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
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