Frustrating Conversations

Small talk,
I loathe the incessant amount of meaningless twaddle that pours on me.
But I am odd, I know it.
I observe others.
They appear to understand hidden meanings,
That must be there,
In gesture, tone of voice, stance and
Every subtle movement,
That makes up the language of the body.
I don't get it.
I hear words like 'good' and 'things' and 'nice'.
No REAL information!

"How was your journey?"
" Good!"
" That's nice."
"Yes, we managed to get things done."
" Oh good"
" Well it's been good catching up on your news. Have a nice day."

Oh yuck, get me a bucket!  

Damaged Goods

I watched him physically and mentally deflate.
I had uttered words,
Not harsh or cruel but critical enough to overfill,
His heavy bowl of hurt.

He receded into himself like a rose,
Deprived of sunshine - closing up.
Drooping from want of sustenance- lacking tenderness.

I watched the inner battle,
With his mental demons,
'Anxiety',' Fear', 'Hopelessness.'
Too strong and demanding,
Too great a foe to be vanquished,
By one so young.

He put up a valiant fight.
I saw glimpses of his resolve,
To fight down those tears.
They managed only to glaze,
His large round childish eyes.

So unfair,
That a sweet babe must shoulder the weight,
Of a bowl so full.
I feel my heart strings straining at the terrible realisation,
That I added to his burden.

Pruning and Poetry

I write, he prunes,
The Granny Smith, the fig, the lilac bush.
Pruning, like writing poetry, is a solitary and reflective occupation.

This precise word placed exactly,
Here,
Will it replicate the image I have created in my head?
Evoke the emotions fruiting in my heart?

A cut placed precisely,
Here,
Will it transform this tree into the perfect bowl,
He has mentally conjured in his head?
Has he left enough new wood,
To bear the fruit of next Summer?

Winter Sun

This morning unveiled of mist, the winter sun is out.
Lengthens the shadows cast on my notebook.
White pages illumined,
Contrast the distinct outlines of my hand,
And the moving tip of my pen.
Against the rays my eyes squint - a compromise,
That I may bathe in warmth,
And enjoy reprieve from the persistent cold, damp, grey.
I feel the gloom lift from my heart.

Where does she go to?

My little student,
Where does she go to?
Her small cherubic body,
Clad in green and blue uniform and cowgirl boots,
Is here,
Hair clip in mouth, eyes skyward and body in constant motion.
Yet...
She is somewhere outside,
Running with a stick in her hand,
Down a dusty track.
Or on her pony,
Wearing a small circle
Around the perimeter of the paddock.
Picking a terrified skink out of the dirt,
Or herding chickens with her kelpie pup.
I speculate...
I cannot be sure where she is,
But I know this...
She is definitely not here in this mathematics lesson.

The long and Winding Road

I count eight hundred and fifty seven,
The number of bends in the road,
The long and winding road,
To your door.
I pass two National Parks
Errinundra and Snowy River,
And two scenic reserves,
Martins Ck and The Gap,
On the long and winding road,
To your door.
Two hamlets,
Goongerah and Bendoc,
And two locations,
Martin and Sardine creeks.
Rise a thousand metres in elevation,
Snow flakes gently descend like feathers.
Pass three animal carcasses,
Possum, wallaby and wombat,
Narrowly avoid creating another- kangaroo,
Two rock falls,
A giant boulder straddles the median strip,
Of the long and winding road,
To your door.
I listen to, then lose three radio station signals,
All 'Aunty',
Radio National and ABC Gippsland,
Drink one five hundred ml bottle of water,
"Yuck!" Town water,
And eat one gluten free nut bar,
Dropping honey covered crumbs,
As I drive the long and winding road,
To your door.
Several times I angonised about something I said,
And regretted,
But mainly my thoughts flew to you,
And our snug warm bed,
As I returned home,
Along the long and winding road,
To our door.

Overwhelming Chore of Cleaning One's Room

She just can't come to terms with the steps,
To her chest of drawers,
To her laundry basket,
To her desk and bookshelf.

Her bed is a repository for her life's detritus,
A dirty sock,
Numerous books,
Pencils, pens, a teddy or two.
And more than one pair of slept-in pyjamas.

