Will it snow?

This week it has been several degrees below.
Frosts have come with days of glorious blue.
Give the children cheeks of a rosy hue,
But tell me, will it snow?

The grass is brown and has ceased to grow.
The buck still smells and the goats are still in heat.
The bull bellows, the cow he'd like to meet.
But tell me, will it snow?

And though he too, is now below,
They say "It always snowed on Arty's Birthday"
But that was in April and now its May.
So I'm asking them, will it snow?

It's the kids who really want to know
Snow means no bus and no school for the day
Snow balls and men and cold wet outdoor play.
They are wishing, for it to snow.

The weatherman seems to be one who knows
Forecasted snow to below five hundred metres.
We've got in extra wood to fill our heater.
So we're ready, if it snows.

Learning to play the Piano

Fingers are not supple, coordinated,
Or so easily contorted,
To match the vital positions,
Required to play each key.
Nor can they change from one chord shape,
To another with such ease.
Individual digits rise in unison with their neighbours,
When you would like them to stay in their place.
They can lag when doing runs of scales.
And make the pace of endeavor slower than your mind can endure.
But having said this,
The lovely tinkling sounds,
Of a piano played tunefully,
Soothe and calm the mind.
The beauty and emotion,
Conveyed in the chords,
Sublime.
These would not be appreciated,
By those more youthful.
It is these things that,
Keep you interested and even longing to practice.
When you are a more 'mature' student of the piano 

Sleeping on a Mountain Top

The climb was hard,
Leg numbing, chest burning, hard.
And all the more dangerous,
For being executed in moonlight.
Although like midnight, the top would inevitably arrive,
It was a most longed for object.
The promise of rest was all that guaranteed progress.
The stops became more frequent and the rocky inclines
More treacherous and steep.
At last it was achieved,
And among the rocks, on uneven ground,
The tent was erected.
Sweat soaked body became chilled,
And gratefully accepted the warmth of the sleeping bag.
Despite the chill and the rocky bedfellows,
Sleep was as unpolluted as the fresh crystal air of the clear night.
Unmolested by any discordant cacophony of thoughts.
Perhaps being physically closer to heaven,
Sets the mind above the incessant buzz. 

Climbing Mountains

Sometimes,
You feel the stronge urge to escape.
When a mountain top calls to your soul.
It is not a loud voice,
Yet you hear it,
Deep in the confines of your chest.
Your lungs crave cool, clean air.
Your nose, the scent of Eucalyptus.

The track winds upwards,
You are always looking ahead.
Up, up, up.
Your stride is brisk at first.
Fatigue soon drags at your limbs,
Your breath gets shorter,
Steps become more laboured.

Your will expectant, but flagging.
Eventually, the peak sneaks up,
Quietly.

Effort is rewarded.
Hear your pounding heart.
Feel the stress lift.
Aching legs and shoulders,
Give way to relaxation.
You are now above the hub-bub and strains of the everyday.

Literal

The aspies's dilemma,
Understanding and trusting,
The actual meaning of what people say.

Why is it that people cannot say,
What they mean?
Why honey coat?
Why Spin, spin, spin?
Why the half truths?
The body language gives it away.
The truth, the lies, the hazy grey space in between.

It is not that difficult.
Say what you mean,
EXACTLY WHAT YOU MEAN.
And mean what you say.

Burning the heaps

To save our assets,
During the devastating bushfires last year,
Bulldozers of every shape and size,
(Even an electric D7),
Converged on our small community,
And cleared fire breaks.
Constructed around the school, the hall and,
Dwellings large and small.
This process culminated in heaps.
Heaps of heaps.
Heaps of trees and shrubs and dirt and detritus.

Now a year on and we have mostly,
Come out relatively unscathed.

(Well not of course those few houses,
And the 285000 hectares of bush that burned.)

We are surrounded by regenerating forest,
Vibrant green,
On black and brown,
And the heaps.

But today.
We rejoice in coming through this ordeal.
As they light up THE HEAPS.
   

