The Small Notebook

My small notebook

was made in Nepal.

Its hand-made pages 

come from the Lokta plant.

In the top corners are images 

drawn in coloured ink:

the eyes of the Buddha,

the symbol for Om.

In the centre of the blue cover

Is a red and gold mandala,

a circle inside a square

inside a larger circle.

For the January writing course

we're told, 'Get a beautiful notebook'.

Serendipitously my bro, 

not knowing, gives me this one.

Returning to Visit

(from tropic to temperate)

I find garden after garden filled with roses --

scented roses -- and leafy trees growing

along nature strips and railway culverts.

For the first time in nine years, I eat 

ripe apricots -- a forgotten pleasure.

Wishing For Things To Be Different

Walking along a city street

I pass a family. The young boy,

slight of figure, wide-eyed,

wears a T-shirt saying:

Man of Steel. 

He is holding his mother's hand,

looking slightly frightened by the city

with its cars and crowds.

OK, I get it, but I still wish

I could give the boys T-shirts

saying Man of Jelly

and have them be proud.

(In looking at joy this month, we also look at where it's absent or hindered — just in case you're wondering.)

Pascoe Vale South

In this suburb

in the temperate south,

people grow roses.

I go for a walk

in mingled sun and rain

and stop to look,

and pause to smell.

Some are full and blowsy,

others tiny, many-petalled.

The one with the deepest scent 

is creamy in the centre,

crimson round the rim.

It's an old suburb

of small stone houses,

and these are old roses

thriving still.

The Christmas Pirate

My son, who never fathered children,

slips out on Christmas Eve

to the back yard, to hide a box

and set up a treasure map

so his partner's nine-year-old

will find her gift from the pirates.

He doesn't believe in Christmas,

the commercialisation; 

never gives presents -- but a gift

from the pirates, he says, 

puts back the magic. For me

there is magic in seeing him

enjoy the role of father at last.

Two Railway Workers

Two railway workers

are checking the tickets

of boarding passengers.

Both are plump,

middle-aged,

with happy faces.

He has a lanyard around his neck;

she is wearing, with her uniform,

green Xmas-tree earrings.

In a moment between passengers, 

she dances up on to tip-toe;

they exchange a quick kiss.

The Watery Approaches to Sydney

5 am. There first lights come on

in and out of the train.

The watery approaches to Sydney

fill our moving windows —

the bends of the huge river 

spreading grey and glassy,

rows of spindly posts

marking the oyster leases —

as I cross again 

these old, familiar bridges,

waking up this morning.

I Leave the Cats Sleeping

I leave the cats sleeping,

one on my bed,

one on the spare bed.

Sometimes they share

in one place or the other,

but when they separate

it's always this way. 

They like their own rooms.

The Flavour of Bailey's Irish Cream

The flavour of Bailey’s Irish Cream: mellow with a tang ...

(The slim bottle is black, with a red label.

Surely those back-to-back gold initials are new?

I don’t remember them. But then, it’s a long time

since I’ve had a glass of Bailey’s — before tonight, that is.

(It came in a box with two glasses —

heavy-bottomed glasses

with curved sides for the grasp of a hand.

They too have those initials, back-to-back B B.

And they have gold rims.

(At the moment one glass is clean,

the other is buttery golden from my drink.

How good if I had someone to share

my gift bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream.
But alone is good too.) ... white fire, yet subtle.

Waiting in the Long Heat

Waiting in the long heat

for help with my stranded car,

I raise the bonnet for shade

and perch on the bumper bar.

I settle and look up.

Blue sky and a beautiful tree

straight in front of my gaze
are sweet and calming to me.

Submitted for Poets United's Verse First ~ Gifts and Blessings.

Pay Day

All day paying the bills,

first on computer

next by walking

all over town

in sun and rain,

stopping to pick up

a white lace ribbon

someone dropped in the park,

buying a new bra

and getting it properly fitted.

Ah, the depth

of these mundane 

satisfactions!

Raisins

Raisins are succulent on the tongue

and squashed between the teeth,

releasing their juices from skin and pulp —
at the same time sweet and tangy.