She lies amidst the myriad of knick-knacks,
Torn and scrunched paper and discarded clothing.
The mental challenge of coming up with a plan,
Deciding just where to begin,
To tidy this mess,
Of her own making,
Is TOO much.

The Flip side of Adrenalin

Fight or flight?
Freeze into a vice like grip.
Fighting words come fast and thick and slice like hot knives.
Cutting deep.
You will not surrender,
Until all that pains you is ameliorated.
Yet you cannot see the way.
The casualties of battle become too great.
Many cowardly acts committed.
The shame unbearable.
The power cannot be maintained.
Will dissipates,
Battles cease.
The war postponed.
Adrenalin keeps the fighting spirit alive.
But at what cost?
Spirit broken, body bruised,
And the terrible weight of fatigue grinds you down into the ground.

The call of wild things

Too long in this stupor,
The relative shelter of brick and board,
Despite the windows,
Is stifling me.
Lethargy and malaise overpowers.
The grey hangs low and heavy,
Chills to the core of my soul.

I dream...
Wind lifting my hair and flushing my cool cheeks.
Soil and stone find temporary union with the mobile flesh of these bare soles.
Cool wet fronds slick against legs and squelch between toes.
Sunlight bathes my skin in a smiling warmth.
The music of creatures mingles with the soft percussion of water on pebbles.
Breathing deeply, crisp air cleanses my constrained lungs, they inflate.
Around me I see the magnificent ordered-disorder of nature.
And I run into this ecstasy.

Tipping Point

Just keep filling that bucket.
You CAN carry just one more drop.
The filling momentum increases,
Fumble inaffectively for the tap.
Move effortfully so only a few drops spill out.
A sarcastic comment, hurtful rebuke,
Patience disappates, you falter.
You hear a thoughtless word,
Experience one dissapointing action.
And...
EVERYONE becomes aware that you have reached,
Your "tipping point".

Reading

We made a pact early in our relationship,
To share books.
Each night one would read to the other,
Turn in turn.
The arrangement was not long lasting,
For he would fall asleep.
So he does the reading,
And I enjoy the pictures in my head as I listen.
We spoon and I rest my head on his shoulder.
Chapter on chapter,
Memoir, Reference, Comedy or sometimes Romance.
We live together in the lives of the characters.
Discuss their problems and speculate their fates.
We can cry together over their misfortunes.
And laugh at their comedy,
Celebrate their successes.
Sometimes we read on late into the night.
Till at last he succumbs to fatigue.
I watch his eyes slowly blink,
Their heavy lids droop.
The words become slurred.
And the intervals lengthen.
And so near the end of a chapter.
I feel my disappointment grow.
It is only then,
When this happens,
That I wish he would just,
Let me read.

Hair ties

Five daughters with silken locks,
Blonde, brunette and mousey.
Smooth and polished,
And brushed to a high lustre.
Their hair blooms like their fresh young faces.
Yet the price of this natural beauty
Hours of brushing.
Untangling of tenacious knots  .
The wriggles and squeals,
As the matted is liberated.
And of course there are the bands.
The hair-ties without metal,
Guaranteed to not to break any fragile strands,
Yet not to disappear without a trace,
Like hundreds of their contemporaries.
Somewhere within the confines of this house.

Real Me- A song

Sometimes it's fake,
It's all bravado,
The mask I wear to keep me safe.
And you will never know the stress,
Or the great toll,
That I must pay to play life's games.
I hide it away so you can't see,
The real me.

When you lie,
You don't even notice,
Those half baked smiles,
There the proof.
And it seems to me,
That making connections,
Is worth so much more,
Than the truth.
So I take things literally,
But that's just me.

And if you took the time,
To open up your mind,
You would see,
The real me.

I feel too much,
It gets overwhelming,
But you just think,
I lack empathy.
Yes I'm blunt,
and I state my convictions,
But you just think,
I lack sympathy
I just don't understand,
The things you do.

But if you took the time,
To open up your mind,
Then you'd  see that its true.
That some of us think differently to you.

And if you took the time,
To open up your mind,
You might see,
The real me. 

