Removing the Chaff

The wind blew yesterday.
Cherry blossom petals left
their boughs and flew across
to land on the grass
as if there was little care
that others would want to see
the gift of pink bursting
open, brightening the edge
of the deck like lanterns.
In the wet their landed colours
were muted, they held raindrops
as if cradling the tears
our aging bodies could not cry.

Morning

mist
on weeping willow leaves
river flood

Seasonal Shift

Under the blossoms moonlight plays
shadow sculpture with silver grass blades
taller there, near the thick tree trunk
that lifts life from the ground.

Shadows still.

The morepork's battle cry is carried
from the river trees to here,
where we toss and turn
in the thickened air,
carried to collide
with our heat-dulled minds,
carried to remind us
Spring has returned.

One of Those Days

Yesterday was like an abstract painting
where tree bark was splashed
up one side of the canvas, a silver eel
wriggled in the sky, an eye stared
from behind vertical blinds
that separated us
from the crisp air of Spring
and tomorrow. Colours splattered
in the way children's art splodges -
green patches polka dotted yellow,
bruised stars stabbed the grass, a cow
black and white, bent over the barbed back fence
tap danced in time with the restless cicadas.

Grandmother

There is a photo of her on the sideboard.
A black and white image, framed
with cardboard covered in brown age spots.
She was always old, weathered,

carrying the look of a farmer's wife
dressed for best. She has no foretelling
on her face of the potent mix of her mind,
no future hint of the mud flinging madness

that came before the white jacket
and the echoy corridors of Kingseat, the keys
that locked her away, the drugs
that stole the spark from her eyes

and limped her hand so it could not swipe
at some imagined wrongdoing.
She was a matriarch, a powerful woman

who years after the death of her love,
after the cracking of her mind,
passed away in a ward with a small bed
and a bedside table that held her glasses.

A Southern Spring

It is October and the morepork
seems to know Spring has drifted in.

He does not wait for the shadow
of night to graze the land,

he calls from the river trees
loud enough to be heard

over evening traffic, still enough
to be a lost silhouette

in the mess of twigs
that worship the first full moon.

Granddad Took Big Strides

I remember running alongside him
as he crossed paddocks,
my face trying to get in front of his,
my legs hitting the ground
four times for every step
of his boots. He would talk,
flail his arms, tell me
what was next, and I'd listen, answer
with that out of breath stilted speech
often my affliction,
until he'd stop. Abruptly.
And we'd collide
or we would be there,
at the next job.
We would be there, he and I and Tip,
the black and white sheep dog
whose tongue hung out
and tail curled around Granddad's boot,
until it was time to race again.

A Personal Pyre

I do death well. In public
I smile and wrap my mouth
around the words of psalms
until calm cools the pool
of hot tears lying in wait
for some forgotten freedom.

I suck up the grief,
snort it unsteralised
and live on the defiled scent
that designs the path
of my emotions,
hungering only for sleep.

Songs sustain me,
sung on stereo
in surround sound.

I pray for rain,
for the clouds that cling to the sky
waiting for me to choke
on pleasantries,
those inane gossipy gems
that swirl around
the black-winged crowd.

I forget to ask for peace.

When the dead are not forgotten

I felt their presence,
the way they stood behind
or in front of me, the looks
they'd give me as if one wrinkle
on a forehead would save me
from tumbling head long
down those weedless roads
that twisted and turned
on seemingly endless whims.
They gave me food for thought,
made me second guess
my first instincts, made me wonder
in the power of the past.

Tail-ender of the X Generation

I suggested walking,
noses brushed the blue air
we've done that

and I was stumped
to suggest more.

How could they walk a city
in a week? there's so much to see -

buskers hunkered
in closed shop corners,
gays wandering, arms linked,
punks glittering like fallen Christmas angels
and speaking of that,

do you notice how night neons
hide the gum stuck pavement,
how those coloured lights
excite piss scented alleys,
how those coloured bulbs glow
to promote their wares
to the night gods?

I wonder how they have seen all this
and yet their bodies slouch
as if they are bored,
as if such things are common place,
as if they've grown
beyond the city limits
in a week.

Jumped from the nest

There is more than a hint of him
left in the room. Almost empty
it still carries his scent,
that particular nose
of sweat and soap
that seems to have seeped
into the walls, the carpet,
the corners now free of furniture.
It is almost as if he hasn't left.

The Dawn of Darkness

On this day of all days
I should stride into the ocean
let it wash up my body
in a final cleansing,
a last white washing
that will see all my sins
seep back into the sea,
fall between the cracks
and soak deep into the earth's core
where my birthing began.

