Entitlement.

I have discovered a trait of the moderately wealthy,
Those who mainly,
And I mean mainly,
Derive their wealth by their own endeavours.
They justify frivolous expense on a certain,
Sense of entitlement.

Those who have not managed to climb as they have,
Are scorned as worthless, lazy,
Parasitic even.
The moderately wealthy thinking:
"Why should our hard-earned taxes be spent on this human detritus?
When these people waste their unearned money,
On pokies, cigarettes and alcohol.
Their kids run wild and vandalise public property.
They have no respect or common decency.
They are ungrateful,
The un-entitled."

Yet those self-congratulatory fortunate,
Whom wealth has chosen to smile up on.
Perhaps should reflect on this trait.
And recollect that they were most likely blessed,
To be born with the opportunities,
Of privilege, education and functioning families.
And that by the grace of whichever god they recognise,
Go they.

Cider Clock

Blop, blop, blop!
Time is measured in my kitchen,
By the,
Blop, blop, blop!
Cider slowly fermenting.
Gases gradually expanding out the air-lock.
I know that eventually it will slow,
And when I come to bottling.
There shall only be the
Tock, tock!
Of the kitchen clock,
To remind me of mortality.

An island of Time

In the maddening rush of life,
Busy with matters of consequence,
and inconsequence,
We do not make an island of time to:
Stop!
Think for pure enjoyment.
Meditate.
Love each other,
and ourselves.
Switch off and tune out.
Do absolutely nothing.
Be grateful.
Pray.
Dream.
Feast all of our senses.
Be present with our family,
And friends.
Or just rest.
May every person take one day each week and find,
Their island of time.

The Damaged Kids

The damaged kids cry and cry and cry.
You ask them to do some writing.
They cry and cry and cry.
The damaged kids cling.
They want to sit all over you.
Get jealous if you don't choose them,
For the first go.
The damaged kids are defiant.
Push the envelope,
And cross the lines in the sand.
The damaged kids lie.
They live in a fantasy of deceit,
Better than their real world.
The damaged kids are taut
Like springs,
They snap.
But as their teacher I remind myself,
The damaged kids are still kids,
Just damaged.

How hard it is.

I feel them welling up,
Stinging my eyes.
The tears that will have to come.
Not now,
Not in this public place,
Nor in the car in front of the kids,
But in that private place
That sanctuary.

The cause?
Embarrassment and awkwardness,
Social blunder,
In front of colleagues who have no clue,
How hard it is,
And how hard I try,
To behave as they do.
I look like them,
But don't think like them.
ASD. 

The Woolstore

Hundreds and hundreds,
On their sides almost bursting,
Rounded bases potruding.
Wool bales from across the Monaro.
Merino and Crossbred.

Butts lying open, contents cascade.
The smells of sweat, dung and fleece.
White, cream and yellow piles,
Long and short staples.
The fine and the doggy.
Locks, lambs fleece, pieces and bellies.

Cordained off, the testing equipment.
Bales on rollered benches,
Pierced!
Extracted cores in locked bags.
The forklift,with alarm peeping,
Reverses.
  
 

Driving to Mallacoota

Early start travelling East,
Sun-blinding sunrise.
Dodge the last marsupial stragglers,
Off for their diurnal siestas.
Mist sits low in the valleys,
As I skirt the escarpment,
and descend.
It is winding now,
Curves tightening.
On a straight I pass a freight truck.
I feel the adrenalin rush.
Clear now my pulse gradually slows.
The last leg's tourist traffic,
Grey nomads perched high in 4wds,
Manoeuvering heavy caravans.
Slow to Forty for road works,
smile and wave to the workman.

Showing off the Farm

A bright optimistic day,
Sunny and mild.
Our farm and farmhouse are tidy,
Relatively.
The kitchen is full of good smells,
Farm raised and homemade:
Chicken a la Jamie Oliver,
In our own milk,
That is the main ingredient for the ice-cream,
Along with our eggs,
Baked home-grown spuds with soft centres and crisp skins,
Silver beet the greens.
Raspberries and meringue add to dessert.
Cordial of elderflower and sparkling currant wine.
We have guests,
Who do the rounds of the animals and the gardens.
And enjoy lunch.
Conversation is genial.
It is pleasant sometimes,
To show off.

One bad day

Bang!
Last struggle and the light goes out of his eyes.
They cease to be that animal you saw born,
You named.
Watched it raised by its mother,
Became a mischievous adolescent,
Broke through fences,
And jumped up when you came with feed.