Cooking Dinner

It is not in the cooking,
It is the deciding what to cook.
There are considerations,
What vegetables are starting to fail the bend test.
What leftovers are cluttering the fridge.
The most challenging is the defrosting.
Microwave free, chops, steak, mince and sausages,
All need time to defrost.
Up to a whole day.
Then there is the issue of bread.
Has some been baked?
Is there a loaf hiding in the freezer?
Yoghourt too, requires a whole day to ferment.
Today the issue is eggs.
Approaching the Winter solstice.
Only super bantam is laying her daily egg.
Not enough for a batch of ham or Tofu, burgers.
A trip to town to buy twenty kilos of chook feed,
And one carton of free range eggs.




 

Ants in their pants

They have:
Ants in their pants.
A fascination with the contents of their nose.
A strong desire to pull a loose thread from the t shirt nearest then.
An uncontrollable urge to scratch off, the scab on their knee,
And eat it.
To put the corner of their worksheet into their mouth,
And chew off tiny pieces like a mouse.
To suck their sock.
To rock back.
To rock forwards,
And back again.
To chew their sleeve, shoelace,
The end of their pencil,
And their own hair.
To roll around the floor,
Or flip periodically onto their tummies.
An innate desire to fiddle,
With something(whatever's in reach.)

They are children of six or seven.
Bless them.

Warm Water

The pressure of fluid against flesh,
Like an all encompassing embrace,
That demands nothing.
Float.
Escape the wear and tear of gravity on joints.
Hair slick and free from bondage.
No clothes to imprison,
Or harness breasts.
Bare as if in the womb.
A warm bath is like a homecoming. 

Meltdown

Insidious how the stress creeps up.
Bubbling and gurgling just below the surface.
A look, an ill timed word, a mistake,
Will bring the emotions bubbling to your eyes.
You can't always put your finger on the cause.
There are always the warning signs,
The rumbling.
You are impatient and snappy.
Small things irritate you.

Sometimes you can empty out a little of the stress,
By doing something you love.
Sometimes you can't.
And despite all your attempts to calm down,
Find your sanctuary.
Make sense of all the emotions.
One small thing will overfill that bucket
And you blow.

And sometimes there are casualties.
Those inadvertently caught in the crossfire.
And when everything calms down,
You are left to deal with aftermath,
The shame,
And the knowledge that it will inevitably happen again.

A Little Light Music

After dinner,
While my children look mournfully at their cooling vegetables,
I practice a little light music.
Generally piano,
But if I am inspired I move onto ukulele.
Or sometimes guitar.
Playing is really accompaniment.
I play a multitude of instruments badly.
There are phases,
Violin and mandolin,
Have also been known to come down off the wall,
Tuned and played with.
But my best instrument,
The most enjoyable, portable, creative and versatile,
That can fill my heart and soul with every emotion.
Is my voice.

Life's too short

Life's too short:
to sweat the small stuff,
to hold a grudge,
to live without purpose,
to not sing and dance,
to iron your undies,
to be with someone you don't love,
to be envious,
to covet possessions,
to not be kind,
to worry about what others think,
to be afraid,
to not enjoy your work,
to put up with abuse,
to stay in a rut,
to ignore the truth,
to settle for less,
to remain bitter and disappointed,
to feel vengeful,
to indulge in negativity...

to not love.

Cold

It creeps up slowly,
Engulfing by stealth.
Draw the coverings.
Pull it all in tight.
Each tiny gap a possible entry point.
Yet even when you are feeling secure,
Like chronic disease it gradually takes you over.
Until you recognise,
That the chill is,
Down to the bone.

Maths

Today,
I taught six children how to:
Tell the time,
Count up their pocket money.
Share pizza, cake and pie fairly,
Write today's date,
The friends of Ten.
And what an octopus and octagon have in common.
Then,
Had a meeting where we discussed:
Teaching times tables,
Solving problems with multiple steps,
The confusion students have with fractions and decimals,
And how to develop an understanding of Base Ten.

Can you tell I like maths?

Blanche and Maude

Today we are gathered together,
 (around the kitchen table)
To celebrate the lives of Blanche and Maude,
Who gave their lives unconsciously,
For the betterment of our nutrition.
They were with us for only seven short months,
But they brought their inquisitive and friendly dispositions,
Into our lives to delight us.
Twice daily we met with them in their modest home.
To provide their succour.
It was a pleasure to discover their individual personalities,
Watch them frolic and gamble about,
Happy in their sorority.
Their gentle and individual expressions, characteristic squeals and exclamations of delight,
Will remain  etched in our memory.
They spent their final days romping in tall grass and playing together.
And fittingly, that is also how they left this world,
Together.
We have been honoured to have had the opportunity to raise,
These magnificent pigs.

