Instinct

Today I execute a watercolour.
I don't know how,
Or what Devine intervention,
Causes my brush to mix and choose just the right colours.
Stroke rapidly onto the card with just the right shades and forms.
It is like magic.
How fluidly the process progresses.
I feel free and uninhibited by any potential failure.
My eye captures the form in my mind.
My hand replicates it well enough on my paper.
I love this feeling.
Creating something beautiful.
Perhaps it is a form of arrogance,
This assuredness that all will go well.
Who cares?
I relax and enjoy the journey.

Another Grey Wet Day

Chilled to the marrow,
Cold weighs heavy on every joint.
So in bed I sit and write.
Thermals on,
And my 'hottie' my best companion.
This torpor,
With only my mind wandering unfettered.
It roams outside in the natural landscape.
A montane heath,
Delicate herbs and spiky shrubs,
A babbling rock strewn cascade,
Round lichen covered boulders of granite.
My body in malaise,
Indoors.
My mind suffocating,
Gasps for the reviving air of outside.

Fancy Dancer

"So what's up with him?"
Gossip,
But with genuine concern.
"The fancy dancer"
The main street of this small country town,
Isn't big enough for more news like this.
"Geez, not him too"
Cos she's got the asbestos one,
And this one's dad has the melanoma.
" It's not looking good."
Topic of conversation,
Too regular for comfort.
Stark this reality,
When everyone knows everyone's business.
So now our town's business?
Daffodil Day,
The Biggest Morning Tea,
And the town's inaugural,
Relay For Life.

The Wombat

Today we sent a wombat to heaven.
He stumbled blindly in the harsh daylight.
His nocturnal clock out of whack.
This a clear sign.
The scourge?
Mange from a now fox-less burrow.

I have been guilty of verbally abusing wombats.
They make night drives a heart stopping event.
Their choice of home often inconvenient,
And their aerial ablutions on farm equipment irritating.
( How can such a stubby legged animal defecate at such heights?)

Suburbites have no idea of the challenges of wombats.
Yet when you are surprised by one out grazing at night.
It's jaunty jog, digging and snuffling about, are endearing.
Supine baby wombats with their soft leathery pads and chubby bellies melt your heart.

Today was this wombat's last day.
He was huge and powerful,
But so fragile.
Bothered by our yapping foxie,
He barely moved away.
His thick winter coat encrusted and scabby.
We would not let him suffer the indignity of a slow death.
Damn mangy foxes.

Simple Acts

Mirror polished to perfect reflection,
Wind scented, sun dried sheets.
Favourite cotton shorts, neatly patched,
Weed-free flower bed,
Round bellied, satiated poddy lamb.
Clear kitchen bench,
Full fire-wood basket,
Milky cup of Earl Grey,
Fresh cut narcissus in a jar,
Vacuumed bedroom floor,
Toast with melted butter and Vegemite,
Kids reading or on adventures with soft plush friends,
No appointments,
Just the time to take care.

Sometimes you just stop.

It creeps up slowly.
It is not exactly a malaise.
Your spirit remains intact.
You are not feeling hopeless or despairing.
Yet you are simply,
Not feeling.

But as you must,
Do something.
You do what is closest to hand.
Write these observations,
Into poetry.

Sit, not comfortably,
On the hearth rug.
Your outside coat,
Still on.
Your outside shoes also,
Still on.l
Ignore the twinges of pain your back,
And the pins and needles in your feet.x
The fire's warmth compensates.

You have one focus,
The task at hand.
He has made you a cup of tea,
But you have insufficient will,
To move your hand to take it up.
Now he has asked you a question.
But you can't think,
To make any decision.

This is what it is like when you are full.
Detached!

Blue versus Grey

It was two things,
The blueness,
Between billowing clouds,
That slowly sailed across the sky,
And the warmth of the sunshine,
That kissed the bare skin of my face and hands.
It was these,
That lifted every aspect of my being.

The soft dry ground on which I lay.
And the caressing breeze,
That played like a lover with my unfastened  hair.
Added to the effect.
I could smell the familiarity of frost-seared grass,
And hear the country sounds,
Of those on hoof, paw and wing.
And I felt calm.

But all too soon,
Despite the patches of blue,
The sun's warming rays were taken prisoner.
By a cold grey cloud.
I was suddenly frozen to the core.
My idyll broken,
I went inside,
To the warmth of the fire.

Connection

How is it that with some,
You feel a connection?
It comes unbidden,
And there is no logic or rationality behind it.
Why this person and not another?
Intuition and recognition of a like soul.
Profound ease in each other's company.
These are rare jewels.
A gift with whom you share the journey through life,
These are the friendships worth cultivating.

