Rainy Night

Tonight the rain spatters
onto the tin shed roof
tree branches scratch
its side - a tormented protest
cries the end of Summer. It

is still hot. The cat
stretches and circles his nest,
the chaise stands steady
under his prodding paws.
Night gives voice to crickets,

wings to leaf that Autumn shoves
as if one brief flight
will render them free
before they are caught by the pull
of unsettled puddles.

New Zealand, a Country

of Spring waterfalls tumbling to rocks,
rivers swift and creeks babbling
tales of Summer's end, curling
across the rolling green countryside,

of mountains lording over the land
of crystal blue waters cradling
the islands and people
brown, black, white, round-eyed
or slanted, heads covered,
or not.

Of a country bathed
in the light of the Lord.

Things that are Important to Me

it was a birth of sorts in the summer
blue sky seemed to slip in
after cool dawns, slide through
the day and it wasn't until night
pushed it beyond the foot of the horizon,
that i realised another had passed,
one more day to add to the others
that centered me then disappeared
only to let night's haunts
drag me into a bad dreamland,
where black marks gathered and stuck
like ear wax on cotton buds.

Things that are Important to Me

Moon Pull

To wander with nature,
unadorned, listening

to the morepork's mournful night call
to watch the stars tuck in the sun,

to watch its downfall
at the horizon's foot.

It is not enough to believe blindly
the earth is round, I have to watch

the arc of the moon, to feel its pull
of tides, its push of night.

I am woman and no longer bleed.

Things that are Important to Me

i want to be upfront, so
you'll have to turn aside
your eyes at the sharp bits,
those phrases or words that bite
into your soul, heat your blood and remind you
just how alive you really are.
turn away until i have moved on,
turn back when you are ready
to join me again.

~

i like my breasts, they
remind me i am woman, not
that i need the reminder, i know,
but there are times others forget

the centuries of nurturing, the tender years
of love-soothes and nocturnal pacing
that has gone into the making of me.

my mothers worked fingers until their bones
were covered in wrinkled, freckled, hard skin.
they cooked and cleaned until even that skin
that held them together, began to burn away
the history their callouses carelessly covered.

they sold their wares to any bidders,
not just the highest, sold their souls
to the devil to save their favoured ones
the ones who stepped in their prints,
the girls who poked and prodded
sheets in boiling coppers, girls who slaved
over irons and ovens, who picked up the slack
and ran with it, barefoot, into their own homes.

sometimes nothing more than bones and broth
lay on their tables, nothing more than old papers
lay on their beds. sometimes
i wish i lived in less complex days, but really
i have no idea.

i won't wear a trouser suit, walk
with chin high, and briefcase swinging. i
wear a smile, skirts, and tops low enough to reveal
a slight shadow to leave no doubt in your mind that i
am woman.

Different Dreams

We conjure up the dream,
the cottage in the country

with its white picket fence,
the two point four children

and meat and three veg dinners,
the evening cops and robbers shows

on the tv in the corner. The dream
where we'd all work,

where needs were all well met,
and luxuries were the norm.

We lived it until the bubble burst,
the market crashed, petrol skyrocketed

until a Sunday drive turned
into afternoon walks

and the house was filled again
with the scent of hot homemade bread

from a different distant dream.

Saving grace for you

I'll pray for peace for you,
no matter that the sicknesses
are tearing your body apart,

wish for love and kindness,
for more sunrises than you can imagine,
for morning bird song and rainbows

and waterfalls. I'll wish for grace
that will carry you through, grace
that will guide you and me.
A saving grace.

Not everyone looks

I run them through my fingers, stones
cold and smooth to the touch, as if in some way
they can reassure me. A rosary could be chanted
in the space between each, a moon rise
welcomed by photographers, a dawn
promising the best of days - all
these things lift my eyes
to where I believe you settle. Not everyone
knows how to see you. Not everyone looks.

Some Days

Some days are bland,
grey sky spread to the horizon,

meals that don't tempt, nor
touch the sides as they're swallowed,

morose head-hanging
as if the economy sits inside, dragging

you down when all it takes
is one wrong move, or a silence

misconstrued for 'don't care'.
And then there are the others,

where one wink will set off bells,
disarm the most wary and leave them

panting, down on their knees
praying for more.