On this day of all days
I should say goodbye
to the mists that threaten
to conceal my existence,
that warp my outstretched arms
ignoring my light, my warmth
my dedication to day.
Would I be missed,
or would you welcome
the extra hours of dark?

Winter Dawn

Each morning I search,
condensation wiped on my sleeve
nose pressed to the pane,
to see if gems have grown
in my garden.

The maple stands tall,
bare limbs stretched across blue,
hugs offered to angels.

Heraldry lines its bark.
In every vein and valley
a crest, history etched
and on the tips of each twig
dangles a diamond.

A Beginning...

There is no Madonna
on the wall in our church,
no mother holding her baby
in smooth alabaster.

There are no coloured glass windows
brightening the room with visions
from the bible we read,
no scenes of trial or triumph
to look up to,
to memorise.

There is a small plate
that passes from hand to hand
across the rows,
containing coins and folded notes,
donated during prayers.

There are tiny cushions for knees,
a silver cup for communion,
bread discs for the tongue,
flowers and white name tags,
tea and cake,
and a minister who preaches
his own belief.

None of it ties me
to this place.

Yet I return.

When there's hope in bubbles

I watch for light rings
in the gin and tonic,

those little yellow circles
inside the bubbles
that prove I wasn't laid out
under the stars.

They're not there
and when I look up,
the ceiling lights twinkle

as if to taunt me
to down another,
to jam my tongue
between the rocks

and drown my memories
as their roots
drag me under.

Winter Pastimes

There are traditions to uphold
when the power cuts out
during winter evenings.

Bread toasted by fire flame,
hot chocolate boiled
on the bar-b-que
and the jested cheating
of the bank manager
during Monopoly,
the game played by the light of candles
until midnight.

Sleep comes easy then,
the flickering street-light melody
is replaced by squally gusts

that rip the last Autumn leaves,
rain that pelts windows
and fluffy duvets
that share the snuggle
of skin.

At the Local Dairy

There is a television in the shop,
high up on the opposite wall
to the cash register.

The shop keeper watches
a drama unfold
between a weeping woman
and a man's raised fist.

The shop door chimes
and a customer buys an ice cream,
fingers her coins across
the paper-strewn counter.

His eyes follow the rolling money.

A long walk

Rain painted fence posts black,
a long line stretching to the horizon,
one of the sun's arms, tarnished.

An unappealing streak on the land,
the line is a parallel limb
to the washed out dirt track
where boots and camouflage khaki walk
to war.

Ever diminishing circles

I watch as he wanders in circles,
ever diminishing circles
searching for the good
he knows he carries inside
his reddened heart.

He finds a speck here
as he glimpses an angel,
chops wood for his mother
a good deed
outstripped by the next bad

one. Whiskey in hand
foot on brass bar,
eyes on guard, looking
for that sleek slim model,
refined and wanting. He can't help

but be dragged along
on the scent of her,
on the untouchable demeanour,
slightly lifted chin,
eyes that brush his forehead.

She's forgotten his name,
has no wish to recall it.

He remembers every detail
the smoothness of her skin,
her talk. He won't go there again.

Not without another whiskey.

A Peaceful Sun

I watch the sky
anxious for a coating of blue
to wrap my land,
the green fields of New Zealand,
to pull colours from the sun
let them settle in the trees,
the last of Summer's rainbows.
I imagine the sand of Iraq
the yellow, the orange.
It is as if Fall will never end,
as if the blackened graveyard
of trees will never be laid to rest,
will never be culled
to carry our soldiers back
to a peaceful sun.

Makarora (gold panning and greenstone mining)

The booted feet of a thousand men marked the route from east to west, crossing barren mountains, breaking rock to build the tracks that carried gold and greenstone, carried passengers and supplies. Their footprints remain, buried under the sealed-in stone of today, their axes left history embedded in the rock. If we listen carefully to the spring melt of mountain water, we will hear the collapse of villages when the raped rivers rebelled.

Facing the Truth

I want snow
and all there is,
are brown, barren mountains
unable to shed rivers
of tears for their loss of white.

I will amble among them,
the naked lands,
look to their peaks
for the answers I seek.

Their stark replies
will not hide
wayward thoughts.

Their scarred facades
will not mask
the blunt truth.

I will unwrap the rock,
chisel my future
on its face.

A gift

There is a calm at dawn,
a silent assessment of time
within place, lifting with the mists
that fade when the sun
warms the land.

Peace is reflected
in the small ripples of a pond.
It is heard in the call of the heron
and carried in the valley of the fingerprint
along the path of the sun.

There is a oneness between land and soul
that manifests itself in the gifts
we share,
in the beauty we share,
in the life we live.


