According to the great sage of the Twentieth Century,
Edward P. Bear,
It is not in the actual eating of the honey,
That the true pleasure is found.
It is in the anticipation of eating the honey.
Those moments before,
Where thoughts stray to,
What eating honey shall be like.
Thoughts that are the culmination of
All prior pleasant experiences of eating honey,
With the heightened expectations
Of what this latest honey experience,
May be like.
This is why when expectations are not met,
For example if the honey jar is empty,
It can be so disappointing.
We cease to feel the pleasant feelings of anticipation.
Likewise;
If we have too much choice,
We also miss out on this wonderful feeling.
Where honey is on tap for example,
There is no joy in anticipating eating honey.
Live in the moment and find joy?
Nup!
Discover the divine practice,
Of the Art of Delayed Gratification.
Practise temperance,
Be grateful,
And find healthy experiences to look forward to.
Honey in moderation.
Thursday 31 December 2015
Heat
In days pre air conditioning,
The populous,
Those wealthy enough,
Would escape to the cool climes of their mountain retreats.
But today,
It is hot even in the mountains,
Where we presently swelter.
We are of the less modern ilk,
And scorn such extravagances as reverse-cycle air conditioning.
We live off grid.
So it is just hot.
No balmy sea breeze takes the edge off.
The water-tank filled swimming pool,
Is not even wading deep.
And the stagnant air is warm,
Beneath shady trees.
It is on these rare days,
Where lethargy and fractiousness reign,
And no productivity is possible,
That indolence and idleness should be embraced.
The populous,
Those wealthy enough,
Would escape to the cool climes of their mountain retreats.
But today,
It is hot even in the mountains,
Where we presently swelter.
We are of the less modern ilk,
And scorn such extravagances as reverse-cycle air conditioning.
We live off grid.
So it is just hot.
No balmy sea breeze takes the edge off.
The water-tank filled swimming pool,
Is not even wading deep.
And the stagnant air is warm,
Beneath shady trees.
It is on these rare days,
Where lethargy and fractiousness reign,
And no productivity is possible,
That indolence and idleness should be embraced.
Escape
The water is warm.
The curtain creates a child cave.
I am hiding in the bath.
The exhaust fan issues a droning warning.
"Occupied do not enter."
For me,
It has been a TOO LONG period,
Of fraternal stimulation.
Guests,
Their physical needs,
And their mental anxieties catered for.
The mess of new high traffic areas.
The kitchen, the toilet bowl,
And where the children play.
There's the stress and strain,
Of an expanded nuclear family,
Who has indiosyncracies you are unaware of.
The inordinate amount of food preparation and resultant dishes.
Willing helpers whose ignorance of your household,
Makes them a hindrance.
Then there are the social dynamics.
Who will tolerate who, and for how long.
So for a least a while,
And perhaps a LONG while,
I shall recoup,
In this bath.
The curtain creates a child cave.
I am hiding in the bath.
The exhaust fan issues a droning warning.
"Occupied do not enter."
For me,
It has been a TOO LONG period,
Of fraternal stimulation.
Guests,
Their physical needs,
And their mental anxieties catered for.
The mess of new high traffic areas.
The kitchen, the toilet bowl,
And where the children play.
There's the stress and strain,
Of an expanded nuclear family,
Who has indiosyncracies you are unaware of.
The inordinate amount of food preparation and resultant dishes.
Willing helpers whose ignorance of your household,
Makes them a hindrance.
Then there are the social dynamics.
Who will tolerate who, and for how long.
So for a least a while,
And perhaps a LONG while,
I shall recoup,
In this bath.
The Broken
When you,
And strangers come together,
And live,
Even temporarily,
You begin to understand,
That there are many broken people:
Couples,
Where one has lost their way.
And can't settle.
A cosmopolitan family,
Who cannot locate their home.
A man who has discovered his childhood sweetheart,
No longer is,
After fifty years.
And the one who must find herself,
In the approval of others.
Fills the gap with strangers she meets in cyberspace,
Trusting no one.
And strangers come together,
And live,
Even temporarily,
You begin to understand,
That there are many broken people:
Couples,
Where one has lost their way.
And can't settle.
A cosmopolitan family,
Who cannot locate their home.
A man who has discovered his childhood sweetheart,
No longer is,
After fifty years.
And the one who must find herself,
In the approval of others.
Fills the gap with strangers she meets in cyberspace,
Trusting no one.
Packing
Strewn,
Articles of clothing,
Packages which once contained,
Toothpaste, insect repellent, socks.
Amidst this,
The detritus of everyday,
The clothes of yesterday,
Maintaining some of my body's shapes.
Shredded vertically.
A cold cup of tea,
The cream a stagnant scum.
Bed unmade,
And around the room,
Piles,
In their multitudes.
Piles that make sense,
Like with like.
Piles that are a cacophony of clutter.
And beneath one of these,
My bags half packed.
Articles of clothing,
Packages which once contained,
Toothpaste, insect repellent, socks.
Amidst this,
The detritus of everyday,
The clothes of yesterday,
Maintaining some of my body's shapes.
Shredded vertically.
A cold cup of tea,
The cream a stagnant scum.
Bed unmade,
And around the room,
Piles,
In their multitudes.
Piles that make sense,
Like with like.
Piles that are a cacophony of clutter.
And beneath one of these,
My bags half packed.
Tuesday 29 December 2015
ASD
I hate that Aspergers is described as a disorder.
In fact I hate that Aspergers doesn't exist,
Since it was dropped from the new DSM 5.
And what would those phsychologists know anyway?
Do they have the amazing sensory processing experience,
That can be described as Aspergers?
Well of course not.
Ah but we do,
And we know what it feels like on the inside:
The logical rationality.
The precision.
The super dooper focus.
Having the nose that knows.
Being so in tuned with others emotions,
That we are overwhelmed.
No empathy?
Bullshit!
Hyper-empathy!
Honest, loyal and way smart.
When my world is dishing me up a fair deal.
i.e:
Exhibiting honesty and integrity,
And speaking in precise English,
Not body language mega-babble,
Mixed with innuendo and emotional clap trap,
And exhibiting insecure tribalism.
Then there is no disorder about it.
And I can let my Aspergian super powers,
Soar...
In fact I hate that Aspergers doesn't exist,
Since it was dropped from the new DSM 5.
And what would those phsychologists know anyway?
Do they have the amazing sensory processing experience,
That can be described as Aspergers?
Well of course not.
Ah but we do,
And we know what it feels like on the inside:
The logical rationality.
The precision.
The super dooper focus.
Having the nose that knows.
Being so in tuned with others emotions,
That we are overwhelmed.
No empathy?
Bullshit!
Hyper-empathy!
Honest, loyal and way smart.
When my world is dishing me up a fair deal.
i.e:
Exhibiting honesty and integrity,
And speaking in precise English,
Not body language mega-babble,
Mixed with innuendo and emotional clap trap,
And exhibiting insecure tribalism.
Then there is no disorder about it.
And I can let my Aspergian super powers,
Soar...
Procrastination or Disorganisation
I just can't get my shit together.
It is taking an inordinate amount of time to organise,
My bedroom, my house,
And my life in general.
I can see in my minds eye how to do it.
But the details,
It is always the details,
Oh and the interruptions.
And then there are the wasted journeys,
When you find yourself somewhere,
And you cant remember why you where.
And the whole process is just so fatiguing,
That you lie on the bedroom floor,
And feel panicked at how much time has elapsed,
And how little you have achieved.
Being organised is my preferred state,
But getting organised is always a challenge.
I work very very hard at it.
I do not suffer from procrastination,
Just disorganisation.
It is taking an inordinate amount of time to organise,
My bedroom, my house,
And my life in general.
I can see in my minds eye how to do it.
But the details,
It is always the details,
Oh and the interruptions.
And then there are the wasted journeys,
When you find yourself somewhere,
And you cant remember why you where.
And the whole process is just so fatiguing,
That you lie on the bedroom floor,
And feel panicked at how much time has elapsed,
And how little you have achieved.
Being organised is my preferred state,
But getting organised is always a challenge.
I work very very hard at it.
I do not suffer from procrastination,
Just disorganisation.
Little infatuations
He described infatuations as one of the great pleasures of his life.
His were moments of alchemy.
Where two beings have a sudden and intense connection to each other.
I'm saying 'beings' because I think one,
May even become infatuated with a small furry animal,
But this tends to be one sided,
Much like infatuation with babies.
But sticking to adult infatuation,
I see it as like a small crush.
It doesn't have to be for a person of the opposite sex either.
Infatuations can be flirtations and sexually charged,
But they can also be mental attachments.
Their commonality is their level of intensity,
And their fleetingness.
If an infatuation starts to become passionate.
And of less fleeting duration.
If you really begin to miss the other,
To the point of physical and mental anguish.
Then watch out.
This is no longer infatuation.
This is heading towards love.
And who knows,
Even marriage.
His were moments of alchemy.
Where two beings have a sudden and intense connection to each other.
I'm saying 'beings' because I think one,
May even become infatuated with a small furry animal,
But this tends to be one sided,
Much like infatuation with babies.
But sticking to adult infatuation,
I see it as like a small crush.
It doesn't have to be for a person of the opposite sex either.
Infatuations can be flirtations and sexually charged,
But they can also be mental attachments.
Their commonality is their level of intensity,
And their fleetingness.
If an infatuation starts to become passionate.
And of less fleeting duration.
If you really begin to miss the other,
To the point of physical and mental anguish.
Then watch out.
This is no longer infatuation.
This is heading towards love.
And who knows,
Even marriage.
Christmas Beetles
"Is that one, Mummy?"
"No darling that's just an ordinary little beetle."
"But what do they look like?"
As I sit writing these prose I spy,
On the curtain,
It's sharp little legs caught in circa 1950s,
Lace curtain,
My fourth Christmas beetle of the year.
Three others were spotted encased in white silk,
On the weather side of the kitchen window.
I noticed them in their haute couture shrouds,
As I did the dishes.
Christmas beetles are a pleasant reminder,
Of ghosts of Christmas past.
When they cracked neath your thongs,
As you ventured out across the verandah,
For a nocturnal excursion to the outhouse.
Their whirring flutter past your face,
As they headed for the porch light.
Could be equally unnerving.
As children we'd befriend a Christmas beetle,
And keep them in a match box.
We never really knew what to feed them,
So always shoved in some kikuyu.
Christmas beetles are large and scratchy.
You can hear them scrabble about on the timber floor.
They feel very tickley in your hand,
If they are moving about.
I have found this sensation so uncomfortable,
That I have dropped my little beetle onto the floor.
They are not brown, but they are.
They are not wholly green, but they are, in part.
Also blue and even a little reddish.
They are a browny, greeny, slightly bluey with a tinge of red,
Shining opal colour.
Like an abalone shell.
Their presence is more 'Christmas' to me.
Than any pocksy California pine stuffed unceremonially into a sand filled bucket.
And they're prettier too.
"No darling that's just an ordinary little beetle."
"But what do they look like?"
As I sit writing these prose I spy,
On the curtain,
It's sharp little legs caught in circa 1950s,
Lace curtain,
My fourth Christmas beetle of the year.
Three others were spotted encased in white silk,
On the weather side of the kitchen window.
I noticed them in their haute couture shrouds,
As I did the dishes.
Christmas beetles are a pleasant reminder,
Of ghosts of Christmas past.
When they cracked neath your thongs,
As you ventured out across the verandah,
For a nocturnal excursion to the outhouse.
Their whirring flutter past your face,
As they headed for the porch light.
Could be equally unnerving.
As children we'd befriend a Christmas beetle,
And keep them in a match box.
We never really knew what to feed them,
So always shoved in some kikuyu.
Christmas beetles are large and scratchy.
You can hear them scrabble about on the timber floor.
They feel very tickley in your hand,
If they are moving about.
I have found this sensation so uncomfortable,
That I have dropped my little beetle onto the floor.
They are not brown, but they are.
They are not wholly green, but they are, in part.
Also blue and even a little reddish.
They are a browny, greeny, slightly bluey with a tinge of red,
Shining opal colour.
Like an abalone shell.
Their presence is more 'Christmas' to me.
Than any pocksy California pine stuffed unceremonially into a sand filled bucket.
And they're prettier too.
Monday 28 December 2015
Paranoid Hysteria
In a small country community,
Every person counts.
What I mean by this is...
Unlike in a city,
Where a person's decaying remains,
May lie festering,
In a lonely flat above a kebab shop,
For years unnoticed.
In the country,
It is like God numbering the hairs on your head.
Everyone counts.
We are disparate.
So when any of us is afflicted in anyway.
There are always strong ripple affects.
And word of mouth is everything.
So if someone has a personality disorder.
Like Paranoia,
The ripple effects can be far reaching.
And because we are polite and not qualified psychologists,
We may make little gossipy comments,
Amongst our clique,
But don't have the confidence or gall,
To deal with the issue straight out.
Instead we stand back and watch the divisive speech of the paranoid,
Turn a snowball into an avalanche of ill will.
Which threatens to engulf and divide the community.
By means of paranoid hysteria.
Every person counts.
What I mean by this is...
Unlike in a city,
Where a person's decaying remains,
May lie festering,
In a lonely flat above a kebab shop,
For years unnoticed.
In the country,
It is like God numbering the hairs on your head.
Everyone counts.
We are disparate.
So when any of us is afflicted in anyway.
There are always strong ripple affects.
And word of mouth is everything.
So if someone has a personality disorder.
Like Paranoia,
The ripple effects can be far reaching.
And because we are polite and not qualified psychologists,
We may make little gossipy comments,
Amongst our clique,
But don't have the confidence or gall,
To deal with the issue straight out.
Instead we stand back and watch the divisive speech of the paranoid,
Turn a snowball into an avalanche of ill will.
Which threatens to engulf and divide the community.
By means of paranoid hysteria.
My Fergie
He's a classic,
Massey Ferguson 35 X,
He is his original red,
But that doesn't make him racy.
He putts along at a walking pace,
As I slash the tussocks.
I am in low range,
Because the tussocks and cutty-grass are thick.
He can still give me a start when he picks up speed downhills.
Or if one of his big wheels,
Suddenly discovers a wombat hole.
Despite his loud hoarse monotone.
I find riding him,
In slowly diminishing circles,
Almost meditative.
Getting the PTO into gear is a feat of agility.
I use the wrong foot to double clutch,
So the other is free,
To whack the lever, grinding, into position.
Of beings mechanically inanimate,
I have a precarious relationship.
Which means I am a poor driver.
I find the throttle, slasher raising, gear changing and braking,
Sometimes beyond my motor planning.
But as I disengage the PTO,
Lower the slasher and pull on the brake.
I feel a real sense of achievement.
That we have survived another excursion together.
Massey Ferguson 35 X,
He is his original red,
But that doesn't make him racy.
He putts along at a walking pace,
As I slash the tussocks.
I am in low range,
Because the tussocks and cutty-grass are thick.
He can still give me a start when he picks up speed downhills.
Or if one of his big wheels,
Suddenly discovers a wombat hole.
Despite his loud hoarse monotone.
I find riding him,
In slowly diminishing circles,
Almost meditative.
Getting the PTO into gear is a feat of agility.
I use the wrong foot to double clutch,
So the other is free,
To whack the lever, grinding, into position.
Of beings mechanically inanimate,
I have a precarious relationship.
Which means I am a poor driver.
I find the throttle, slasher raising, gear changing and braking,
Sometimes beyond my motor planning.
But as I disengage the PTO,
Lower the slasher and pull on the brake.
I feel a real sense of achievement.
That we have survived another excursion together.
Chained to the sink.
Cooking up a storm,
Cyclone Tracy,
Post Christmas seventy-four.
My kitchen is laid waste.
But unlike Darwin,
The mess requires only a little elbow grease,
And I have more to show for it than flattened stilt houses.
Currant jelly.
A shoulder of goat in white wine and rosemary.
Mutton pie,
And from that colossus of the garden,
The veg that can neither be named or given away,
Zucchini slice and a zucchini chocolate cake.
Yes a fine bounty but the cost.
An inordinate amount of,
" You're soaking in it!"
And wiping of bench and tabletops.
Chained to the sink.
