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.