Vignette

The tiny boy runs naked

down our quiet, trafficless street,

his young mum close behind him

grabbing for his hand.
Yes, it’s Summer!

Joy Shines

Joy shines

from the young man’s face

for no special reason.

Bright eyes, wide smile,

exuberant laugh.

Life and youth must be
sufficient reason.

A Cool Wet Day

A cool wet day at last
in early summer.

I sit outside

on the front verandah

where you used to sit

looking at pale grey sky

and dark grey trees.

It is enough.
It is a kind of pleasure.

Eye

The boy’s eye in close-up on the cinema screen is not brown, not blue, but hazel — like my eyes — joined spots of tan radiating from the centre onto a background of sage green. This green, I realise, is the colour of my new jade pendant which I love so much.

Storm Hint

Sheet lightning flashes

behind clouds

startling the hot night.

On the balcony

our heads lift,
eager for new rain.

The Little Dog

The little dog sniffs my ankle all over, following me around the table. His nose is wet and very cold. He is black and white, as small as a cat. 

Ripe Mango

… smells fragrant as I walk into the room. Blooms with a warm red blush on the gold skin. Feels somewhere between firm and soft to the touch; I interpret this as ‘just right’. I slice down each broad face, along the curve of the underlying stone. On the narrow sides, the skin starts peeling off the stone of its own accord. I take a sharp knife to finish that severance, then I slurp the clingy flesh from the sides of the stone. With my knife I score the two halves that I cut off first, criss-cross into tiny squares, leaving the skin whole. I bend the skin of each half backwards, so the squares of mango sit up, ready for me to scrape my teeth along them and suck them into my mouth. Sweetness, but not too sweet. Juiciness, wonderful in its excess. Taste and texture linger, completely satisfying.

Trees in the Street

Hot day, cool breeze. The woman serving me in the craft shop notices that the leaves on the trees are moving. She says she remembers those trees being planted in the street, ten years ago.  ‘So small! And now look how beautiful they are.’ They are wattles, taller than the roofs of the shops.

The Salt and Pepper Pots

The salt and pepper pots

are stout and squat

with a cheerful air —

like friendly gnomes

at my dinner table.

A Blowy Day

The wind comes gusting up the valley with low howls. My chimes ring over and over on the front veranda, sending echoes down the street and across the hill.

Sudden Birdsong Bursts

Sudden birdsong bursts

through my door
closed against the heat.

My Rainbow Sun-Hat

The rings of my rainbow hat

go purple, indigo, blue,

green, yellow, orange, red —

just as they should for a rainbow.

They start from the rim

and work their way into the middle,

where they coil to make a big round spot

purple over the crown — as that, too, should be.

My rainbow sun-hat keeps me shaded

and brightens other people’s faces.

They stop and grin. They say,
‘You’re looking very colourful. I love it!’

Cool Change

Feel the wild, cold storm rush in

after the long, slow day of  heat.

Feel the sharp lift begin and gather pace,

the rustle and stir of leaves grow loud,
and the frogs croak faster, faster.

Evening Kookaburras

Every evening the kookaburras laugh

loud on the street outside my door.

I love to hear their explosions of joy.

I rush out and never catch sight of them

but I know they are here, visiting again
after months of silence, with their rollicking song.

Today My Friend

Today my friend Angela

brought me deep blue hydrangeas

from her garden

and some other flowers from 

the ‘yesterday, today, tomorrow’ plant.

Today my friend Angela

brought me eight crystals

to make a protective grid:

two rose quartz, two aventurine,

four hematite to ground each one.

Today my friend Angela

picked up frangipani blossoms

fallen on the ground from my big tree

and I floated them 

in a shallow glass bowl.

‘You spoil me,’ I said

to my friend Angela.
She only smiled and gave me a hug. 

Devotions

Just as I settle in my chair at the outdoor cafe and look around for something joyous to write about (my daily practice) four Hare Krishna devotees march up the street, chanting. I want to call it singing, they do it with such verve. Sometimes the local devotees sound half-hearted, sadly dutiful — but these lads sing out their mantras with conviction, and tune. I remember that Krishna is a joyous God.