Christmas Tree

Look to the tree, its coloured lights
blazing as if night's stars have fallen;
the branches cradle them
and reflect the faces that search
each pinnacled scape
for some glimpse of a more bearable side. Paradise

beneath, and among the fashioned Summered mosses, lay
the dreams of children, small hopes
pinned below a tree, fifty feet high. Boxes
gaily wrapped and ribboned, gifts
with sharpened edges and soft, beckon
to be touched, gently shaken. Soon,

all too soon, the blessed morning
arrives and delight surpasses
yesterday's wondering. Lights dim
against a backdrop of smiles and laughter.

Nine charms

Hanging from twisted wire
coloured glass baubles dangle -
a necklace, chain laced beads
a no nonsense, no bounce
style. The only quirk, a catch
not halfway, drawn back
into a waterfall of links
holding space in each loop.
A rosary of disjointed emptiness.

San Francisco's wrought iron and Alcatraz

Among the screams for release
are the wrought iron gates
painted pink and pretty
in the curves that carve
the line between the jailed
and the free.

They are oddities,
out of place pieces
that really belong on the houses
that line the streets
of San Francisco.

They are there too, in the city,
painted black
and I wonder at the quirk,
the tease,
and which will stand longest
in a city to be flattened
by earthquakes.

What will be seen...

There will be craned necks,
stiffened from searching
concrete walls, spires
that pierce the sky
and spoil the promise
that would have arrived
with the first blessing
of dawn. Birds,
perched on facades gilded
with the fake reckoning
of a city that hides
the unpleasant
under layers of dark and duty,
will sing a morning prayer,
a welcoming to a new land
bereft of the familiar.

Well below

It is not like you aren't up there,
wandering the sky beyond
those high clouds, lighting
the heavens with our dreams

of peace on earth, and goodwill
that we pray won't fly out the door
with those other hopes we've voiced
recently. I wonder

if you're always listening, if
you really want to hear
all the prayers that we send
constantly toward the stars

when the night reminds us
we should be on bent knees

before you. I kneel in the dark,
know you are above
and am aware I am well below.

Out back in the garden

Out back in the garden
beyond the footed path
lay the corpses of snails,
silver trails washed away
with last season's windswept fury.

A few lifers remain hidden
up under ledges,
beneath rocks. Yet still
they peer out, intent on crossing
Summer's shadowless cobbles.

Dear God,

Thank you for the joy you bring
for the struggles you share,
thank you for the friendships,
the love and the losses.

Thank you for letting Jarry's path
touch mine, for without that event
I never would have known the friendship
of a group of extra special people

who know the value of friendship,
the worth of giving, the cost of loss,
nor would I have learnt the prophet
of love. Thank you, Lord

for leading me to here,
for enlarging my family
with people whom I would share
my blood.

Please keep them all safe
and healthy and happy, give them no more
than they can handle,
and let them know they are loved.

Amen.

The Ringing

There are silent bells
in the room and they ring
to fill the air with the space
between words,

those gaps of hesitancy
that we relegate
into yesterday's journal.

There are bells ringing
and they remind me
it is time to sit up and write,

to pour onto the page
letters that will not form
on my lips, tears
that will not tumble down my cheeks.

They remind me to stop
to listen
to remember as only I can

the wisdom passed on
carried from kernel to crop
from thought to story,
from beginning to an end

that only I will see, in silence.

Angel Song

Sometimes in the sad-heavy seconds
around midnight, I pace
the carpet bare foot, looking
for your golden-haired head
and your sleep-laden smile, that miracle
that guides me back from the dark
dank places that beckon,
looking for your face that leads me
with the promise of light
and laughter into a new dawn.

Outside smells like rain

warm soil, wet road,
random scents, and sounds
of birds, beaks filled
with wriggling dirty worms
they have plucked from the ground.

Leaves drip tears
for lost Spring sunshine, drip
down to the weeds that rise
through the steamy forest floor.
Outside smells like rain.