Cyclone Tracy,
Post Christmas seventy-four.
My kitchen is laid waste.
But unlike Darwin,
The mess requires only a little elbow grease,
And I have more to show for it than flattened stilt houses.
Currant jelly.
A shoulder of goat in white wine and rosemary.
Mutton pie,
And from that colossus of the garden,
The veg that can neither be named or given away,
Zucchini slice and a zucchini chocolate cake.
Yes a fine bounty but the cost.
An inordinate amount of,
" You're soaking in it!"
And wiping of bench and tabletops.
Chained to the sink.
Sunday 27 December 2015
The Importance of Words
Synaesthesiacs may see numbers as colours.
But I see words as pictures.
Photographs and home movies,
From the albums of my life up till now.
Discovering a new word,
Is like opening a brand new picture book.
I love metaphors and similes,
I collect them,
Like postcards from holiday destinations.
I even make them up.
"He was being a frock"
It is soft, flouncy and has tiny blue flowers,
Gathered at the waist, long puffy sleeves with cuffs.
" She is as crazy as a cut snake "
The one that writhed about headless on our back patio,
Three years ago.
I read books I can cope with.
Some images I do not want in my head.
So I read the last pages.
Why invest in a relationship,
With a character who meets a ghastly end,
That I perhaps may never forget?
I like my words to be precise.
I have MY pictures for their meaning.
I have little tolerance,
For thoughtlessly chosen words.
Arguments have even turned nasty.
Despite this,
I often can't find the right word quick enough,
To maintain flowing conversation.
Then,
I resort to swearing.
Funnily, these hard callous words,
Don't have pictures.
But I see words as pictures.
Photographs and home movies,
From the albums of my life up till now.
Discovering a new word,
Is like opening a brand new picture book.
I love metaphors and similes,
I collect them,
Like postcards from holiday destinations.
I even make them up.
"He was being a frock"
It is soft, flouncy and has tiny blue flowers,
Gathered at the waist, long puffy sleeves with cuffs.
" She is as crazy as a cut snake "
The one that writhed about headless on our back patio,
Three years ago.
I read books I can cope with.
Some images I do not want in my head.
So I read the last pages.
Why invest in a relationship,
With a character who meets a ghastly end,
That I perhaps may never forget?
I like my words to be precise.
I have MY pictures for their meaning.
I have little tolerance,
For thoughtlessly chosen words.
Arguments have even turned nasty.
Despite this,
I often can't find the right word quick enough,
To maintain flowing conversation.
Then,
I resort to swearing.
Funnily, these hard callous words,
Don't have pictures.
Washing up
Billie the baby is six years old.
She is just finishing her diary entry.
"How do you spell Miss Mandy?"
She asks.
Her grip is correct and her writing deft and efficient.
As a teacher and her Mum,
I feel a bubble of pride warm my chest.
Now what to do?
Her earnest little face asks.
"Would you like to help me with the dishes?"
Her answer beams from her face,
And my chest again re-inflates.
Aprons donned and a small chair reversed acts as stool.
The rinse water, child's blood-warm.
She uses a bottle washer to help the rinsing process.
And carefully places each glass and utensil into the dish rack,
Up side down.
She is meticulous.
I watch the mid morning sun pick up the flecks in the rinse water.
I breath in and inwardly smile,
At this perfect Summer idyll.
She is just finishing her diary entry.
"How do you spell Miss Mandy?"
She asks.
Her grip is correct and her writing deft and efficient.
As a teacher and her Mum,
I feel a bubble of pride warm my chest.
Now what to do?
Her earnest little face asks.
"Would you like to help me with the dishes?"
Her answer beams from her face,
And my chest again re-inflates.
Aprons donned and a small chair reversed acts as stool.
The rinse water, child's blood-warm.
She uses a bottle washer to help the rinsing process.
And carefully places each glass and utensil into the dish rack,
Up side down.
She is meticulous.
I watch the mid morning sun pick up the flecks in the rinse water.
I breath in and inwardly smile,
At this perfect Summer idyll.
Release
Of late,
The hurt and despair of disappointment,
Has been great,
I have been to the brink.
Shutdown.
Meltdown.
Those who know intimately,
The acronym ASD.
May empathise.
But having returned from the abyss.
I find that there is still one threshold to cross.
It is difficult to explain,
But to venture into a place of such mental anguish,
Requires a similar return journey.
The cocktail of cortisol,
Mixed, not stirred,
With dry disappointment.
Leaves the brain numb and on high alert.
It takes a physical release,
A letting go,
To come back.
A long loving embrace,
Or even orgasm,
Achieves this state.
But today I discovered another way.
The reaction was identical,
Long sobs racking my body
Turning to hyperventilation.
I crumpled with the weight of it.
And the cause.
I just sang.
The hurt and despair of disappointment,
Has been great,
I have been to the brink.
Shutdown.
Meltdown.
Those who know intimately,
The acronym ASD.
May empathise.
But having returned from the abyss.
I find that there is still one threshold to cross.
It is difficult to explain,
But to venture into a place of such mental anguish,
Requires a similar return journey.
The cocktail of cortisol,
Mixed, not stirred,
With dry disappointment.
Leaves the brain numb and on high alert.
It takes a physical release,
A letting go,
To come back.
A long loving embrace,
Or even orgasm,
Achieves this state.
But today I discovered another way.
The reaction was identical,
Long sobs racking my body
Turning to hyperventilation.
I crumpled with the weight of it.
And the cause.
I just sang.
Fermentation
Today was spent in fermentation,
Both metaphorically and literally.
The old year is drawing in,
Like my tightening post Christmas waistband,
My mind is slowly,
Pickling the plans and ideas for the new one.
I ruminate,
And cut up red slaw for sauerkraut.
The past and recent hurts are mouldering.
I discard them like the dregs of the Merlot,
I have just siphoned into bottles.
Gulps of wine swallowed in the process,
Leave me verbose,
And slightly adled.
I sing carols expressively,
Two days late,
(no visuals required)
And I make yoghurt.
The dramas of the festive season curdle in my guts.
While sour dough bubbles neath its plastic sheath.
Both metaphorically and literally.
The old year is drawing in,
Like my tightening post Christmas waistband,
My mind is slowly,
Pickling the plans and ideas for the new one.
I ruminate,
And cut up red slaw for sauerkraut.
The past and recent hurts are mouldering.
I discard them like the dregs of the Merlot,
I have just siphoned into bottles.
Gulps of wine swallowed in the process,
Leave me verbose,
And slightly adled.
I sing carols expressively,
Two days late,
(no visuals required)
And I make yoghurt.
The dramas of the festive season curdle in my guts.
While sour dough bubbles neath its plastic sheath.
Friday 25 December 2015
Plain Speaking
I do not understand:
When a pronoun is used before the noun is stated.
"There is so much stuff going on. Things are getting too much"
When time is not set within margins.
" I will tell you later."
When a place is not specified.
"Let's go for a walk."
I can't see the point of:
The tribal bonding of banal small talk.
"Oh how terrible for you.
You are such a nice person for not getting too upset.
Oh I couldn't have coped ...blah blah blah"
I do like it when someone looks at me,
And talks to me earnestly.
Is that so weird ?
When a pronoun is used before the noun is stated.
"There is so much stuff going on. Things are getting too much"
When time is not set within margins.
" I will tell you later."
When a place is not specified.
"Let's go for a walk."
I can't see the point of:
The tribal bonding of banal small talk.
"Oh how terrible for you.
You are such a nice person for not getting too upset.
Oh I couldn't have coped ...blah blah blah"
I do like it when someone looks at me,
And talks to me earnestly.
Is that so weird ?
Generational Disappointment
It seems I belong to a family,
Who suffers a terrible inheritance.
For some of us it is genetic.
For others,
Environmental.
It is born of unmet expectations,
Insecurities,
Insincerity,
But mostly,
A clash of cultures.
The objective but confused culture of the Aspergian.
Diagnosed or not.
Versus those more emotionally volatile neurotypicals,
Who attempt to love us.
The result,
Is much like its cousin,
'Generational Poverty',
Which is similarly, a cultural construct.
'Generational Disappointment' is a deficit,
Affecting the soul,
Rather than the wallet.
Who suffers a terrible inheritance.
For some of us it is genetic.
For others,
Environmental.
It is born of unmet expectations,
Insecurities,
Insincerity,
But mostly,
A clash of cultures.
The objective but confused culture of the Aspergian.
Diagnosed or not.
Versus those more emotionally volatile neurotypicals,
Who attempt to love us.
The result,
Is much like its cousin,
'Generational Poverty',
Which is similarly, a cultural construct.
'Generational Disappointment' is a deficit,
Affecting the soul,
Rather than the wallet.
Hating Christmas
It sounds extreme,
Hate.
The opposite of love,
The harshest word,
(That is not a curse)
Not to be written or stated lightly.
But yes I can say without hesitation,
I hate Christmas!
Why:
Asperger's dislike of all faux,
The superiority of a dominant religion on parade,
The obligations,
The rampant consumerism,
The overconsumption,
And the machinations of insincerity,
Bah Humbug.
Hate.
The opposite of love,
The harshest word,
(That is not a curse)
Not to be written or stated lightly.
But yes I can say without hesitation,
I hate Christmas!
Why:
Asperger's dislike of all faux,
The superiority of a dominant religion on parade,
The obligations,
The rampant consumerism,
The overconsumption,
And the machinations of insincerity,
Bah Humbug.
Tuesday 22 December 2015
Humanity on Parade
Stuck in Town.
Now I am a retail prisoner.
Before me the 'Food Court',
Saccharine smells,
Blend with coffee and grease.
I scan looking for the rest rooms.
A long narrow passage lit with blinking fluorescence.
Meanders into the Bessa-brick anals of the building.
Framed posters of consumerist decadence on peeling paint.
"Ah a bookstore",
Perhaps it has the new book,
I heard about on the radio,
In my, 'next bookstore four hundred kilometres', rural home.
But no,
False pretences,
Book clearance centre in guise of 'nice rustic book emporium'.
Chain stores and bargain, clearance, retail outlets.
And walking like zombies,
Overloaded with Christmas shopping,
Those for which this retail experience is normal.
Humanity on parade.
I make my escape,
With only a couple of completely superfluous purchases.
I feel almost dirty with the shame of it.
I am off to find a public park,
And a shady tree.
Now I am a retail prisoner.
Before me the 'Food Court',
Saccharine smells,
Blend with coffee and grease.
I scan looking for the rest rooms.
A long narrow passage lit with blinking fluorescence.
Meanders into the Bessa-brick anals of the building.
Framed posters of consumerist decadence on peeling paint.
"Ah a bookstore",
Perhaps it has the new book,
I heard about on the radio,
In my, 'next bookstore four hundred kilometres', rural home.
But no,
False pretences,
Book clearance centre in guise of 'nice rustic book emporium'.
Chain stores and bargain, clearance, retail outlets.
And walking like zombies,
Overloaded with Christmas shopping,
Those for which this retail experience is normal.
Humanity on parade.
I make my escape,
With only a couple of completely superfluous purchases.
I feel almost dirty with the shame of it.
I am off to find a public park,
And a shady tree.
Conquer Kozzie
We came, we saw,
We conquered Kozzie.
No mean feat if you are three years old,
Or if you are scared out of your wits by the heights,
Encountered on the chairlift.
Funny going up was much easier,
The down will be described in all its,
White-knuckled majesty,
Later in these prose.
But for those,
I will not say of us,
Because the chairlift puts me in the same category,
As the three year old,
But for those of able limb,
The thirteen kilometre return trip is...
A 'doddle.'
Seven made the pilgrimage,
Ranging in age from six to forty eight.
The nine year old Aspergian required constant 'chivvying.'
And only completely lost it,
Near the summit.
"Too windy,
Too high up."
After all this was the highest point in 'Ostraya',
And way way too scary.
Nine year old Aspergian geniuses can count.
Four hours to dawdle and whinge six and a half kilometres.
Well that adds up to,
Too far.
"Can't we go back now?"
Luckily for us the way back is blissfully,
Downhill.
The scenery was superb,
But greatly marred by gale force winds,
That buffeted the petite six year old against the summit cairn.
Perhaps the junior Aspie had a point,
But he was hunkered in amongst the boulders.
So at pace we returned.
Only one spill on the steel boardwalk.
And at last sun and wind burned,
The time had come for the chairlift descent.
The blind led the blind.
And blind we were with our eyes tightly closed.
The three most terrified on the same chair.
At the base, walking jelly-legged,
It was then I noticed the imprints of my fingers,
Indenting the soft flesh of my children's,
Small hands.
We conquered Kozzie.
No mean feat if you are three years old,
Or if you are scared out of your wits by the heights,
Encountered on the chairlift.
Funny going up was much easier,
The down will be described in all its,
White-knuckled majesty,
Later in these prose.
But for those,
I will not say of us,
Because the chairlift puts me in the same category,
As the three year old,
But for those of able limb,
The thirteen kilometre return trip is...
A 'doddle.'
Seven made the pilgrimage,
Ranging in age from six to forty eight.
The nine year old Aspergian required constant 'chivvying.'
And only completely lost it,
Near the summit.
"Too windy,
Too high up."
After all this was the highest point in 'Ostraya',
And way way too scary.
Nine year old Aspergian geniuses can count.
Four hours to dawdle and whinge six and a half kilometres.
Well that adds up to,
Too far.
"Can't we go back now?"
Luckily for us the way back is blissfully,
Downhill.
The scenery was superb,
But greatly marred by gale force winds,
That buffeted the petite six year old against the summit cairn.
Perhaps the junior Aspie had a point,
But he was hunkered in amongst the boulders.
So at pace we returned.
Only one spill on the steel boardwalk.
And at last sun and wind burned,
The time had come for the chairlift descent.
The blind led the blind.
And blind we were with our eyes tightly closed.
The three most terrified on the same chair.
At the base, walking jelly-legged,
It was then I noticed the imprints of my fingers,
Indenting the soft flesh of my children's,
Small hands.
Saturday 19 December 2015
Carols by Candlelight
The air was slowly cooling,
Thank goodness.
People were gathering,
With full eskies, foldout chairs,
Or blankets on the drying grass.
Small children as diminutive Santas,
Tinselled elves or barefoot Christmas Angels,
Ran about squealing with excitement.
This ritual, repeated in the daylight-saved twilight,
Of each small town across the country.
Is about to begin here, in my town.
Our choirmaster, in readiment, lifts his arms for the first up-beat.
Then booming out across the lawn our combined acapella.
"Joy to the World the Lord is come!"
The Swag
A marvellous invention,
Of antipodean origin,
Humped on the wallaby,
A non-complaining partner,
Who will let you lay as is your want,
Keeping out cold and rain,
But allowing a vista unparalleled in beauty,
The majesty of heaven itself.
The subject of verse and song,
Or meandering yarn,
Told at leisure by a campfire.
When a long day of crutching,
Or mustering or marking lambs,
Fishin or huntin,
Is at an end,
Or after a night partying too far from home,
This is the time,
To find a soft flat piece of ground,
( or the back of a ute,)
And roll out,
Your swag.
Monday 14 December 2015
Sleeping Out
Lay my bed in soft dry grass,
On the dependable earth.
Make my blankets reassuring lambswool,
And my sheets, sun-kissed cotton.
My bedroom, a hill-top,
And my window the star-filled skies.
Let me hear the sweet music of the breeze,
As it plays 'piano' on the leaves,
With the accompaniment of nocturnal animals,
Rustling about their business unobserved.
Let the fresh wholesome scents of air and earth,
Waft gently into my olfactory recesses,
And lull me into rejuvenating sleep,
'Neath the trustworthy radiance of the moon.
Let me lie unmolested,
By any troubles of mind or spirit,
But go in and out of restful dreams.
Until the coolness of the predawn awakens me,
And I may greet the day.
On the dependable earth.
Make my blankets reassuring lambswool,
And my sheets, sun-kissed cotton.
My bedroom, a hill-top,
And my window the star-filled skies.
Let me hear the sweet music of the breeze,
As it plays 'piano' on the leaves,
With the accompaniment of nocturnal animals,
Rustling about their business unobserved.