You cared for and petted this animal.
Now it is gone.
Its carcass is in the hanging shed,
Awaiting the butchering.
Unrecognisable.
It is not the same animal,
Running about the paddock just yesterday.
He has gone and he will remain in your memory.
The meat will go to feed your family.

He had a good life on our farm,
He was not sold or transported away.
He did not suffer those fears of the unknown.
He went on no truck to any saleyard or abattoir.
He lived with his family,
He was allowed to frolic and be his goatlike self.
His end was quick.
An eye-blink.
He really had only one bad day.

Head Lice

 Most unwelcome visitors to anyone's pate.
Quiet and insidious,
And some time you might wait,
To discover their presence.
And then with the greatest of diligence,
you must treat and fine comb,
Scratching your child's head near to the bone.
They'll squeal and grizzle and fidget about.
Unfortunately all of those eggs must come out.
So despite the best of chemical warfare,
The brushing and checking of every hair.
It only takes one or two of those eggs to remain,
To hatch, copulate and then its on once again.

"A Lifestyle choice"

I am making a life style choice.
I live where I love,
At home.
May everybody on this planet have the freedom to make their own lifestyle choice,
And live...
At home.

(Wherever that may be.)

Harmony Day

Everybody  Belongs,
Intrinsically,
At this time and place,
And all times,
And  all places,
The perfectly imperfect,
Absolutely everybody!

Cider

Today we are making cider.
It is a glorious autumnal day.
Set up beneath the giant Lime tree.
The press, the chopper, the apples.
So it is cut, slice and toss.
Fallers, scavenged and grown apples of many varieties,
Of dubious pedigree.
Into the hopper.
Hop on the bike.
Treadle the pedals.
And the chop, crush, smash
Chopper does its work making apple mash.
Squirts of juice splash.
Apple pieces miss the bucket,
Later the geese will find them.
Into the drum with its fluted sides of birch.
The heavy steel top is laid down.
Then the screw.
The turning begins easily and the brown nectar flows.
Out onto the stainless plate and through the moulded spout into a little bucket.
Strained and added to the growing swirling brown sea of liquor.
When we're done and the mess cleaned,
We will await its blop, blop,
Through the air lock.
When its slowed its singing,
We'll bottle it,
With a teaspoon of sugar and a sultana.
Our home-made cider. 

Dogs

I have three.
Lab, Foxy and Kelpie
The same species.
Yes apparently they can successfully interbreed.
But the mechanics of that....
And their looks?

And why three?
Indoor and outdoor,
Working and playing.
Running and petting.

My Lab has a golden coat of raised velvet.
Too run my hand through this mane makes me calm.
My kelpie excites activity and invites me to join him in a run,
(preferably chasing sheep about.)
Foxy welcomes me home with her characteristic yodel and mad scrambling,
Her tiny claws make excited scratching sounds on the floor-boards.

And that's the dogs. 

Bread

Real bread is made by hand.
Four ingredients,
Flour, water, yeast and salt.
It is not just the combination of its measured constituents.
Real bread takes intent, intuition and practice.
Each loaf a new adventure.
Test the water for blood warmth before adding the yeast.
Into the little dam of salted flour,
You add the frothing cloudy water,
Bit by bit.
Swirling with your fingers  the mass conglomerates.
You sense when the consistency is perfect.
Then you knead.
There is a subtle rhythm
Push down and turn., push down and turn.
The ball of your palm stretching and working,
The yeast and gluten activated.
The dough becomes more elastic.
You sense the time,
To let it be,
To rise.
There is real satisfaction in the 'punching down',
Folding loaves and slicing the tops.
They rise again into the mature forms they will soon become.
And so into a hot oven.
Stay focused and turn it down to moderate,
At just the right time.
The smell is the best indicator.
It's cooked.
Turned out of its tins you can indulge in the sweetest and most comforting aroma on the planet.
Real fresh bread. 

Camaraderie

In the group,
You cease being yourself.
You drink beer.
You gossip and tell anecdotes.
Your style of speaking, pace and content,
Change to match your audience.
Gentle jibes and teasing is accepted as normal conversation.
You give as much as you get.
Despite behaving differently,
You feel comfort in being part of the pack.
Camaraderie.

Bathing Babes

In the tub sat my fairy,
Amongst the soap suds light and airy,
with neither worry, nor 'carey'
Playing with her toys.

