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.