Gen Banks is an Australian writer of Sri Lankan and Italian heritage, and the mother of two grown children.

As a person living with autism, Gen is passionate about advocating for others on the spectrum; for human and animal rights, environmental sustainability, and mental health awareness.

In addition to writing, Gen enjoys music, art, nature, and spending time with her menagerie of animal companions at her home in tropical Queensland.

Gen has had several works published on the website Compositor, and for the past couple of years has been moderating poetry groups on Facebook. She writes under the names Gen Banks, GenX, GenKu and Gothink Poetry.

The Dry Spell

 Crows fold their wings in the lines of my eyes
  
 They weather a withering desert-dry skin
 to nest in my body; 
  
 this huskful of hollow, which once belonged to 
 a water diviner
  
 whose bones 
 summoned aqua from salt 
  
 In those sweet dewy years, before drought parched these lands, and 
  
 the Sadness came to blacken its sands
  
 When eyes were twin rivers that ran clear 
 with feeling
  
 before ink replaced wells of bountiful tears 

Time in Reverse

When I am old and frail
 and rocking in my chair
 When the whirl of my mind's eye
 has slowed to a crawl
 And each day cycles by
 like life in a goldfish bowl...
 Come to me then 
 and remind me 
 we were once more 
 than friends
  
 Remind me of the time 
 we kissed like lovers,
 sharing the same air
 How you wrote my name 
 in smoke rings 
 How I'd giggle as you stared
 Two skinny-dipping fools,
 one foot barely out of youth
 Tell me again of our 
 awesome adventures...
 I permit you to play 
 with the truth
  
 When the cogs begin slipping
 on the sidewalk of memory
 And the clock-hands 
 only move back...
 Employ some imagination
 A good story never relied 
 upon fact
  
 Remind me of our formerly 
 wild ways; our daredevil 
 glory days, climbing 
 the high Himalayas...
 How we made love 
 in the oxygen lack
  
 Sell me your version so I can't 
 help but believe it...
 Just leave out the part where 
 our hearts once 
 turned black 

Warts

  I am not pretty---
 You might look at me and disagree
 Unable or unwilling to see 
 what's behind these layers 
 of smile-for-the-camera cheese
 For my mind is a quagmire, clogged 
 with decades-old grime
 A festering pit of hidden disease
  
 There have been times, while 
 late at night, driving 
 I've studied the trees with a calculating eye 
 On a bathroom floor, sick from crying 
 fighting to breathe,
 I've begged a god, in whom I barely believe
 to come on and assist me in dying
  
 And I'd be lying 
 if I claimed I'd not done what girls do,
 on my knees, for nary a please 
 or thank you
 (And other things that, for propriety, 
 I probably shouldn't go into... )
  
 But believe---
  
 I've thought thoughts that'd make the devil blush red
 Plotted my revenge for crimes committed against me in bed
 Swallowed the wrong pills, skipped out 
 on bills
 Schemed a plethora of sins, I confess 
 with some guilt
 haven't always lain quiet and still, confined 
 in this wreck of a head
  
 So, no, I'm not pretty--- on the inside
 where, as I've often read,
 it really counts
 And since we're being so honest now,
 I very much doubt
 I'm the only one out there
 who could use some inner body work;
 some mental smash repair;
 a touch of high gloss polish, to cover up 
 the wear and tear