrors inflicted on him, me and our other brother and sister in our childhoods.

Bro passed away in Feb 2004 of a massive heart attack before we had the chance to meet again in person.

These are his story through his own words …

The Crucifed

What are they that we bear them in mind?
Welcome us no!
They pay us no mind.

Here is a question to ponder aloof _
Is Man kind?
Harken to me quickly truth,
for it has nought to do with mankind.

Tales of woe and rusty knights,
To fearful dreams and sleepless nights.

Of things etheral and in silhouette,
Only ethetics,
vain,
slimy
silly and wet.

What will befall me this awful morn?
When will they gather?
and who for me will mourn?

Surely keep my mind and heart
rock steady and able,
So to keep me from murder intent,
of the likes of Cain and Abel.

For fiery arrows at me they have threw,
Forgiven me not,
they pierce me through.

Truly this morning is both dire and grave,
They have conspired together,
and have already dug my grave.

What have I done for this to earn?
If they only knew –
Behold!
When will it end?
For they now have bound me
in this dark dank hold.

This time I was broken,
busted
and kneed,
They never once showed pity,
or tended to my earnest need.

Kicking and bashing me
they thought it light,
Keeping me imprisoned,
they are blinded
and cannot see the Light.

The assaults and insults,
my body torn,
it bears the score,
They slashed and hacked,
laughing and mocking
as they added their score.

Hear the screech of the baleful crow,
How they mocked me,
and stupendously did crow.

It was terrible indeed to pay this fare,
Ignoble and ignorant
they despised
what was honest and fair.

Dear sweet mankind,
who cut and vexed me to the vein,
Dead ears to listen,
all given freely and truly not in vain.

Splintered and shattered
they pummel me to an un-Godly site,
Satanic untold horrors are my plight,
as I now fight what defies sane sight.

Please forgive them Father
and be not cross,
Pagan rituals they rather,
as they hammer me to a cross.

Father keep me true
and in fair stead,
For they dishonour me,
and defy logic instead.

Likened as a dog,
they hung me from a tree
at a place called the skull,
Loathesome men,
their crime is clear,
while cavorting
and drinking wine did scull.

So now here I am,
I beseech Thee
with my voice
and arms out-stretch,
So be it,
I can do no more,
 for I have done my stretch.

I go now to a glory
where everything is majestic
and bright,
I truly forgive them,
for they are slow witted,
dull
and not quite bright.

Dreadful men what have you done?
I will surely mark your crowns.
desire me,
and wake up to be ready
in time to receive
the promised golden crowns.

Come be with ME
and I will let you ascent,
Can you understand ME
or the energy I’ve spent,
all I ask is an oath of accent.

All things must be
and will be
to MY true accord,
Any who defy ME,
I will accordingly sever the cord.

I AM who I AM,
and there is nothing
that I do not know,
If you ask ME properly
and truthfully
I would never say no.

I was and AM
even before time began to flow,
I will let you drink from the waters
that will never cease to flow.

by Christopher 2001

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Billy Billy

Diane Mancuso shares two stories about growing up in a large Irish family in the suburbs, time spent in Bidura children’s home and beyond. Diane has also written a poem, ‘Billy Billy’, about her brother who was also in ‘care’ and later died on his birthday.

Diane, also known as Eileen Kennedy, penned ‘Billy Billy’ about her brother, who spent time in Royleston Boys Home, Glebe, NSW. You can also read her creative writing below in ‘Just a Number’ and Born to the State’. 

Billy Billy

Do not slip away
Please Please
Stay with me another day
Where have you gone my brother?
You had not begun to live
It was before your time
He took you to live with our mother
9th April you were born
35 years later I would mourn
No! They did not see your pain
In your anguish and your sorrow
Drugs became your way of life
For you there will be no tomorrow
Billy Billy
I love you so
Please please do not go
One hit too many
They found you dead in a back street alley
The road was too long
It was too much to carry the load
Daddy Daddy loved us all
He was on the wrong side of the law
Mamma Mamma
Did her best
I pray you are now at rest
Billy Billy
Do not slip away
Please please
Stay with me another day
The children’s court decided our fate
They took us all
You cried and cried when you were told
We were all sent to Juvenile Hall
As children and later as adults we are told not to hate
Torn apart and sent along different paths
Mamma’s heart broken like shattered glass.
Suffer the little children who did no wrong
Ignorant are they!
Who say forgive them they know
Not what they do
Where were they when I held my brother’s hand and
Wanted him to stay
In and out of foster care
We grew up with more than our share
Billy Billy
Do not slip away
Please please
Stay with me another day
They failed!
Yes! Suffer the little children
But if I can change it in some small way
Billy Billy
Never fear
I remember and I am here
Your life was not in vain
For I will be here for that day
Billy Billy
My sweet brother we are separate
But never apart
For you are always
In my heart

copyright 2011 Diane Mancuso/Eileen Kennedy

Just a number

1962 was the year the NSW State Government destroyed my family, separating my brothers & sisters for ever. In 1962 what they did can never be repaired or forgotten. My Mother had six children the youngest was five yrs old. My father was languishing away in prison. My mum could not support her children financially. The State decided it would be best for our family if they took her children & threw them into Orphanages for kids whom they had deemed to be neglected.

Bidura was where my elder sister Yvonne & I were kept captured whilst my younger sister Kathleen I never found out which Goal she went to. My two brothers Marty who was eleven Billy who was 18 months older than me at nine went to Royalston down the road from Bidura.

It would be ten years before I saw any of my family again, we never recovered as a family. My sisters became strangers to me also my brother Marty who was always in & out of prison. For some unknown reason I managed to keep a loose relationship with my brother Billy whom I had always been close to.

