Wool Classing

You must think quickly.
Be decisive.
Enough Butts, everything ready?
They've started.
Music's up loud and the bellies are off.
The first fleece hits the table
You inspect while you skirt.
Rousabout rolls it toward you.
Your cold, early morning fingers,
Enjoy its warmth.
Check the staple length.
Sound?
Yes, mentally note the VM.
Pick your bin,
Tentatively, 
It may change when a few more are off.
The pace is rapid.
Fleeces lined up at the end of the table.
The rousabout throws amiss.
The pressure builds.
The lines are now in place,
but its go go go!
Until the cut-out is announced
By the cutting off of Slim in mid-song. 

Small Hauntings

There are fragments of memory that come back and bite,
They are just a flash.
Could be a whiff of fragrance, a gesture or a half forgotten song,
But they have tendrils that drag you right back,
To the moments when you can feel,
That part of your heart,
That is tender and unhealed.
The scar will not, quite close over.

I call these moments ghosts.
For when they visit,
A coldness washes over me,
And I know that I am haunted.

Yet as time passes,
Ghosts become bored.
Your life fills with other responsibilities and distractions.
And your visitations decline.
And you are close to happy again.  

Newton's Third and Aspergers

Like Newton's third law,
For periods of excessive socialisation,
There must be periods of solitude.
For periods of stimulation and activity,
Periods of rest.
For periods where your responsibilities are for the welfare of others,
Periods dedicated exclusively to your own 'special interests'.
To not adhere to the law,
Will result in physical and emotional chaos,
Characterised by meltdown or shutdown.

Quite simple really!
'

Still Grey

A fortnight is a long time ,
To miss the sun.
Not so much the warmth.
Nor that its absence has brought incessant rain.
It is just the insipid grey.
That drags your spirits down,
To the bottom of your muddy shoes.

Maybe tommorrow,
As I'm opening my longing eyes,
Through my window,
Will come,
That welcome blue.
Herald of the sun.

But for now,
It is a conjured daydream,
To cling to,
And keep gloom at bay.
For still,
It is grey.

 

Invigoration

What is it about the combination of wind, rain and outdoor activity,
That causes such invigoration of the soul?
I was very tired,
Up far too late last night.
Yet,
Being out in the paddock,
Moving soggy goats and their shelter.
Pulling down electric fences,
And tramping through the paddocks,
Just made me feel alive.
My nose was runny and wet cool hairs streaked across my face.
My clunking gumboots even had a leak and a stone.
Yet,
I had a smile in my heart.

ANZAC

I listened and my eyes could not resist,
The squeezing pressure of unbeckoned tears;
My chest, the choking breathlessness,
That another's distress invokes involuntarily.
The constable in impeccable blue chokes on the words.
Pauses to regain composure and reads,
A diary entry from an ANZAC,
His Great Grandfather Dudley,
Who just over one hundred years ago tramped the same street,
On which I now stood listening.
Dudley was there at the first,
0430 25th April 1915 ANZAC Cove.
He writes of the solemn trepidation as they prepare to disembark.
The quiet.
They fix bayonets.
Then as the operation commences the ear-splitting racket of shelling and Lizzie's guns.
He is in the boat  and sees ahead the cliffs in the dawn light.
He feels the fear and excitement.
They will be the first Australians to land and fight on foreign soil.

Already they are dying around him.
Seven men hit in his boat.
The neighbouring sunk and men in the brine.
His boat hits the rocky shore.
They disembark and he is up to his neck.
Somehow he clambers ashore.
His first sight the ragged piles of dead comrades.
Still warm and without the opportunity,
After all the months of training,
To fire a single shot at the enemy.  

