Sunday Morning Rain

Sunday morning rain.
On my porch rail
three Noisy Miners huddle drenched —
tight-beaked, slit-eyed,
hunched and silent.

Cutting Short the Retreat

Thunder rolled around the hills
all night: drums and crashing cymbals.

 My inflamed shoulder aches and stings
needing another new dressing.

 We stumble awake into news:
the Sydney siege over. Three dead.

 Half way through my retreat,
I’m pulled back to the world.

Changing Relationship

I have become to him more cat now. When we have cuddles, he will lick my fingers assiduously, much more than he used to — then will suddenly give a sharp little nibble. There would be more, but at that point I yelp and push him away. He goes, sulkily. I am still the Alpha.

An Influx of Ants

I open my kitchen drawer, and leap back. It’s full of tiny ants. They can't be looking for water — it’s gently raining outside. So it must be going to be a hard summer. Usually we think of a hard winter; usually the ants come indoors looking for food in a hard winter. What is global warming doing?

Eyes That Won't Meet Mine

'Are you a bee or a wasp?' I think at it. 

As if it senses my unease and responds, it rises from hovering near the jade plant at the edge of my front veranda and heads over to the bushes by the fence. I sip my coffee and read about writing haibun. 

A little later it returns. It lands on a jade leaf, walks underneath it, and strokes the upside with its fine front legs. 

'I'm glad to see you, bee,' I think this time. 

I know they are said to be dying out. If they do, it is further said, we shall all be doomed.

I contemplate the tree growing tall by my fence. I know it's a weed — one I didn't catch and pull out while it was still a baby, and look at it now! It's beautiful. It's hard to know how to serve Nature best.

The wind freshens, the thunder revs up. It's time to go inside. The rain will be humid.

in my living-room

the painting of an angel

a sweet sad face

The Comforts of the Body

Slowing down and taking time to observe my life, I notice and savour the comforts of the body; I dwell in them — the cushions at my back and behind my head, the warmth of the shoes on my feet, the aftertaste of my dinner, my breath moving easily out and in.

After the Heavy Rain

After the heavy rain

one drop falls from the roof

with a loud tap, repeatedly.

Slowing down

I start to observe myself,

what’s really there.

I let myself stay

with loneliness now
so as to know it.

Losing the Leaves

My northern hemisphere friends write of snow and the last leaves falling. Here the trees are thick with leaves, full of flowers; some already have berries. The threat is from sudden summer storms, which can tear them off in a few minutes. Quite by accident, we time our river walk perfectly today, and are sitting in a cafe when the thunder and pelting rain descend out of nowhere.

Work

I realise that work is not in preparation for my retreat, but part of it. The good, honest, physical work of cleaning house. Much is needed. I neglected it all winter and spring. It feels good to give it a little time each day, incorporating it into my daily schedule of reading, writing, meditation, self-healing sessions, exercise and relaxation. Now, '... exercise, relaxation and work.' Not exactly in that order, and none of them at only one time all day. It is only the 3rd of December. I am still working out the routines that serve best. Already I am becoming more peaceful.

Preparing the Space

The first day of my home vacation.  I clean the outdoor chairs and coffee tables on both my back and front verandas, wiping them down repeatedly with a microfibre cloth.  With my yard broom I catch and remove the thick, old, uninhabited cobwebs binding the vines to my shelf of garden tools. I take the trowel and dig up my new French lavender, put it in a pot and place the pot on the front veranda where it will get the full sun I now know it needs.  I wash the frames of my front and back doors and dust the flywires. My holiday can begin.

(To be honest, it's not so much a vacation, though it will function that way too, as a spiritual retreat.)

Cane Town in Spring

Fields burnt dry;
a few with new shoots
already growing clumpy.

From the sugar mill
the smell
is sickly sweet.

The Sea Through the Window

The sea through the window is stormy; eerie, with patches of pale light.

Night Sounds

the gecko after dark

chirrups at my door

while inside the house

my cat chirrups too —
repetitive little calls

At Last My Frangipani

at last my frangipani

puts forth a few small blooms

The Beautiful Child Has Eaten

The beautiful child has eaten
what was in his bowl
and is asking for more.
This is the way of beautiful
children with four legs and fur.

The Foraging Ibis Bark

The foraging ibis bark.