Let the fresh wholesome scents of air and earth,
Waft gently into my olfactory recesses,
And lull me into rejuvenating sleep,
'Neath the trustworthy radiance of the moon.
Let me lie unmolested,
By any troubles of mind or spirit,
But go in and out of restful dreams.
Until the coolness of the predawn awakens me,
And I may greet the day.
Friendship
In the cynical world,
Of false facebook friends,
Where people measure themselves,
By the number of 'likes',
And how quickly people respond to their 'posts.'
Where the fear of being 'unfriended' guides,
Their obsiquious actions.
In this ego-preening, face-saving,
Shallow, commercialised, 'dog eat dog' world.
We can, if we look past this smorgasboard of,
Mistrust, fear and self preservation.
Recognise the scared person within each of us,
And reach out to another,
Genuinely.
Circumstance
Circumstance,
Somehow the stars had not formed that fortuitous constellation.
Trust was put into those jaded by disapointment.
So it did not happen.
It was not down to anything lacking,
In personality,
Other physical attributes,
Or qualities of character.
It was not that they were somehow,
Not deserving,
Or not tried hard enough.
It was merely a matter of chance,
That they had not had the opportunity,
To open themselves completely to that one person,
And have it reciprocated.
Somehow the stars had not formed that fortuitous constellation.
Trust was put into those jaded by disapointment.
So it did not happen.
It was not down to anything lacking,
In personality,
Other physical attributes,
Or qualities of character.
It was not that they were somehow,
Not deserving,
Or not tried hard enough.
It was merely a matter of chance,
That they had not had the opportunity,
To open themselves completely to that one person,
And have it reciprocated.
Friday 11 December 2015
The Casual Affair
Why is it,
He cannot allow himself to love her?
To give his whole self,
Openly and honestly.
Yet he longs for her caress,
Her lithe body against his,
And her voice in his ear,
Soft and low.
She will give,
And give, to her very soul,
Yet he does not trust.
He is honest when he tells her,
That he cannot commit,
But she hopes he is lying.
For fear that he will be hurt,
He holds back,
And hurts them both.
Holding on
The trust has been dented.
And now I'm clinging, white knuckled,
To the barricade,
I built, to protect me.
I am not yet giving in to the maelstrom of emotion,
That will wash over me like a tsunami.
Toss me and leaving me gasping for air,
When I do go back;
To the relative safety of his embrace.
The hurt is great.
The return, slow and painful.
He, who was supposed to be my rock,
Crumbled into dust
Before my sadness.
I, in despair.
That he,
Who should,
Did not recognise me.
So I drove him away.
And now I am left,
Just holding on.
And now I'm clinging, white knuckled,
To the barricade,
I built, to protect me.
I am not yet giving in to the maelstrom of emotion,
That will wash over me like a tsunami.
Toss me and leaving me gasping for air,
When I do go back;
To the relative safety of his embrace.
The hurt is great.
The return, slow and painful.
He, who was supposed to be my rock,
Crumbled into dust
Before my sadness.
I, in despair.
That he,
Who should,
Did not recognise me.
So I drove him away.
And now I am left,
Just holding on.
Saturday 5 December 2015
Broken
When she found herself alone.
She had the belief,
That the cruel exclusions,
And the hateful barbs,
Could all be endured,
If he came and found her;
If he 'had her back'.
But she found herself fighting alone.
And then he sought her.
She, wounded by battle,
Had nothing;
Certainly nothing to give him,
Or anybody else.
We he found her alone and in despair,
He tried to soothe her,
With his excuses and explanations.
She covered her ears to the assault.
But he persisted,
Until she broke away;
And broke down.
Now she finds herself alone,
Shamed and broken.
She had the belief,
That the cruel exclusions,
And the hateful barbs,
Could all be endured,
If he came and found her;
If he 'had her back'.
But she found herself fighting alone.
And then he sought her.
She, wounded by battle,
Had nothing;
Certainly nothing to give him,
Or anybody else.
We he found her alone and in despair,
He tried to soothe her,
With his excuses and explanations.
She covered her ears to the assault.
But he persisted,
Until she broke away;
And broke down.
Now she finds herself alone,
Shamed and broken.
Shame
Shame is a loss of 'Self':
Self confidence;
That you are capable of losing control,
And doing,
The appallingly unthinkable.
Self respect;
That you do not feel,
Deserving of respect from,
Anybody.
Self worth;
That your inability to remain,
In control of your actions,
Makes you of lesser value.
How does one come back from that?
Self confidence;
That you are capable of losing control,
And doing,
The appallingly unthinkable.
Self respect;
That you do not feel,
Deserving of respect from,
Anybody.
Self worth;
That your inability to remain,
In control of your actions,
Makes you of lesser value.
How does one come back from that?
Thursday 3 December 2015
The Painting
I see the image in my mind's eye.
And put it onto the clean canvas.
My pencil strokes mark the outlines,
Keep the perspective true.
The portrait is for my friend.
She is naked in her vulnerability .
I place her chicken arms into a boxer's pose.
Her skinny leg is placed on the head of her assailant.
Her gaze penetrating and her hair crazy-free.
In contrast my friends self-portrait is dark.
Her cyclops eye is staring in disbelief,
Her body compartmentalised into broken pieces.
This is how she is now.
My portrait,
Is how I want her to be.
And put it onto the clean canvas.
My pencil strokes mark the outlines,
Keep the perspective true.
The portrait is for my friend.
She is naked in her vulnerability .
I place her chicken arms into a boxer's pose.
Her skinny leg is placed on the head of her assailant.
Her gaze penetrating and her hair crazy-free.
In contrast my friends self-portrait is dark.
Her cyclops eye is staring in disbelief,
Her body compartmentalised into broken pieces.
This is how she is now.
My portrait,
Is how I want her to be.
Wednesday 2 December 2015
She just didn't Love Him
She was surprised,
That she was not heartbroken.
She expected to feel sad,
That they had been torn apart.
She did not even miss him.
There had been good times.
And they had been together for a year.
And it was not that he had betrayed her,
And watched as she was beaten.
She was not bitter or vengeful,
Just confused.
She didn't care to ever see him again.
"Well, you just didn't love him," I said.
"I suppose I didn't, " she replied.
That she was not heartbroken.
She expected to feel sad,
That they had been torn apart.
She did not even miss him.
There had been good times.
And they had been together for a year.
And it was not that he had betrayed her,
And watched as she was beaten.
She was not bitter or vengeful,
Just confused.
She didn't care to ever see him again.
"Well, you just didn't love him," I said.
"I suppose I didn't, " she replied.
Broken
The brave face is a charade.
Quick step with resolve.
Dark sunglasses, tight jaw.
Not waiting for the change at the checkout.
Shaking hands, and trembling lip.
Three inches deep,
Instant coffee shaken into her cup.
And a packet of cigarettes,
Burnt into smoke rings,
Go up her nose.
He has broken her.
Quick step with resolve.
Dark sunglasses, tight jaw.
Not waiting for the change at the checkout.
Shaking hands, and trembling lip.
Three inches deep,
Instant coffee shaken into her cup.
And a packet of cigarettes,
Burnt into smoke rings,
Go up her nose.
He has broken her.
Tuesday 1 December 2015
And they Walked
There is no-one untouched.
"I don't know how many laps I can do?
But I'm walking for Carol."
Carol is on morphine now.
A few weeks ago she was among the sopranos,
In our community choir.
Penny and her sisters have raised so much.
Ignoring the signs,
Like a man,
Their dad succumbed after only a few short weeks.
As night falls,
The candles are silent sentinels.
Their scribbled messages,
Each tell a story of loss,
Or sometimes hope.
I walk for the collective loss.
Those of my friends.
Their sister, daughter, aunt.
His mate, a long way away.
I walk in gratitude of good health.
Relay for Life.
Monday 30 November 2015
Shut Down
When all your systems shut down,
You cannot speak.
Yet in your head,
The conversation goes on.
They,
The ones who love you,
Ask questions:
You cannot answer,
Will not answer,
Or are so upset,
(Because they know you are mute,
But persist in the incessant ridiculous questioning,
And back you into a corner)
That you will EXPLODE!
If you answer.
And then you will be ashamed.
Because it is not their fault.
That you are full.
You cannot speak.
Yet in your head,
The conversation goes on.
They,
The ones who love you,
Ask questions:
You cannot answer,
Will not answer,
Or are so upset,
(Because they know you are mute,
But persist in the incessant ridiculous questioning,
And back you into a corner)
That you will EXPLODE!
If you answer.
And then you will be ashamed.
Because it is not their fault.
That you are full.
The Hill
The afternoon sun grazes my hill with a bright orange brush.
And brings out the tri-layers of this tree-clad cake.
My paddocks below are in shade now,
As the sun makes its steady descent.
But my hill-cake shines on.
The snow gums on the top-most layer, the icing,
Are a sparkling silver greyish green.
Below them, the white trunks of Alpine Ash,
Are wearing curly wigs of a greener-green,
They're still sparkling.
And as I compose this poem,
The Messmates and Peppermints,
That make the lowest tier,
Are slowly darkening into a deeper green shadow.
And brings out the tri-layers of this tree-clad cake.
My paddocks below are in shade now,
As the sun makes its steady descent.
But my hill-cake shines on.
The snow gums on the top-most layer, the icing,
Are a sparkling silver greyish green.
Below them, the white trunks of Alpine Ash,
Are wearing curly wigs of a greener-green,
They're still sparkling.
And as I compose this poem,
The Messmates and Peppermints,
That make the lowest tier,
Are slowly darkening into a deeper green shadow.
Intimacy
Stay present with me as we negotiate,
The uneven path that is our intimacy.
Look into my eyes,
And tell me with those mirrors of your soul,
Your darkest secrets and most private desires.
Speak the words that speak your truth.
Listen for mine.
Read my gestures.
Keep the bond unbroken.
Do not stray into,
You own secret places.
But be with me,
Until the cacophony,
Of our everyday lives intrudes,
And we must again part.
The uneven path that is our intimacy.
Look into my eyes,
And tell me with those mirrors of your soul,
Your darkest secrets and most private desires.
Speak the words that speak your truth.
Listen for mine.
Read my gestures.
Keep the bond unbroken.
Do not stray into,
You own secret places.
But be with me,
Until the cacophony,
Of our everyday lives intrudes,
And we must again part.
The subtleties of Misogyny
Misogynists are not always full of machismo.
Sometimes they are placid, misguided souls.
Protective,
And maybe self-characterised as,
Gentlemen.
Even chivalrous.
No, they do no real harm,
So they think.
Yet their gender stereotypes are ingrained.
It is them,
To their very souls.
By their ineptitude they court,
A well-meaning,
Feminine guiding hand.
Who soon becomes a dogsbody.
Somehow we are duped,
By their charming hopelessness.
They are aggrieved that their,
Sensitive new age men's club,
Should be perceived as,
Unwelcome to female members.
Yet it is by its old boy, back scratching,
Laissez faire attitude,
Exclusive.
And heaven help,
The immodestly loud and persistent woman,
Who might challenge any one of them.
For she is a harridan.
Sometimes they are placid, misguided souls.
Protective,
And maybe self-characterised as,
Gentlemen.
Even chivalrous.
No, they do no real harm,
So they think.
Yet their gender stereotypes are ingrained.
It is them,
To their very souls.
By their ineptitude they court,
A well-meaning,
Feminine guiding hand.
Who soon becomes a dogsbody.
Somehow we are duped,
By their charming hopelessness.
They are aggrieved that their,
Sensitive new age men's club,
Should be perceived as,
Unwelcome to female members.
Yet it is by its old boy, back scratching,
Laissez faire attitude,
Exclusive.
And heaven help,
The immodestly loud and persistent woman,
Who might challenge any one of them.
For she is a harridan.
Sunday 29 November 2015
The Daisies
The hill of feral daisies is in flower again,
I know they are a weed,
But beautiful in their bounty nonetheless.
They measure the Springtimes,
Since I met you.
Despite the fact that we have parted.
You, like the daises are part of me.
And when I see them,
It is that Summer,
All over again.
When I fresh-faced picked posies,
To fill my small rented cottage.
I remember,
How each year they slowly crept,
Out from their stronghold,
The travelling stock reserve,
And down the road like each seasons,
Grazing cattle.
The cows and the cars,
Have spread them almost to town.
The other afternoon,
As I was driving home,
I saw a patch on my own road.
The daisies are moving closer to me.
So I shall have an annual reminder
Near at hand.
I know they are a weed,
But beautiful in their bounty nonetheless.
They measure the Springtimes,
Since I met you.
Despite the fact that we have parted.
You, like the daises are part of me.
And when I see them,
It is that Summer,
All over again.
When I fresh-faced picked posies,
To fill my small rented cottage.
I remember,
How each year they slowly crept,
Out from their stronghold,
The travelling stock reserve,
And down the road like each seasons,
Grazing cattle.
The cows and the cars,
Have spread them almost to town.
The other afternoon,
As I was driving home,
I saw a patch on my own road.
The daisies are moving closer to me.
So I shall have an annual reminder
Near at hand.
Friday 27 November 2015
Wool Classing Exam
Thirteen hopefuls,
All pretty rough and ready,
Rousies, shearers and cockie's wives.
All nervous.
Before us:
The AWEX Descriptors,
A recent wool report,
Small blue cards,
Our reporting sheet,
And three kilos of greasy wool.
Mixed oddments and fleece,
The pile looked huge.
And the clock ticked.
Thirteen sweated and sorted.
Made and remade piles.
Sifted through the dregs,
Cursed under their breath.
And then time was called.
We all cursed then.
Thirteen repeated the ritual.
Fine wool from New England.
Cross-bred from the Wheat Belt,
And medium wool from Condobolin.
Thirteen looked pensive.
Had we done enough.
Most thought that it would be close.
One looked sick with stress.
Thirteen waited.
The clock ticked.
Thirteen were summoned,
Still the clock ticked.
The announcement was subdued,
Some missed it.
But when it was repeated,
One regained his normal palour.
Thirteen now were wool classes.
It's in the eyes.
I watch people's mouths.
(Apparently an Aspergian trait)
The way they form each syllable.
Each hesitation,
Curve of the lip,
Exhalation of air,
Secret smile.
It's mostly there.
Words.
Now those are things you cannot trust.
The tone,
And the undertones.
What is actually said,
And what is revealed,
By what is not said.
No you cannot trust the words.
The mouth and even sometimes,
Well quite often actually,
The language of the body,
The movement and placement of limbs,
The stance,
The little mannerisms,
Yes it is almost there too.
But the place it exists with all its passion,
Fear, ecstasy, hatred, disdain, sympathy, longing,
Disgust, cruelty, frivolity, empathy, joy, despair,
Anger, hope, envy, lust, indolence, confusion,
Sadness, pity.....
And love
Is in truth revealed by a person's eyes.
(Apparently an Aspergian trait)
The way they form each syllable.
Each hesitation,
Curve of the lip,
Exhalation of air,
Secret smile.
It's mostly there.
Words.
Now those are things you cannot trust.
The tone,
And the undertones.
What is actually said,
And what is revealed,
By what is not said.
No you cannot trust the words.
The mouth and even sometimes,
Well quite often actually,
The language of the body,
The movement and placement of limbs,
The stance,
The little mannerisms,
Yes it is almost there too.
But the place it exists with all its passion,
Fear, ecstasy, hatred, disdain, sympathy, longing,
Disgust, cruelty, frivolity, empathy, joy, despair,
Anger, hope, envy, lust, indolence, confusion,
Sadness, pity.....
And love
Is in truth revealed by a person's eyes.
Uncomfortable
Sometimes,
Due mainly to my Aspergian bluntness,
I make people uncomfortable.
I know that it is because,
In this ego driven society,
Of insincere politeness.
Truth is not acceptable,
And it is extremely rude to point it out.
Due mainly to my Aspergian bluntness,
I make people uncomfortable.
I know that it is because,
In this ego driven society,
Of insincere politeness.
Truth is not acceptable,
And it is extremely rude to point it out.
On dogs and some men.
My new dog cowers.
He has submit written on his forehead.
Even my Mini-Foxy can have him retreating,
Head and ears down,
Crouched,
Tail held stiffly between his legs.