Occasions of Joy

I'm doing a 'Writing My Way Home' course in joy, this December. It was offered in beautiful timing for me. 'I need to get in touch with my joy more often,' I thought. 

There are several practices suggested. One, of course, is the mindful writing of 'small stones', with a focus on what gives you joy. Another is the creation of a Book of Joy. 

'Find a beautiful notebook,' advises Satya Robyn, course facilitator. I like my beautiful iPad Mini and my beautiful 'Stones for the River' blog, so I'm creating on one and posting to the other.

Here are today's small stones, each of which was indeed an occasion for joy. Hooray, already it's working!

I come out into new sunshine after rainstorms. A crested pigeon walks across my driveway, untroubled by my presence.

The tree across the road has long white limbs stretching unevenly, like bending paths, through its fuzz of green.

Two little dogs, one black, one white, walk sedately on the ends of their leashes. Their owner has both leashes in one hand. His big shaggy dog, black with a splotch of white at the throat, ambles close by, untethered. This was a comfort stop, for bladder relief; only five minutes and they're all back in the car.

The tree in front of me, gnarled and knotted, has had it's lower branches lopped repeatedly. The scars look like gnome or gargoyle faces.

For Mindful Writing Day

The Final Month of Spring

The deep blue stripe of the sea spreads out before my gaze as I crest the hill, telling me summer is coming — the season of holidays, of beaches, is nearly here. I come home and see that overnight my frangipani tree has covered itself with flowers.

Sekhmet Figurine

A figurine of Sekhmet sits upright by my desk. Her shadow is shaped like a cat.

(I started to write a small stone but it grew into this longer poem. Then I came back here and wrote a different small stone.)

Walking and Looking

Sunday afternoon

this quiet street

is lined with cars

a long shadow

crosses my photograph: 
me

I point my camera

the ibis in the playground

vanish from the picture

coming up the hill

the gladdies are out 

in all the gardens

red gladioli

weigh down their stems

late afternoon

the shadow of the hoop pine

crosses the path 
ahead of me

Coexistence

Shrill birds

make a flurry in the trees.

My cat, ignoring them,
sprawls in the sun
washing her paw.

Spring Evening

It's lighter later now.

My black cat and I

come outside to sit

in warm air

with a small breeze.

Walking and Writing with Difficulty

I took the iPad instead of pen, paper notebook and digital camera. A mistake! The sun was glary, low in the sky not long before sunset. With my sunglasses on, I could barely see the screen. Even with them off, it was difficult. Taking photos consisted of point and hope. Only one worked.

Instead of trying for poems, I jotted down notes. Many typo corrections later, they read:

Large boat on nature strip

with canopy and truck.

(I remember thinking afterwards that 'large' gives the wrong idea; it was only large for a runabout.)

Clover in the grass

shaking, trembling in the breeze.

Nodding heads. Parkinson's ...

My boots hurt.

The sun is too bright.

The wind is cool.

I feel stupid

but also like a pioneer.

I like to walk here

breathing clean air, 

a little too fresh.

At the same time

I want to go home
and get into my slippers.  

Above theTrees

Above the trees, crossing that vast sky, is a tiny white cabbage moth.

Storm

Thunder and heavy rain.

How gIad I am I didn’t
water the garden early.

The Flapping of Wings

From over the fence the dove's wings flap and whirr, then stop. Perhaps, as I came outside, the noise of my door disturbed it a moment. Perhaps, like other creatures, it was resting on this warm afternoon. I know it must be the dove, though I've only seen it once. It's a big bird, and the noise, though not loud, signals the movement of something large. No tiny bird would make such a flurry. My surroundings settle down again to still mid-afternoon.

Then an even louder flapping and whirring, and no mere dove but a brush turkey leaps from next door's fence to my roof. I get up and try to find an angle from which I can photograph it with the iPad I'm writing on. By the time I do, another has jumped to the top of the fence. They're a couple! 