The Poddy

Plaintive bleats fall on deaf ears.
Mother ewe has decided,
The strongest of the twin lambs will survive.
We check the paddock with our torches.
We hear the slow movement of hooves.
Some alarmed bleating,
As small families are disturbed.
We catch four shining jewels in the torch light,
Eye shine of mother and babe.
But a small one is alone.
It cries piteously.
On unsteady legs it moves toward us.
A decision.
If it is there on our return,
From our circuit,
Still alone,
We will take her inside.
After our tour we see her,
Pathetic cries tug at our heartstrings.
We have a poddy.

Ritual

I watch people undertake mindless rituals.
They do these activities which define them,
For no other reasons than habit.
Or perhaps a promised ticket to heaven.
I ask them why?
What is the purpose?
They don't seem to know the answers.

Yesterday a Koori Uncle explained a practice of his people.
Build up the camp-fire before you retire for the night.
To me it served no purpose in the laws of cause and effect.
Tomorrow we would need to gather more wood,
For what reason?

Yet he said it was for the 'old people' to enjoy.
(He meant his spirit ancestors.)
I realised this ritual was what 'it' was all about,
What all rituals are about.
Mindfulness.

Resolution

Despite my meltdown,
Sometimes only an action from me,
Will break the stalemate.
The time goes on too long,
The distress too great.
The rescuer requires rescuing.
Even when things seem hopeless,
There can be a brief moment,
When a small crack,
Lets in a splinter of light.
I seize the opportunity,
With two hands.
Rip the grey sky apart,
To let in the light.
Feel the warm sun on my face.
Reach for your hand and we go out in it,
Together. 
 

Catharsis of Tattooing Flesh

Searing and imprinting,
Self defining symbols on flesh.
Ideas, convictions and ideals,
Made permanent.
A commitment.
An anchor to maintain mindfulness.
In inconspicuous places,
The scribing of my body,
Is for an audience of one,
Me.

What?

In desperation she asked,
"What am I for?"
"What is my purpose?"
"What do you want from me?"
But she knows he will not answer,
For he does not know what she means?

She speculates...
Perhaps, when she caresses him,
She is proof that he is of value.
Perhaps she gives his life structure and purpose.
Something outside of himself to care for.
Concrete validation,
That, what he does each day is worthwhile.

He is almost too grateful for her attentions.
He will never impose his wants, needs or desires.
When criticised he crumples.
He remains constant,
And wants no other occupation,
Than to be with her.
Yet...
He hides from her.
Proffers no opinion,
Commits to no decision.
Abstains.

Sanctuary

My sanctuary will be comfortable.
There will be no expectations,
And no responsibilities.
Anything I want to create,
Will be at my finger-tips.
When I want company it will be there.
When I want solitude,
No-one will disturb me.
The radio will be on,
And the presenter will have,
The soothing voice of Michael Cathcart,
Or the late Alan Saunders,
And they will only discuss interesting topics.
I will not suffer from any apprehensions,
Knowing that I am free to enjoy the sanctuary,
Indefinitely.

Grey Noise

Despite the fact that my students work quietly,
With occasional soft chirps of childish conversation,
Requests for particular colour pencils,
Or the eraser,
Despite this,
The cacophony of the various appliances,
Essential for the academic success of our children,
Drone and squeal on.

The soprano section is taken by the flourescent lights.
The Alto/Tenor range is monopolised by the electronic white board screen.
The fan of the air conditioning unit straddles Tenor and Bass.
They trundle along with with a rapid throbbing beat.
One two, one two, one two.
This soul-less choir sings no melody.
They are an irritating, discordant back drop,
But apparently essential,
To provide the optimal environment,
For thinking and learning. 

Yeh Right!

Changing Tack

The Aspie brain is a super, sensory-processor.
It fuels the ideas,
That fly about like a myriad of butterflies.
It can pinpint an individual,
And focus with infinitessimal detail.
Morph it into a fantastical thought,
Work away at it with the craftsmanship of a master.

Yet....
As the Aspie is transfixed and enthralled,
With their own marvelous mental creation,
Life goes on about them.
Then abrubtly,
Like a slap,
They are shaken from this comfortable oblivion,
And brought back to the uncomfortable reality;
(and sometimes kicking and screaming.)

Rather be Hiking

Life is getting far too complicated.
The bucket keeps filling
And its putrid contents overflow,
Days when my head is just above the surface.
Others when I am scrabbling for a life preserver.
Shut-downs, Meltdowns and exhaustion.
Mind either whirring at an unsustainable pace.
Or disconnected in a cluggy, custardy lump.
So I take some time.
And try to take stock.
But life's routines and dramas,
Responsibilities,
And loved one' crisis,
Are inescapable.
The only real way to re-boot this system.
Go into nature,
And keep on walking.