He is my new dog,
Because his owners,
Lovers of many dogs,
Knew that he was bottom of the pack.
The alpha male,
A tall border collie was his constant torment.
He as a young entire male,
Would not have any place in this pack.
The law of the jungle,
Use violence to maintain power.
But we humans are not dogs,
We can make better choices,
More 'humane' choices.
My friend has a broken heart.
A broken spirit,
And her beautiful face is broken too.
In the pack,
At the party,
She found herself excluded.
She upset the alpha male,
Her boyfriend.
So his pack set on her.
Beat her and left her unconscious,
On a suburban street.
Same law of the bully,
Just a different jungle.
He has submit written on his forehead.
Even my Mini-Foxy can have him retreating,
Head and ears down,
Crouched,
Tail held stiffly between his legs.
He is my new dog,
Because his owners,
Lovers of many dogs,
Knew that he was bottom of the pack.
The alpha male,
A tall border collie was his constant torment.
He as a young entire male,
Would not have any place in this pack.
The law of the jungle,
Use violence to maintain power.
But we humans are not dogs,
We can make better choices,
More 'humane' choices.
My friend has a broken heart.
A broken spirit,
And her beautiful face is broken too.
In the pack,
At the party,
She found herself excluded.
She upset the alpha male,
Her boyfriend.
So his pack set on her.
Beat her and left her unconscious,
On a suburban street.
Same law of the bully,
Just a different jungle.
Saturday 21 November 2015
The Principal
When I was a child,
The ditty ' The Principal is your pal'
Meant that I could at least spell the word correctly.
And for the most part,
The Principal was my pal.
Someone I respected and feared,
Just a little.
Someone I wanted to impress.
Now I know, the sometimes thankless profession,
That is, being The Principal.
Ever questioned by disgruntled entitled parents,
Are the motives of The Principal.
Who of course is out to victimise their precious little darlings.
Who does nothing to stop the bullying, apparently perpetrated on their baby,
The biggest bully in the school.
For of course despite their lack of qualifications,
The parent is by far the better pedagogue.
The school just lets the children run riot.
The school works the students too hard and has no other extracurricular activities.
Or the school is doing so many other extracurricular activities the students aren't learning.
How dare The Principal question any person's parenting skills,
Even when children arrive dirty and unfed.
Or are reticent to return home to the loving bosom of their families.
How dare The Principal suggest that a child may need educational support,
Because they have a learning challenge,
When it is clear that the child is a genius.
I have observed the school mafia at the gate weaving their intrigues.
I have seen them cut The Principal down till they leave,
Anxious and disillusioned of their noble profession.
And I have read the abusive correspondence,
Which must remain confidential,
While the parent mouths off around town.
Yes I know the disdain and even hatred poured onto a Principal.
But I have also seen the love poured onto the students,
By The Principal.
The ditty ' The Principal is your pal'
Meant that I could at least spell the word correctly.
And for the most part,
The Principal was my pal.
Someone I respected and feared,
Just a little.
Someone I wanted to impress.
Now I know, the sometimes thankless profession,
That is, being The Principal.
Ever questioned by disgruntled entitled parents,
Are the motives of The Principal.
Who of course is out to victimise their precious little darlings.
Who does nothing to stop the bullying, apparently perpetrated on their baby,
The biggest bully in the school.
For of course despite their lack of qualifications,
The parent is by far the better pedagogue.
The school just lets the children run riot.
The school works the students too hard and has no other extracurricular activities.
Or the school is doing so many other extracurricular activities the students aren't learning.
How dare The Principal question any person's parenting skills,
Even when children arrive dirty and unfed.
Or are reticent to return home to the loving bosom of their families.
How dare The Principal suggest that a child may need educational support,
Because they have a learning challenge,
When it is clear that the child is a genius.
I have observed the school mafia at the gate weaving their intrigues.
I have seen them cut The Principal down till they leave,
Anxious and disillusioned of their noble profession.
And I have read the abusive correspondence,
Which must remain confidential,
While the parent mouths off around town.
Yes I know the disdain and even hatred poured onto a Principal.
But I have also seen the love poured onto the students,
By The Principal.
Precious
Precious our mini-foxy is brave.
She runs at the pony's hooves yapping,
To show that she is on duty.
She chases the small birds,
That invade our territory.
And sounds her loud warning bark,
At the approach of any strange car,
Or human on foot.
Precious watches over my daughter,
Who gets fatigued,
By her nightmare induced insomnia,
And makes her feel safe.
She sleeps in her pink bean-bag at the foot of the bed,
With one ear open.
Sometimes, when it is too cold,
Or she can't be bothered,
She defecates inside the house.
We forgive her this small indiscretion,
Because she is brave...
At least when we are at home with her.
She runs at the pony's hooves yapping,
To show that she is on duty.
She chases the small birds,
That invade our territory.
And sounds her loud warning bark,
At the approach of any strange car,
Or human on foot.
Precious watches over my daughter,
Who gets fatigued,
By her nightmare induced insomnia,
And makes her feel safe.
She sleeps in her pink bean-bag at the foot of the bed,
With one ear open.
Sometimes, when it is too cold,
Or she can't be bothered,
She defecates inside the house.
We forgive her this small indiscretion,
Because she is brave...
At least when we are at home with her.
The Blame Game
He told me me the gossip going round town.
She had whinged to him...
"We weren't even given a warning.
So and so had got a ticket as well.
It just wasn't fair."
To Him, her argument seemed compelling.
It engendered some sympathy.
Perhaps they should have received a warning rather than a fine.
She had left satisfied at his reaction.
But in the game of saving face,
She neglected to mention,
Her disregard for safety,
And the obvious signage.
Reminders in the newsletter.
Or the way a complainant had been mocked,
And felt compelled, before some one was hurt,
To act.
The blame game,
I think is a primitive reflex.
An action arising from the reptilian brain stem.
'When attacked fight back.'
There goes the few million years of evolution,
That developed our frontal lobes.
Being Moved.
I was not moved by the loss, the despair,
The real and perceived dangers.
Not by the anguish of the victims or their families.
I was not moved by the speeches,
Of the people of consequence.
I was not moved by the warmongering,
Of those seeking retribution and revenge.
No.
The courageous people,
Who stood strong and did not give into hatred,
Who refused to be defined,
By those, who because of their own suffering,
Chose to kill and maim their loved ones.
Those who refused to turn on their neighbours,
Who act out of love and compassion,
Despite their own unbearable suffering.
These are the people who move me to tears.
Vive.
The real and perceived dangers.
Not by the anguish of the victims or their families.
I was not moved by the speeches,
Of the people of consequence.
I was not moved by the warmongering,
Of those seeking retribution and revenge.
No.
The courageous people,
Who stood strong and did not give into hatred,
Who refused to be defined,
By those, who because of their own suffering,
Chose to kill and maim their loved ones.
Those who refused to turn on their neighbours,
Who act out of love and compassion,
Despite their own unbearable suffering.
These are the people who move me to tears.
Vive.
Friday 20 November 2015
Crazy Time
The compartments that make up my life,
Are too quickly filling.
They are breeding while I have my back turned.
People are making more and more demands on my limited attention.
I keep my head just above water,
And mentally celebrate,
When I can strike an action off my list,
As already accomplished.
I look into my mental calendar and note,
That it is in fact achievable,
As long as no wheels fall off,
Or anything goes remotely pear shaped.
I can breathe.
Even if I may not sleep.
Hopefully the adrenalin keeps the vehicle in fuel and maintains the momentum.
The question really is...
For how long?
Are too quickly filling.
They are breeding while I have my back turned.
People are making more and more demands on my limited attention.
I keep my head just above water,
And mentally celebrate,
When I can strike an action off my list,
As already accomplished.
I look into my mental calendar and note,
That it is in fact achievable,
As long as no wheels fall off,
Or anything goes remotely pear shaped.
I can breathe.
Even if I may not sleep.
Hopefully the adrenalin keeps the vehicle in fuel and maintains the momentum.
The question really is...
For how long?
I know I love you because I miss you.
It is not what you do,
How you look,
What you feel like,
How good a lover you are.
How compatable we are.
Or the interests we share.
It isn't even your conversation.
Or your unique smell.
It is not because my friends say we make a good couple.
Or that I am lucky to be with you.
It is not because we made children together.
Have shared assets.
It is most definitely not to avoid loneliness.
Or that I have made my bed and must now sleep in it.
The fact is that I know I love you.
Because I am happier being with you,
Than being without you.
I think conversations to you when we are apart.
And in those quieter moments,
When I am not distracted by other thoughts or responsibilities.
I miss you.
How you look,
What you feel like,
How good a lover you are.
How compatable we are.
Or the interests we share.
It isn't even your conversation.
Or your unique smell.
It is not because my friends say we make a good couple.
Or that I am lucky to be with you.
It is not because we made children together.
Have shared assets.
It is most definitely not to avoid loneliness.
Or that I have made my bed and must now sleep in it.
The fact is that I know I love you.
Because I am happier being with you,
Than being without you.
I think conversations to you when we are apart.
And in those quieter moments,
When I am not distracted by other thoughts or responsibilities.
I miss you.
Shades of Love
I believe in shades of love.
The lighter shades,
Are the love of nature, animals and humanity.
The pastel shades are love for your babies,
These grow to brighter colours as they mature and become themselves.
And become a little more muted as they gain independenc from you.
There are the passionate primary colours of attraction and new love.
That become more earthy and nature based as you make a life together.
There is the patchwork of friendships in varying depths and hues.
All these shades of colour nourish and enrich you.
Within this kaleidoscope you live.
The lighter shades,
Are the love of nature, animals and humanity.
The pastel shades are love for your babies,
These grow to brighter colours as they mature and become themselves.
And become a little more muted as they gain independenc from you.
There are the passionate primary colours of attraction and new love.
That become more earthy and nature based as you make a life together.
There is the patchwork of friendships in varying depths and hues.
All these shades of colour nourish and enrich you.
Within this kaleidoscope you live.
Affront
I said one word,
And they felt affront.
I planned my conversation in advance,
No contention.
I the injured party,
Was contrite.
To let them save face.
I laid no blame,
For there was none.
No malicious intent.
Just bad luck.
I wanted nothing.
I knew that the ramifications,
Required informing other parties.
So I calculated all possible outcomes.
Put on my most solicitous voice.
And yet,
It was not possible for them to not be defensive,
And go on the offensive and...
Shoot the messenger.
I will never understand neurotypical behaviour.
It defies all logic.
And they felt affront.
I planned my conversation in advance,
No contention.
I the injured party,
Was contrite.
To let them save face.
I laid no blame,
For there was none.
No malicious intent.
Just bad luck.
I wanted nothing.
I knew that the ramifications,
Required informing other parties.
So I calculated all possible outcomes.
Put on my most solicitous voice.
And yet,
It was not possible for them to not be defensive,
And go on the offensive and...
Shoot the messenger.
I will never understand neurotypical behaviour.
It defies all logic.
The Date
Today we walked in nature.
Felt the strain of lungs and muscles,
As we climbed.
Looked down into a cavernous ravine.
Watched fast moving water swirl and boil over rocks,
And heard its cry.
Were scratched and bruised by vegetation.
Listened for the waterfall.
Climbed down the precipice tentatively.
Slid on scree.
Hopped from Boulder to boulder.
And scrabbled.
Sat beneath a gum and ate a picnic.
Drank cool, unadulterated and dynamic water.
Shed our material skins and dived.
Felt the shock of sudden coolness.
Defied gravity and floated downstream.
Cleaned sand-clad feet, to put on socks.
Climbed again.
Wiped sweat from above our lips,
And felt it drizzle down our backs.
Saw smiles.
Felt the satisfaction of our own healthy bodies.
The perfect way to spend a day.
Felt the strain of lungs and muscles,
As we climbed.
Looked down into a cavernous ravine.
Watched fast moving water swirl and boil over rocks,
And heard its cry.
Were scratched and bruised by vegetation.
Listened for the waterfall.
Climbed down the precipice tentatively.
Slid on scree.
Hopped from Boulder to boulder.
And scrabbled.
Sat beneath a gum and ate a picnic.
Drank cool, unadulterated and dynamic water.
Shed our material skins and dived.
Felt the shock of sudden coolness.
Defied gravity and floated downstream.
Cleaned sand-clad feet, to put on socks.
Climbed again.
Wiped sweat from above our lips,
And felt it drizzle down our backs.
Saw smiles.
Felt the satisfaction of our own healthy bodies.
The perfect way to spend a day.
Friday 13 November 2015
The Ballad of Ian and the Crazy Heifer- The Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March
It was Ian from Delegate,
Who caught the marching craze.
And lead the Snowy River Men,
To walk eleven days.
From Delegate to Goulburn
Three fifty Ks to roam
And sleep in halls, and tents and sheds,
Until they could go home.
And then on the Old Bombala Rd.,
A mishap did occur
It involved an Angus heifer,
A frightened angry cur.
The heifer had got out
And was upon the road.
She was surprised to see the men.
Their activity seemed to goad,
Her into action, and she ran into the fence.
Young and frightened she got entangled.
She was acting very dense,
And stupid, and tried to get herself free.
When standing unawares close by,
Peeing behind a tree,
Was Ian.
The heifer saw red,
For next to him, leaning on the tree,
Was the banner of the Snowy River Men,
And as the heifer was now free.
She ran at the red ensign.
And fumbling at his fly,
Ian bravely gathered up his wits,
And gathered up the sign.
And poked the crazy heifer.
Whose blood was fairly raised
Until she made her final stand,
Pawed the dust,
And ran at him,
Still dazed.
For a moment, of man and beast, I lost sight.
For they were behind the tree.
Until lying on her back, legs asplay,
On the far side of the fence,
I saw the heifer,
Who was at last,
Free.
But where was the brave Ian?
Tending wounds, from this terrible offence?
No, he was giving the cow a mighty kick, (to help it onto its feet),
And fixing up the fence.
tending mortal wounds
Who caught the marching craze.
And lead the Snowy River Men,
To walk eleven days.
From Delegate to Goulburn
Three fifty Ks to roam
And sleep in halls, and tents and sheds,
Until they could go home.
And then on the Old Bombala Rd.,
A mishap did occur
It involved an Angus heifer,
A frightened angry cur.
The heifer had got out
And was upon the road.
She was surprised to see the men.
Their activity seemed to goad,
Her into action, and she ran into the fence.
Young and frightened she got entangled.
She was acting very dense,
And stupid, and tried to get herself free.
When standing unawares close by,
Peeing behind a tree,
Was Ian.
The heifer saw red,
For next to him, leaning on the tree,
Was the banner of the Snowy River Men,
And as the heifer was now free.
She ran at the red ensign.
And fumbling at his fly,
Ian bravely gathered up his wits,
And gathered up the sign.
And poked the crazy heifer.
Whose blood was fairly raised
Until she made her final stand,
Pawed the dust,
And ran at him,
Still dazed.
For a moment, of man and beast, I lost sight.
For they were behind the tree.
Until lying on her back, legs asplay,
On the far side of the fence,
I saw the heifer,
Who was at last,
Free.
But where was the brave Ian?
Tending wounds, from this terrible offence?
No, he was giving the cow a mighty kick, (to help it onto its feet),
And fixing up the fence.
tending mortal wounds
The Rascal- Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March.
Who is the oldest child among us,
Summers his name and disposition,
And he is seventy seven Summers young.
Still sprightly on his new knees.
Who leads the marchers?
Leaving youngsters, fond of life's vices,
Far behind.
Who leads the real kids astray?
Who rang Nimmity's bell?
Dong! Dong! Dong!
Who sounded the hooter?
To wake us from our slumbers,
In the footy change room.
Who keeps us in good humour with his shenanigans?
Neville, the rascal.
Summers his name and disposition,
And he is seventy seven Summers young.
Still sprightly on his new knees.
Who leads the marchers?
Leaving youngsters, fond of life's vices,
Far behind.
Who leads the real kids astray?
Who rang Nimmity's bell?
Dong! Dong! Dong!
Who sounded the hooter?
To wake us from our slumbers,
In the footy change room.
Who keeps us in good humour with his shenanigans?
Neville, the rascal.
Nimmity's Bell - Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March.
