Saying Hello

Preparing for bed, I hear

the small cat noises I'm used to,

brief conversational murmurs

or a soft greeting.

But he's outside

and out of earshot,

my old black cat.

So I know

which little ghost greets me
from her favourite spot

nearby.

Sun Jewels on Rainy Day

The rain is so steady and the sky so grey

even my cat doesn’t want to go out,

yet the little yellow Sun Jewels

in the pot on my veranda

still reach, bright and cheery, for the light.

Another Rainy Day

The rain falls hard
yet the wind is blowing it harder
slantwise across the street.
The Noisy Miner birds
have changed their usual squawk
to a pitiful cheep, as if
begging for rescue.

The Dragonfly on the Back Step

Great black lacy wings.
Long thin body
like a misshapen wire
bulging at one end,
appearing twisted.

I decide it's dead or damaged.
With one finger
I push it gently over the edge
of the low, flat step
to the ground between step and wall.

Still those big wings extend
up past the side of the step.
'Poor thing,' I think, and wonder
if it was I who trod on it. Could I
have failed to notice?
When I come back, it's gone.

Green Things in Pots

I have a square white ceramic pot of chives and a long terra cotta coloured pot of gota cola. Both plants are thriving from all the hot sunshine interspersed with heavy rain. So is the plant in the small round white ceramic pot. I am pleased to see them flourishing. I feel a responsibility to Karen and Manfred who gave me these precious gifts when they went travelling. I must keep them all alive to show my appreciation. And indeed I do appreciate. I thought I would quickly use up the chives but they keep growing back long and strong. There is always more to add to my salad. And the gota cola is wildly abundant. I know I must have only three leaves a day to help my memory. I could feed the whole town!  

After the Family Visit

Her son gives her a last firm, fierce hug before getting in the car.  She goes up the steps and waves them goodbye from her front door — just as her mother, and before that her grandmother, always did.

They drive away. She goes inside, collects the bundled sheets and towels they used, drops them in the washing machine and turns it on. Then she remakes the beds.

It’s a nice hot, breezy drying day.  She hangs the linen on the line.  She’ll bring it all in dry in a couple of hours.

Time now to catch up with emails and facebook, before getting dinner for herself and her cat and settling in for the evening’s telly.

At 10.30, yawning, she looks at her watch and says out loud. ‘I thought it must be after midnight. How the night’s dragging on!’

Prompt: Writing as someone else? Well, separating myself into the person who acts and the observer who writes will hafta do.

Missing Person

Writing as a fictional detective

The inside of the glass is still wet. Only a few moments ago someone was drinking from it. The crossword has been started. A small red pen is lying beside it with the top off. There is a crumpled tissue further along the table. The electric fan is going full pelt.

Downpour

the window
rain running down

just a few inches
visible grass

For 'Finding Your Way Home' written as another me — recalling observations of my child self.

For dVerse, a tenWord poem, sourced from a longer piece I once wrote about childhood experiences.

Small Gecko in the House

They see me

though I try to hide.

The darkness

cascades to fill up

small spaces

under chairs, couches,

desks and beds,

and edges of walls:

the skirtings

where I elongate,

trying to

press my thin body

into a crack

and never be seen.

But I am

seen by the young child

and the cat

so I am afraid.

There's danger.

I want to get out

of this house.

Oh come with your broom,

old woman,
help me back outside!