One opens wide his beak

and emits a harsh tune:

Ack, ack, ack, AAAAH, ack,

repeats it exactly.

He meant it!

Jay Ungar (and Molly Mason and The Family Band) play Ashokan Farewell

he closes his eyes

over the notes

of his sweet violin —

haunting song of farewell
but his half-smile is bliss

Spring Has Arrived

The lorikeets are here!

With a quick shriek

two lights, bright green

dive out of the bottlebrush tree,

zap the air, skim the roof
and vanish.

A Candle Like a Pale Green Heart

A candle like a pale green heart
scented with rose petals.
Mara’s cousin made it as a gift.

We witches met to talk about hexes
in our Pagan discussion group.
Instead we light a love candle.

We light it for souls who may be lost
after their plane was shot down,
and for their sad families.

And for the shooters? Can’t quite
manage that yet, but we ask for them
that they may look into their own souls.

We never think to send a hex.

Time Passing

Just months since last we met.

I notice how much whiter her hair is now.

She gives me an appraising look. I think

she thinks that mine is whiter too.

The Client

A good, round face,

a smile,

brown hair cropped close
(just beginning to recede),

bright, round eyes,

direct gaze,
frankness,

ready understanding,

tears and laughter when

he speaks of his dead Mum.…

Good things,

but none explains —

nor even all together —

why I like him so much

and trust the liking.
Is it that indefinable, his energy?

Perhaps it’s the warmth,

or his insight,

or the way this kind, brave man
believes himself ordinary.

Greeting in the Supermarket

We say hello and I go to move on.

Her “How ARE you?” stops me.

Her eyes widen and become intent.

She really wants to know.

She recalls things I’ve told her,

asks about them and about now.

I feel cared for. I realise

we go back a long way.

Haunting

The mellow notes of wind chimes at my door 
mingle with the sound

of young Haylee across the way
practising her recorder

in thin, insistent piping
like my little brother’s long ago.

Smart —

my ankle boots

with zipped sides,

heels that click.

Our Era

I watch “Jersey Boys”

in an almost empty cinema,

my toes tapping to the tunes.

Little old lady two seats away

says afterwards, grinning with joy,

“It was our era!”

(I realise she too

must perceive herself as talking

to a little old lady.)

Sorrow / Joy

Cold night, and you

not here to warm me.

I give thanks:

tonight you are not

lying alone in a nursing home,

you are not in a hospital ward,

nor are you next to me

in pain and troubled sleep —

you are free!

From the Veranda, a Vista

From the veranda

a vista of trees,

a succession of curving hills,

leads all the way into town —
though town can’t be seen.

Winter Sun

Winter sun —

that sky, that uniquely Australian
quality of light!

From now until August 3rd I'm playing a game (with others online) 

to write small stones "in just ten perfectly imperfect words".

Cold Nights

cold nights

the cats cuddle up to me
purring

Variations on a Theme

I wrote the first poem and thought it was too long for a "small stone".  But the second attempt is not very joyful, which supposed to be the theme of my small stones this month, but instead slightly sinister! So I'm posting both. 

Late Afternoon On My Top Step

Late afternoon on my top step

I settle with coffee and iPad

beside the potted plants.

My black cat runs up the stairwell

from some private vantage-point

down in the garden, to join me.

His footwork is light, he is

lithe and quick — not like

the old guy he is. Now he peers

underneath the railings

at my geranium bushes

half flattened by last week's wind

before stretching out on the concrete

to hear and ignore all those birds

massing and trilling, getting ready

for the sun to make its descent.

Today the air is still. I notice

the pink bottlebrush are out on my tree.

Before Night Falls

My cat on the step appears to doze,

his black fur polished, gleaming.

But his ears and haunches tense

as the birds get shrill ... before night falls.

My Friends, Moving House

My friends, moving house

bring me their pots —

terracotta and white ceramic —

of gota cola and chives

and, for my front steps,

tiny purple flowers

dotting the dark green

stems and leaves.

They bring them to me

smiling.

I cry out with joy

to receive.

My Old Black Cat

My old black cat

begs to go out

into the winter sun,

lies long hours

where it falls, 
by the wall behind
the pink geraniums.

After the Flu

After the flu

he remarks on my husky voice.
Good heavens, he’s flirting!