Winds blast down from Kosciuszko,
Turning the generators blades as they go.
We hear the rattle of the shed- our accommodation,
Replacing one, where heavy snow,
Had caused devastation.
And here near the stage- a mammoth bell,
Just newly cast.
So later in the pub,
The question was asked.....
" A bell- Why a bell?
Did it replace one of old?"
"Well, sort of- not really- well...
There has been bells here- um- like... At the Railway Station,
And the old sawmill had one,"
So we were told.
Sixty grand was raised by the town,
One benefactor put a substantial sum down.
But, apparently it cost thirty five K.
And now as I sit next to it,
Plastic shrouded, today.
I think...
' Why the hell would any town want a big bell?
Who had the rush to the head,
And the charisma to tell,
A town that they would need such a decadent toy?'
Well they obviously thought it the go...
And Oh Boy!....
Is it ever LOUD!
Turning the generators blades as they go.
We hear the rattle of the shed- our accommodation,
Replacing one, where heavy snow,
Had caused devastation.
And here near the stage- a mammoth bell,
Just newly cast.
So later in the pub,
The question was asked.....
" A bell- Why a bell?
Did it replace one of old?"
"Well, sort of- not really- well...
There has been bells here- um- like... At the Railway Station,
And the old sawmill had one,"
So we were told.
Sixty grand was raised by the town,
One benefactor put a substantial sum down.
But, apparently it cost thirty five K.
And now as I sit next to it,
Plastic shrouded, today.
I think...
' Why the hell would any town want a big bell?
Who had the rush to the head,
And the charisma to tell,
A town that they would need such a decadent toy?'
Well they obviously thought it the go...
And Oh Boy!....
Is it ever LOUD!
Monday 2 November 2015
We are Marching- The Snowy River Men - Recruitment March.
One hundred years on,
And we are marching.
Not the strapping youth of a new country,
The descendants are grey, pot-bellied grandsons,
And wide-hipped grand-daughters.
Age has wearied them.
They tramp along slowly.
The Lighthorse re-enactors,
Are heavier in the saddle, than their predecessors.
A single infantryman moves sprightly,
Despite his hard leather boots.
He's set,
With his bag of newly baked 'hard tack'.
Original recipe, courtesy of Arnotts.
And we are marching.
Not the strapping youth of a new country,
The descendants are grey, pot-bellied grandsons,
And wide-hipped grand-daughters.
Age has wearied them.
They tramp along slowly.
The Lighthorse re-enactors,
Are heavier in the saddle, than their predecessors.
A single infantryman moves sprightly,
Despite his hard leather boots.
He's set,
With his bag of newly baked 'hard tack'.
Original recipe, courtesy of Arnotts.
Thursday 29 October 2015
Fledglings
Feather and claw grotesque,
Posture distorted,
Eye dulled,
The road is littered:
Australian Raven, Magpie and Chough.
All struck before they knew,
The ecstasy of flight.
Eye dulled,
The road is littered:
Australian Raven, Magpie and Chough.
All struck before they knew,
The ecstasy of flight.
Wednesday 28 October 2015
Beltane Lost
Children carve pumpkins,
Kept in cool store.
It's Halloween in Australia.
Here the wheel of the year turns widdershins,
Out of sync.
And the old year dies six months prematurely.
The God of the tribe,
Does not get to lay with his Land Goddess.
The only metaphorical orgasm,
Is of mindless consumerism.
That is the new religion.
Kept in cool store.
It's Halloween in Australia.
Here the wheel of the year turns widdershins,
Out of sync.
And the old year dies six months prematurely.
The God of the tribe,
Does not get to lay with his Land Goddess.
The only metaphorical orgasm,
Is of mindless consumerism.
That is the new religion.
Tuesday 27 October 2015
To My Aspie Wife
To My Aspie
Wife
Loving you
has been easy, Living with you has been more difficult.
Years have
been taken to smooth the edges of our misunderstandings.
I feel the
passion of your embrace, the eagerness of your lips,
Casting
power into a place of joy.
An abrasive
word, a false smile, too much stimulation,
Spiral us
into a maelstrom of harsh words and pain.
A gulf opens
up that only true words can bridge.
You are not
from this world of lies and competitive social protocols.
Your star
has an honest shine;
Its
illumination direct to my soul,
No pretense
or agenda blocks the clarity.
Real friends
are openly rewarded,
An intensity
of empathetic communication -
Crafting
connections and glowing hearts,
You must beware
the snide remark, the jealous put-down,
A closing of
ranks against the stranger.
Alone in an
isolated confusion of unfathomable rules,
Clashing
body language and pecking orders.
Your spirit
quashed, breath held till superseded
By
solitude’s relief or meltdown’s curse.
I am part
you, spooning into your body,
Thoughts
flowing from the headlights of your intelligence,
Beautiful
ideas staining me with colour,
Possibilities
your life force -
Solutions no
problem.
Sensitivities
require consideration,
Meaningful
language a negotiation,
Miscued
pitfalls avoided,
Intimacy
prioritized.
Constraints
released to promote the vitality and necessity,
Of you being
free, understood and grounded -
Connected to
me.
Sunday 25 October 2015
Snowy River Men
So young,
The Snowy River Men.
When Baragry mounted the stage,
And called,
"Who is with me?"
Twelve looked toward adventure,
And escape from the labours of axe and plough.
They commenced the long walk.
And at each juncture,
Were received as pre-emptive heroes.
Ladies fell upon them,
With embraces, hot tea and sandwiches,
Men, with the promise of glory,
Or a hero's death,
Swelled their ranks.
Footsore and weary they tramped to the beat of their song;
"We have come from the mountains and the everlasting snow,"
"We have come from the mountains where the Snowy River flows"
They may have been "ready now for glory" but none of them knew,
If they'd be coming home.
So one hundred years on,
We still know the youthful faces,
Those naïve young men.
Who didn't come home.
Their optimistic smiles radiate beneath,
The green felt hat and emu feather.
From the walls of the Delegate School of Arts,
In brand new frames.
The Snowy River Men.
When Baragry mounted the stage,
And called,
"Who is with me?"
Twelve looked toward adventure,
And escape from the labours of axe and plough.
They commenced the long walk.
And at each juncture,
Were received as pre-emptive heroes.
Ladies fell upon them,
With embraces, hot tea and sandwiches,
Men, with the promise of glory,
Or a hero's death,
Swelled their ranks.
Footsore and weary they tramped to the beat of their song;
"We have come from the mountains and the everlasting snow,"
"We have come from the mountains where the Snowy River flows"
They may have been "ready now for glory" but none of them knew,
If they'd be coming home.
So one hundred years on,
We still know the youthful faces,
Those naïve young men.
Who didn't come home.
Their optimistic smiles radiate beneath,
The green felt hat and emu feather.
From the walls of the Delegate School of Arts,
In brand new frames.
Leave the Water on - An Ode to the Bathtub
Oh great receptacle of iron cast.
That within its warmed contents,
I enjoy a sweet repast,
Of solitude.
And at the day's end,
Wash away the bitter stresses,
And send,
Them into purgatory.
For who could resist,
The water's sweetest tinkling,
As it kissed,
The enamelled edge.
Or the velvet tenderness,
As it caressed my weary flesh.
For me, such feelings of happiness,
As those,
Are not so often expressed,
in Prose.
Yet my tub and I shall thus sojourn,
Through pleasant evenings of our life.
Once I have left, and clothing donned,
Will yearn,
To be within its soft embrace,
Again.
That within its warmed contents,
I enjoy a sweet repast,
Of solitude.
And at the day's end,
Wash away the bitter stresses,
And send,
Them into purgatory.
For who could resist,
The water's sweetest tinkling,
As it kissed,
The enamelled edge.
Or the velvet tenderness,
As it caressed my weary flesh.
For me, such feelings of happiness,
As those,
Are not so often expressed,
in Prose.
Yet my tub and I shall thus sojourn,
Through pleasant evenings of our life.
Once I have left, and clothing donned,
Will yearn,
To be within its soft embrace,
Again.
Time to Fish
The barometer is showing 'head ache.'
The pressure is heading for storms.
And the kids are fractious and whingey.
The afternoon is slowly cooling,
And an almost full moon is rising.
Looking out the window absentmindedly,
I could sense it before I saw the signs.
It is time;
To stop all the pointless chores,
To go outside,
Grab that jar full of fresh-dug bush worms.
The rod and bag,
And go fishing.
The ants are flying.
The pressure is heading for storms.
And the kids are fractious and whingey.
The afternoon is slowly cooling,
And an almost full moon is rising.
Looking out the window absentmindedly,
I could sense it before I saw the signs.
It is time;
To stop all the pointless chores,
To go outside,
Grab that jar full of fresh-dug bush worms.
The rod and bag,
And go fishing.
The ants are flying.
The Reassurance of Hills
To be surrounded by forested mountains,
Is to be embraced in a hard, cool, freshness,
Much like a firm hug,
From a parent straight from an ocean swim.
It is comforting and invigorating.
Wet body - cold,
Smell - unpolluted, natural, familiar.
To run about on a grassy hilltop,
Is to feel as free as flying.
Wind fills your hair and lungs.
It caresses your skin,
And the warm sun smiles,
Down on your upturned face.
After driving for many hours on monotonous plains,
I look out for the hills on the horizon.
It seems that my soul requires,
The reassurance of hills.
Is to be embraced in a hard, cool, freshness,
Much like a firm hug,
From a parent straight from an ocean swim.
It is comforting and invigorating.
Wet body - cold,
Smell - unpolluted, natural, familiar.
To run about on a grassy hilltop,
Is to feel as free as flying.
Wind fills your hair and lungs.
It caresses your skin,
And the warm sun smiles,
Down on your upturned face.
After driving for many hours on monotonous plains,
I look out for the hills on the horizon.
It seems that my soul requires,
The reassurance of hills.
Saturday 24 October 2015
My Tribe
My tribe are misunderstood.
On the edges looking in.
We are honest as the day is long,
Loyal to our ideas, ideals and our friends.
Happy to plough our own furrow most of the time.
Have sensory super powers.
Are rational pragmatists.
Disoriented by the difference between what a person says verbally,
And their body language.
Ignorant of pecking orders and social standing.
Are difficult to offend but easy to crush.
Are mono-focused and frequently oblivious.
Are passionate, empathetic and compassionate...
Just frequently oblivious to others needs.
We require periods of solitude.
Are talented and intelligent.
Naive and easily taken advantage of,
We are into purpose not ego,
And find our busy, amazing, stimulating and wonderful world,
Overwhelming sometimes.
On the edges looking in.
We are honest as the day is long,
Loyal to our ideas, ideals and our friends.
Happy to plough our own furrow most of the time.
Have sensory super powers.
Are rational pragmatists.
Disoriented by the difference between what a person says verbally,
And their body language.
Ignorant of pecking orders and social standing.
Are difficult to offend but easy to crush.
Are mono-focused and frequently oblivious.
Are passionate, empathetic and compassionate...
Just frequently oblivious to others needs.
We require periods of solitude.
Are talented and intelligent.
Naive and easily taken advantage of,
We are into purpose not ego,
And find our busy, amazing, stimulating and wonderful world,
Overwhelming sometimes.
Daydreaming
It is in those quieter moments,
I find myself wondering what you do.
What vista your eyes look over.
A bustling commercial street, a hilltop,
Blue water expanding out to the horizon,
Or a light-pierced, velvet night sky,
Perhaps just your kitchen sink into your garden.
I always imagine you looking out.
That is because,
I too am always looking out,
Into the next possibility.
In the moving pictures of my mind.
I conjure my future.
I feel a sense of solidarity with you.
Because it seems to me,
Each of us is on a quest.
Seeking the assurance,
That out there in the hurly burly,
That is our lives,
There is one safe place to be ourselves.
A sanctuary.
I find myself wondering what you do.
What vista your eyes look over.
A bustling commercial street, a hilltop,
Blue water expanding out to the horizon,
Or a light-pierced, velvet night sky,
Perhaps just your kitchen sink into your garden.
I always imagine you looking out.
That is because,
I too am always looking out,
Into the next possibility.
In the moving pictures of my mind.
I conjure my future.
I feel a sense of solidarity with you.
Because it seems to me,
Each of us is on a quest.
Seeking the assurance,
That out there in the hurly burly,
That is our lives,
There is one safe place to be ourselves.
A sanctuary.
Friday 23 October 2015
In Bed in the afternoon.
It is delightfully decadent to be lounging in bed,
In the afternoon.
Five unsupervised.
But I can hear their voices,
Occupied in various levels of activity.
The cluck and clatter of scooters on concrete.
Rhythmic as they clear each expansion joint.
In the kitchen banana smoothies are in production.
And the blender whirrs.
No doubt at least one will be curled up with a book.
But I am warm and the pillow welcomes my heavy head.
My naked skin too, the comfort of soft cotton against it.
There will be consequences for retreating like this.
But right now,
It is the weight of my weary body resting in this comfortable nest,
That is my primary focus.
In the afternoon.
Five unsupervised.
But I can hear their voices,
Occupied in various levels of activity.
The cluck and clatter of scooters on concrete.
Rhythmic as they clear each expansion joint.
In the kitchen banana smoothies are in production.
And the blender whirrs.
No doubt at least one will be curled up with a book.
But I am warm and the pillow welcomes my heavy head.
My naked skin too, the comfort of soft cotton against it.
There will be consequences for retreating like this.
But right now,
It is the weight of my weary body resting in this comfortable nest,
That is my primary focus.
Motley
Our crew is motley.
We are a range of ages and BMIs,
A farmer, a teacher, a barmaid, a sawmiller.
Yet our enthusiasm is undaunted,
Despite our reservations about abseiling
We waddle precariously close to the edge,
And with words of encouragement,
" Stick yer thumb up your bum."
"Keep your legs straight."
"Come on now this rope has a breaking strain of 3000kg."
To fill in the long periods of trepidatious stalling.
By the person, 'on rope.'
Finally a fat bottom is over the edge
They pass the point of no return.
A startled scream as the rope catches the edge.
And they're down.
With only a few red' words.
We are a range of ages and BMIs,
A farmer, a teacher, a barmaid, a sawmiller.
Yet our enthusiasm is undaunted,
Despite our reservations about abseiling
We waddle precariously close to the edge,
And with words of encouragement,
" Stick yer thumb up your bum."
"Keep your legs straight."
"Come on now this rope has a breaking strain of 3000kg."
To fill in the long periods of trepidatious stalling.
By the person, 'on rope.'
Finally a fat bottom is over the edge
They pass the point of no return.
A startled scream as the rope catches the edge.
And they're down.
With only a few red' words.
Thursday 22 October 2015
I Should be Sleeping.
Sleep.
It is very underrated,
Yet so welcome,
When the undertow of fatigue,
Pulls at all your vitals,
And drags you down,
Into deep unconsciousness.
I know I should submit.
In my rational mind.
Yet it is my rational mind that prevents me.
Too many interesting thoughts.
Too large a sensory meal to digest.
Oh grant me a firm, warm bed,
Sunny, breeze dried sheets,
Well fitted,
A plump pillow,
And you,
To entwine with my legs.
Then perhaps I should sleep.
It is very underrated,
Yet so welcome,
When the undertow of fatigue,
Pulls at all your vitals,
And drags you down,
Into deep unconsciousness.
I know I should submit.
In my rational mind.
Yet it is my rational mind that prevents me.
Too many interesting thoughts.
Too large a sensory meal to digest.
Oh grant me a firm, warm bed,
Sunny, breeze dried sheets,
Well fitted,
A plump pillow,
And you,
To entwine with my legs.
Then perhaps I should sleep.
Christmas in Australia
It sneaks up on you.
Christmas and the Summer holidays.
Already the diary is filling with those,
Compulsory Christmas events.
Countless Christmas parties with freezer food and too much soft-drink.
Santa in all his incarnations and levels of intoxication.
Kids petrified by the blaring fire truck,
Handed a bag of mixed lollies.
School productions with 'parents please bring a plate,'
And' a gift under the tree from Santa.'
Ridiculous images of snow, reindeer,
And an overdressed octogenarian with rosacea,
When it is forty degrees in the shade.