The one on the roof flaps back to the fence and the two stay there a few moments, walking about, changing position, checking out the view, before hopping down into next door's yard once more.

White on White

white sun blazes

from white clouds

white-hot

Winter Blooms

Only two orange flowers 

remain on the vine,

tucked in a corner of shade; 

still bright and fleshy,

still looking succulent.

Flaws

'These are natural flaws,' she said, and I realised: as crystals, people.

Beauty and integrity are not compromised by natural flaws.

Don't try to polish them away — useless; and they make each one unique.

The Ferns

The ferns grow big and flappy, waving like fans in the afternoon breeze.

Though the breeze ..

Though the breeze stirs the leaves and the air's fresh, my sleepy eyes keep closing.

At Tumbulgum

How fast the houseboat moves upriver as a wagtail swoops in closer.

In the fork of the gum with peeling bark sits a beer bottle, half-full.

In Still Air

In still air, caught by sun, the branches are sharp lines against blurry leaves.

Visiting Crystal Creek

Not far out of town, the rainforest still edges roads and covers hills.   

I pull over, close my eyes, meditate ... falling leaves hit my car, thump.

#American Sentences (a 17-syllable alternative to haiku, devised by Allen Ginsberg.)

Letting the Garden Go

 I have let my garden beds go to weeds. Interesting that the weeds they grow are different. One is full of spreading ferns, and bushy plants with wide, glossy leaves. The other is occupied by low ground cover with tiny leaves, from which the aloe vera plant — not a weed — stands up tall and spiky.

A Dangling Leaf

A dangling leaf begins to turn on its stem: imperceptible breeze. 

Netting the moon

I look up at the full moon through a cobweb shining from roof to tree.

Winter Flowers

The winter flowers on the vine are orange, the colour of both trauma and joy (in Colour Healing). There are few left as winter ends. It has been a winter of trauma and joy, reliving the last, when Andrew began his dying, finally making his transition at the beginning of Spring. I pull a Tarot card from the Wildwood deck. The fire in the centre has bright orange flames. The card is called Abundance, meaning reward after long struggle.

August Wind

August wind.

Each year I forget

until it begins.

A sudden flurry.

'Is that rain?' I think,

but it's not. It's the air 

stirring, no longer inert.

It wakes with a rush —

excitement or dread? —

and the blood responds.

Submitted for Poets United's Verse First ~ Difficulty. The challenge is: Write a poem, no more than three stanzas, that is completely free of "gratuitous, show-offy, camouflaging" text. 

She Seems Unaware

She seems unaware of the bleeding, but

at times her eyes glaze; I think

she's moving away, starting

not to be here.

Further details

One Cloud Settles

One cloud settles softly

on the tops of the trees.

The sky shines blue,

the winter sun
hints of hope, of returning Spring.

Guardian Stone

I dressed the rock by my door

in thin blue lines, in symbols

of Protection and the Goddess.

The original marks, from another hand,

were painted thick, though wearing off.

I wonder should I make mine thicker?

Not yet, says the rock. Let me explore

these more delicate emblems. Power

may also rest in the soft and fine.

Embrace

My house puts warm arms around me.  

I move within soft golden light.

At Last

Tonight, when she comes onto the bed to lie beside me, she purrs as loudly as she used to when he was here and she would snuggle between us. This is the first time since his death that she has expressed such deep content. It has been ten months. She stretches out now, and falls peacefully asleep.

The Sun Bursts

The sun bursts from the trees

blazing gold, too bright,

dazzling my eyes,

yet fails to take the chill
from the autumn morning air.

The rock I find by the side of the road

The rock I find by the side of the road must have rolled down the hill from somewhere — some hidden house at the top. Though it’s near no human habitation now, it is marked in thick blue lines: the base of an arrow and a spiral, crooked and fading.

I rescue it of course and ask if it is willing to come home with me. Once there, I ask if it’s happy to be cleaned and go back to natural. I scrub the markings away and put it outside my front door as a guardian.

I think it looks strangely blank. I think I’ll ask it soon if it will permit me to adorn it with new markings. The rune for protection, maybe, looking like the fletch of an arrow. And perhaps, to signify the Goddess, a spiral….