The Funeral

They had come together for a funeral.
Graveside, the sun shone.
It was beautiful.
They were in the Club for the wake,
But that was hours ago and they were now well lubricated.
We arrived for tea and got an invite to join them.
"Come on we're going to the Globe."
They were all there:
Nana, aunts, cousins and kids.
Beaming.
This family, who members still had some of life's greatest battles before them.
Who had  just lost one of their own, prematurely,
Were glowing in the fraternity of each other's company.
A new baby on the way.
Positive news from the oncologist.
Some loss but also lots of joy.
We were there as friends but could still bask in their light.

Wood Fires

When your sole heating is wood fired.
It warms you twice.
In the sawing, splitting, loading,
The unloading and stacking,
And within the confines of the combustion heater.
The slow burning embers warm the home and the heart.

In these parts there is much discussion
About the procurement of 'good wood.'
What hardwood species can be best classified as
'Good wood.'
What will split easily.
Which species burn too quick, have too many ants,
Or don't give out much heat,
And what will burn out your heater.
Discussions follow on how long timber must be left to dry.
And who gives the best deals on firewood.

We gather our own.
Our fire goes day and night through the winter months.
Clothes dry before it.
Children risk burning bottoms dressing before it
And the hearth is the most popular spot for sitting.

The only regret of being a wood-fired household?
Fires are not instantaneous.
They warm slowly.
Being first home to a cold dark house.
Sucks!

Phoenix

It was finally felled by great gusts,
Gutted, it had no bones for its iron skin.
So it fell.
Mostly.
The large timber posts held.
Half the gabled roof hangs.
With each new blast of wind, the loosened iron sheets,
"Clatter and clang, clatter and clang."

We are here today, along with the wind,
To salvage the best it can offer.
We collect and sort the iron,
That has flown to all corners of the paddock.
The playful wind tugs it from our grasp.
Continuing its game.

Then the fallen rafters and batons are liberated.
But we trip over haphazard debris.
And the uncovered rabbit warrens.
Having the last laugh,
The wind whips our hair into our eyes.

But we are not deterred.
In our mind's eye, the shed,
That will rise again in a new location,
On our farm.

Gates

And the farmer's eleventh commandment?
"Thou shall shut the gate!"
The horses are in the lane,
So two gates more than we're used.
The front seat, the most coveted,
Has suddenly become less desirable.
Both gates swing one way.
Curses fly when you stop too close,
To open or close them.
In the murky, misty night,
You fumble around, feeling for the catch,
Stumbling on the uneven darkness.
Arriving home with expectations of domicile comfort,
You are blasted from your pleasant stupor,
By a snow infused gale.
Warm hands meet cold steel.
House shoes meet muddy puddle.
Pony spies the greener side,
With the car, you block their attempts.
"Damn, too close again."

The "Arse-end" of Driving

My backside and the upholstery of my car's driver's seat have an intimate relationship.
They spend hours in each others company.
They move together with synchronicity.
And have moulded to each other's needs.
Although sometimes arriving numb at our destination,
My bottom is relieved to fall into the relative softness of the seat's padding,
On the return jouirney.
The comparisons made between wear and tear on the car,
The hundreds of thousands of kilometres registered on the odometer,
Could similarly be made on wear and tear on my sedentary bum,
I am sure that its flat spots and lack of tone could be attributed to this.
Perhaps my bottom requires a 400,000km service,
And I should take a long walking holiday.

Gradually the Evening Gathers in.

The blue and grey of the day slowly darkens,
To excentuate the mountains,
That hold us in their gentle embrace.
Inside it is cosy-warm.
The dancing flames of the fire mesmorise.
Dinner's aroma is filling the room with invitation.
Liberated from my workday shoes,
My feet are enveloped in soft sheepskin.
I recline into my familiar lounge chair,
Watch the bath-clean children quietly play at my feet.
Their damp hair dishevelled, the just recognisable smell of toilet soap.
I pick up my guitar, pick out a new tune and hum to myself. 