In 2009 I stood with all of you homies at Canberra & listened to Kevin Rudd apologize & Barry O’Farrell. I heard people speak about how they felt if or what had been the words that had helped their road to recovery their pain of the past. I have asked myself ‘Did I feel any different after the apology?’ And for me? Yes I am glad we were finally recognized for what we all went through. Finally Australian people would be aware that it was not just Indigenous families that had so shockingly been removed & forgotten about.  That we were believed & vindicated in what we all tried so hard to tell our friends, etc Who mostly did not believe us. So yes it was a good feeling though even today people are still in denial of our treatment at the hands of the State.

Though I wish I had a forgiving heart but I do not. For just maybe, maybe my brothers would be alive today instead of both in their graves much too early from drugs. –Physically drugs– but I believe it came from their horrific childhoods. My brother Billy told me about the rapes he had endured in goal. Though the way he spoke about these hideous crimes, against him, was to have me believe he was commenting on the weather. He wore his Armour like we all do to prevent anymore pain ..

Forgive?, I don’t think so. Too much despair, inanity, nightmares, desperation to want to fit in to be loved, wanted, cared for … it’s like the song ‘How can you mend this broken heart?’ It is impossible to repair, to forget my Mothers tears, my brothers fears. ‘Sorry’  just does not do it for me! Forty, fifty years Too late. Too late, You can’t fix something that they shattered into pieces. It was all a little too late so that day as I stood listening to Kevin Rudd that day I realize that it was not Kevin’s fault but it was not mine either or my Family.

My Brother did not set the world on fire, he was not well known (maybe to the police), he did not have any social skills, it was difficult for him to talk to people. There will be a lot of us who will not be acknowledged now or in our life time. The majority of us will just put one foot in front of the other or crawl & hope for the best. We are not celebrities but what we are — we are survivors, who lived through & came out the other side. We conquered tremendous adversity, inhumane treatment, brutality, solitary confinement. What sane person takes a twelve yr old & puts them in a black hole? These Orphanages were worse than prisons. We were children! Was this their way of rehabilitation to a lost child?

Our identities stolen, is it any wonder that we have to struggle with who we are? I had so many different names growing up I could travel the world under an alias with no problems! But with my luck I would be caught & it would be solitary for me again, but they were the ones who had given us all these different identities, no wonder we suffer from identity crisis. What was left to take? They whipped us, belted us, abused us, but they could not break us nor take our memories away from us. So I say for your family whom may not be here to speak for themselves, we have to take up the reins & never let them forget what they done to innocent little children. Makes me wonder how many & whose palm was being greased to justify their behavior? Is it any wonder that many of us became uncontrollable with no role model, no love, no human warmth? And is it so surprising that many turned to drugs & alcohol to block out the sheer pain of remembering how barbaric & cruel these so called authorities who it was their job to care & nurture us?

It is remarkable that we even survived & forbid that we could even have a promise of life that bought no pain! As disturbed as our childhoods were I am sure that you stumbled through like I did trying to shield & keep your balance, with no life skills. With no direction, no guidance I became an expert at when discussing childhoods with anyone.

Many, many times on my journey I wrestled with my horrific upbringing, though no one would ever guess my despair dueling with my demons day to day. My mask rarely slipped, what other people thought was a tough upbringing I thought was Idyllic, that is not to say they were not deserving of sympathy or my thoughts it was just how it is.

But as I trowel over my past I believe if I had not experienced each & every interminable situation I would not be the determined, strong, willed woman that I am today. Nature verses nurture, is not for me to question, though it remains an interesting topic, one I believe that I will never have the answer too. I embrace my flaws, as this is what makes me realize that there is no one person who is without their own faults.

Corruption, incitement of power the provocation of abuse towards children can ever be stamped out but we as part of our legacy is to shed our masks & retell our stories so that history can never be repeated.

Each & every one of us took our different paths.

Although, my brother Billy did not leave a fortune behind, nor a child of his own to inherit his special qualities —He did not leave foot prints in the sand! He left his imprint on my heart & my mind I remember my brother & I am here to tell what the brutal system did to Him You & Me.

It was a privilege to call you my brother Billy.

copyright 2011 Diane Mancuso/Eileen Kennedy

Born to the state

October was the second month of spring the cool moist air had turned into the promise of a warm summer to come.
The tiny buds of flowers were opening to the warm sun, fresh green shoots of grass glistened in the early morning sunshine. If one took the time to stop and savor the scent, to see with virgin eyes, to hear the birds chirping in their safety haven nestled in an old oak tree. One would decide that this day was full of wondrous new beginnings of hope, faith of another tomorrow.

On this day in the outer suburbs of Sydney, the day had lost its heat, dusk had settled over the suburbs. The first lights could be seen from the roads, there were familiar sounds of children laughing and arguing simultaneously. Pots and pans clattering as mothers tried frantically to cook dinner, bathe children and supervise homework, which they did with remarkable ease as these were times of large families when mothers stayed home and fathers went to work, there was no confusion as to which role one played.

The families in this neighborhood had no luxuries. They came from good Irish catholic stock or depending how you looked at it they were quick to temper and quick to smile. Many of these families battled to put food on the table for their brood. Martin Kennedy was such a man who found work when he could. He had a wife with four children and one due any day to provide for. 

He was a tall man six feet to be exact but not an ounce of fat on his solid frame. He was a striking man. He looked younger than his thirty four years with jet black hair, and hazel eyes. A smile to melt any woman’s heart but with an Irish temper to match his steel black hair. He had just finished a twelve-hour shift as a bus driver, his muscles ached and he felt tired and stiff from sitting all day.

He walked with an air of confidence and pride in one’s appearance as he put the key in the door he could hear the racket of children squealing and of muffled laughter. What’s for dinner? He inquired of no one in particular. He didn’t expect an answer, he picked up his youngest son ‘Billy’ whom was eighteen months old. Billy was a ‘Daddies’ boy and loved nothing better than being with his Dad.

Next in age was Yvonne, named after her mother at three she had an impish grin and pale hair with blue eyes the color of topaz inherited from her Mother. She ran to her Father and planted a sticky kiss on his stubble cheek.