Being friends with an Aspie

We can look a real friend in the eye.
They know that we are in earnest when we speak,
And accept our quirks,
Even if they do not always like or understand them.
They will try hard not to manipulate us.
And will stand by us when we are scorned by others.
They understand that,
Our motivations may be self absorbed,
But we are not malicious.
Real friends are gentle,
When we are fragile.
They speak clearly and concisely,
And try not to use confusing body language.
When we waffle on,
They remind us respectfully.
They don't roll their eyes and feign interest.
They try never to leave us confused.
Aspies are loyal and true,
But we take a huge gamble,
When investing in a friend.

 

Faux-pas

Despite all my best efforts,
The faux-pas, it seems,
Can not be avoided.
Born of nervousness,
It blossoms out of awkwardness,
Fertilized by context blindness,
And is watered,
By the accumulating, blundering, attempts to make amends.
It is inevitable,
When you have ASD.

The Wedding Dress on the Door.

Silk, linen, taffeta and brocade,
Beaded and bejeweled,
Of every shape, size and vintage,
On each of a hundred front doors,
Hangs a wedding gown.
A simple sign of compassion and solidarity,
A poignant gesture,
For the girl who tragically,
Will never become a bride.

The Small Gestures

It is in the small gestures,
The daily acts of kindness,
The patience,
And selflessness.
The notice of the needs of another,
That we should be measured.

It is in true empathy,
That accepts,
That we are all flawed,
And do not mean,
Out of spite,
To pass on our suffering.

These are the acts,
which define our humanity.
.

Human Frailty

In defeat you witness the agony of human frailty,
It can be subtle.
A gesture,
Or glassiness of eye.
A litany of excuses.
The blame game begins.
A gathering together of sympathetic allies,
Who can reassure and take their side,
Against their own weakness.
That inability to withstand attacks on the ego.
Or accept the loss of face.
That is their agony.
The avoidance of the unpalatable truth.

Familiarity

I've become contemptuous.
Repeated patterns,
Viewed through a lens coloured by cynicism.
I am by nature optimistic.
But....
Contempt born of familiarity,
Is a hard mould to break,
Perhaps impossible,
Or at least not worth the effort.
Better perhaps to move on,
Before the fruit becomes too bitter and unpalatable,
And you forget that it ever tasted sweet.

Damaged

It is not their fault,
Or anyones,
It runs through the generations,
Passed on from parent to child,
Hurt and ignorance,
Lack of modelling,
Low expectations,
Poor self image,
Unhelpful strategies,
For coping with all that life throws,
And then passed down,
Like a terrible legacy. 

Scouts on Bikes

They come in all shapes and sizes.,
The Scouts,
And the bikes.
All  levels of experience pounding the bitumen.
The Scouts,
And their bikes.
Scrapes and scratches and faulty bits,
The Scouts,
And their bikes.
Some ride smoothly through the gears,
The Scouts,
And their bikes.
Some reach their destination in good order,
And some are broken by the journey,
The Scouts,
And their bikes.

Sleeping in a tent.

A stretcher is definitely more comfortable than a mat.
Some stretchers are easier than others to assemble.
Soft ground is never soft enough for hip bones.
Touch the tent and you're wet.
Always carry sufficient pegs.
Be gentle with tent and sleeping bag zippers.
Tents with ceiling apparatus for hanging a light are preferable.
Good ventilation is imperative in hot sticky weather.
Avoid embarrassment,
Learn to erect your tent before camping with friends.
A hot water bottle can substitute for a missing partner.
Find level ground and clear it of debris,
Before erecting your tent.
Look out for ant's nests.
Dig a drain away from your tent if rain looks persistent.
Always dry your tent well before storing.

Small Blessings

I recline in my sick bed and,
Tap, tap these keys.
This poem writes itself on my laptop screen.
In the kitchen, my husband,
Is scrubbing a pot.
I hear the sound of scourer on metal.
He has already fed us,
Organised the children and retired them to their beds.
The fire has been lit,
By him.
The house, like my heart is warming.
This rest is easy,
I don't feel his efforts,
As any weight of obligation.
He takes such care of me.
These are the small blessings,
Enjoyed by someone who is loved.

