The bones feel it

Shifting sands stoned to death a tree
stealing its soul, leaving the bones
laying on iron waves, limbs
reaching high as if in protest
at an agonising downfall. There is nothing
left, no life nor renewal of birth
for this tree, its parched skeleton
half buried in the black burning sand.

Stars

I wanted to write about stars
how I could see them in puddles,
which was strange
because puddles meant rain
and rain meant clouds
and clouds meant no stars,
but I know I saw them
twinkling away on the ground
as if they'd fallen
and were waiting to be trampled.

Remember Forever

Now she rests,
forever beautiful
a serene smile
replacing that voracious grin
and mischievous look in her eyes.
I'll remember her with smiles,
remember her poking tongue
whilst soaking in her bubble bath,
remember her shopping trip
the week before she left us,
I'll remember turkeys on her toes
and snowflakes
and candy canes.
I'll remember the love
that she carried and gave away
to everyone in need.
I'll remember her forever.

The order of the day

Smiles are back
I can see them on the faces
around me, memories
playing on the wet window pane, games
of poking tongues in the bath
behind oodles of bubbles,
turkeys and candy canes
painted on nails, pink
shirts on boys
and a big red truck
parked in the driveway
with a young lady in cool shades
behind the steering wheel.
How could I not smile, today?

To Chelsey, the child born an angel - RIP

There are some things
on this earth
that are more important
than a sparrow bathing,
a cat sitting on a windowsill
or a blackbird's morning song

because once in a while
an angel is born, a child
who will turn the disheartened,
who will rearrange the thoughts
of a non-believer,
bend their little piece
of the world
to rights again.

You've been an angel on Earth
today, the way your hand
caressed your mother's cheek,
the way your smile gathered more,
the way you wore your kindness
as steel plated armour
and flung out arrows
of love for everyone you saw,

and now you're an angel in the Heaven
of tomorrow. I walk my garden
and see your hopeful eyes
staring back through raindrops
on petals. You are beautiful,
unforgettable and graceful

and though things seemed topsy turvy
there is one who had a greater need
for you. He has taken you
under his wing,
to nurture your kindness
and love, and to teach you
more of your gifts. You have gone

to him with opened arms
and shown us that in following
there is no fear,
no frightening moments.

You have lead the way,
smoothed the road
for us to follow.
God's speed girl,
friend. Rest
in peace, Chelsey.

The room of an angel

Fill the room with roses.
I read the last sense to leave
is smell.
They won't see red
or pink, colour will come
on the waft of small breaths,
those shallow breaths that rattle,
put us all on edge and play
with our memories.

Fill the room with carnations,
pink fuzzy bubbles of joy
that tickle the times
we laughed and loved.
Let pink crinkle the edge
of silence, let pink parade!

Fill the room with forget-me-nots
those tiny blue petals
be-lie the patience God carries
as he creates. There's barely scent
to cleanse the air, but the leaves
carry green and bring Eden
to the room of an angel.

A True Love

He's busy now, building a house
of dreams, cupping the breeze
in his hands and throwing it indoors,
sealing windows to stop summer
from seeping out.
He's bought a ring, gold

lights his eyes as he speaks
of his love. I don't have the heart
to tell him it's too soon, that at sixteen
he could be thinking of living
and riding sunbeams around the Earth.
All I see is seriousness in his eyes,

the head over heels stuff
that ties our ankles and swings us about
flinging us to the horizon
with its drowning sun of colours
that we cannot touch. All I see
is how much he loves her,

how his focus is fuzzed
with her sharp edges softened.
All I see is the steep arch
and all I know is that this is one bridge
I must stand beside.

Chelsey, Keep Fighting!

It's in their words
of comfort, to tell her
to keep fighting! To
banish the black
from the edges
of life and bring back the pink.
And she has been fighting,
knocking back the black
pounding it into submission
until it was a mere fringe,
a ruffle on life.
Now she sleeps
a maiden, an angel
resting for the last leg
of her journey, perhaps
the toughest of all paths.
May God bless her
and hold her tight in his arms
and may she awaken
to know the joy of Paradise.