Illustration by James Newman, Photographer

Caught in the path
of a streetlamp,
my blue shadow
races ahead.

A Last Stand

Just the tops of trees are swaying,
painting the sky autumn blue.
They add in clouds
as if painting by numbers,
lay a streak of grey on the green ground -
a heron hunting dinner morsels,
his long slim neck a third leg,
helping keep his body balanced above.

It is the turn of trees
to flare in anger,
to change from their summer calming greens
to take on the orange, red and yellow,
a fiery last stand while their leaves
chatter of the season passed.

Morning

The sun has risen, yet
the lamp brings more golden glow.
Through the wintered-shut window
I watch trees brush the sky silver,
see the birds
but cannot beak-read their words.

The grass looks suddenly longer,
as if during the night
angels had teased it,
untangled it
from its morning bed-hair state.

Daisies continue to grow
undeterred by midnight's downpour
and the ginger cat jumps up on the windowsill
irate at the late pause of breakfast.

Winter, clocked

God touched me there,
at the top of the mountain
while I sat on a rock, watching
the sun turn the snow into diamonds
at my feet.

He touched me. Gave me sight
so I could look across the country
at another mountain
dressed in white gown and diamonds.

I remember realising
that vision was not only what I could see
around me,
it was also internal,
as if the winter cloak I wore
kept it inside,
hid some sights that only I knew.

North v South

Colour for you is underfoot.
Bluebonnets,
painted Indian brushes,
lush grass, remnants
of winter's soot.

For me, it's above.
In that turning before death,
Leaves grasp the sun,
clutch colour close -
tree-rainbows of love.

Enduring Winter

There are wildflowers all over my bed,
outside, the clouds cry with their loss.

They were plucked from the ground,
planted in cotton - colour stolen
from outdoors, carried in
and scattered.

They almost writhe under the light.
Sacred rites of the storm scream
beyond the window. Forgotten
and in flagrant, the blooms lay
all over my bed.

There's always hope

Every new year coal comes in the door
and luck walks out.
Luck is meant to stay

my grandmother swore
on the family bible that it would,
but some perverse bending
steers it away,
scuttling down a road
I've grown tired of walking.

I remember once, when luck went,
when my brother left home
to join some ragged crew
that believed flowers
really did grow up damp, peeling wallpaper
and that smoking pot cured all ills.

I wondered then, if there was a point
to the tradition,
to the carrying of coal,
when famine and festering were prevalent.

Hope always underscored
the last word.

Me as a Memory

I think if I were looking for re-incarnation
I would come back as a dried flower
one that could be sat in a copper vase,
or perhaps plain plastic as copper
would likely be stolen, sat on the front edge
of a grave. I could see the mourners,
detect the true depth of sorrow
that some may carry, detect the fake.
I would become colourless, a mottled grey
eventually, that would blend in with headstones
and weathered concrete that only lichen
caress. I would watch you closely,
and determine how deep you feel
the passing, of friends, lovers, me
even though I know I am merely a momentary
lapse in your life. Perhaps
as a dried flower you would give me more attention
a glance at least, a tear, perhaps
you would keep me as a memory then.

Road Trip - Booking

Maybe I'll book in advance
for the renowned beauty
of the Chateau, where mountains
fill glass walls and sunsets
turn snow caps to gold, maybe

I'll take my chances
and stop en route
at a hotel, avoiding
the teal carpet and vinyl kitchen
brigade that are off the beaten track,
up lampless side streets
were there is little traffic
and a dozen homeless street walkers
sniffing glue and living dreams.

Two things are for sure,
the food will be cheaper
on sage green plates
and mismatched utensils
than on mahogany
and cream carpet, and

I can't wear satin
and pearls at a backpackers,
nor stoned denim and sandals
at the Chateau.

A miscarriage of justice

Twenty years ago today
I lost you, barely
a speck within my womb
aborted spontaneously
the doctor said,
while nasty images ravaged my mind.
All I wanted was to keep you safe
to nurture you and when you were ready
to hold you in my arms.
Why couldn't you wait?

Listen

If I listen carefully
I can hear the clouds race across the sky,
I can hear the parched dirt crack
as it waits for autumn rain,
and I can hear the liquid amber leaves
chatter of falling,
of their slow and brilliant death.
I can feel the excitement of grass
as it quivers in anticipation of the earth's cooling,
I can feel the arch of cobbles
as they rise up to greet the last days of heat,
and the sun on my back that says goodbye
in advance.

There are white wings in my garden
holding tight until age
times their release
allows them to fly,
to capture the breeze
that will carry them far away
on a day when the sun
catches their intent
waves them on with warmed fingertips
and watches them settle
to sew,
to seed,
to grow.

