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.