Little Pony Little Rider

Such a tiny pony.
Black as coal,
Shimmering and glossy,
His coat beckons my fingers to caress it.
Thick and warm.
He nuzzles my hand with his velvet nose.
On his back a tiny rug and saddle,
And proudly sitting tall,
Feet in stirrups,
Reins held confidently,
A small blonde boy.
They turn and take their leave,
And 'bob, bob, bobbing',
Trot away.

Sick in the country

Sick in the country means:
I was really lucky that,
Yes they could fit me in,
To see the doctor,
TODAY.
Driving two hundred and ten kilometres,
Down a winding, mountain road.
From one thousand metres to sea level,
On sixty ks an hour.
I was sick before I left home.
But much sicker by the time I got back.
Still very pleased,
To see the doctor,
TODAY!

Natural Cycles vs reality of life in the21st Century

The cycles of birth, growth and death cannot be escaped from,
But they may be morphed.
I plant my garlic in April and my tomatoes in November.
Commercial growers in their irrigated, temperature-regulated greenhouses,
Plant any time of the year.
My veggies are in soil enriched with manure and compost,
Mulched with old straw.
Commercial veggies may not even have their feet in the earth,
But in an NPK chemical-cocktail.
My fruit feels the cold of frosts, moisture of rain,
And has the light of the Sun and Moon on its flesh.
Commercial Fruit, gassed, waxed and polished is stored the long year.

And while I like to follow the patterns of nature,
As a human being:
I still use artificial light to stay up later than my body finds healthy.
I travel  in a carbon-spewing vehicle much faster than my two legs can transport me.
I regulate my behaviour to the machinations of  human society,
And bow to the responsibilities of its membership.
I work in an air-conditioned, artificially-lit and computerised building.
I buy products wrapped in packaging that takes an eon to decompose.
I follow like a sheep, the commercialised festivals of the year,
All of which I abhor.
I am a consumer!

How to reclaim the natural cycles of being a human animal?

The visitor

We have a visitor today.
My children's madness begins subtly.
They actually help to tidy their rooms,
In anticipation.
Once everything is prepared they became fractious.
When is he coming?
Distraction comes in baking sugary offerings,
Drawing and colouring,
Or finding a quiet corner to continue reading.
Then at last ten minutes before expected,
The car comes up the drive.
Kisses and embraces and presents distributed.
The volume gets louder.
After a cup of tea and chattering conversations,
The visitor and mass of children retire to the lounge room.
Then the wild rumpus really begins.
The climbing, the dressing up, the dancing about to loud music.
Voices becoming more shrill as the excitement builds.
Then there are the minor squabbles, tears and retribution.
One returns to a quiet corner to continue reading.

We have a visitor and my children go crazy.

Book

I take in long drafts of the familiar smell,
Paper and fresh print.
Hear the crack of the paperback's spine.
Feel the  texture,
Of not quite smooth paper,
Beneath my resting hand.
The grease of my fingers,
Provide just enough friction to turn a page.
Everything is crisp and new.
Unspoiled, untainted.
I love the entirety of this sensual, tactile experience.
The opening of a new book

Aspies Shopping

We don't really like to browse.
There maybe something in that shop we really like and won't be allowed to have.
We will not be able to stop thinking about it.
Mum likes that Hippy shop.
Neither of us like the smells in there.
Patchouli Mum says.
She knows because she has the nose that knows.
Just like me.
Mum likes to talk to her friends,
She meets on the street.
I don't.
I just want to get on with it.
Whatever 'it' is supposed to be.
I pull at her hand and don't acknowledge the person she is talking too.
Sometimes I get scared that there might be people in a shop that I don't know.
It is getting late for morning tea.
My tummy is rumbling.
I ask Mum the time.
I was right we are late.
Mum buys me a pie for lunch.
What I really want is a cake,
And she knows it.
Mum is not surprised when I cover my ears,
Because someone is using a power saw.
Driving home I'm thirsty from the pie.
Mum will not stop to buy a drink.
She just wants to get home.
Neither Mum nor I like shopping.