Along came her jealous brother,
Worried lest she might soon smother,
the bubbles before he could come over,
To join her in the tub.

His squeals came loud and raucous,
Her shrill shrieks joined the chorus
His intentions were looking grievous.
So I added some more soap

Cross - Country Carnival

All the schools will meet,

Tomorrow at the Country Club.

Voted the best of the districts venues,

The well manicured lawn of fairways and green,

Will meet the small 'joggered' feet of eight to twelve year olds.

Some will run, and run their hearts out. 

Some will walk and chat animatedly,

Some will do a combination of the two.

There will be the victorious,

The disappointed and the disinterested.

And that is just the spectating parents.

Lunches of hot dogs, sausage sandwiches,

And bacon and egg rolls will be consumed.

Washed down with 'poppers',

Or proper coffee from the van.

The day will culminate in the ball games.

Spindly legs attempt to straddle the Tunnel ball.

Small skulls cope with their interaction with a dropped Captain ball.

Trophies dispensed, the athletes retire to the busses,

To return to their respective towns.

Cross-country Carnival over for another year.

Too tired to Dance

Miss five in her oversized school uniform,
Bag almost as big as herself,
Trundles out the school gate.
I hold her hand,
Which emerges from a rolled jumper sleeve,
Also too big.
Happily she climbs into the car,
Chatting continuously of her day,
She attempts to remove her shoe.
She should be concentrating on the seat belt.
I hurry her because we do not have time to spare.
The banter continues.
We are all buckled in and ready to go to dance lessons.
Miss six, the bigger sister and veteran of year one shares her days happenings.
I hear no other sound from Miss five,
Bar the heavy breathing of slumber.
The day has been too big,
Life too full and interesting,
And we are too tired to dance.

Life Ache

Head ache: Pain in the head due to pressure,
Causes include dehydration, blocked sinuses or mental exhaustion.
Tooth ache: Nerve pain felt deep in the gums or jaw of the mouth and may extend to the ear,
Causes include tooth decay, abscess or exposed nerve.
Ear ache: Pain within the inner workings of the ear canal,
Causes include infection of the drum, canal or Eustachian tubes.
Stomach ache: Pain in the digestive tract generally felt in the region of the midriff,
Causes include Gastroenteritis, colic and over eating.
Heart ache: Pain in the chest within the vicinity of the heart,
Causes include unrequited love or strong longing.
Life ache: Pain within the whole body,
Causes include excessive stress and responsibility comparative to,
Insufficient moments of joy.

Running Late

Why is it when you're running late:
Your daughter decides to drag her feet,
Then starts crying and sits down on the wet grass,
On strike.
Then the dog gets out and chases the kids to the bus stop.
You, in your nighty with bare feet must pursue the whole party across the paddock.
The grass wet and icy whipping your bare legs.
With renewed attention the little girl slows her pace and screams louder.
Nothing to do but grab the dog,
And encourage the recalcitrant with threats, should she miss the bus.
Her siblings, save the oldest have gone from sight.
She relents and moves quicker but still wailing.
I return to the house annoyed,
That this has happened,
And that I feel like a callous, insensitive parent.

Small Town Show

You HAVE to go to the show....
No arguments!
To justify the gargantuan effort,
Perpetually put in,
By always the same volunteers.
See the artistic projects,
Collected over the whole year,
By class teachers at the local school.
The Produce, cooking, wool, photography and artistic items.
Enjoy traditional lunch prepared by the Hospital Auxiliary. 
Small daughters on small ponies,
To be led around the show ring,
Marvel at The Great Zamboni,
Comedy Magician.
Visit stands representing all the emergency agencies.
The jumping castles, lolly and weaponry-filled showbags.
Packs of lolly-hyped small boys,
With plastic submachine guns,
Terrorising their sisters.
Over-coiffed and make-upped tweens,
Vying for Miss Showgirl.
(Who don't risk entering, for fear of losing face.)
Smart dressed farmers in moleskins, plaid shirts and hats,
Check out the various species of 'stock',
And the sheep dog trials. 
And after a long and fatiguing day,
You pack up your tired, ratty kids,
Who clasp their ribbons, sashes, rosettes and submachine gun.
Then drive your familial circus;
Car with horse float,
Home.
You can let the feeling of relief wash gently over you,
Because it is over for another year.