Working with my hands

I escape into my head,
And into my hands.
The pictures in my head produce:
Poetry, paintings, song lyrics and...
Other projects.

(Some psychologically educated professionals have been known to describe them as 'special interests')

I can walk around these ideas in my head.
A tweak here, a major change there.
And all in 3D,
My own personal movies.

And then I may experience the sheer pleasure,
Of transforming ideas into reality,
With my hands.

...Besides bringing joy to others,
What greater happiness can there be?

 

Catharsis of Truth

The gnawing at the soul,
The heaviness carried in the chest,
The horrible nausea which drives the bile of unspoken words,
Into gagging throats,
The unbearable strain on every joint,
As the burden of the bitter tasting poison,
Which flows,
Like a sepsis through blood,
And fouls entire bodies,
Entire nations,
All this,
Dissipates entirely,
And is lost within the realm of distant memory.
When people are given the opportunity to,
Speak their truth,
And be acknowledged.

Morris on Gay Marriage.

He is eight.
A ponderous deep thinker,
With impressive deductive powers.
And memory.
Morris is articulately blunt,
Providing intelligent commentary on his observations.
A rationalist.
Morris likes:
Reading.
Morris dislikes:
Anything scary.
Lately Morris has been quoting:
"The Man from Snowy River,"
Extracts from " How to Train a Dragon",
"The Big Bang Theory" and,
"The Minion Movie Trailer"
After listening to another comment about,
Gay Marriage,
Morris observes,
" Minions must have Gay Marriage,
Because they are all boys."

Turfer

It's a wonderful tool,
Won't use any fuel.
Just power of arm,
A must on the farm.
If you're stuck in a bog,
Just chock with a log.
Find a big tree,
And soon you'll be free.
A sling and a chain,
To take the strain.
Attach to the chassis,
Make sure it won't come free.
Put it in gear,
And pump without fear.
The turfer may be,
Older technology.
Despite all its quirks,
A turfer...
Just works.

Pacing

Society creates an expectation of pace.
High productivity,
Or the impression of such.
A dichotomy,
Those over employed,
Those underemployed.
Perhaps we need a re think
A thoughtful rather than progressive society,
Less enamored with growth and consumption.
How to be in pace,
Pacing ourselves,
Living mindfully,
Measured,
And at ease.
So no matter what life endows,
Fortune or no,
Leave space for calamity, misadventure, ugliness,
Joy, love, beauty and freedom.

Sewing Lesson

She wanted to learn.
I got out the old "Brother."
First she learned how to drive on paper.
Her trepidation at pressing the pedal,
Was palpable.
Where to put her fingers?
Then...
Clickity, clickety, stop.
Clickety, clickety, clickety ,clickety stop.
She found her rhythm.
Onto reversing,
Then turning corners.
I think filling bobbins and threading the machine,
Remain my domain,
At least for now.  
Practising on actual fabric gave her confidence,
But sewing up her first drawstring bag,
I could see in her shining face,
Gave her satisfaction.

When to let go

My little goat is sick.
We have tried this and that,
Medicine and care,
And more medicine.
Sometimes we think she rallies.
Her appetite improves.
And she gets herself up on two of her legs.
But then she goes down again.
You hear her pathetic bleats.
She is lying uncomfortably.
And she seems too weak to get up.
We prop her up on fresh hay,
With food and water close.\,
And she still has her appetite.
How long do we go on like this?
When to let go?

Simone de Beauvoir

Simone and Jean-Paul,
What a pair,
Experiments in love,
Open relationships,
Personal freedom and rights,
But responsibility...
Where?

Well not to those third parties,
Broken hearted,
Or swinging from a rope.
Love is not an experiment,
It is the overwhelming need
to share your life, your dreams...
Your hopes.

To trust another human being,
And without fear,
Be yourself,
Them themselves.
And hold them....
Most dear.

And being with them is,
Infinitely better,
Than being without them.

Pace

The pace has been very great.
Rush, rush, rush,
Coiling my spring,
Tighter and tighter.
Leaping from one task to another,
Not being systematic.
Achieving some things,
But leaving a cyclones wake.
Mono focused,
A girl on a mission.
As long as the boom,
Doesn't end in the...
Bust!