Martin ‘junior’ was the eldest boy at seven he was already gangly all elbows & knees his mop of fair hair fell over his pale freckled face.

Colleen was his eldest daughter. At nine she had more the Irish coloring of dark hair with brown eyes. As in large families Colleen helped take care of her younger siblings.

After a few minutes he disentangled himself from eight pairs of arm’s and legs and went in search of his wife he headed for the kitchen the children trailing behind. His wife was not in the kitchen, his stomach protesting loudly that it was past dinner. Colleen’s voice rising above the din of the others to inform her Father that her Mother was in the bedroom ‘She’s sick Daddy’ she said trying not to show any fear but her voice had a tremulous tone to it.

He made his way down the narrow hall to their bedroom, as night was descending quickly he could just make out the outline of the bed. As he stealthy approached towards the narrow cot, a small moan escaped from his wife. He bent over her miniature doll like body, as he was tall and strong she was small and delicate.

He put the lamp on. Yvonne lay in a fetal position her ice blue eyes glazed over with pain he touched her honey colored hair to find it damp with sweat. After four children there was no need to ask, ‘How far apart are the contractions’ he whispered? ‘Don’t know bout ten minutes’ she gasped.

‘Colleen’ he shouted. His daughter who had been standing in the doorway came forward ‘Yes Daddy’. ‘I have to go and pick up Nurse Fisk. Look after your Mother till I get back’.

He grabbed his keys and rushed out to his old 1940’s Dodge he put the key in the ignition it coughed and spluttered in protest Martin cajoling and swearing finally the motor kicked over, reversing quickly as the first drops of rain fell.
Nurse Fisk lived about ten miles out on the Highway. By the time Martin pulled into her driveway the rain was pelting down. He ambled from the car ran up the sidewalk by the time he was banging on the door he was soaked to the skin but he either did not notice or did not care.

The door was answered by an elderly stoutly women with Grey hair and an air of no nonsense about her. She took one glance at his disheveled appearance and said ‘just a moment I will get my bag’. Martin had left the car running not wanting to chance the old rust bucket would not start for him. He overtook cars, breaking the speed limit, careening around bends the wind screen wipers working furiously to keep the rain at bay he peered into the dark night anxiously trying to hurry them along.

Thirty minutes later but for him felt like an eternity pulled into his street. He could hear the muffled screams as they approached the door he inserted the key with trembling fingers. Rushing to his wife’s side he could see her fragile body wracked with pain.

Nurse Fisk was already prodding and pushing the huge bulge with expert hands sure in her knowledge in having delivered hundreds of babies. ‘There’s no time this baby is in a hurry to enter the world’. Martin stood against the wall with its cracked, peeling paint and looked on anxiously. ‘Push! Push!’ she yelled. Yvonne each time exhausted herself and was sure she was not to live through this agony. She had already birthed four babies but could not remember them being in this much pain.

After an almost inhuman effort Nurse Fisk held up an unnaturally still infant in her hands. ‘It’s a girl’ she said. The nurse held the baby by the ankles which was practice in those days and swung her around.  She wasn’t breathing; by the fourth go they heard the lustiest cry. It was as if her cries were to protest at being wrenched from her protective envolope. Rebelling at having being swung around in such an undignified way.

Throughout the ordeal feeling quite helpless my Father stood upright against the  ancient, chipped doorway, he was not aware he had been holding his breath until relief flooded through him, & fighting tears that glistened in his eyes he blinked them away before.

 He gingerly walked over gazing down at his daughter he put his finger in the her tiny fist. She gripped his finger with amazing strength, & with her turbulent stormy blue eyes that  stared at him he thought with an accusatory wisdom.

They named her Eileen she was a bonny baby at eight pound eight ounces with dark down and her eyes as bright as fire & the color of the ocean on a stormy day.

My Mother had one other baby two years after my birth she was named Kathleen. She was a mirror image of my eldest sister Colleen as I was a smaller clone of my sister Yvonne.

I do not recall my earlier years images flash in and out some remain at the fringes of my mind. There is a tall, rugged handsome man lifting me into the air and landing me onto the kitchen table to teach me how to tie my shoe laces and then sweeping me into his strong arms. The backyard was enormous with chooks and a goat feeding off the sparse grass patches that kept them from starving. My siblings and I took great delight in trying to ride on the back of the goat but the animal had other ideas and got his own back when he would buck till we all fell off landing on all fours. Trying but failing to keep our dignity in tact we would mount him again and again much to our disappointment we never did tame him.

My eldest sister seemed to take on the role of mothering us little one’s. Later on I was to learn my mother was often passed out during the day from her addiction to diazepam. This was of great concern to my Father and he used his bus route to pass our house and run in to change my nappy and quickly return to his waiting bus.

My memory becomes a little clearer when we all moved to the outer suburb of Granville. The house was in a shambles, dilapidated and in dire need of painting and repairs. The windows were all broken the lounge room, which doubled as my sister’s and my bedroom sleeping in one bed. Whilst my brothers slept in a closed in veranda off the kitchen to the rear of the house.

I rarely saw my Father the only recollections is of being woken out of a sound sleep by my Father’s voice singing ‘I have the whole wide world in my hands’. Strange how something so insignificant can have intricate details lodged in my memory. My favorite toy was a gollywog with a zip in the side and my father used this to store his gun. I guess he thought it would be a safe place.

It was a rough neighborhood the neighbors’ son bashed my little sister over the head with a dirty wooden stick. It took six nurses to hold her down whilst they shaved her hair off so infection would not set in. I believe this event was instrumental and a contributing factor in my sister’s life further on through the years my sister developed extreme emotional disturbances and instability.

There was a creek down the end of our street there was a rope that dangled down from a footbridge. My brothers would grab the rope and swing from one side of the bank to the other side. I smile at this memory as my brothers were assured of great entertainment when with out fail I would always get stuck in the middle of the creek they would break out in peals of laughter at my distress much to my annoyance.