Passing Galveston

Black waves finger the shore.
Galveston waits as the sun
descends through peach.
Buildings stand steady, foundations
cemented. The sea will curl
around them, claim
them one sand grain
at a time, one mortar crumb
at a time, and flee with them,
returning history
to the ocean.


Illustration by RH Keeling, photographer,
Poem by Karen Sweet

The Woodshed

There was a green shed
tacked onto the end of the garage
at my grandparents' place.
Sometimes I would go in

and sit on the chopping block,
a big old stump of macrocarpa
that I could sit on cross-legged,
or drape myself over so I could stare

up at the corrugated tin roof
where sometimes the sun
peeked through as if it were watching
my every move. Sometimes

I stood on the block, pretending
I was a rock singer, moving hips
and holding an invisible microphone
to my lips while I sang out of tune

those old songs that played
on the radiogram. But mostly
I'd just sit and soak in the scent
of chopped wood, run fingers
over the seeping gum

and pretend that pre-winter
would last forever.

Fishing the lights

I swing my line
let it sail through the air
hook a star
and haul it in
until the sparkle
blinds reason -
darkens daydreams.
So I cut
it loose, let it free
to swim through the night
and find its home
among the other lights.


'Fishing the lights' is a phrase that caught my attention from a wonderful fishing site and its awesome members. The phrase keeps nudging me and so now and again I put pen to paper and see what happens.

When there's a chance, please say goodbye

Sometimes we get a chance
to say goodbye
to farewell a lover, or friend,
a sister or soul mate.
It is far better
than a sudden passing
where we are shocked
and have no words
to offer our own soul, or
theirs, far better
than having a limbo of silence
that stretches beyond endurance
carrying us to the open sea
where we are left to flounder
with panicked arms,
or to drown, far better
than never saying those thoughts
that make us most comfortable,
most cherished and most loved.
Take the chance,
say goodbye.

Post Processing

There is depth in the shadows
she wears, beneath her eyes
a suggestion, a possibility,
a promise.

A close companion

It's at his ear
again, the slim
silver case
he calls his 'Cell'.
If he screwed
it to his head
he'd be able to drive
without swerving,
walk without screaming
and eat without dribbling.
I wonder if he realises
that phone has him cuffed.

Halloween Horrors

A witch came yesterday,
called in not to pass the time of day
but to collect on her dues -
she received an orange ghost

in return. Not a thank you
passed her black lips,
no nod nor satisfied smile
just a slight straightening
of her back as she strutted

down the driveway,
a tightening of the bend
of her hat
and a two feet clap
when she loaded her loot
into the car.

Retaining Images

I glimpsed Your gift today, a sparrow
splashed, played, pounded
and bounced in a dirty puddle.
I looked for the camera,
realised my eyes
would have to capture
the bird's wings
scattering droplets,
and my pen, the words
to roll the film.

a habit i broke years ago...


Cigarette

I remember your taste,
the inhale
that curled smoke
deep into my lungs,
the thrill of holding you
between my fingers,
thumb resting lightly
on a filter yellowed
by the taint of tar.
I remember too
the incessant pangs
of coffee breaks
and your marked absence.

Spirit of Khan, RIP

The wind mourns your loss
as do I. I hear the wolves
call your passing, a shaman
given to caring, to cleansing
and healing broken spirits.
Your loving thoughts
passed beyond all walls
broke your own barriers,
belittled your own needs.
I am glad you found peace,
quiet and peace,
that you reaffirmed
your beliefs and left
in comfort. Rest
now friend, know
your legacy of caring
will continue.

For the child born an angel

Maybe once in a while
an angel is born, a child
who will turn the disheartened,
who will rearrange the thoughts
of a non-believer,
who will bend their little piece
of the world
to rights again.

I walk my garden
and see your hopeful eyes
staring back through raindops
on petals. You are beautiful,
unforgettable and graceful
and though things seem topsy turvy
there is one who has a greater need
for you. He will take you
under his wing,
nurture your kindness
and love, and teach you
more of your gifts. Go

to him with opened arms
and show us that in following
there is no fear,
no frightening moments,
take my strength if you have need
lead the way, and I
will follow.

Let's walk together

I hear you
in the spring wind
whipping through branches
of the olive trees,
hear your voice
and feel your hand
on my shoulder
as if you were here
waking me at dawn
messing with my dreams
nudging me to walk
with the wind, to walk
one last time with you.