I enjoy the Summer holidays,
The singing,
The excitement of small children,
And their deep philosophical discussions of the existence of Santa,
As a real being or as a metaphor.
But besides that...
Bah Humbug.
Christmas and the Summer holidays.
Already the diary is filling with those,
Compulsory Christmas events.
Countless Christmas parties with freezer food and too much soft-drink.
Santa in all his incarnations and levels of intoxication.
Kids petrified by the blaring fire truck,
Handed a bag of mixed lollies.
School productions with 'parents please bring a plate,'
And' a gift under the tree from Santa.'
Ridiculous images of snow, reindeer,
And an overdressed octogenarian with rosacea,
When it is forty degrees in the shade.
I enjoy the Summer holidays,
The singing,
The excitement of small children,
And their deep philosophical discussions of the existence of Santa,
As a real being or as a metaphor.
But besides that...
Bah Humbug.
UHF
The road to my work-place is special.
Especially corrugated, narrow and winding.
Through cool mountain forests,
Home to the fleet-footed,
And sometimes,
Not fleet-footed enough.
Wallaby, wombat, lyrebird and kangaroo.
Flashes of fur and feather.
And of twenty five tonnes of log truck.
With accompanying dust.
So the ritual calls commence.
"Gap Road, Bendoc to Jughandle,
Mustards to Delegate River,
Playgrounds to Burtons rd.
Legge Rd, heading down the Brown."
And the replies.
"Yeh you should be seeing my dust soon."
Or...
"Watch out! I'll be coming up in a minute."
And then the trucks to each other.
"Yeh Mack, a little one coming up next."
I sneak up on them and eaves drop on their conversations.
" Yeh she was a wild night at the club..."
" Now what's this Dick- head doin?
F'kn tourists."
As we' pass the time of day on channel forty,
I feel a sense of solidarity,
Of one who is a local,
In the know.
In their club.
Especially corrugated, narrow and winding.
Through cool mountain forests,
Home to the fleet-footed,
And sometimes,
Not fleet-footed enough.
Wallaby, wombat, lyrebird and kangaroo.
Flashes of fur and feather.
And of twenty five tonnes of log truck.
With accompanying dust.
So the ritual calls commence.
"Gap Road, Bendoc to Jughandle,
Mustards to Delegate River,
Playgrounds to Burtons rd.
Legge Rd, heading down the Brown."
And the replies.
"Yeh you should be seeing my dust soon."
Or...
"Watch out! I'll be coming up in a minute."
And then the trucks to each other.
"Yeh Mack, a little one coming up next."
I sneak up on them and eaves drop on their conversations.
" Yeh she was a wild night at the club..."
" Now what's this Dick- head doin?
F'kn tourists."
As we' pass the time of day on channel forty,
I feel a sense of solidarity,
Of one who is a local,
In the know.
In their club.
Monday 19 October 2015
Don't Settle for less.
Out there in the wide wide world,
Their is someone,
Who lives with the exuberance to match your passion.
That likes to run and climb and hike up mountains.
And lay on quiet hilltops to gaze at the stars.
Who will suddenly see you,
And unbidden bound into your arms.
Will match your caresses with their own.
Whose sweet voice will be like soft silk on your eardrums.
And whose every recess will match your curves,
So that you will fit together like Lego.
They will smell just right,
And will thrust their face deep into your nape,
And take in long draughts,
Of essence of you.
They will be your complement.
And you will regret any time that you missed,
Before you met.
Their is someone,
Who lives with the exuberance to match your passion.
That likes to run and climb and hike up mountains.
And lay on quiet hilltops to gaze at the stars.
Who will suddenly see you,
And unbidden bound into your arms.
Will match your caresses with their own.
Whose sweet voice will be like soft silk on your eardrums.
And whose every recess will match your curves,
So that you will fit together like Lego.
They will smell just right,
And will thrust their face deep into your nape,
And take in long draughts,
Of essence of you.
They will be your complement.
And you will regret any time that you missed,
Before you met.
The Wave
Last night when we made love,
It happened again.
I tried so hard to remain grounded.
To stay with you in those moments.
But I felt them moving in me.
Coming from that well, deep inside.
They bubbled up very quickly,
And I was caught unguarded.
Every uncomfortable discourse,
Each uncertain social interaction.
The crash, clatter, whirr and constant drone,
Of this adulterated, wonderful world.
Every miscue and faux pas,
The rolled eyes and the cringes.
The joy and excitement.
All the stresses,
And the exuberance, of just being me.
In those moments I felt them flow up and out.
A bottle effervescing with emotion.
More than I could handle.
I lost sight of you,
And was left to ride this wave,
Alone.
It happened again.
I tried so hard to remain grounded.
To stay with you in those moments.
But I felt them moving in me.
Coming from that well, deep inside.
They bubbled up very quickly,
And I was caught unguarded.
Every uncomfortable discourse,
Each uncertain social interaction.
The crash, clatter, whirr and constant drone,
Of this adulterated, wonderful world.
Every miscue and faux pas,
The rolled eyes and the cringes.
The joy and excitement.
All the stresses,
And the exuberance, of just being me.
In those moments I felt them flow up and out.
A bottle effervescing with emotion.
More than I could handle.
I lost sight of you,
And was left to ride this wave,
Alone.
Saturday 17 October 2015
The Scouts and the Witches.
Unlikely cohabitants,
We Scouts and the witches.
Yet we are both tribes.
Our uniform and coded language attest.
While they make merry with mead.
We have red and white wine at our formal dinner.
They, their athanes, garlands and flowing gowns,
We have scarves and woggles.
They will dance around the Maypole,
(Perhaps skyclad.)
Our eyes up-cast salute the flagpole.
They welcome the coming of Spring,
We await Jamboree.
What make they of our raucous BRAVOs.
We are definitely apprehensive about their 'Great Rite',
As we retire to our segregated bunk rooms.
Blessed be!
We Scouts and the witches.
Yet we are both tribes.
Our uniform and coded language attest.
While they make merry with mead.
We have red and white wine at our formal dinner.
They, their athanes, garlands and flowing gowns,
We have scarves and woggles.
They will dance around the Maypole,
(Perhaps skyclad.)
Our eyes up-cast salute the flagpole.
They welcome the coming of Spring,
We await Jamboree.
What make they of our raucous BRAVOs.
We are definitely apprehensive about their 'Great Rite',
As we retire to our segregated bunk rooms.
Blessed be!
Wednesday 14 October 2015
Laurie Keeps Calling
Orana! Orana!
Orana to Christmas Day!
We are rehearsing for the Christmas concert.
Our CD newly minted is in its spangled green cover.
Baby Jesus not even opening his eyes.
We listen to the playback,
I hear Rowena's syrup thick honey voice,
My own birdlike vibrato,
John's bass vibrates my every molecule down to my toes.
And then we get to 'that' part.
I look across to our conductor.
He is thinking what I am thinking.
Our smiles meet in conspiratorial recognition.
Probably no one else notices,
The one voice that we hear above all others,
In a tree of thirty calling lorikeets.
" Laurie Keeps Calling!"
Orana to Christmas Day!
We are rehearsing for the Christmas concert.
Our CD newly minted is in its spangled green cover.
Baby Jesus not even opening his eyes.
We listen to the playback,
I hear Rowena's syrup thick honey voice,
My own birdlike vibrato,
John's bass vibrates my every molecule down to my toes.
And then we get to 'that' part.
I look across to our conductor.
He is thinking what I am thinking.
Our smiles meet in conspiratorial recognition.
Probably no one else notices,
The one voice that we hear above all others,
In a tree of thirty calling lorikeets.
" Laurie Keeps Calling!"
Fidelity
It was not so much that they had an affair.
Or that she had tortured herself for years,
Knowing this longing was festering inside her,
Poisoning the rationality of her shallow mind.
Nor that they came together after so much yearning,
(At least it seems on her part.)
No I can accept that.
Who am I to judge?
It happened to me once.
No what is upsetting is the deceit.
The careful calculated planning.
The slyness.
The half truths told to accomplish the goal.
So much thought,
Yet so little of the consequences.
What did she hope to achieve?
Positioning herself in close proximity.
Pathetic, a helpless damsel in need of rescuing.
Right on his doorstep.
And him alone too,
What hero could resist her tears, her flattery, her love confessions.
Perhaps one who used the frontal lobes of his brain.
But he didn't,
And they 'did it'.
And now for the fallout.
Fidelity is honesty.
Or that she had tortured herself for years,
Knowing this longing was festering inside her,
Poisoning the rationality of her shallow mind.
Nor that they came together after so much yearning,
(At least it seems on her part.)
No I can accept that.
Who am I to judge?
It happened to me once.
No what is upsetting is the deceit.
The careful calculated planning.
The slyness.
The half truths told to accomplish the goal.
So much thought,
Yet so little of the consequences.
What did she hope to achieve?
Positioning herself in close proximity.
Pathetic, a helpless damsel in need of rescuing.
Right on his doorstep.
And him alone too,
What hero could resist her tears, her flattery, her love confessions.
Perhaps one who used the frontal lobes of his brain.
But he didn't,
And they 'did it'.
And now for the fallout.
Fidelity is honesty.
Sunday 11 October 2015
He's Crying
My infants class are restless on the carpet.
The maths lesson is going longer than their concetration span.
They fidget,
One picks furtively at the books on the shelf,
One has their socks in their mouth.
I know that it is time to wind it up,
Before the learning moment is lost.
Then it is his turn.
The child with too much going on at home.
His wide smile and over eagerness show,
That he is excited to be up next.
But he has not understood the question.
Before my eyes I watch him crumple.
His eyes look shocked and bewildered.
Everything droops like a flower deprived of rain.
Tears well in his eyes.
And I explain that it is all right.
(I want to hold him, but of course I can't.)
"We only learn from our mistakes," I say.
He tries to explain his confusion,
But he can't.
His eyes are leaking now,
And the other kids are ready to cut him, the weakest, down.
They have the blood lust.
I must save his face.
"Stop!"
All eyes are on me.
I have command of their attention.
I apologise for not phrasing the question better.
"It is just a misunderstanding.
I have confidence that you will get this 'perfectly right',
Now you understand," I say.
And he does.
" Sometimes we just can't choose when we will cry," I say.
Our philosophical discussion goes till lunchtime.
The maths lesson is going longer than their concetration span.
They fidget,
One picks furtively at the books on the shelf,
One has their socks in their mouth.
I know that it is time to wind it up,
Before the learning moment is lost.
Then it is his turn.
The child with too much going on at home.
His wide smile and over eagerness show,
That he is excited to be up next.
But he has not understood the question.
Before my eyes I watch him crumple.
His eyes look shocked and bewildered.
Everything droops like a flower deprived of rain.
Tears well in his eyes.
And I explain that it is all right.
(I want to hold him, but of course I can't.)
"We only learn from our mistakes," I say.
He tries to explain his confusion,
But he can't.
His eyes are leaking now,
And the other kids are ready to cut him, the weakest, down.
They have the blood lust.
I must save his face.
"Stop!"
All eyes are on me.
I have command of their attention.
I apologise for not phrasing the question better.
"It is just a misunderstanding.
I have confidence that you will get this 'perfectly right',
Now you understand," I say.
And he does.
" Sometimes we just can't choose when we will cry," I say.
Our philosophical discussion goes till lunchtime.
Copulating Snakes
Our country school has water views.
It is near the willow-choked river.
This proximity has challenged the teachers of old,
Who must cross a ford to gain access.
Floods trapping them on either side.
A well stocked freezer and a comfortable stretcher bed,
Are testament to the frequency of this occurrence.
Animals are attracted to the river.
On hot summer days the legless, cold blooded variety are particularly enamoured.
In the old days (not so long ago,)
The Snake spade was kept by the front door.
Students made the treacherous journey to the toilets in pairs.
The student requiring the facilities,
And 'The Snake Killer' wielding the spade.
Mostly this was the bigger country boys,
Who already knew how to drive a 'paddock-basher' and shoot a with a 'twenty two'.
Mostly, but not always.
Some girls were taught by their equally daring mothers,
How to 'crack' a snake with their bare hands.
But we are living in more civilised, politically correct and litigious times.
Gone is the snake spade.
Instead in its place,
The ridiculous, misguided and downright stupid reactions.
Of what can only be described as 'not country people'.
Today there were two snakes 'making whoopee' in the school grounds.
The students were fascinated by an act of reproduction being performed,
Before their very eyes.
The reaction of the matron who had seen it all was priceless.
(With a sly smile), she got the nervous principal.
The teacher was adamant the children should be sent home immediately.
It was decided at last that the children should be locked in.
It was then that the 'country teachers' chimed in,
That snakes had frequently found their way into the classroom,
By various gaps near the water heater.
The spade was procured.
Just in case.
It is near the willow-choked river.
This proximity has challenged the teachers of old,
Who must cross a ford to gain access.
Floods trapping them on either side.
A well stocked freezer and a comfortable stretcher bed,
Are testament to the frequency of this occurrence.
Animals are attracted to the river.
On hot summer days the legless, cold blooded variety are particularly enamoured.
In the old days (not so long ago,)
The Snake spade was kept by the front door.
Students made the treacherous journey to the toilets in pairs.
The student requiring the facilities,
And 'The Snake Killer' wielding the spade.
Mostly this was the bigger country boys,
Who already knew how to drive a 'paddock-basher' and shoot a with a 'twenty two'.
Mostly, but not always.
Some girls were taught by their equally daring mothers,
How to 'crack' a snake with their bare hands.
But we are living in more civilised, politically correct and litigious times.
Gone is the snake spade.
Instead in its place,
The ridiculous, misguided and downright stupid reactions.
Of what can only be described as 'not country people'.
Today there were two snakes 'making whoopee' in the school grounds.
The students were fascinated by an act of reproduction being performed,
Before their very eyes.
The reaction of the matron who had seen it all was priceless.
(With a sly smile), she got the nervous principal.
The teacher was adamant the children should be sent home immediately.
It was decided at last that the children should be locked in.
It was then that the 'country teachers' chimed in,
That snakes had frequently found their way into the classroom,
By various gaps near the water heater.
The spade was procured.
Just in case.
Pissing in his pocket.
It was just so apt.
Looking in from the outside.
The way was clear,
To me at least.
All these people getting 'soooo' upset,
And over nothing.
Where they blind, stupid?
Apparently.
But it was simple really.
All I had to do to remedy the intractable situation.
And get the immovable, moving.
Was....
'Piss in the right pocket!'
Looking in from the outside.
The way was clear,
To me at least.
All these people getting 'soooo' upset,
And over nothing.
Where they blind, stupid?
Apparently.
But it was simple really.
All I had to do to remedy the intractable situation.
And get the immovable, moving.
Was....
'Piss in the right pocket!'
The Songwriter
I am learning his song.
Recorded in a hospice.
He was a songwriter.
Which really means,
He was a poet.
I could see him in his lyrics.
I could feel his pain, his optimism,
And the love he had for his wife.
I could feel his gratitude,
For the opportunity to reveal himself,
So publicly.
No truer portrait,
Than this self portrait.
Each time I tried to sing it...
The poignancy of the last line,
Caught in my throat.
Recorded in a hospice.
He was a songwriter.
Which really means,
He was a poet.
I could see him in his lyrics.
I could feel his pain, his optimism,
And the love he had for his wife.
I could feel his gratitude,
For the opportunity to reveal himself,
So publicly.
No truer portrait,
Than this self portrait.
Each time I tried to sing it...
The poignancy of the last line,
Caught in my throat.
Sensual
Warm water envelops me,
Swaddled in a womb.
Pressure welcome against my eardrums.
Sounds pleasantly muted.
Floating in a cosseted embrace.
All upsets forgotten.
Just bathing.
Swaddled in a womb.
Pressure welcome against my eardrums.
Sounds pleasantly muted.
Floating in a cosseted embrace.
All upsets forgotten.
Just bathing.
Karaoke
A few beers and everyone is a singer.
The vintage of each soon discovered.
Barnsey and Dragon,
The Big O and Johnny Cash.
Hits from the 50s 60s 70s 80s and beyond.
Arm in arm the old mates croon.
The girls with 'sass' strut their stuff.
The microphones squeal with ear-splitting feedback.