I open my door at 6am

Late autumn sunrise streaks the sky.

Small birds flit and twitter through low trees.

A fat white ibis fossicks in the gutter,

stalking slowly (ignoring me), rhythmically

dipping and lifting its long, hooked beak.

Sunny

Autumn. The cats find sunny doorsteps.

At Home

(Sijo*)

The familiarity of home, garden, my two cats,

the little town where I live and the people who are my friends,

all these and autumn — ah, glorious autumn! — they nurture me.

*A three-line Korean form explained at dVerse Form For All: Out of Asia

Dead Tree

He gives the dead tree trunk

a light shove. It rocks 

in its socket of earth.

Confusion of Season

The usual mild Autumn.

Again the plants are fooled,

blooming as if in a second Spring —

yellow gorse everywhere along the roads, 

gardens profuse with new colour.

Submitted for dVerse Poetics — Spring

Visiting Maureen

vistas of trees

from all windows

A New Morning

A new morning.

Sunshine.

Birdsong.

My mood lifts,

grows gentler.

Contrasts

The small boy

on the lawns of Crystal Castle

runs happily past,

oblivious of the huge white quartz
at least four times his size.

Just Before Sunset

Sun burning gold

bounces and rolls

over the tree-tops
alongside the road.

The car draws ahead

but around the next bend

the dancing blaze 

is keeping pace.

Loud

It doesn't stop rumbling, the thunder, after starting with a huge 'Boom!' 

'What a beautiful day!' we said earlier, and then, 'How hot!'

I open the doors to let in the cool. A little spittle of rain flies right through the flywire onto my leg. The noise gets hugely louder and the house shakes. (Surely I imagined that?) Now the rain pelts down hard, and I hear the cracks that mean lightning. The cats are curled up, one in each doorway. They like to watch storms.

It gets louder yet. Then there's the hugest crack I've heard in years. We all jump, and the cats swap doors. I switch off the wireless modem and unplug the landline phone. 

More, yet more, again and again. I've still got power. I bet some people haven't.

Then, as suddenly, it's quiet. The rain stops in an instant, except for the sound of heavy drips from roofs and branches. The humidity returns.

Suddenly Summer

We have Summer at last, for one day - one day of clear blue, deep blue sky; enough warmth for me to wear a sarong; the slightest breeze rippling the ferns just a little, behind the flight of a white butterfly. The drone of a mower somewhere is too faint to disturb; it makes a pleasant, bee-like hum. The fern fronds are softest green. I nod off in the noonday heat, which increases. I think of beaches and rivers and backyard pools, of immersing myself in lovely water. But I think lazily - sitting here, peaceful, in my sweet green garden.

  Submitted for dVerse: It's not easy being green and poetic - or is it?.

Small Sunshine

Small sunshine

in between days of rain.

Everything smells stronger —

both rotting things

and growing things.

Sodden

Bleak, bedraggled,

my garden misses me.

Ceaseless rain 

strands me indoors.


Submitted for dVerse Poetics: Short verse

Morning Music

Sitting on my back veranda this morning
between light showers of rain
first I hear kookaburras
near but unseen
filling the air with joy, as they do
(in our perception). Then
after a pause, with only the small sounds
of raindrops and random twittering,
the high, sweet notes of a recorder
begin and continue, faint but clear.
I think it's the seven-year-old boy
who lives across the road.
He must be playing outdoors
on his own back veranda.

Wet Sunday

Wet Sunday:
white sky, rain-darkened ground.
Fresh sheets on the bed last night.
Feeding the cats their breakfast, I sneeze.
These are good enough reasons.

All morning
I lounge against piled-up pillows.
The cats settle next to me, cuddle up,
Then curl into their foetal position sleep-mode.
The three of us breathe gently.

Bikers

the wild men 
ride with lights on

this bright and sunny day

sturdy blokes

with thick white beards

their handlebars wide and high

Oh, it's Sunday!