Digital Camera

The history-cracks in my palm
cradle you as my eyes
peer into your square screen,
stare the length of my arm out
to a created earth. I see
blossoms and beatles,
bruised bodies and bent buildings
and sometimes there is more
colour in the tagging
than in the rainbow
in my garden.

A piece of Spring

I see his work
through the lens -
the pink in blossoms,
dangling with the weight
of raindrops,
moss crawling along the garden
seat turning brown green
and the street beyond
becoming a black snake,
slithering in silence
past my garden.

A piece of Spring

I see his work
through the lens -
the pink in blossoms,
dangling with the weight
of raindrops,
moss crawling along the garden
seat turning brown green
and the street beyond
becomes a black snake,
slithering in silence
past my garden.

Foretelling the future

I can see the sin
sitting on the shoulders
of the old, creating the cracks
in their faces. I compare
them to the young you steal,
those you take so early
in the season,
their perfection a fair glow,
an aura that crackles
its wrapping around their soul,
tell me you choose them
for another reason. I dare you
to lie, to take someone bad
and change their blackness
into white, or into the crystal
clear raindrops of the innocent
young you steal from under
my heart. I know
I shouldn't dare you, I know
that you take what you need
but still, I don't have to like it.
Call it my ignorance
and take them all.

Winter is inevitable

Tree limbs are caught
in cloud webs, pulling
the sky down to mud-
streaked earth. Winter
leaves the ground brown
and swollen like the dead
floating in murky streams
passing me by as I wait,
breath stretched
towards Spring, soles
stuck in a land
cursed and dying.

Freedom

There is dust
settling on the tv set,
I know as I've just dragged
my finger through and left
a little of my soul behind,
the part that thinks of you
and wishes the dust fairies
were dancing in sunrays
so you could watch
and while away the time
with a fantasy in a place
where dust doesn't matter
where there are no clocks
or changing seasons
where it is just
you, fairies
and freedom.

There is iron in red

I swallow iron
when I drink red.
Feel its dry blade
slip down my throat
like dandelion tea,
feel its strength
invade my body,
steal my resolve
until all I want
is you.

Pandora's Box

There are papers in this box,
a cardboard coffin
that cradles history
from days when the sun rose
and lit their lives with love,

papers that whisper the secrets
that tell the tales of deceipt,
the lies that were hidden
and only now flare into view
with clarity the stars

magnify. I bring the paper
out at night, in the hopes a misty
evening will mask the mess,
the remnants of a twisted love
that should have been muffled
at birth.

Reflect the blue

Cars travel up the road,
rain-splashed waves bow
from their tyres, clay
from the removal home
washed away into the drain.
Drains carry dirt, and slime
and history, and they take it
from the streets drag it to the sea
where it becomes but one drop
in the oceans and I wonder if the oceans
are filled with history, with lives
and death, with the dregs
of removed houses, the blood
of wounded souls. And if this is so,
why are the oceans green
and not red. At least now I know
why they reflect the blue.

One of those days

If it were true,
I'd say it was the time of the month
but I'm beyond those seasonal shifts
so now I just say it's a Limbo Day
the kind where I can't settle,
can't sit doing one job
until it's completed, can't draw
or paint or clean or dance, can't
even write with a steady hand.
Maybe it's my sugar levels
or maybe, just maybe
it's one of those days.

Bumpy roads

They look outside
and see nothing but stars
guiding their eyes
down a path
strewn with little rocks,
the kind that stick
in your bare foot
and make you limp
for a week. They'll walk
it anyway, they have to -
it's in their destiny like
birth and love and death
and this winter
when snow covers everything
with that white layer of paste,
masks the sharp edges,
softens the blow, they'll walk
watching the stars
and wishing on make-believe dreams
that all stones
are smooth, and all bumpy roads
have been cleared, just
for them.

Sometimes moths are blue

On the edge of my garden
hovers a moth, a blue
winged moth that almost
blends with the lavender. Now
and again it lifts
to fly a little and settle
on another blossom spike.
I wonder if there are blue
moths elsewhere, if anyone
has the time to notice
how their wings gently clap
together, if they can see
the beauty that's outside, waiting.

