Journeying between my Homes

I journey North East toward the Plateau,
Past regenerating Blue Gums,
Their blackened flesh revitalised and sprouting.
Past the still blackened Silver Top Ash,
Just sprouting.
The forest floor is a fresh green carpet.
The odd sentinel stands out as a monument.

Arriving at the cooler country,
Signs of the devastation dwindle and peter out at last.
I am amongst the forest giants.
Shining Gums shade the fern trees,
Black woods just in blossom,
Remnants of snow lay like whisker-tinged shaving foam,
In the shaded gutters of the track.

We reach the gap between the ranges.
I look down the steep precipice to the falls.
I hear the gurgling sounds of fast moving water over stone.
The Sassafras Christmas Trees  now take the place of the gums.
I am in the Cool Temperate Rainforest.

Opening out onto the other side.
We see the first signs of habitation.
A cleared paddock, a plantation.
We are high, eleven hundred metres.
The trees are stunted, Snow Gums and Candlebarks.
Cross the fast flowing river, lined with tea tree.

Wind down again into tall forest,
This time Grey Gum and Messmate,
Cottonwoods reaching up between them like children.

At last we descend into the village,
Neat and timeless save the satellite dishes on tin roofs.
Climbing out of the valley that holds the town like an infant,
We escape out into stark sunshine,
The open high plains of the Monaro.
Arrived.
 

Conviviality of Singing

Some possess the voice of an angel,
Sweet and clear like tolling bells,
Others the deeper tones,
That roll your eardrums in sweet honey.
The bass you can feel vibrate through your entire body,
Down to your feet and into the floor.
Singing together,
We have a communal bath in sound.
It lifts our spirits and makes us one with the vibrations of the cosmos,
As one entity.

Humanity of Scent

Why do we mask ourselves in strong scents?
I don't understand.
There was a time when we hid our grime,
And wood-smoke odour with posies.
We bathed rarely.
Now we are a chorus, a plebiscite of deodorant and perfume.
All the same,
Sickeningly sweet.

We declare out tribe by our smell,
Talc or soap,
Cheap or expensive, perfumes and colognes.

I thought about this as my olfactory sense was assaulted.
Remnants of Flower Child,
Lingering in the New Age...

Patchouli Oil.

The Pot Plant

She's my age,
And she's dying.
Her sister says she needs,
"Forty leaves a day,
But fresh."
Neither of us knows the growing cycle,
Of the magic plant.
We never bothered with that shit when we were young.
They are buying seeds,
Wrapped in an American magazine,
Off the internet.

I said I would phone a friend.
I did.
Our conversation was shrouded in inference.
"  A serious pharmaceutical matter,
Requiring fresh herbaceous material,
Perhaps seedlings rather than seed.
Require assistance with cultivation, care and maximising yield,
Longevity of the plant."
Perhaps not such a big issue.

He'll catch me Thursday.

Still Back There

I'm doing the limbo.
Here but not here.
Moving forward but still back there.
Organised and efficient,
Getting things done,
Spring in my step,
Smile on my face,
Strong feelings of geniality,
Singing, dancing and being goofy.
On fire.
High as....
But my mind is still in last week.
I can't shake it.
No doubt Tigger will be replaced by Eyeore,
And this feeling will shake me.

The Benefits of Solitude

He said, " You should go."
So I did.
Cast off responsibility,
The things that could now wait,
Just a few more hours.
And I drove.
To almost the end.
The way was rough,
I felt some trepidation,
But also invigoration,
Because of the risk.
Then I left the relative protection,
Of my big, strong modern car,
And walked.
The air was alive with the song of insects and birds,
Fleet footed wallabies startled me.
The breeze played upon my cheeks.
And the sun danced in my eyes.
The blue removed the grey within my soul.
And the rapid beating of my heart,
Reminded me that I am alive.
Conversations and scenes played in my mind.
Bad feelings were removed.
And I felt the natural world hold me in its embrace.