Spinning Harriet's Fleece.

Harriet's fleece has the tips of her lamb-hood.
It has been sorted into its colours,
White, grey, chocolate and black.
She would have been a cull,
But I took her home along with this first fleece.
She is a pure Merino.
Her fleece is fine.
It is sound and of good character.
Her wool will be soft.
Not the first choice of home spinners.
Who prefer first crosses with long staples and higher micron.
I don't care because I am learning.
I have spun alpaca and pre-carded, dyed batts of sheep's wool.
This is my first experience using the drum carder on raw fleece.
'Shuck, shuck, shuck' goes the treadle.
I become mesmerized by the repetitive actions of foot and hands.
Harriet's fleece is greasy and makes my skin soft with lanolin.
It spins fine.
I ponder how many threads I shall have to ply?
Will it break in the process? 
And what shall I make with her balls of wool?
'Shuck, shuck, shuck.'

Easter is.......

Easter is .......
Too much chocolate!

Autumn's Calf Sales

Autumn's calf sales.
These are marked by sleepless nights.
First there is the herding and drafting.
Cows and calves separated by barb and hinge-joint.
And until the bawling offspring are trucked off to sale-yards,
Night and day their anguish rings into the sky.
I hear their bellows in the quiet of the evening.
I hear it again around midnight,
When I wake from un-remembered dreams.
It is the first sound I notice despite the birdsong,
Heralding the new day.
As the sun is peaking over the horizon,
I go outside and into the paddocks,
I see the grieving cattle.
The light casts them in long shadows and a wispy blanket of mist.
The bereft mothers with udders that strain and ache with excess milk,
That will never again be suckled by this year's calves.

Good Friday at Delegate

Good Friday.
Are we eating fish?
Going to church?
Reflecting on Christ's sacrifice?
No we are down at the river,
With the rest of the townsfolk of Delegate.
Baptising?
No we are gambling on the outcome of a race.
One hundred and nine starters.
There is pizza,
Baked in the town's cob-oven.
And an Easter egg hunt,
And boat races for the kids.
The playground is a riot of squeals.
The men beer in hand discuss,
The weather and stock prices.
The women, with one eye on their children discuss,
The nocturnal habits of newborns.
And at two o'clock  it's on.
The crowd moves slowly along the bank,
The tension builds as the field spreads out.
Their are no scratchings.
Competitors that become snagged are pushed back into the flowing stream.
Till at  last they cross the finish.
Great nets scoop up the multi- coloured plastic throng,
So that they may be available to race again next year.
And so ends the Delegate Duck Races for another year.

Spooning: A romantic date for the practically minded

Me and my mate are 'in' for a date.
Yes, we are at home,
Alone.
Kids at school,
So it's out with the tools:
Hatchet, saw, knives and sharpening stone.
He's been on a course,
So of course,
He's going to teach me too.
So for a romantic day,
Well what can I say?
What else would you have us do?
We saw and we hack and we whittle,
Until our time is up, far too soon,
And life must get back on track,
But we haven't yet,
Finished carving our spoons!. 

Should

The word 'should',
Was written deep in my head.
So I scratched it out,
Breaking the lead.

Easter

It is Easter in the Southern Hemishere.
Children go to school in their,
Chick and bunny Easter bonnets.
They colour in,
And search for chocolate eggs.
The weather is cooling.
Daylight saving, in its death throws seems ridiculous.
We antipodeans celebrate the coming of Spring.
Yet my chickens have almost ceased laying.
I am gathering firewood for winter.
The last of the harvest,
The quinces, are being processed.
It is as bizarre as snow covered Christmas cards.

The Sheepskin

He was tan
And he was a wether.
I say was, because now he's chops in the freezer,
And this rug.
His body will feed a couple for a month or so.
His lovely thick fleece covered skin,
Will be soft beneath the feet of a friend,
Who must stand.