Some photos have soul

Sometimes a photo will do it,
center my thoughts
like an arrow pierced
by another arrow
on route to the bullseye,
a photo that turns a moment
into a three dimension gift,
unwrapped and there
just for me to witness.
You know they say
a picture is worth a thousand words
but really sometimes we can write
when the photo speaks to our soul
and we can write in words
carried from the creator
and it matters not
that they contain abstract notions
without concrete form for our focus,
it only matters that we can write
what our soul craves to sing.

Sometimes its unpleasant

The room takes on a different hue
where edges blur
not from tears
waiting to pour, but pain
that grips the belly with claws

extended, inserted, ready
to rip the empty stomach
from its life source. Blood

pound heard in the mind
hurtles through veins
until walls turn black
and the mirror
reflects nothing

except the bitter bile
swallowed.

Watch out for bumble bees

When I was little
I ignored bumble bees.
I watched daisies
and dandelions
and avoided wasps
as they waited on yellow,
poised to puncture
the foot of a supposed
predator. Now
it's the mumbling,
bumbling of fat bees
that I survey hovering
around the lavender,
hung drunkenly in mid-air
looking as if at any moment
their girth will thicken
and send them hurtling
to the ground
at my feet.

Good Morning

There was a moment today
when I saw you in the light
creeping through the cottage.
I opened the curtain

and realised you were cloud
embracing morning. Cloud
settling on snow. High
country farming hidden

in the dawn heralded
by bellbirds, broken
only by the blue day
and beeches below.

just one more before i go on holiday, hope you like it.


The joy of a child

Not only am I sun-kissed
but I carry stars in my palm,
blue stars that I might have caught -
though it is known a star may fall
it cannot be caught,
held tight,
carried about like a dream.
My blue stars fell
from the round eyes of children
and I carry them,
feather-weight gifts
with palm pressed to heart
so I will never forget
the pleasures of learning
next to them.

Parent teacher interviews are coming soon

It hurts to stand
to speak
to a crowd of strangers, eyes
focused on one
spot, that slippery space
between my eyes, above
flushed pink cheeks, painted
and primed for just such an event
as this, the gathering
of the guardians.

A season's change

Yesterday there were rosellas
in the weeping cherry,
eating leaf buds and wiping beaks
on naked boughs. Today

finches are fannying about
tempting me out
into late winter, bouncing
on branches wringing raindrops
to the ground. I'll go out there

and sure as eggs is eggs
the sun will kiss my cheek,
the wind will give me bed hair
and puddle-mud will ooze
between my toes.

Grandmother's garden held treasures

Her garden was delightful.
Pansies lined the rose bed
dahlias leaned one side of the fence
and six foot sun flowers
the other. Down
the back was an old tree,
branches dead underneath.
I used to sit in there, in
my imaginary house
where the sun streamed
in and lit the words
on the pages of my books
until they flared to life
transporting me to islands,
caves and castles. I was
a damsel desiring her knight,
a queen captured by a pirate
but most of all, I was somebody
in a world that had forgotten
I was me.

Seven days a week

Dad would sit for hours
on the grey Massey Fergusson
tractor, harrowing the soil
turning sods and re-turning
them until they bent,
crumbled like gold dust.
The land chose when to give
back to him, to repay
him for the year's nurturing
harrow and manure, hoeing
weeds, unchoking plants.
He'd work the ground
until the ground worked him,
gave to him
in a hand to mouth
existence where sometimes
the hand was empty.
He worked as blisters burst,
from sun up to beyond
sun down. In those days
we were richer
than the soil.

All that matters is here

The door is open
I know where it leads
but hold back from walking through,
taking that step out
into a world that gleams
beyond the windows, green

grass and red roses
and laughter.

I don't want to leave today.

Yesterday I might have
in a fit, in a fit
of pique or pain
or downright rage,
the kind that makes me scratch

my nails on plastered walls

or slam doors so cracks appear
in the woodwork. Today
I want to wallow

to wade and not swallow
the self pity that's wrapped
itself about my body, to bathe

and burst hot bubbles
and sup champagne
or cognac
and smoke fat cigars

and watch the cat
sleep.