The excitement of visitors

On the scale of naughtiness,
My kids are definitely on the mild side.
Yes, they are egocentric little beings,
And they get jealous and they bicker,
And sometimes even fight.
So I wouldn't say we have any behavioural issues;
Not that can't be dealt with by a few minutes,
Quietening down in the cot.
But when a visitor comes...
They become a whole new species:
Sometimes it's monkey,
Climbing up on the hapless visitor.
Cockatoo, Screeching and repeating themselves.
Possum, curling up close to the visitor,
Asking incessantly for another book to be read to them.
They can be a pack of playful lion-cubs,
Chasing each other and rough-housing.
Or even (at their most embarrassing),
Mountain goats, climbing onto the furniture,
And leaping off.
This metamorphosis only happens when we have visitors.
I blame it on the cake.

Flossie

She must have looked so cute as a little kid,
When she melted someone's heart.
But she grew.
And so did her angora coat,
Into soft, white ringlets.
Her friendliness was praised,
And bemoaned, when she climbed up to be petted.
She bleated: "Hello!". "Please feed me!", "I'm bored!" and "What-a-bout me?"
Occasionally she ate things that were wanted for other purposes.
Sometimes she got into places she was not welcome.
Eventually her owners had to move and she was passed on,
From one reluctant relative to another.
And now with her coat overlong,
Her hooves and horns in need of care.
And her bottom far from respectable,
She has come to us.
And we shall call her Flossie.

Shearers have no Bums

It looks comical,
Four shearers stand in a row
Each with a reclining sheep's hoof between his bottom cheeks.
Shearers are lithe and wiry.
They need their belts,
To hold up their trousers.
They have no problems touching their toes,
And when they are on the long blows,
They kneel like sprinters on their blocks.
Shearers work very hard.
During breaks they stretch out on the board,
To unbend their bent backs.
Shearers have soft hands,
From the lanolin,
With prickles,
From the thistles.
Shearers are pranksters.
They brand the roustabout.
And shave off his eyebrow.
Shearers like country music.
Hank, Slim and Johnny,
And they like it,
Loud!

The Ballad of the Ghost Girl - A child lost in the mountain forests of Far East Gippsland

(Based on a true story. The child walked twenty miles to the headwaters of the Delegate River - Now part of Errinundra National Park.)

To go meet her father, was in her mind.
When down to the river, she went to find,
The way to the old mill, along its banks she did wind.
But the daughter went upstream,
She went upstream
Ever upstream,
Wending her way.

For she knew that the mill, from the river it fed.
So to "stay on the river", was all that he'd said.
But the mill it was downstream, and she'd gone upstream instead.
So the daughter went upstream.
She went upstream,
Ever upstream,
As light faded away.

The country was getting more rugged and rough.
And she trudged on for miles, and the going was tough.
But the child knew not, how far was enough.
And the daughter trudged upstream.
She climbed upstream,
Ever upstream,
Into the next day.

Alarms were raised and the black Tracker sent.
And a party of men slowly made the ascent.
Her cries heard in a lonely hut. They were on her scent.
So the tracker went upstream.
The searchers went upstream,
Ever upstream,
Without delay.

After twenty miles at the rivers fork,
The maid found that she no longer could walk.
So she lay down and death, the child it did stalk.
And death it came upstream.
Slowly it came upstream,
Ever upstream,
And stole her away.

Many miles of rough bush did the searchers ride through.
The black tracker had done the best he could do.
When at last near The Forks, they found one single shoe.
And her ghost it walks upstream.
Calls to her father, upstream,
Ever upstream,
To this very day.

Stimming

It is when you REALLY HAVE to CONCENTRATE,
Or you have a sudden BURST of stimulation,
Or when you are VERY STRESSED,
That you find yourself unconsciously,
Or more likely,
Someone else discovers,
That you are...

STIMMING!
(this word requires capitals and an exclamation mark!)
Because,
It can be wholly EMBARRASSING.
Especially if it involves WEIRD face pulling.