Moments of Joy

Seeking moments of joy

in my own home,

I see my aunt’s lace fan.

Yellow flowers, black edging,

a white base that mimics ivory

but isn’t cruel.

My cousin sent it to me

after my dear aunt died

whom I called my second Mum.

Late in life, she saved

and went on cruises,

finding fans in port as souvenirs.

I remember her long letters

about places she saw,

friends made on board

even love, although at last

those ships passed in the night.
The fan is still faintly scented.

Joy

I'm doing Satya Robyn's July "Writing My Way Home" course on Joy — again! Did it last year too. (Smile.) Posting small(ish) stones about joy here, plus making a separate joy list in the form of daily status updates on twitter and facebook.

Today the Wind

Today the wind

is very quiet,

rustling not rushing,

a faint but insistent

white noise — not gone

not giving up, but still

whispering and shushing
and once more muttering.

Siege

The wind is making woo-woo ghost noises

and bumping the doors like an intruder

wanting to break in. I refuse to open

but it stays all day, insisting, even begging

with high-pitched wailing and then
the desperate, long, low, pitiful howls.

Revisiting

A recent photograph:

childhood home

changed.

Oh, look — my Dad’s roses

long ago

gone.

(Double tilus)

Overcast Sky

overcast sky white not grey

tiny blue

holes

This is a tilus, a new form invented by Kelvin S Mangundayao. I have fallen in love with it, and will probably use it often in this context.

Outside My Door

Insistent,

the sharp, sweet note

of Noisy Miners — 

not shrieking, as they would

if they saw my cats;

simply conversing, 
happily.

Sad

Little cold girl

cat on the doorstep

curling stubbornly

waiting for someone

who will never come.

I've been sitting on this one, which was written March 19, thinking 

there was more to add. I finally realised it's complete in itself.

Autumn Afternoon

A cheeky breeze

sneaks through the door.

Immediately, something in me lifts --

the joy that always comes

through decades of autumn breezes

in all the homes of my life.

The Day Steams Up

The day steams up

already, so early 

in the overcast morning.

The threat of rain

in this heat

brings stinging insects.

I like to meditate outdoors

but not always.

The Stillness is Inhabited

The stillness

before a hot day

is inhabited by doves,

white-breasted,

cooing intermittently

with long, low notes
from my neighbour's thick trees.

Listening to the Birds

Late afternoon. The heat has eased. I sit in my back garden, listening to the birds try out all their different cries.

The Good Rain

fills the darkness outside my door

with its sudden whoosh

and then a long whisper,

a muted roar.

I know it blesses the earth.

I feel safe in my home now —

now that the friendly rain

comes down, comes down, comes down.

Bin Morning

The garbage trucks rumbled up the street, whined to a halt, and hit the deeper, grinding note to lift and upend my bins. Now they have clattered away, and I hear my neighbour bumping his empty bins back up the driveway we share. There is reassurance in these habitual noises: the world still turns. I know what day it is.

A Poem for Patsy

Patsy is wearing her white blouse

with the white-on-white embroidery, 

over her skinny black pants.

We sit on her couch 

and look at our iPads.

I show her my photos on Facebook.

She hands me my Christmas present

in a red envelope: a voucher

for a massage from Sarah.

'Write a poem for Sarah,' she says.

'Go on!' But I want to write a poem

for Patsy, who is kind to me.

Two Dragonflies

The wind rouses.

Two dragonflies, darting in and out 

of the vines on the fence,
are golden.

Plane Over My Back Yard

I come out of meditation with a start.

A plane goes over, loud and sudden,

then drones away. 

Its rumbling lasts a long time, 
fading down the air.  

Wet Scent

Wet geranium leaves —

a scent from my childhood.

Observations

Two ripening pawpaws hang from the tree like pendulous yellow breasts.

As the wind rises before the rain, my little cat starts running and jumping as if she was playing with something visible.

Cat Kill

it curls like an S

the white belly

of the dead lizard

exposed to the sky

Bird Calls

after the rain pour

the bird calls are tiny shrieks

repeated very fast

What Is That Singed Smell?

What is that singed smell in the air?

I look for some appliance I’ve left turned on,

find nothing. I decide it’s the smell

of 34 degrees Celsius. Then on facebook

my friend Ondine posts a status update:
'The wind has bushfire breath'.