Drinks are spilled,
And newly minted,
Lovers for the evening, dance suggestively.
In preparation for a very forgettable bonk.
The vintage of each soon discovered.
Barnsey and Dragon,
The Big O and Johnny Cash.
Hits from the 50s 60s 70s 80s and beyond.
Arm in arm the old mates croon.
The girls with 'sass' strut their stuff.
The microphones squeal with ear-splitting feedback.
Drinks are spilled,
And newly minted,
Lovers for the evening, dance suggestively.
In preparation for a very forgettable bonk.
Wednesday 7 October 2015
Nature Girl
She does not speak with her mouth,
My Retts girl.
Her eyes and sparkling smile tell me of her love:
For the sun and its optimistic warmth,
It kisses her face and dazzles her seeking eyes.
For the wind and its merry dance amongst the limbs of the tree.
It whips hair into her blinking eyes and smiling mouth.
Of birds calling from all corners and out of view.
They flit about branchlets of the tree carrying nesting.
Of leaves and their soothing rustle.
They mimic her sparkle as they flutter,
Showing alternately their front and back.
I sit and watch as she absorbs her environment,
And receives grateful succour from it.
The Buzz
He said:
"You were buzzing last night.
I could feel you vibrating."
I knew what he was talking about.
The atoms of my body had been thrust,
Through thousands of kilometres,
At a hundred kilometres an hour,
Driving.
The tyres of my car dragged against the bitumen,
Their vibration travelled through my seat,
Into spine and the marrow of each of my bones.
The cochlea of my ears endured the hours of banshee screaming,
Of air scraping against the cars exterior,
As high pitched as a fluorescent light.
Drone, drone, drone,
Ever rhythmic, the motor's base,
Coming into my feet on the floor,
And my hands on the steering wheel.
I had been a human tuning fork.
And now free from vehicular prison,
I rang out.
Tuesday 6 October 2015
Marking their Territory
Why is it when they know that they will leave,
They claim they will stay?
They claim that will not join their long line of predecessors,
Who could not live up to the,
Unachievable, utopian hippy dream.
"We are coming back,
This is just until......
We are a part of this community."
Yeh sure.
And then before they go,
They have to leave some testament,
To their temporary habitation,
Of this place.
This time it is a mural on the local hall.
Last time,
It was artistic signs along,
An unused and unmaintained walking track.
Their names and those of their children,
Etched in acrylic paint.
Marking their territory,
Just as a wombat,
Neatly defecates on the tallest stone.
Losing Connection.
It is only when either of us lose sight of the other.
The bond is broken,
For just a moment....
Together,
And we are in the throws of a sensory maelstrom of touch.
But I am full to over flowing.
And I lose sight of you.
I am alone.
And that is when the demons,
Of overstimulation leak out,
Through these tiny cracks.
I re visit the sensory conglomeration,
That is my overstimulated life,
Breakdown,
And cry.
The Tough Nut
"I go to bed when I want,
Two thirty sometimes.
I can watch whatever telly or DVDs I want,
Mum and Dad don't fuck'n care.
Yeh I just do what I like.
So you can't make me..."
He is short and stocky.
Rosy round cheeks match,
His little round belly.
He looks tough,
But his 'face' is lost,
So easily.
Don't challenge him, he'll break.
He is a grimy cherub,
With a foul mouth.
Friday 2 October 2015
Serendipidy
It was only yesterday we were talking about them,
Our mentors.
Two delightful lady lesbians,
Who after lives of challenge,
Found each other.
They have life 'sussed'.
Their joy creates boundless energy,
And huge potential to give.
Yes we were talking about them.
Planning when we could all get together,
Be re inspired.
And then as fate would have it,
In the most unexpected of places,
Just on a whim,
They were there,
Where I was,
Having just arrived.
We embraced.
I said,
" You know we were just talking about you two,
Only yesterday,
And here you are."
Serendipity.
Thursday 1 October 2015
Blowies
The light is attracting them.
They buzz and splutter in a chorus,
About my head.
They bounce of the darkened ceiling.
Morris left the door open all afternoon.
They were attracted by the kitchen smells,
Of fresh bread baking,
And Bowen's scones.
I had to rescue the cream before it was blown.
I should not complain too much.
They are a harbinger of the warm pleasant days to come.
They are blowies.
They buzz and splutter in a chorus,
About my head.
They bounce of the darkened ceiling.
Morris left the door open all afternoon.
They were attracted by the kitchen smells,
Of fresh bread baking,
And Bowen's scones.
I had to rescue the cream before it was blown.
I should not complain too much.
They are a harbinger of the warm pleasant days to come.
They are blowies.
Billie-Grace Car Washing Service.
Her big blue eyes, that are mine,
Look at me through the windscreen.
On the bonnet, her five year old hands are rubbing at the glass.
She has a damp nappy, that was once hers.
I feign sleep so I can observe her without further engagement.
She is busy,
Making small smearing circles.
Her hard work is not effective,
Yet she persists.
Her tongue pushes about her mouth in the same circles.
She is concentrating hard.
As she returns the washcloth to the bucket.
I watch her lips form the shape of a song.
She is singing while she works.
Look at me through the windscreen.
On the bonnet, her five year old hands are rubbing at the glass.
She has a damp nappy, that was once hers.
I feign sleep so I can observe her without further engagement.
She is busy,
Making small smearing circles.
Her hard work is not effective,
Yet she persists.
Her tongue pushes about her mouth in the same circles.
She is concentrating hard.
As she returns the washcloth to the bucket.
I watch her lips form the shape of a song.
She is singing while she works.
Wednesday 30 September 2015
Journeying between my Homes
I journey North East toward the Plateau,
Past regenerating Blue Gums,
Their blackened flesh revitalised and sprouting.
Past the still blackened Silver Top Ash,
Just sprouting.
The forest floor is a fresh green carpet.
The odd sentinel stands out as a monument.
Arriving at the cooler country,
Signs of the devastation dwindle and peter out at last.
I am amongst the forest giants.
Shining Gums shade the fern trees,
Black woods just in blossom,
Remnants of snow lay like whisker-tinged shaving foam,
In the shaded gutters of the track.
We reach the gap between the ranges.
I look down the steep precipice to the falls.
I hear the gurgling sounds of fast moving water over stone.
The Sassafras Christmas Trees now take the place of the gums.
I am in the Cool Temperate Rainforest.
Opening out onto the other side.
We see the first signs of habitation.
A cleared paddock, a plantation.
We are high, eleven hundred metres.
The trees are stunted, Snow Gums and Candlebarks.
Cross the fast flowing river, lined with tea tree.
Wind down again into tall forest,
This time Grey Gum and Messmate,
Cottonwoods reaching up between them like children.
At last we descend into the village,
Neat and timeless save the satellite dishes on tin roofs.
Climbing out of the valley that holds the town like an infant,
We escape out into stark sunshine,
The open high plains of the Monaro.
Arrived.
Past regenerating Blue Gums,
Their blackened flesh revitalised and sprouting.
Past the still blackened Silver Top Ash,
Just sprouting.
The forest floor is a fresh green carpet.
The odd sentinel stands out as a monument.
Arriving at the cooler country,
Signs of the devastation dwindle and peter out at last.
I am amongst the forest giants.
Shining Gums shade the fern trees,
Black woods just in blossom,
Remnants of snow lay like whisker-tinged shaving foam,
In the shaded gutters of the track.
We reach the gap between the ranges.
I look down the steep precipice to the falls.
I hear the gurgling sounds of fast moving water over stone.
The Sassafras Christmas Trees now take the place of the gums.
I am in the Cool Temperate Rainforest.
Opening out onto the other side.
We see the first signs of habitation.
A cleared paddock, a plantation.
We are high, eleven hundred metres.
The trees are stunted, Snow Gums and Candlebarks.
Cross the fast flowing river, lined with tea tree.
Wind down again into tall forest,
This time Grey Gum and Messmate,
Cottonwoods reaching up between them like children.
At last we descend into the village,
Neat and timeless save the satellite dishes on tin roofs.
Climbing out of the valley that holds the town like an infant,
We escape out into stark sunshine,
The open high plains of the Monaro.
Arrived.
Conviviality of Singing
Some possess the voice of an angel,
Sweet and clear like tolling bells,
Others the deeper tones,
That roll your eardrums in sweet honey.
The bass you can feel vibrate through your entire body,
Down to your feet and into the floor.
Singing together,
We have a communal bath in sound.
It lifts our spirits and makes us one with the vibrations of the cosmos,
As one entity.
Sweet and clear like tolling bells,
Others the deeper tones,
That roll your eardrums in sweet honey.
The bass you can feel vibrate through your entire body,
Down to your feet and into the floor.
Singing together,
We have a communal bath in sound.
It lifts our spirits and makes us one with the vibrations of the cosmos,
As one entity.
Humanity of Scent
Why do we mask ourselves in strong scents?
I don't understand.
There was a time when we hid our grime,
And wood-smoke odour with posies.
We bathed rarely.
Now we are a chorus, a plebiscite of deodorant and perfume.
All the same,
Sickeningly sweet.
We declare out tribe by our smell,
Talc or soap,
Cheap or expensive, perfumes and colognes.
I thought about this as my olfactory sense was assaulted.
Remnants of Flower Child,
Lingering in the New Age...
Patchouli Oil.
I don't understand.
There was a time when we hid our grime,
And wood-smoke odour with posies.
We bathed rarely.
Now we are a chorus, a plebiscite of deodorant and perfume.
All the same,
Sickeningly sweet.
We declare out tribe by our smell,
Talc or soap,
Cheap or expensive, perfumes and colognes.
I thought about this as my olfactory sense was assaulted.
Remnants of Flower Child,
Lingering in the New Age...
Patchouli Oil.
Tuesday 29 September 2015
The Pot Plant
She's my age,
And she's dying.
Her sister says she needs,
"Forty leaves a day,
But fresh."
Neither of us knows the growing cycle,
Of the magic plant.
We never bothered with that shit when we were young.
They are buying seeds,
Wrapped in an American magazine,
Off the internet.
I said I would phone a friend.
I did.
Our conversation was shrouded in inference.
" A serious pharmaceutical matter,
Requiring fresh herbaceous material,
Perhaps seedlings rather than seed.
Require assistance with cultivation, care and maximising yield,
Longevity of the plant."
Perhaps not such a big issue.
He'll catch me Thursday.
And she's dying.
Her sister says she needs,
"Forty leaves a day,
But fresh."
Neither of us knows the growing cycle,
Of the magic plant.
We never bothered with that shit when we were young.
They are buying seeds,
Wrapped in an American magazine,
Off the internet.
I said I would phone a friend.
I did.
Our conversation was shrouded in inference.
" A serious pharmaceutical matter,
Requiring fresh herbaceous material,
Perhaps seedlings rather than seed.
Require assistance with cultivation, care and maximising yield,
Longevity of the plant."
Perhaps not such a big issue.
He'll catch me Thursday.
Still Back There
I'm doing the limbo.
Here but not here.
Moving forward but still back there.
Organised and efficient,
Getting things done,
Spring in my step,
Smile on my face,
Strong feelings of geniality,
Singing, dancing and being goofy.
On fire.
High as....
But my mind is still in last week.
I can't shake it.
No doubt Tigger will be replaced by Eyeore,
And this feeling will shake me.
Here but not here.
Moving forward but still back there.
Organised and efficient,
Getting things done,
Spring in my step,
Smile on my face,
Strong feelings of geniality,
Singing, dancing and being goofy.
On fire.
High as....
But my mind is still in last week.
I can't shake it.
No doubt Tigger will be replaced by Eyeore,
And this feeling will shake me.
Monday 28 September 2015
The Benefits of Solitude
He said, " You should go."
So I did.
Cast off responsibility,
The things that could now wait,
Just a few more hours.
And I drove.
To almost the end.
The way was rough,
I felt some trepidation,
But also invigoration,
Because of the risk.
Then I left the relative protection,
Of my big, strong modern car,
And walked.
The air was alive with the song of insects and birds,
Fleet footed wallabies startled me.
The breeze played upon my cheeks.
And the sun danced in my eyes.
The blue removed the grey within my soul.
And the rapid beating of my heart,
Reminded me that I am alive.
Conversations and scenes played in my mind.
Bad feelings were removed.
And I felt the natural world hold me in its embrace.
So I did.
Cast off responsibility,
The things that could now wait,
Just a few more hours.
And I drove.
To almost the end.
The way was rough,
I felt some trepidation,
But also invigoration,
Because of the risk.
Then I left the relative protection,
Of my big, strong modern car,
And walked.
The air was alive with the song of insects and birds,
Fleet footed wallabies startled me.
The breeze played upon my cheeks.
And the sun danced in my eyes.
The blue removed the grey within my soul.
And the rapid beating of my heart,
Reminded me that I am alive.
Conversations and scenes played in my mind.
Bad feelings were removed.
And I felt the natural world hold me in its embrace.
The Grazier's House
The grazier's grand home was at the wrong end of the bush track.
His children had moved on to more lucrative pursuits.
The wool stockpile fell on the price guarantee,
And Australia fell off the sheep's back.
The grazier was old, and needed a beach bungalow.
Or at least his wife did.
Or perhaps she just wanted the shops,
And access to hairdressers, that coastal resort towns afford.
It was her turn.
The grazier shuffles behind his wife on auto-pilot,
The walking dead in shining RM Williams.
The grazier's property is under pine.
Generations of blood and tears lie buried beneath,
The acidifying, needle strewn soil.
And there too lies the grazier's heart.
Best he does not see what his grand home has become.
His children had moved on to more lucrative pursuits.
The wool stockpile fell on the price guarantee,
And Australia fell off the sheep's back.
The grazier was old, and needed a beach bungalow.
Or at least his wife did.
Or perhaps she just wanted the shops,
And access to hairdressers, that coastal resort towns afford.
It was her turn.
The grazier shuffles behind his wife on auto-pilot,
The walking dead in shining RM Williams.
The grazier's property is under pine.
Generations of blood and tears lie buried beneath,
The acidifying, needle strewn soil.
And there too lies the grazier's heart.
Best he does not see what his grand home has become.
Saturday 26 September 2015
The Aftermath
After the journey into the cauldron of sensory stimulation,
Comes the aftermath.
Bowl filled with the conviviality of relationships.
Bowl filled with the angst of unmet expectations
Bowl filled with the pain of fragile egos bruised.
Bowl filled with the joy of new possibilities.
I return to more familiar territory,
The contents of my bowl are tossed and stirred.
Relive the petty conflicts and strategise their resolution.
Relive the disappointments and plan for a better outcome next time.
Relive the joyful, invigorating comfort of close relations.
And pang for the loss of their intimacy.
Rest, joy and some resolution may slowly drain my overfull bowl.
Comes the aftermath.
Bowl filled with the conviviality of relationships.
Bowl filled with the angst of unmet expectations
Bowl filled with the pain of fragile egos bruised.
Bowl filled with the joy of new possibilities.
I return to more familiar territory,
The contents of my bowl are tossed and stirred.
Relive the petty conflicts and strategise their resolution.
Relive the disappointments and plan for a better outcome next time.
Relive the joyful, invigorating comfort of close relations.
And pang for the loss of their intimacy.
Rest, joy and some resolution may slowly drain my overfull bowl.
Some compartments of my life
I live my life within smallish compartments of time.
Each with its individual focus.
To which I give my fullest attention.
The compartment of writing this poem,
It contains the fantastical images,
That make metaphors,
And give me the words.
I let them out to play upon the page,
And make music in my ears.
These thoughts make me smile inwardly.
The compartment of sharing my thoughts and ideas,
With another human being,
Feeling the welcomeness of their company,
The sound of their unique voice,
The warmth of their presence,
And familiarity of their smell.
The solidarity of being so joined in his moment.
Makes my heart swell in the cavity of my chest.
The compartment of remembered moments.
This is where I recollect, I sit quietly,
And reflect upon recent happenings.
The times when I felt connected and comfortable.
The moments that fortified my heart with joy.
And of those individuals to whom I am connected.
This makes my soul sing and ache at the same time.
As I miss them.
Each with its individual focus.
To which I give my fullest attention.
The compartment of writing this poem,
It contains the fantastical images,
That make metaphors,
And give me the words.