Small Town Hairdresser

A simple pleasure having your hair washed by another person.
The warm water miraculously not dripping down the side of your neck.
That special way they massage your scalp,
And it never feels the same when you try to do it to yourself.
As they trim or put on colour you fall into a comfortable discussion about your kids, or theirs.
Or some other local news item of interest.
Other customers join in,
Because we all know each other.
Despite realising that you must look hideous,
With 'goop' and aluminium foil on your head,
You are not concerned.
Especially as your neighbour looks just as ridiculous.
There is an air of camaraderie.
We are in this quest for beauty and style together.
And we put our trust in the hands of our stylists,
Who have our personal combination of hair colour on file.

Wind on the Monaro

The tussocks roll,
Like an invisible hand stroking the soft fur of a puppy,
Or choppy waves on a bay.
It is soothing to watch.
It caresses my eyes.
I can observe insulated in the sanctuary of my warm vehicle.
The stands of trees I pass are another matter,
Ferocious in their calisthenics.
They bend, whip and quake alarmingly.
I prefer to watch the grass.
Then I come upon a gang of White Winged Choughs.
They are on the road, sheltering in a cutting.
As I approach they simultaneously rise in the air.
The blast they meet, causes them to rise slowly,
And make a gentle backwards arc.
Flashes of white break up the black.
They arch their backs unnaturally,
back paddling into the sky.  

The Frustrated 'Aspi' and the Meeting

I love and loathe meetings.

Love the protocol, the organisation,
And the language: minutes, chair, motions, second and agenda.
Love the soft 'g' in that word 'agenda.'

Loathe the fluff of:
Preening egos, ulterior agendas, (got it in there again) and jockeying for position.
The well organised, constructive and efficient meeting,
Gives me a strong feeling of solidarity and optimism.

The emotive, vacillating meeting stresses me to near tears.
Then frustration releases my most blunt, hard-edged persona.
The double edged sword of social embarrassment and helplessness overwhelms.
I can keep up the façade of vacuous conviviality......
Normally,
But at a meeting there is an even chance that it will end in tears......
Most likely mine.

Time to Think

It seems that thinking is a dying pursuit.
Pondering, daydreaming or inviting free flowing, flights of fancy.
Lives are filled with activity.
Some purposeful, some mere distraction.
Time without activity is characterised as boring.
Now our children are spending every waking moment entertained or stimulated.
Their time organised into activities.
Interspersed with babysitting by screens.
All but gone is the wandering about outside,
Letting the curiosities of life pump into you.
Pleasantly poking, prodding and pondering.
We adults are no better incessantly rushing,
Or playing on our electronic devices.
Grant me time to think.

The Child Cave

They screech and chatter like monkeys.
Whoops and calls of unbridled infant revelry.
We have paused at a town playground.
Modern play equipment in bold primary colours is ignored.
Rather, the children have discovered the steam-powered grader and stationary engine,
Over which they clambour unperturbed by the lack of soft-fall.
Excited primates in darkened hedge habitat.
They clambour over low branches and find their secret nesting spots.
Hide and wait in excited apprehension of discovery.
When found, their silence is broken by peels of screeching joy no longer contained.

The RSL Club

Social mainstay of this  country town.
Bistro meals, raffles and the odd band.
Wednesday night 'Schnitzels'.
Upstairs is the Board- room
Amongst the orange vinyl spinning chairs are the relics.
The glass cases of old uniforms and military paraphernalia.
The walls are inhabited by past presidents in the photographic,
And clothing styles of their respective reigns;
Black and whites with suits and brill cream,
Gaudy colour with wide ties and flares.
In the little auditorium the annual events are hosted.
High school formals, dance concerts, Melbourne Cup luncheons,
And of course Anzac and Remembrance Day commemorations.
It is friendly and familiar,
And available.
Membership is reasonably priced,
And it makes you feel apart of something bigger than yourself.

But I still hate the 'Pokies'

The Tag

Those damned starlings have left their 'tags' on my veranda.
Autographs in piles of black and white,
Underline the washing line,
And emblazon the kids toy box, the chairs and the little fibreglass coffee table.
The rocking horse has 'got one in the eye.'
I am incensed.
I spend more time cleaning this space than sitting relaxing in it.
Out comes the broom, buckets of bleached water and high pressure hose.
It is not the most clement of weather.
It is going to take a long time to dry.
I am saturated and cold.
Almost done and I'm cleaning the bottom of the table.
It would have been pretty 'groovy' in the sixties.
Would not look out of place in 'A Clockwork Orange.'
It has been passed on to me by my father, who made it.
Then I spot it,
My 'tag'.
In pencil,
My name and address from 1977.