Nose twitching, thrumming fingers,
Rapid tongue movements, hands flapping
Or any STRANGE articulation,
Of almost any part of body part,
That articulates.

Once I was chastised for conducting, (by our choirmaster,)
And I too embarrassed to explain,
That I was lost in the rapture of the music.

Snail - Mail and the excitement of gratification delayed.

What has happened to those dual emotions,
Excitment and anxiety,
That come of expectation,
As you await that return letter.
By 'snail mail'.

Now when we have a single thought,
Banal or brilliant,
Generous or mean spirited,
With one click,
We can share it.

And to not just one correspondent,
But to possibly millions.
(If the content is 'voyeur-worthy' enough.)

And to ease the anxiety,
Of the anticipation,
Of a reply,
One click.

So we dull the anxiety.
But what of the excitement?

Faux-pas

Faux-pas,
Hard to spell,
Easy to do.

It denotes innocence of intent,
And motivation misinterpreted.

So what to do when identified?
Ask pardon.
Make amends immediately.

What not to do?
Pass back the blame.
Act oblivious.

Navigating

Life is filled with them,
Relationships through which you must navigate.
Like a ship sailing between treacherous reefs.
The coral laden rocks and sand bars,
Have no means of interpreting the Skipper's intentions,
Or his motivation.
They sit static, looking inocuous.
Yet little eddies may turn into whirlpools.
Storms with strong winds may rage.
Like an ignorant fool you are led to disaster.
It seems on very rare occasion,
You can drop anchor in a quiet harbour.

Sun - a song composed after three weeks of wet weather on a very long drive.

Too many days I've felt the grey.
I need some sun
To banish it away.

A sky of blue,
And time with you
I need some sun
to get me through

And I want to run barefoot in soft green grass
I want to feel the wind in my hair 
I want to tramp for miles and miles with you by my side
And sleep out in the open air.

But still it rains for days and days
I need some sun
to kill off this disdain

And I want to climb a mountain and yell from the top.
I want to rise up with the dawn.
I want to chatter to you babe till you make me stop.
We'll build a fire to keep us warm.

And I want to look out on a starry night.
I want see the moon in your face.
And I want to feel your heart beating next to mine.
And feel the warmth of your embrace.

When I drive I keep my mind active by writing songs in my head. I sing the lines over and over until I memorise them. Then when I get to my destination I have to record the song before life's busy-ness takes it from me. I do not know if it is the drone of the motor or the rhythm of the tyres on the road surface that inspires, but this is just  how song writing happens for me.

Fractured

I can't seem to fix this thing.
Though I have tried many times.
And my attempts seem only to have worsened the situation.
What fractured the relationship I still can't fathom.
I have known them my whole life.
Would never have thought them so judgemental.
Or that their good opinion once lost would be forever.
So after all these years,
The pain is raw.

The realisation that they will not always be around,
And reunion seems unattainable.
Upsets me beyond measure.
I know that the time will come when they could need me.
But maybe that need will be filled by a generation skipped.
All I know is the hopelessness and the sense of mourning
That despite being so close in proximity,
We seem to have lost each other forever.

Abuse

It can be so subtle,
And the outside observer may not pick it.
They see the charm, politeness,
And nothing is too much trouble.
The trying too hard,
Immodestly feigning modesty
All hallmarks of  insecurity,
So easily overlooked.
The lovely family,
And such a nice guy.
His kids seem a little shy though.

But then there is the fuse,
So short.
The sudden blast,
When the pressure of the performance,
And the lack of power to completely control the situation,
 Is too much.
And over such a little thing.
Speculate what may happen when the 'thing',
Is not so little.

The Stick

As I drive down the hill towards town,
The river attracts my attention.
No matter the conglomeration of thoughts,
Mercantile or familial,
Their colour or mood, filling my mind,
The slow pace of the water,
The harmonising rhythm of the overhanging willows, seduces my eyes.
I am drawn to dreaming of  boating down its course
And picnicking on the sandbar on a curving bend.
We are now parallel and I am rising to a panoramic view.
Ahead in the distance there is a fisherman in waders
He is in the water, close to the bank.
Closer inspection as we approach reveals,
The same stick,
Whose image has tricked my brain tens of times.