Innocent as only children could be my brother Billy and I would vow to marry when we were all grown up Billy with his rich, dark curly hair, impish grin and mischievous eyes.  was a strange little girl.I had compulsions which were really rituals that were to be repeated on a daily basis.

copyright 2011 Diane Mancuso/Eileen Kennedy

           

Forgotten Australians, poetry

‘Warrior’s Journey’

Author and counsellor Margaret Spivey lived in Children’s Homes from the age of 18 months to 17 years. ‘Warrior’s Journey’ is Margaret’s powerful poem tracing life in welfare and beyond.

‘Warrior’s Journey’ was published in Beyond the Tobacco Bush, Beyond the Cocoa Bean (2003), and Warrior’s Journey (2003).

Warrior’s Journey

Father dies
mother leaves
sisters taken away.
Helpless, defenceless.
No hand to cling to,
Welfare Property
Ward number 77318
another number, another mouth,
another body, another untouched soul,
another heart to be healed,
another shadow in the dark of night.
She is two years old.
From one dwelling to another she is sent.
Disconnected, her child’s heart broken, the need for love
Unquenched.
A vacuum for her confidence and sense of self;
anxiety and anger her constant companions
she struggles to belong, she doesn’t belong.
Hands shake, body trembles,
cries unheard, muffled under bed covers.
She is ten years old.

She thinks of death to escape the anguish.
She believes she has no right to take up space,
to breathe air.
She believes there will be rejoicing at her passing,
a problem solved.
She releases the genie in the bottle,
life goes on about her,
she closes her eyes and waits.
She is marked. She is spared.
Like the first born of the Israelites, the Angel of Death passes her by.
She is twelve years old.

Tormented by anger, a prisoner of rage.
Her cries for justice, she fights to be heard.
They say, ‘she’s a psychiatric case’
and needs to be medicated.
Silence her voice, dull her mind, and inhibit her strong emotions.
She must endure the rash, the itch, the weight gain, the hand tremors, and the sluggish thoughts.
Now they say ‘she’s boring with no powers of conversation’.
In school she sits, eyes heavy; she drops her head – just for a moment.
She sleeps her days away.
She is fourteen years old

She hears the call of the warrior soul.
She resists sedation; the murder of her spirit.
Pills hurtle across the fence, a cry goes out
‘I won’t do what you want any more!’
Strong male hands force her down, inject her into submission.
They say ‘it’s for her own good and for the good of others’.
She is ‘disturbed’, ‘mad’, emotionally retarded’.
She is fifteen years old.

She is released, pushed out into a world of strangers.
They don’t understand or care about her sorrow.
She must find work, forge relationships, and build a life. There is no help, there is no social net to catch her, and there is no family to
give her connection.
She must find her own way.
She is lost, jobs are transient, and relationships unravel.
Booze is her solace, drugs her respite, madness her rescuer.
The streets her home.
She is seventeen years old.

She is a mother;
frightened, solitary,
how can she care for the infant in her arms?
She needs help, she reaches out,
her children are removed.
She can’t be trusted, she can’t trust herself.
It’s for her own good ‘in the best interest of the children’.
She seeks the comfort of death,
but death rejects her plea.
The ‘Warrior Soul’ calls her to life.
She yearns to be a mother, she craves to do it right,
Her children are ‘restored’,
She is twenty-four years old.

A single mother, living in poverty.
She hears the call of her warrior soul
She needs to dream, she needs to believe,
She needs to hope.
However, she is mad.
Her mind has betrayed her,
what can she anticipate?
The pills, the booze, the violence.
How can she break the will to self-annihilate?
She is determined.
She must find a way.
She is twenty-seven years old.
She treads the road of trials,
She cries out ‘there is no God!’
Lost within her madness,
admitted to the Clinic.
‘What is wrong with me?’ she pleads.
She is thirty-three years old.

The warrior soul is stronger
than the darkness, that binds her.
She heeds its call.
Is there a God? She prays to believe.
She dares for more than mere survival,
she crawls out from within the sewage of her life.
She is thirty-six years old.

Her untaught soul greets the morning.
She discovers she is far more than all her experiences.
More than her illness.
She knows now, in each one of us
there is a gold of great worth.
There is a warrior soul of strength and courage.
Compelled to transform her suffering.
she studies, she learns, she grows,
finds enduring love, personal value.
She connects.
Passes on her hope,
helps others finds their way.
Sometimes death still whispers her name,
however, she grips the hand of the warrior within,
she has learnt to trust.
She has found power and strength within,
She is forty-five years old.

copyright Margaret Spivey 2003

Beyond the Tobacco Bush
Beyond the Cocoa Bean
Warrior’s Journey
Forgotten Australians, poetry

‘Those Long Lost Years’

Graham Evans, who was sent to st Vincent’s Boys Home, Westmead in 1962, has been contributing to this website since it began. Read Graham’s latest song lyrics.

Those Long Lost Years

If I could take you back to times when we were young
All these stories of abuse you hear, have not just begun
It’s been our life time, and no one can really see
Except the abused and my friends, what’s left to be

We’ll we fight for justice, and our equal rights
Because we’re fully pledged ‘Forgotten Australians’ both day and night
And we’re so tired of lying down with these silent tears
But! what do you expect, after all ‘Those Long Lost Years’

It’s been our life time, and no one want’s to see
Not the Churches, the Government’s themselves, nor Society
Well we’re so tired of lying down with these silent tears
But what do you expect after all ‘Those Long Lost Years’

Yah! It’s been our life time, and no one want’s to see
Not the Churches, the Governments themselves, nor Society
Well! we’re not going to lye down no more, we’re going to stand and fight for our cause
But what! do you expect, after all ‘Those Long Lost Years’
And what do you expect, after all ‘Those Long Lost Years’.

art, Forgotten Australians, painting, poetry

‘A Severed Life’

by Rachael Romero (guest author) on 8 June, 2011

Rachael Romero, who was in the The Pines, the Convent of the Sisters of the Good Shepherd in Plympton, South Australia, shares her drawing A Severed Life.