I let them out to play upon the page,
And make music in my ears.
These thoughts make me smile inwardly.
The compartment of sharing my thoughts and ideas,
With another human being,
Feeling the welcomeness of their company,
The sound of their unique voice,
The warmth of their presence,
And familiarity of their smell.
The solidarity of being so joined in his moment.
Makes my heart swell in the cavity of my chest.
The compartment of remembered moments.
This is where I recollect, I sit quietly,
And reflect upon recent happenings.
The times when I felt connected and comfortable.
The moments that fortified my heart with joy.
And of those individuals to whom I am connected.
This makes my soul sing and ache at the same time.
As I miss them.
The fragility of the human ego
Frustrated tone of voice,
A sideways glance,
Some ill phrased words,
A simple misunderstanding,
So little to unbalance the delicate mechanism.
Retorts and recriminations,
Amplification and divisive speech,
All facilitate the formation,
Of gangs and factions,
Busy isolating and excluding,
Their status quo, and standing are retained.
As the tall poppies are cut down,
By lesser creatures,
Those on the edge watch on and ponder,
The purpose of it all.
A sideways glance,
Some ill phrased words,
A simple misunderstanding,
So little to unbalance the delicate mechanism.
Retorts and recriminations,
Amplification and divisive speech,
All facilitate the formation,
Of gangs and factions,
Busy isolating and excluding,
Their status quo, and standing are retained.
As the tall poppies are cut down,
By lesser creatures,
Those on the edge watch on and ponder,
The purpose of it all.
In Nature
Scratches, bruises, sunburn,
And the song in my heart,
Pay testament to this short time,
Spent in nature.
Lungs filled with freshness of clean air
And the sweetness of pittosporum blossom.
Laying down my cares on the warm earth.
Sleeping in the shadow of leaves,
Beneath the myriad of slow moving stars.
Waking into morning's dew filled coolness.
Feeling alive and vigorous,
And the song in my heart,
Pay testament to this short time,
Spent in nature.
Lungs filled with freshness of clean air
And the sweetness of pittosporum blossom.
Laying down my cares on the warm earth.
Sleeping in the shadow of leaves,
Beneath the myriad of slow moving stars.
Waking into morning's dew filled coolness.
Feeling alive and vigorous,
Thursday 17 September 2015
We fear change
The townspeople protested,
The building of a mosque.
The local councillors,
Were rescued by police.
Why?
I pondered.
We proudly sing,
"To those that come across the sea,
We've boundless plains to share."
Yet we are very selective.
Better you come by plane, with a visa.
Should we accept those who thrust themselves on our shore,
Ahead of those rotting in refugee camps?
Per capita we permanently settle the most refugees of any country.
Still our tens of thousands,
Is a drop,
Compared to the ocean,
Flooding into refugee camps.
Why do we have this debate,
When there is a humanitarian crisis of such a scale?
We fear anything foreign,
And we fear change.
The building of a mosque.
The local councillors,
Were rescued by police.
Why?
I pondered.
We proudly sing,
"To those that come across the sea,
We've boundless plains to share."
Yet we are very selective.
Better you come by plane, with a visa.
Should we accept those who thrust themselves on our shore,
Ahead of those rotting in refugee camps?
Per capita we permanently settle the most refugees of any country.
Still our tens of thousands,
Is a drop,
Compared to the ocean,
Flooding into refugee camps.
Why do we have this debate,
When there is a humanitarian crisis of such a scale?
We fear anything foreign,
And we fear change.
Mono-focus
My greatest strength,
And my Achilles heel,
The ability to mono-focus.
Oblivious when on a beloved task,
To be interrupted is like a slap.
Today we were in a deeply emotional discussion.
I felt stomach churning angst,
As I laid my soul bare.
Then he said,
"Ok I'm going to take a shower"
Just like that.
It was not "OK!"
I realised,
Aspie mono-focus,
versus,
Neurotypical multi-focus,
This is where our differences,
Are at their most profound.
And my Achilles heel,
The ability to mono-focus.
Oblivious when on a beloved task,
To be interrupted is like a slap.
Today we were in a deeply emotional discussion.
I felt stomach churning angst,
As I laid my soul bare.
Then he said,
"Ok I'm going to take a shower"
Just like that.
It was not "OK!"
I realised,
Aspie mono-focus,
versus,
Neurotypical multi-focus,
This is where our differences,
Are at their most profound.
Smiling
Despite the cutting wind,
And the icy shadows,
The sun is smiling on us today.
Likewise the townsfolk,
As they go about their commercial pursuits,
With a lightness to their step.
Sunny solicitations all round.
Spring is here at last,
We all rejoice.
Monday 14 September 2015
Homes for under 100k
Apparently Australia's population has ballooned to twenty four million.
But they don't live here.
Our hay day has been fed out to the sheep and cattle,
By ageing farmers.
Our preschool is now a pile of unused toys in the corner of three local halls.
Doctor?
He is accumulating hours for his pilots licence,
As he comes flying up from the coast.
Our lone policeman,
He of the states largest beat,
Can't go to the post office without his bullet proof vest,
Because it is also the pub.
He drives in his 4WD festooned with aerials,
But can't attend an incident. (without back-up from two hours away.)
Two families announce that they are leaving the area,
The school will have to make some drastic readjustments,
( and who knows what ramifications they will have.)
The specialty shop fronts, even in the larger towns are emptying.
How long will the local independent grocer hang on,
When the punters will go to Aldi on their next doctors visit?
(People don't get sick in time for the once a month flying visit.)
But the place is gorgeous.
The air and water are clean.
There is room to move,
And think...
And there are homes for sale for less than 100k.
But they don't live here.
Our hay day has been fed out to the sheep and cattle,
By ageing farmers.
Our preschool is now a pile of unused toys in the corner of three local halls.
Doctor?
He is accumulating hours for his pilots licence,
As he comes flying up from the coast.
Our lone policeman,
He of the states largest beat,
Can't go to the post office without his bullet proof vest,
Because it is also the pub.
He drives in his 4WD festooned with aerials,
But can't attend an incident. (without back-up from two hours away.)
Two families announce that they are leaving the area,
The school will have to make some drastic readjustments,
( and who knows what ramifications they will have.)
The specialty shop fronts, even in the larger towns are emptying.
How long will the local independent grocer hang on,
When the punters will go to Aldi on their next doctors visit?
(People don't get sick in time for the once a month flying visit.)
But the place is gorgeous.
The air and water are clean.
There is room to move,
And think...
And there are homes for sale for less than 100k.
Sunday 13 September 2015
My Homesteading Dream Day
Arise to a halo of blue.
Grey's passed away.
Grass green.
No jumper.
Sunscreen and squinting.
Slasher on tractor.
Poddy lambs gambling on the lawn.
Kids on ponies,
Or in sandpit,
Or on the fort.
Fresh farm egg omelette,
With home-made cheese,
Many thanks to the Jersey.
Sour dough bread with butter.
Golden daffodils.
My cup runneth over,
With fresh made kefir.
Grey's passed away.
Grass green.
No jumper.
Sunscreen and squinting.
Slasher on tractor.
Poddy lambs gambling on the lawn.
Kids on ponies,
Or in sandpit,
Or on the fort.
Fresh farm egg omelette,
With home-made cheese,
Many thanks to the Jersey.
Sour dough bread with butter.
Golden daffodils.
My cup runneth over,
With fresh made kefir.
Saturday 12 September 2015
Reading to me.
When we first shared this bed,
We decided to also share books.
The intimacy of both experiencing,
Thoughts, ideas,
Or just a character's fantastical life.
Each night,
Turn on turn.
We started on our most beloved novels,
For me,
Jane Eyre, The Prodigal Summer, For Love Alone.
For him, Gerald Durrell and Harry Potter Books.
The idea seemed sound.
But he could only stay alert if seeing the script before his eyes.
I dismayed, watched as he re-read my previously orated chapter.
So we found a new pattern.
I listen,
He reads.
All goes well until sleep overtakes him mid chapter.
The slurring and losing his place are the precursors.
I enjoy letting the pictures form in my head,
Until he puts on a discordant voice for an accented characterisation.
His attempt at an Australian accent the most jarring.
But generally his soft tenor pleasantly strokes my eardrums.
And I can think of none so pleasant, passing of an afternoon,
Than laying together in the warm sunshine,
Sharing a book.
We decided to also share books.
The intimacy of both experiencing,
Thoughts, ideas,
Or just a character's fantastical life.
Each night,
Turn on turn.
We started on our most beloved novels,
For me,
Jane Eyre, The Prodigal Summer, For Love Alone.
For him, Gerald Durrell and Harry Potter Books.
The idea seemed sound.
But he could only stay alert if seeing the script before his eyes.
I dismayed, watched as he re-read my previously orated chapter.
So we found a new pattern.
I listen,
He reads.
All goes well until sleep overtakes him mid chapter.
The slurring and losing his place are the precursors.
I enjoy letting the pictures form in my head,
Until he puts on a discordant voice for an accented characterisation.
His attempt at an Australian accent the most jarring.
But generally his soft tenor pleasantly strokes my eardrums.
And I can think of none so pleasant, passing of an afternoon,
Than laying together in the warm sunshine,
Sharing a book.
Chris the Sheep
Lamb of the Monaro,
Beneath the stark blue sky,
In the frost hollows, tree line inverted,
Chris the Merino grew to wether hood.
Spurned by his shorn brethren,
And frightened by men and their stockyards,
He fled.
At first his growing coat was a comfortable barrier,
To winter gales, rain, sleet and occasional snow.
In summer he sought the cooler shelter of the wooded hills.
Time passed but his overgrown staple,
Continued to overgrow.
He became dwarfed by his prison of fleece.
As he passed from lamb to, two tooth to old mutton,
His burden only became greater.
By shear luck he remained upright.
Many a less laden sheep has turned turtle and perished,
With ridiculous legs gesticulating to the heavens.
Luck was on his side.
For he was spotted,
After six years of avoiding the board,
And with great fanfare,
Shorn.
Chris the sheep,
Cultivator of the heaviest fleece,
In the history of shearing.
Beneath the stark blue sky,
In the frost hollows, tree line inverted,
Chris the Merino grew to wether hood.
Spurned by his shorn brethren,
And frightened by men and their stockyards,
He fled.
At first his growing coat was a comfortable barrier,
To winter gales, rain, sleet and occasional snow.
In summer he sought the cooler shelter of the wooded hills.
Time passed but his overgrown staple,
Continued to overgrow.
He became dwarfed by his prison of fleece.
As he passed from lamb to, two tooth to old mutton,
His burden only became greater.
By shear luck he remained upright.
Many a less laden sheep has turned turtle and perished,
With ridiculous legs gesticulating to the heavens.
Luck was on his side.
For he was spotted,
After six years of avoiding the board,
And with great fanfare,
Shorn.
Chris the sheep,
Cultivator of the heaviest fleece,
In the history of shearing.
Sunday 6 September 2015
When truth hurts too much
It's in the eyes...
The truth.
The words are a cover.
They lie or more likely refuse to say.
The body too,
Flinches and gives away only a little.
But it is in the eyes.
The longing,
The resignation,
The flickers of hope.
The despair.
When the truth hurts too much,
That is when you turn your eyes away.
The truth.
The words are a cover.
They lie or more likely refuse to say.
The body too,
Flinches and gives away only a little.
But it is in the eyes.
The longing,
The resignation,
The flickers of hope.
The despair.
When the truth hurts too much,
That is when you turn your eyes away.
Changing Tack
When people get into a rut,
It is a euphemism,
For getting stuck in some humdrum routine.
Those with Asperger's also get into ruts.
Though not anything necessarily humdrum,
But it may sometimes be routine.
We etch a rill into our minds,
Through excessive focus.
We put almost our whole being,
Into some of the things we do.
This is the key to our successes.
This is also our undoing.
Our focus excludes.
We appear aloof and uncaring.
But in actuality,
We are not ambivalent,
Just oblivious.
And when the world external to our focus point,
Blares at us and demands our attention,
The shock is physical.
It jars.
We slowly recover and submit.
But the rut is very deep.
It takes time to change tack.
It is a euphemism,
For getting stuck in some humdrum routine.
Those with Asperger's also get into ruts.
Though not anything necessarily humdrum,
But it may sometimes be routine.
We etch a rill into our minds,
Through excessive focus.
We put almost our whole being,
Into some of the things we do.
This is the key to our successes.
This is also our undoing.
Our focus excludes.
We appear aloof and uncaring.
But in actuality,
We are not ambivalent,
Just oblivious.
And when the world external to our focus point,
Blares at us and demands our attention,
The shock is physical.
It jars.
We slowly recover and submit.
But the rut is very deep.
It takes time to change tack.
The Hottie
Dear Lord,
I give thanks on this cool evening,
For the simple practicality,
Of my Hot Water Bottle.
For the manufacturers, distributors,
And the small grocery store proprietors,
Who made it possible for me to procure one.
Also to the thoughtful friend who sewed a cover for said 'hottie',
And gave it as a birthday present to my husband,
Who also in kindness knowing my chilly disposition,
Passed it onto me.
May they, and particularly my husband,
Who nightly fills it with hot water,
When he brings me an Earl Grey in bed,
Feel the warmth of my blessings,
As I feel the warmth of my "hottie."
Amen
I give thanks on this cool evening,
For the simple practicality,
Of my Hot Water Bottle.
For the manufacturers, distributors,
And the small grocery store proprietors,
Who made it possible for me to procure one.
Also to the thoughtful friend who sewed a cover for said 'hottie',
And gave it as a birthday present to my husband,
Who also in kindness knowing my chilly disposition,
Passed it onto me.
May they, and particularly my husband,
Who nightly fills it with hot water,
When he brings me an Earl Grey in bed,
Feel the warmth of my blessings,
As I feel the warmth of my "hottie."
Amen
Ski Resorts
Perhaps it was my 'Aspie' dislike of crowds.
Perhaps the glossiness of the thin facades.
Maybe the faux Europe style of architecture that grated.
The "wankiness" of the beverages and confectionery on sale.
I could not put my finger on it,
The discomfort I felt,
When we arrived at the resort.
I enjoyed the drive, despite the heavy traffic.
The uniqueness of Snow-gum woodland, snow covered,
The rounded rocks and herbage of the fast flowing crystal creeks.
I was especially drawn to those.
The air too and the snow deadened quiet.
The company was good and tobogganing promised to be fun.
Yet...
The resort was a Formica table in a Georgian mansion.
The surface cleaned to such a sheen that the reflected light blinded me.
No trees, just snow and bitumen.
The beautiful people were pretentious and orchestrated.
The uncool "wannabes" tried too hard, used far too much peroxide,
Squeezed bulgy bodies into unflattering snowsuits,
And wore excessive putty-like make-up.
Families with screaming toddlers,
Tortured by freezing hands,
Made half smiles and took multitudes of photos,
Proof that they were afluent enough to be here and were having fun (sic).
Perhaps if I had skied I may have had a different attitude,
I doubt it,
Because tobogganing did turn out to be mostly fun.
Perhaps the glossiness of the thin facades.
Maybe the faux Europe style of architecture that grated.
The "wankiness" of the beverages and confectionery on sale.
I could not put my finger on it,
The discomfort I felt,
When we arrived at the resort.
I enjoyed the drive, despite the heavy traffic.
The uniqueness of Snow-gum woodland, snow covered,
The rounded rocks and herbage of the fast flowing crystal creeks.
I was especially drawn to those.
The air too and the snow deadened quiet.
The company was good and tobogganing promised to be fun.
Yet...
The resort was a Formica table in a Georgian mansion.
The surface cleaned to such a sheen that the reflected light blinded me.
No trees, just snow and bitumen.
The beautiful people were pretentious and orchestrated.
The uncool "wannabes" tried too hard, used far too much peroxide,
Squeezed bulgy bodies into unflattering snowsuits,
And wore excessive putty-like make-up.
Families with screaming toddlers,
Tortured by freezing hands,
Made half smiles and took multitudes of photos,
Proof that they were afluent enough to be here and were having fun (sic).
Perhaps if I had skied I may have had a different attitude,
I doubt it,
Because tobogganing did turn out to be mostly fun.
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