Sometimes


Sometimes,
when the rain lands just so
on the window pane, I think
of you. The world outside

blurs and I remember when
you brought clarity, when
you brought butterflies
and showed me snail trails,
carrying innocence on your fingertips

between the grains of dirt
that you'd dug up to show
me where worms lived,
and you gifted me
with stars

that had fallen from the sky
and gathered in your eyes. Now
you've moved on, gone
to ground in a place
beyond my arms where

I can never follow.
Yet on winter days
the memories will still surface
in raindrops that pool
below the pane.

He does listen

There are moments in the day
when thoughts whizz
through my mind, thoughts
that begin with the lightest touch
as an eye rests on a butterfly wing,
the monarch's ball gown shimmering
as it dances through my garden.
From there I feel, touched
by the breath of a bumble bee
and dazed by the upturned face
of a dandelion that squirms
when ants wander her nooks
and crannies to sup summer
from her petals. There were times
when I felt alone and was blind
to the simple delights
at my feet. I learned to believe
and asked for my eyes to be opened.
Now, I can see.

Sometimes the dark is nothing

They wander along the beach, search
the horizon for ships
or bottles, clear
messages of need carried by
a powerless sea that licks footprints
from the sand under the sun's
copper-beaten glow. I remember
the salt claiming skin, the tightening
of dreams until all that was left
was the breeze in the dark.

The Song of the Spring

The creek sings
the chorus
as it bubbles
through the forest.
Native ferns
sprout - new life
nurtured with steam
that settles
on petals and leaves
the forest fresh
faced.

Sometimes home is blue

She wears Wedgewood blue
like a double-breasted cloak,
a reminder of her mother
and tiny dishes on the dresser
that held knick knacks
and memories of home.

Some things will be remembered forever

I wanted to return to that place,
that cottage at the end
of the steep, twisted driveway
where Nana taught me
how to bake pies,
blackcurrant pies
we would eat
with ice cream
and Rodd silver spoons
that now sit in their box,
tarnished.
But now there's motorway
snaking through the countryside
and the white cottage exists
only in my memory.

He left it in the paddock

The barbed wire fence
curved like the spine
of a spitting cat,
surrounded the paddock
and kept a prisoner
of the grey wheeled tractor.

The Song of the Hot Spring

The creek sings
the chorus
as it bubbles
through the forest.
Native ferns
sprout - new life
nurtured with steam
that settles
on petals and leaves
the forest fresh
faced.

There are no dreams in mud

I can't see my reflection
in mud as it plops, exploding
on the boil, spurting thick brown
minerals into the air

before plunging back
to splat
beside itself. Today,
there isn't any need.

She made warm winter blankets

There are blackbirds singing.
They don't realise she's gone.
They won't miss her chatter, or
how she sang when her fingers
sewed, quilting pieces, making
layers out of the material
passed on
from tiny shirts, or dancing
skirts and stitched in time, much
as they darn their nests tight
against winter.

The thaw will happen

Frost is a fool's white
covering the tangle of tales
told in the night,
gossip whispered between friends,
those susceptible to listening
and those downright
dedicated to departing secrets.
And like any tale told, frost
that freezes the ground
soon dissipates
under the sun's strokes.

The ducks will wait

He sat in the park, tossing
bread to ducks, watching

toddlers tumble, stumble
to fly. He left a smile,

a promise to the ducks
that tomorrow he'd borrow

more bread.

Their wishes were not so elusive

They pass beyond our fingertips, dead
moving on to a new dawn leaving
vivid memories. We remember

the times they played on the stage
a parody of love shared, erotic
sensual displays where limbs tangled

and laughter drove day dreams.
We remember how clear tears
traced mascara trails on cheeks

when they knew there was a last act,
and we remember how they held
us tight, ignored our chewed nails

and tried to steal our pain.

The trees leave too

Each day I watch the forest
ride the rails. Horizontal
trees on a parallel track
travelling to the wharf, loaded
on ships to sail the Tasman.
On sunny days
our forest lays down
and rides the rails.

Even the birds have reasons

There's a curl on her cheek
as she sits watching
birds on the wing, darning
dreams with brown eyes daring
the day to end. They land
and she waits to watch
them leave, to fly free.
When they don't, waterfalls
tumble. Caught in the curl
they're brushed away
to be forgotten
after nightfall.