Rachael writes about her art work:

Those responsible for our incarceration were looking in the mirror.
How many lives cauterized?
How many hands maimed?
Girls not protected but stained by unwarranted and self-righteous religious and civil presumption of guilt.
Their persecuters were looking in the mirror.

‘Magdalene Laundry Convent of Good Shepherd Crown’ by Rachael Romero copyright 2011
Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Little eyes weep as they sleep

by Garry Shooks (guest author) on 3 June, 2011

Garry Shooks shares his poem reflecting on life in Children’s Homes.

Little eyes weep as they sleep

Morning to night we are in fright

Our little eyes weep for the sound of a loving heart;

Lost in our world of diminishing veils of mist of who we are,

Number 3, I am and as such I respond to the call of three,

The tears came easy at first but they dried up when standing in the midnight cold shivering,

Told you once too often I was told not to cry,

Naked in the frosty night I dare not cry as the bashing I just got has left me battered and bruised,

I wish I could cry as I stand and shiver in the night time cold

A life time of bitter memories has left me scared in places only I know,

The years of pain within has made me old, years have come and gone I wish I could be reborn to start again without the pain.

My parent was the states who were ashamed of us and kept us from prying eyes, uneducated and no love I was sent into the world at 16 with a suitcase of cloths and not told to make a start.

Refugee in the lucky country where do you start, my life skills were how to fight,

I’ve survived to this day because I have a tough heart born of Anzac blood I’ve refused to lay down no matter what,

My body is torn and battered from life’s fight that it wants to lay down and rest and have a new start.

Anzacs children we are and we have spent a life time looking for the lucky country to call home, I’m still a refugee in the lucky country so where do I start,

I’ve had the Prime minister Mr Rudd come to my home to say sorry from the nation for all the bad things that were done, but that does not heal a broken heart,

But with respect I had seen a man who has a caring heart.

Garry Shooks

Forgotten Australians, poetry

‘Pines Indoctrination’

by Rachael Romero (guest author) on 2 May, 2011

In 1971, Rachael Romero, soon after her release from The Pines (Sisters of the Good Shepherd Convent), Plympton, SA, wrote a poem about how it felt to be indoctrinated.

Of Pine Indoctrination, copyright Rachael Romero

Of Pines Indoctrination

A tattooed mind
with fear and cold
and logic warped
to please false aims

a cringing heart
a slaughtered soul
a bleeding confiscated mind

Deadened, buried lay my will
Hushed with fear and violent threat
Unwanted, stifled, broken, ill
stumbling on a stormy deck.

copyright Rachael Romero

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

One Man

by Barbara Lane (guest author) on 16 April, 2011

Barbara spent time as a child in Opal House, Opal Joyce Wilding Home, Wilson Youth Hospital, Vaughan House, The Haven and at Wolston Park Hospital (Osler House) between the years 1970 and 1979. Barbara is now the co-ordinator of the support group Now Remembered Australians Inc. In her poem One Man, Barbara pays tribute to Fr. Wally Dethlefs who helped to establish The Justice for Juveniles Group, previously known as the Wilson Protest Group. Wally also set up one of the first refuges for youth in Brisbane.

One Man

When I was young and in a place
Where no one seemed to care,
One man fought on my behalf
Though others would not dare.

I’d been told I had no rights
For I was “just a kid”,
But one man fought on my behalf
And showed me that I did.

They took away my childhood,
My freedom and the sky,
But one man fought on my behalf
When others would not try.

They locked me up in Wilson
But now I have the key
For one man fought on my behalf:
His name is Wally D.

documents, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

‘Escape Attempt’ 2

by Rachael Romero (guest author) on 13 April, 2011

Rachael Romero, who was in The Pines (Convent of the Good Shepherd, Plympton) shares one of her poems:
Rachael explains:

This was written right after I left the Pines, Convent of the Good Shepherd. My friend Agi and I decided to feign a religious calling so we could “do rosary” in the chapel before dinner. We had our eyes on a high window that was not barred. To escape through it was a dream, but we persisted for weeks before abandoning the idea.

Furtive, stealthy in the gloom The noise and cracks of a silent room Every step an inch to free life Every inch a step to new strife Fear, regret, anticipation Throbbing, pulsing, circulation. “The window’s high, the glass is thick. All I need’s a heavy brick.” “But what of noise? – Someone will hear They’ll keep us here another year” “Agi come back it is too late I hear a key at the staircase gate Kneel down, kneel down, make out to pray They may not even come this way Our chance has gone, perhaps it’s best Let’s go back, sit with the rest I had no-where to go anyway Trust “Sour Grapes” to cause delay”  copyright Rachel Romero
Escape Attempt poem

Escape Attempt

Furtive, stealthy in the gloom
The noise and cracks of a silent room
Every step an inch to free life
Every inch a step to new strife
Fear, regret, anticipation
Throbbing, pulsing, circulation.
“The window’s high, the glass is thick.
All I need’s a heavy brick.”
“But what of noise? – Someone will hear
They’ll keep us here another year”
“Agi come back it is too late
I hear a key at the staircase gate
Kneel down, kneel down, make out to pray
They may not even come this way
Our chance has gone, perhaps it’s best
Let’s go back, sit with the rest
I had no-where to go anyway
Trust “Sour Grapes” to cause delay”

copyright Rachel Romero

Forgotten Australians, poetry

For some

by Wendy Sutton (guest author) on 13 April, 2011

Wendy Sutton, a former inmate of The Pines (Convent of the Good Shepherd), Plympton, South Australia now lives in New York, USA. Here she shares her poetry.

Stuck in a Void

Are we stuck in a void, toiling with the end and the beginning?
escape then is inevitable
Or, is it a wanderlust for new experiences?

Western Culture suffocates & retards my senses and the very essence of who I am
Where do I go?
Is it deaths door of which I am finally arriving at, no satisfaction with this existence, no joy in sharing my “true” life.