Looking Forward

Perhaps the cicada is my totem,
my icon I should seek each mid-summer
month. Perhaps I should surrender
to its call, let it take my mind
and allow it to lead my thoughts
until the falling of leaves
lays a softness over my path
and the silence of the cicada
in the garden deafens the onslaught
of winter's death.

White Notes

White clouds traverse
the sky, moving slowly
as if they were white notes
sliding along the pavement
under a light morning breeze.
Notes to and from lovers
that tell of longing
and leave the taste
of missing you in the spaces
between creases. They'll fold
when they reach the end of the road,
pass beyond the horizon
to drop away from the life
of here and now leaving blue
as a reminder
of what might have been.

Thanks

I want to write about the heat,
the humidity that seeps into pores
sets the face paint flowing -
the glowing dewy look
bestowed by summer.

I want to write how the cicadas
call at 10,
set teeth to grind,
how their piercing scream
waits for mine to answer.

I want to give thanks
for Summer, for the sunshine
that permeates all corners,
dries all ground cracks,
the Summer that set smiles
on faces.

Thanks.

Paraglider

I watch you peel away from the cliff's edge
holding steady for a moment
as if you were a marble carving
in progress, feet not quite carved and free.
Your chute collects the breeze, billows,
a brilliant rainbow against black jagged rocks
and you float
finally free, finally
untethered from the earth
that nourished you.

I see it in a child

When I was younger
I wanted the wisdom
of my grandmother
the things she knew,
the baking of cakes,
rearing of boys from babies
to brats
to men,
the controlling of patience
and unending caring.
Now I am older,
I wish I had the wisdom
of my daughter.

Prayer Walking

Like the dry washing of hands
I wait impatiently
for the coming of autumn,
the cooling of land,
the colouring of leaves
that decorate dying trees.
There is heat in the wind,
warm easterlies
undermining sensibility,
pushing pride
beyond patience,
shortening maybe,
to never,
prolonging the agony
of searing skin prints
as souls land on iron sand.

Nearly wrecked

Torn blue tarpaulins
barely cover the breaking boat
as it sits by the bridge
in the harbour. Rain pelts the roof,
there are no buckets
underneath to catch the drops
to carry the water
away from floorboards
that remember wet salt
as polish.
It floats,
barely,
empty.

Its captain
lives behind bars,
not for illegal smuggling
or drug trafficking,
but some other offense
equally effective
in allowing the elements
to reside in the ship
that soon will know
the feel of mud
against its keel.

A special day

I've spent nights studying the sky
wondering who hung the moon
and stars just so
I could watch them silently tiptoe
from horizon to horizon
beyond the reach of fingers.

I've waited to view McNaught -
a thief who stole light
from the sun
ran across the universe
to be seen once,
or twice,
before never being seen again
by the same eyes.

I've cried at missing the comet,
grief tightening the tourniquet
of disappointment
around my heart.

Birthdays come around annually.

Feb 5th, 2007 will never,
ever,
come again.

Free Words

Why hide the words?

They want to escape
from behind the welted minds
that bar them, to break
the bonds keeping them prisoner,
secreted away
where blind eyes no longer feel them.

Free the words!

Forget the penny!

Flood the world with thoughts!

A leaf

I found you on the carpet,
small enough to fit my palm

brown, giving away the notion
that you were one of the weak ones
that fell first,

shadowed, with mysterious crevices
hills and valleys all your own

shriveled, no longer youthful
but bent with age and dried
with your dying.

I find you beautiful.

Living Conditions in a Glass Bubble, A Raindrop

Can you see what's hidden,
what it must be like, living
inside a glass bubble,
dangling from an orange stem
fat,
swollen,
pregnant without the pauses
to pale into insignificance.

I see a single white eye
a side view of a womb
softened, containing
an entire world. Not a replica
of all on the outside. More
choosy, as if hand-picked and placed
like old furniture in a new room.

I see you.





Illustration by Arlon, photographer

Facial Masks

Rolled oats and wrinkles
curve the corners of my mind
release the pain of hunger rumbling
and smooth the frown
between my brows.

How apt it is that something I eat
becomes a mask where only eyes
can see and mouth mumble,
where skin crumbles, softens, falls away
so all is left are the blatant lines
that hold the mind behind skull bones.

Wash Day Blues

It's as simple as black and white,
put the washing on the line to dry
on a perfectly blue sky day
and clouds will clamour
crumpling the margins of the horizon
in their cumulus frenzy.

Saying Goodbye

Steel rose into the blue
engines burned fuel,
fuzzing the landscape so
mountains bent
and shimmered in the vapour
stream. Words
stuck in my throat
as if the tears swallowed
had drowned my voice.

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.