Soft Breeze

The soft breeze of evening

stirs my wind chimes,

ruffles the fur of my lolling cat

and washes my neck 

with delicious cool.

Seeking Magick

Wanting, he said, to learn,

he kept talking and talking and talking

of what he had read and done.

‘To keep silent,’ one of us murmured.

He gave no sign of hearing the words,

let alone recognising the quote.

A nearby crow cawed repeatedly, loud.

‘Perhaps we need to tune in,’ I suggested,

closing my eyes. He kept on talking.

Touching the Leaves

Two vines grow over my fence.

When I weave the tendrils into each other,

the leaves of one are cold and slippery;

the other's warmer to the touch,

finer and softer, like textile.

The new leaves on each,

baby small,

feel thin and crinkly.

The Pretty Hill at Gloucester

Bushes at the top, bushes at the bottom.

Silvery leaves, bright green leaves,

yellow-green and red-brown leaves,

and the straight white twigs of the gums.

At the top is a radio tower,

at the bottom is Gloucester station.

The train pulls away. On the next hill

white and grey stones break the surface.

Sequel

On my pilgrimage to the past,

my journey of completion,

he hears that I'm in town -- 

suggests we meet

for coffee or wine.

But time's too short;

we don't make it happen. Ah!

The Universe, I see, decrees:

that water's under the bridge,

no completion needed. 

Just in Case

Careful selection of lipstick,

trying every colour.

If that man comes to visit

who was once my lover,

may the passage of 40 years

not look too horrifying!

Creating a Monster

Discussing archetypes,

she tells me, 'You're the Queen.

Haven't you noticed

how people help you?'

She treats me like one

during my visit. It takes 

only a few days until

I slip into the role --

holding out my arms

for her to assist me

into my jacket;

preceding her through doors.

Rescuing the Cicada

The wings of the cicada

are black lace,

its eyes are tiny red beads.

She lifts it from the path

where it lies on its back

and carries it to a tree.

It walks calmly across

each of her hands in turn.

She finds it a tree in the shade.

Visiting My Friend

She plays Billy Bragg

because she knows I like him.

I have to be sneaky

to pay for her coffee;

she responds by shouting me 

organic ice cream.

I sleep a cosy eight hours

in her guest bed,

cuddling the toy wombat

she left on the pillow.

Contrasts

In MONA (Museum of Old and New Art)

coffins are beautiful — painted sarcophagi

for ancient Egyptians with calm faces. 

When I pick up an ordinary coffee mug 

in the Gallery shop, I am not prepared 

for a different depiction: no face at all, but

a male torso upside-down, with penis

chopped off at the root. The hole allows sight

of the inside bits of the body — blood vessels,

nerves, bits of gristle. Yes, I recoil.

I Hear a Voice in the Airport Lounge

I hear a voice in the airport lounge

which sounds just like my son's —

either of my sons: the one

I just said goodbye to, or

the one I dread to see

ever again. But it's not —

not even that familiar laugh.

It's a group of young men.

So I understand for the first time

my sons have Melbourne voices.

In a Local Park

The young father

stands behind his tiny son,

holding the boy's hands

which hold the basketball.

'Now!' he says, and the kid

bends his knees and throws

while his Dad throws with him.

Into the net!  And we all clap.

It's Her Voice

It's her voice --

the way it smiles even when

her mouth only quirks a moment

in her face that remains calm

while her warm voice

soothes and invites.

In Person

(Melbourne)

We adopted each other

years ago as Sis and Bro,

co-admins of online poetry groups,

cohorts in politico-social outrage,

and co-conspirators in

(sometimes refraining from) 

epater le bourgeoisie.

We met, of course,

under the clocks.

'I'll be wearing an avant-gardenia,' 

he said. No, but he was wearing

a black T-shirt saying: 

'The revolution will not 

be televised.'

I'd texted him on the way:

'I'm wearing a tie-dyed caftan'

[it was the one hot day]

'with a carry-bag advertising

The New Internationalist. 

Think I'm joking?' 

He didn't. He was right. 

(Well, we were both left.)

I'd wondered how it might be

meeting at last in person,

but there he was

looking just like his photos.

Nothing was more natural

than to hug.