Wendy Sutton Fe.2/1995 Australia

“She”
All my senses are alerted
By such a ballistic, turbulent chaos, so unsettling, and almost agonizing,
And yet so mysterious and alluring

But, without falter she continues to savage relentlessly to the end,
Only to slow such chaos for the ultimate caress of which still remains undivided. Joyous and so faithful and a never ending reliability that the very same secret devotion in which the sun rises and sets . . . . it is from the very depths of the ocean’s savagery that such delicate waves indubitably encounter the shore, with a gentle kiss.
This gives me so much strength, to know that no matter what the oceans wildest storm, the turbulence, the pain, the horror nor tragedy,
She blesses and transforms me with such courage and endurance, that through my own turbulence, I too will surely come to shore each and every time with a refreshed breathe of life, caressing the very existence of my horizons . . . . .

Wendy Sutton, NYC Monday 4th 2002

I Think

An English Manor, oh so Grand,
with an attic,
she used to frequent the attic,
from dawn till dusk,
draw she did.
A big woman, grey hair in a bun
not tight.
Pale skin, not a blemish.
Beautiful teeth,
Straight and just off white.
She smells of English rose perfume,
a gentle subtle fragrance.
She’s dead now, My Grandmother.
I never knew her,
I never met her, not once.
Wendy Sutton -Darwin 1986-

The Rose
It is a masterpiece of Nature
The perfect cup in which the rose bud is embedded, so striking and yet so
seemingly fragile,
but held sturdy via the gallantry of her thorny stem
Two polarities set to deter anything that would destroy the unfolding exquisiteness of The Rose,
such protection,,,,,, not even expected,
it just is.
Wendy Sutton 2002 New York City

Watching with Intensity

It is watching the intensity of it all pass by me,
The escalation of the era, the history of which I dance within,
the dance that goes on,
and
the history changes day by day, to my titillation . . .
I smile with a passion quenched with adoration,
it has now come before me -in a manner of which- holds a glimpse of what is mere fetal,
thus, a touch of agony,
and yet,
an abandon creativity that sets me free to infiltrate, ready to explode

the particles of which fall, with a gentle cascade, softly, slowly,
oh the beauty
feel the sensation, become a part of the Universal force
only to succeed another existence,

………………………………………………….

for some
*
Wendy Sutton 1995

Forgotten Australians, photos, poetry

Summer

by Janice Konstantinidis (guest author) on 12 April, 2011

At the age of twelve, Janice was taken by her grandparents and father to Mount Saint Canice, one of the Magdalene Laundries. The laundry was run by the Sisters of the Good Shepherd in Hobart, Tasmania. Now Janice lives in California, USA, where she enjoys writing and tending her beautiful garden. Here she shares one of her recent poems.

Summer

Buttercup yellow is the sun in brightest blue,
Dandelions, in paddocks, not green,
but browning and turning back to that dark earthy hue
and thickening of sounds are
cicadas and swarming bees,
and chirruping nests in trees
and winging insects fluttering honey
from marigolds, petunia and alyssum.
These are summer sweetness to me
and I lie face up.
The sun warms
my blood from the winter cold
into that deep warmth which is not the fragile one of spring.
I feel summer absorb me
and I record the growth of shrub and tree

Janice’s garden
Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

What is Wild?

by Rachael Romero (guest author) on 2 March, 2011

In these two original poetic works, Rachael Romero reflects on her experiences at The Pines, an institution for girls in Plympton, South Australia.

What is wild?  by Rachael Romero, reflecting on entering The Pines

What is wild
Child
Not meek, not mild
Defiled
Exiled
Reviled
Child

MAGDALENE LAUNDRY

The stigmata of
religiously tattooed
Magdalene       slaves
scourgings of
“fallen women”,
scars from
inmate  labour
laundry work
hard physical
against the will work,
disfiguring injury
to hands and minds
now and always
Branded and
besmirched by
vituperative
nails-through-the-palms-
language
religious scourgings
marks of experience–pain
onto legs
bellies
Branded by injurious insult
religious tattooing of the mind
forced
physical labour
such as laundry work
agains- the-will,
side-by-side nail marks
Christ inflicted pain
Magdalene self-injury
cigarette burns to
know what  Jesus felt.

PENITENCE
the identifiable stigma of slaves
hard labour institutions,
stigmata people
ancient
branded.
on  my body
the same wounds
symbols of pain
and slavery
marks of ancient  inmate identification by  order of the church,      state order.

by Rachael Romero

Child Migrants, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Oh Scotland!

by William Nelson (guest author) on 22 February, 2011

William Nelson, a former Child Migrant from Scotland, shares his poem about the importance of the reunion with his family in the UK.

As a child, William Nelson travelled to Australia from Scotland in 1939 on HMS Jervis Bay, leaving his siblings who remained in Scotland. From the age of four, he had lived in the William Quarrier’s Home in Scotland. When he arrived in Australia, he was sent to the Burnside Homes in NSW. He did not see his family again until the age of 74 when he visited the UK.

Oh Scotland!

Oh Scotland! Why did ye forsake me?
Why send me from your shores?
To a land far down under
That I know nothing of
Yet still I have a yearning
To see my native land
And try to greet a family
I did nae know I had
At last the journey’s over
My family I did greet
I’ll now return to my adopted land
To live my life in peace.

William Nelson copyright, 2000

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

I’ve got the lot

by Garry Shooks (guest author) on 7 February, 2011

Poet Garry Shooks writes about the importance of marbles as currency in the Children’s Home in I’ve got the lot. In The House Without Keys, Garry writes about he and his fellow residents who don’t have access to the keys of the institution. Life’s a blur is a testimony to past experiences and what matters now.

I’ve Got The Lot

I never fudged or cheated, but I got the lot.
Tom bowlers, bird cages and cats eye’s are what we call em.

There marbles you know and they’re worth a lot.
For with em you are important and with out you are not.
I started with a couple and by golly I played till I had the lot.