Oh, it's Sunday! Lazy coffee, sunshine through the curtains, the cats fed and dozing nearby. There are brand-new poems to read on the web. There are library books waiting, piles of colour on my dining-room table. There's a new DVD to watch. There are friends to talk to by phone or email, at my leisure and at length. I look away from the ache in my heart. No, I am not lonely!

(Starting a new habit of small stones on Sundays rather than daily.)

White Sky

White sky this twilight
after rain, the day cooled
from its humid afternoon.
An exhausting day,
but now I know peace.
A plane drones over.
The Chardonnay
tastes light and tangy.

Last Light

In the last of the afternoon light

the sun appears, suddenly and quietly,

to light up the windless trees.

The palms in the neighbour's yard

form elegant fans. A cloud sails past

like a boat on blue water.

Then a plane goes over, noisy,

and the dusk settles down.

Me and My Gardener

Me and my gardener reminisce. 

We just found out we both grew up

in the same small town

on a cold, hilly, beautiful island.

Now we like the warmth.

'When I was in the Navy...' he adds

and I notice the dark tattoos

crawling from under his sleeve.

Young Single

My friend has cut his hair shorter,

smart. Suddenly he looks grown-up.

He says he shaved on Friday, and

already (Tuesday) must again.

He tells me all the things that prove

his new boyfriend loves him — really.

Although they aren't saying that yet. 

Silence after

Silence after 

days of downpour 

and shrieking wind —

as if the earth 

had stopped breathing.

Rain Storm

The water comes down in a roar,

speeded by the wind.

One of next-door's palm branches

crashes into my yard,

which is fast becoming mud;

others lash the fence.

In the northern hemisphere, I read,

this is the time of the Wolf Moon.

Here, the wind starts howling like a wolf.

Importunate

The wind and rain want to come in.

They ring my bells, they drive fists 

into my front door again and again.

I know it's not the cats demanding;

they are asleep in the house.

I do not open my door.

This Old Woman

(Describing myself from outside)

This old woman, slightly fat,

wears bright colours,

silver jewellery, crystals

and low-heeled shoes.

The pendants around her neck

are on cords she made

from shoelaces, knotted

to be adjustable.

The first one depicts

a five-pointed star

disguised inside

a five-petalled rose.

If people enquire,

to most she will say,

'Isn’t it beautiful?

It's a Celtic knot.'

Those to whom

she might say,

'It’s my pentacle; I'm Pagan,'

seldom need to ask.

Summer Country

Our mountain, Cloud Catcher

this morning has only one cloud 

held low in a long pocket 

half way.down the slope

where it stretches out

white and dazzling,

basking in the early sun,

prettier than pictures of snowfall.

Over the Road

To observe the world this afternoon

I decide on my front porch,

the tiny landing at the top of the steps.

From the house with the kids

diagonally opposite

obscured by trees,

come voices, and then

pop music, loud.

I know that some of the neighbours

will be feeling irritation, righteous.

But me I like the cheery beat.

I like the teenage voices laughing.

The Homeless

The homeless people gather —

half a dozen, maybe ten —

at the rotunda in the park.

They stay there most of the day.

Their voices are loud, some raucous.

Their movements are loose or jerky,

either way unrestrained ... free?

Freer, perhaps, than me?

They have community, 

they have laughter.

They are a closed circle

I would not approach. 

I have no wish

to change places.

My quieter, safer life

beckons me home. (I have cats.)

Winged

On the back of the chair

in my outdoor writing spot,

a winged being perches —

tiny, still, dark. 

The folded wings are black, 

with an underlay of deepest blue, 

edged with a line of green

which is its body.

Oh, the wonder of it — 

this small creature 

poised a moment 

showing me beauty.

The Not-Noise

There is a continual pulsing
out here under the trees:
a form of white noise,
not from machines, but from
the grass and the dirt and the leaves
coming alive after rain. Birds
and tiny insects, hidden lizards
and all sorts of creatures I don't even guess
are swelling this noise, which is not
noise at all, it is active silence.
And the air is making it, rushing in and out
in long whispers as the earth breathes.
But there is no breeze, it is other
than wind; it is the planet's
usually inaudible
heartbeat.