Made by Hand

My son is dismissive.

"Why waste your time?

You can pick up slippers at Aldi.

Your're just 'Povo'."

But I'm not.

Poverty is not seeing the workmanship,

The care and love,

That went into his little brother's moccasins.

A goat pelt I tanned,

From a kid I raised,

That fed our family.

The little foot I measured,

And the leather I softened and stitched.

Little brother was out playing,

With his head band of cockatoo feathers,

His wattle bow and arrow.

The timing was serendipitous.

He loved his new slippers,

Genuine, (except for the source of their leather),

Moccasins. (pattern 'googled' from the net)

Movie Night

After dinner and teeth cleaning,
On a Friday night,
Seven attempt to sit comfortably,
On one three seater lounge.
They jostle for position.
Baby always scores the best seat,
Mummy's lap.
We have no T.V.
So laptop perched on a kiddies play chair,
Substitutes for the home cinema.
Portable speakers for Dolby Stereosonic sound.
Three dollar 'weekly hire' from the cafe.
No bandwidth for streaming,
But who needs the latest releases?
It is the latest to us.
Nightmares limit us to G ratings,
But it's cosy,
And we see most of the movie,
Between head movements.
And hear most of the dialogue,
Between the audience commentary.

Strained relations

We go through the motions of civility.
The elephant looks on.
She is wearing a bright pink tutu,
With silver spangles.
She, (the elephant)
Knows it looks ridiculous.
But how else does she get our attention?
Despite all her attempts,
Pulling faces, blowing raspberries and calling our names,
Neither of us will stray from the script.
We smile and make banal small talk.
I feel my stomach squeeze into a tighter ball.
The meeting ends.
I put my hand on the elephant's shoulder reassuringly.
Maybe next time we'll ditch the fancy dress.

Expression

I write poems.
Some draw pictures.
Or build marvellous sculptures.
My friend dances.
Another sings.
A man I know runs and runs.
A lady I know bakes the best sponge cakes.
But one friend cleans her house till her hands bleed.

Is this because we share an unescapable need to express ourselves?

Thinking in Pictures

One of my happiest pastimes,
Is just,
Thinking.

Not anything in particular,
Just whatever pleasant billings I see arrive,
In the theatre of my mind.

They must come of their own accord,
Unbidden.

So then I have the surprise of a visual present.
And I can make a mental journey,
Exploring all the possibilities,
Taking as little or as much time as I like.

It is sometimes with great reluctance I am roused from my reverie.
And I have to return to the reality,
Of purpose-driven conscious thought.

Delayed Gratification

I mourn for the loss of delayed gratification.
When life was simple and choices few.
When waiting for the next ball or picnic races,
Was exciting.
But we can no longer wait and we needn't.
Our pace increases with the loss of each local service.
No longer doing the weekly shop in the local village.
Time is spent travelling the hundreds of kilometres
To the doctor, dentist even the supermarket.
Local sport, entertainment gone.
Wait for the next blockbuster movie to wend its way to the bush?
Download and watch,
Right now.
My back has moulded into the form,
Of my car's drivers seat.
I have a closer relationship with that, than my hiking boots.
It seems these devourers of time,
Give us less opportunity to enjoy,
The rapture of anticipation.

They go in Threes

People become worried,
The elderly and ill.
And I'm sure their families too.
They listen for the whine of the ambulance.
They note too, the coldest, darkest nights.
Keep eyes open,
For the regularity of people's public habits.
Check up on people living alone.
In this town it is noted when,
Two funeral notices are placed in succession,
On the front door of the General Store.
Because this town has a macabre habit....

Of losing its residents in threes.

The off switch

Two point two children.
"Oh we are going for the third to try for a boy."
"Couldn't possibly go through that again."
"Even numbers, so we wanted four."

I cried when my husband got a vasectomy.
I was forty two and was onto number eight.
I know that the little switch that tells us,
That we have now produced sufficient progeny,
In my case, is faulty.

I know I'm not alone.
I know elderly mothers who track down the new mothers in the supermarket,
Just to have that fix of newborn baby smell.
I watch them absentmindedly ruffle the head of a passing toddler.

We recognise each other.
Those women and I.
We know that when we are sitting 'ga ga' in the nursing home.
That we will be the ones grasping a baby doll to our flabby breasts.

The solemnity and reverence of falling snow

The slow procession of flakes,
Dropping daintily from the sky,
Like a choreographed ballet,
Fills me with a sacred awe.
The forest quietens,
As the birds and animals,
Speak in moderated tones.
Their home has become a light-filled cathedral.
And they demonstrate respect for its majesty.
I become mesmerised by the passage of single flakes.
And feel my soul cleansed and nourished,
By the freshness of this pure modest spectacle.