The boys would moan cause I ended with the lot.
So I’d swap for what you got,

Weed draw a circle in the dirt, not to small and not to big, then throw in your lot.
You’d balance on the tips of your fingers at the circles edge and have a shot.

The birdcagess you’d swap the tom bowlers not, cats eyes not for they were worth a lot.
I filled a sack and was a great shot.

Till the day I lost the lot for sir cheated and took the lot.
I’ve never had another shot.

Garry Shooks

The House Without Keys

Halls are long, doors are many and all the doors have locks,
But we have not the keys to undo the locks.

We are young and scared standing in our lines in long straight rows,
Staring at our spot,
Wishing wishing we had the keys to the locks.

Sir would undo the locks.
Keys would jingle when he undid the locks,

Marched forward into the next spot till you hear the door close
And he’d lock the lock.

Line up beside your bed to kneel and say the Lord’s Prayer,
Into bed with out a whisper as trouble you did not want.

You’d hear the cries at times as we had been forgot,
In the end the tears you forgot as for love there was not.

The dreams were of the time that you could remember the family they said you had not.
Work was hard and the times you never forgot,

But the memories are painful and you try not to recall what you
Had not,
The birthdays came and went till the Key opened the lock,

Into the world that you had forgot, suitcase in hand, were are they now the brothers and sisters you had not forgot,

A life sentence in a place time had forgot, To this day I try to find my lot, the years have beaten me and the taste of sadness is with me a lot,

Cap in hand I go to the keepers who had the keys seeking the ones I had not forgot,
May the lord grant me time to get to find em as I have never forgot,

Forgotten Australians we are called, and yet I’m proud to be Australian, but the misery and pain has never been forgot,
Remember us as we fall for we were brother’s sister’s one and all.
We never ask for the life we got.

Garry Shooks

Life’s a blur

Scared and frightened I was as the policeman said listen hear you lot,
Mum will be back sooner then not,

The hours of the dark I cried a lot.
They called it a home but it was not.

Polish, sweat and spit was our lot,
Polish the floors on your knees with the rhythm of youth till your arms wanted to fall off.
Brass door knobs that you polished till they looked new,

You’d scrub the pots better then new to get out the burnt stew.
Nuggets the shoe’s, and polish, and rub with a bit of spit to clean the dirty spot.

Then if you were unlucky get to chop the wood for the boiler, and fill the coal bin like it or not.
The days were long, tears unheard for you were a ward of the state that was your lot.
Years came and went and I did grow.
I hate the bloody lot.

Old I am with tiredness of walking life’s path.

The years are shorter now and the memories hurt,
Tears of sadness have spoiled the lot.

Love your children they are worth a lot.

Garry Shooks

film, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

I’ll be your mate

by Garry Shooks (guest author) on 10 January, 2011

Garry Shooks writes about visiting day at Royalstone Boys’ Home in Glebe, Sydney.

I’ll be your mate

Its Sunday the bell rings, we all take our positions on our lines.
They are numbered the lines,
It is the same lines you stand on for lunch or when ever the bell tolls,
But its visitors as you know that today at 10am hey give it a blast so they can read out the visitors list,
Every Sunday I’d line up for months that ran into years, but only ever once did my name get on that list.
See I say to the others I do have a mum or I do have a dad and they are coming to see me.
All the other Sundays your name never got read out so you were dismissed to go back to what ever you were doing but all the while hoping that the ones or one name that was read out was your mate, course he would come back into the yard from up the top house with his lollies or a toy he was aloud to have.
All the kids would gather round hoping and reminding them that there your mate and can ya have a lolie or play with em so maybe you get a lolie.
Yeah well after forever my name was read out and I ran up to be showered and put on the suit that we all had to wear from that huge cupboard of suits, the long wait out the front sitting on the bench out side the superintendence office, me feet could not reach the floor so I’d swing em back and forward just looking out the closed 6 foot gate,
A long time I sat there like that till the super came out and said I’m sorry Garry your visitor is not coming today,
The shame, they were ya lolies, you have not got a mother or father have ya or they would have come, true, I’d say to myself but out a loud I’d yell I have but they got lost and they be here next week you see,
In all my years I think I got one visitor from me dad but he was turned back at the gate because he was drunk,
Ha who wants a visitor I know I got a mum and dad and one day they come get me,
The weeks turned into months and then years, I never got a visitor, but I did have me a couple of mates, they were true blue, gave me lolie or two and we were the best of mates all those years.

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

The spirit of the Forgotten Australians lives on

By Graham Evans (guest author) on 2 November, 2010
I can remember when we were little children
In those jails when we were so small
And all those places we were locked in as babies
There was no love, no love at all
So we walk these lonely roads for survival
From this abuse that was so wrong
Through the rapes, the hunger and the bashings
From these Homes where no one belonged
Oh! how I feel our lives have been waisted
From this system that was so wrong
For many if not all our hearts were broken
But The Spirit Of the Forgotten Australians Lives On
So we strive through our lives with out freedom
From our land that suppose to be free
What ever happened to good old Australia ?
That was put there for you and for me
Our imaginations we had no boundaries
We were just like logs and debris
Strewn on the rocks from our childhood
Then just cast out to Society
Oh! how I feel our lives have been waisted
From this system that was so wrong
For many if not all our hearts were broken
But The Spirit of The Forgotten Australians Lives On
I can remember when we were little children
In those jails when we were so small
And all those places we were locked in as babies
There was no love, no love at all
Oh! how I feel our lives have been wasted
From our Government’s that was so wrong
For many if not all our hearts were broken
But The Spirit Of the forgotten Australians lives On.
Forgotten Australians, poetry

No more silent tears

by Leigh Westin (guest author) on 16 September, 2010

Leigh Westin was a resident of Scarba House and Parramatta Girls’ Home, both in New South Wales. Here she shares her latest poem. The apology mentioned in the poem refers to that of the NSW Government.

No more silent tears

The years have gone past

I’m older now and remember at last

Blocked away for nearly fifty years

At long last I can cry real tears

My mum passed when I was four

Tears flowed easily and reached the floor

In the Home where I was placed

They belted me for crying

So I dried my little face

Leaving the Home and growing into my teens

I cried inside so not to be seen

The silent tears made me want to scream

Hitting out at others, I was so mean

Until I was locked in another Home

For running away the streets I would roam

Picked up by the welfare who did not care

Sentenced to Parramatta, it just wasn’t fair

I blocked everything to protect my mind

Taking on other things I thought was fine

September 19th 2009 the Government said Sorry

My memories came back but not in a hurry

Over the last ten months through depression and pain

All memories have surfaced and now I feel sane

Getting my life together so my family can gain

I do cry wet tears, as I have no fears.

art, Forgotten Australians, poetry, Stolen Generations

Are we proud to be Australians?

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 1 September, 2010

Below are some recent poems by Rhonda, a former inmate of Wolston Park Hospital. Lately, Rhonda has been working with kids in schools. She has visited four schools in the Canberra region, and talked to the kids to try and get to them before they start drinking and drugging.  Wherever there is a need Rhonda will help and her message is ‘God can make a message out of a mess’.

Are we proud to be Australians?

Australia’s made up of six states, all types of weather and land
Australia is a country its rich in lots of ways
Metal ore cattle wool are mans sweat hope and fears
Its sweet sugar cane and its wheat and fruits we bear
In all kinds of weather in all kinds of pain
On our nice green land and oceans deep and blue.
The hot equator right above us
Then left and right the Indian Ocean and the pacific
and the stars across its southern skies glow at night so great
As the skies tell a story leading Australians to see a brighter future
And the Great Barrier Reef is the shop for our tourist
Its islands and miles of coloured coral reefs
All the different beautiful fish and their living species
The strong proud Australian aboriginal people on their land
Survived desert and hard cold inhumane conditions
They have great knowledge of Mother Nature
Aboriginal folklore, the Dreamtime, to keep their stories alive,
They re-tell them in songs, fables, dances and cave and bark paintings.
In the past some dark clouds have over taking us
While our aborigines children tell their true stories
Some really great some not some about the stolen ones
That will shock and turn this country up side down
While there’s others who were just left and forgetting about
Abuse in many ways some children were killed some took their own lives
That I believe will really rock this nation wide and keep it on its toes
Where’s the answers? No one really knows how pathetic how inhumane
How did the so called great organised Australian system fail?
Let’s do the right thing and try to make the wrongs right
And let there be peace on earth which starts in and with us
I know we can be proud of our country so let’s fix it
Let our country Australia be our hope and future for our children

When I Look Up at the Sky

It’s beyond belief  the pictures  I see
The  clear  blue sky shines  like the face of god
With its sparking stars I hear him call
With the great  blue moon makes me see a life
The bright sun rises then stars slowly fade
until the next day  they slide across the milky way
Walking on clouds and flying on stars.
Through a powerful mystical beauty air
watching the rings of Saturn
And Mercury Venus and Mars move slowly by
Its beautiful magical ball
The brightness of its wonderful colours
Reflect against each other
Then fly down to the  passion universe earth
Above me I see my confidents just wanting me to dream
Its  magical wand  has many stories to tell
Creating new unexplained patterns
The creator’s holy imagination
Making the world a brighter place
In which passion flows bonds together
As your sons love takes its place in the sky
Where  holy angels sing and dance
There paradise it never disappears
And  night and day either do you god
You’re always there moving
Alive and you live forever
So let’s finally be at peace
And watch the heavenly body
The master at work.


My   Friends   the   Dolphins

Dolphins are a gift from the sea
Wonderfully beautiful and smart
Diving here and there swimming everywhere
Dancing beneath the rippled surface
Over the waves gliding through the sea,
So gentle and free I’m not alone
As I surf I feel their love their kindness
They talk they play and forceful my day
They are my healing peace within my soul
I feel so free when I surf with my friends
Their sun is my light there eyes are my stars
I can see I can fly what a feeling it’s not a dream
They comfort me with freedom and hope
I knew somehow they want to help
They picked me up when I feel down
When I touch them I feel so good

But I know that tomorrow is another day
When they will share there life’s with me again
To swim and ride the waves will be
Such a wonderful meaningful lovely day
The magic they share flows I know I have a dolphin within
As time go by they sing with their unique angel voices so pure.
Our spirits have joined with the truth in these waters
Swimming with them their fin in my hand puts aside my fears
This is where my healing takes place and where my pain is gone
When with them is worth me living and not wanting to die
I’m not afraid hurt or rejected there’s no sadness no pain
Just as a child they inherently loved and cared for me
In the ocean where life is full of freedom’s wonderful fun
As my friends leap around me and bring their love joy and happiness to me, so do I to them

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Sorry

by Peter Knight (guest author) on 7 July, 2010

Lana Syed forwarded this poem, written by fellow resident of Nudgee Orphanage, Peter Knight who died earlier this year:

Sorry

 Please help me, a faint childlike voice calls.
Please help me, I am scared and lost in this
strange misty world.
I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s because
I am a welfare child.
Please help me, don’t let me die in this isolated
state of mind.
Believe me, please, I am sorry my mother was too
ill to take good care of us, and I am also very sorry
that my dad died.
I am very, very sorry for that time when I came to you
and begged for food, but I was so very hungry and
didn’t know what else to do.

I know that the tiny morsels of food that you gave us, so
you have often enough said, would feed an African family
for a week, so even if I’m hungry, I promise not to ask for
more, and I’m sorry I never look neat enough, and for the
way my clothes seem to fall apart at will.
I know that you are kind, kind people, so I have been told, work
your fingers to the bone to care for the likes of us welfare
kids. All I can say is that I’m sorry for being such an
ungrateful welfare child, and I promise to take the shame
and guilt you laid on me, to the grave.

© 2000 Peter Knight