Disneyfied

Don't get me wrong,
I weep and giggle like the rest of the theatregoers,
Yet I despair,
At the comprehension and vocabulary of my students.
When it becomes impossible to share classic children's literature.
They can only cope with the happily ever after, sanitised, super sized, sassy,
Disrespectful, consumerist, fast paced, product placed version of stories.
No thinking required.
And the baddy always gets their comeuppance.
Action every second.
Definitely no time for reflection.
Click and go gratification.
The little mermaid can't really sacrifice herself for the happiness of her prince.
Not if she's a curvy redhead called Ariel.
Cinderella has blonde hair and a blue dress,
Didn't you know?
And of course Robin Hood is a Fox.

Partnership

Despite our differences.
We remain attracted.
And interested.
Interested enough to bother quarrelling.
Not settling for less,
Than the best we can get from each other.
Yet at times communication breaks down.
Each falls into destructive patterns,
That lose sight of the precious gift,
Of  loving somebody.

Passing of a Matriarch

Of pioneering stock,
She was ready to go.
Outliving most of her cohort,
She was increasingly disappointed,
To lose each witness to her life.
Independent and free to choose,
The tumour in her stomach,
Prompted her decision.
So she gave up the will,
And resigned to morphia.
Weather fitting to mark the passing of a matriarch,
Cold and bleak,
The mourners huddled together,
Overflowing from the Catholic Church.

Scarf Day

Not just,
For St David and the nag,

It is August first,

The day to recognise,

The Scouting movement.

So don your scarf proudly.

Bound with a friendship knot,

Wood beads or a woggle,

And embrace with fraternity,

The international family.

Of Scouts.

BRAVO!

The ebb and flow.

The welcome rain makes the paddock slippery slush.
Gumboots dry inside but awkward to walk in.
Bedraggled baby kids chase their mothers bleating.
Mums' eyes on the prize of lucerne hay.

But Tonto the bull is the winner.
He ambles through the gate,
Turning abruptly to butt the greedy goats.
I slam the gate shut.
They push and climb and nip at the hay I carry.
Secure the gate with much effort.

I must get him into the yard.
He has a boarding pass for departure.
Now he slowly chews his cud,
In no hurry.
I put more hay along his path.
Finally he moves.
Then bolts straight at me.
In fear I toss my load.
He stops.
Trembling I pick up my dropped bundle,
And move to close the gate on him.
"The little bastard."

Now to move the others.
The sheep follow me into a new paddock,
Sean is a greedy leader.
Wary Harriet misses out on food.
She remains shut out and is lost without her herd,
So loiters nearby.
Haley, and Comet her calf will follow me to the moon for some hay.
Animals secure and gates open and shut.

Tonto's carriage awaits.
He saunters down the hill casually following a trail of hay.
Then he spies a whole biscuit,
He's off.
I feel nauseous stress pour over me.
His owner unperturbed Croc Dundee,
Stands her ground,
"Stop,"
He stops.
Turns and runs into the race and onto the trailer.
All done.
I breathe again.
Now to splash and splodge precariously,
And return the displaced.

Beards

It seems all the hipsters are growing,
Luxurious beards.
My hubby,
Too lazy to shave for thirty years.
Has decided perhaps,
A Santa coloured beard,
Is a premature accessory.
So now to shave,
And reveal his boyish complexion.
But to shave everyday?

So he doesn't,
Kisses have become a graze hazard.
Gone the smooth softness of his bearded face.
Replaced by eighty grit,
Sandpaper!
I try hard,
Very hard,
To remain impartial and not influence him.

Just when it seemed,
I would  sport my own facial carpet rash...
 .
Thank goodness,
He just couldn't get into the swing.
And has ceased shaving.
And for a change,
Followed the cool set.

So many projects so little time.

Fatigue caught up and found me sitting on the bed.
Intentions were as good as could be expected.
But too much had been bitten off.
And while the chewing was rather good.
It did sap the resources.
Work/life balance?
There are so many interesting things already commenced.
So many great ideas begging to see the light of day,
But where to find the time,
Not to mention the energy?
And of course there are still meals to be cooked,
(An adventure in itself)
And the house to be kept,
Oh yes and the kids and the husband.
Ah perhaps tomorrow,
After a good nights sleep,
I'll work out a plan.

Joy

From the time,
We first emerge into the light,
At birth,
Until the time,
We lose that final battle,
Against the dying of the light,
There is but one real goal,
The pursuit of joy.