The Grazier's House

The grazier's grand home was at the wrong end of the bush track.
His children had moved on to more lucrative pursuits.
The wool stockpile fell on the price guarantee,
And Australia fell off the sheep's back.

The grazier was old, and needed a beach bungalow.
Or at least his wife did.
Or perhaps she just wanted the shops,
And access to hairdressers, that coastal resort towns afford.
It was her turn.

The grazier shuffles behind his wife on auto-pilot,
The walking dead in shining RM Williams.
The grazier's property is under pine.
Generations of blood and tears lie buried beneath,
The acidifying, needle strewn soil.
And there too lies the grazier's heart.
Best he does not see what his grand home has become.

The Aftermath

After the journey into the cauldron of sensory stimulation,
Comes the aftermath.
Bowl filled with the conviviality of relationships.
Bowl filled with the angst of unmet expectations
Bowl filled with the pain of fragile egos bruised.
Bowl filled with the joy of new possibilities.

I return to more familiar territory,
The contents of my bowl are tossed and stirred.
Relive the petty conflicts and strategise their resolution.
Relive the disappointments and plan for a better outcome next time.
Relive the joyful, invigorating comfort of close relations.
And pang for the loss of their intimacy.
Rest, joy and some resolution may slowly drain my overfull bowl.

Some compartments of my life

I live my life within smallish compartments of time.
Each with its individual focus.
To which I give my fullest attention.

The compartment of writing this poem,
It contains the fantastical images,
That make metaphors,
And give me the words.
I let them out to play upon the page,
And make music in my ears.
These thoughts make me smile inwardly.

The compartment of sharing my thoughts and ideas,
With another human being,
Feeling the welcomeness of their company,
The sound of their unique voice,
The warmth of their presence,
And familiarity of their smell.
The solidarity of being so joined in his moment.
Makes my heart swell in the cavity of my chest.

The compartment of remembered moments.
This is where I recollect, I sit quietly,
And reflect upon recent happenings.
The times when I felt connected and comfortable.
The moments that fortified my heart with joy.
And of those individuals to whom I am connected.
This makes my soul sing and ache at the same time.
As I miss them.

The fragility of the human ego

Frustrated tone of voice,
A sideways glance,
Some ill phrased words,
A simple misunderstanding,
So little to unbalance the delicate mechanism.
Retorts and recriminations,
Amplification and divisive speech,
All facilitate the formation,
Of gangs and factions,
Busy isolating and excluding,
Their status quo, and standing are retained.
As the tall poppies are cut down,
By lesser creatures,
Those on the edge watch on and ponder,
The purpose of it all.

In Nature

Scratches, bruises, sunburn,
And the song in my heart,
Pay testament to this short time,
Spent in nature.
Lungs filled with freshness of clean air
And the sweetness of pittosporum blossom.
Laying down my cares on the warm earth.
Sleeping in the shadow of leaves,
Beneath the myriad of slow moving stars.
Waking into morning's dew filled coolness.
Feeling alive and vigorous,

We fear change

The townspeople protested,
The building of a mosque.
The local councillors,
Were rescued by police.
Why?
I pondered.

We proudly sing,
"To those that come across the sea,
We've boundless plains to share."
Yet we are very selective.
Better you come by plane, with a visa.
Should we accept those who thrust themselves on our shore,
Ahead of those rotting in refugee camps?

Per capita we permanently settle the most refugees of any country.
Still our tens of thousands,
Is a drop,
Compared to the ocean,
Flooding into refugee camps.

Why do we have this debate,
When there is a humanitarian crisis of such a scale?

We fear anything foreign,
And we fear change.

Mono-focus

My greatest strength,
And my Achilles heel,
The ability to mono-focus.
Oblivious when on a beloved task,
To be interrupted is like a slap.
Today we were in a deeply emotional discussion.
I felt stomach churning angst,
As I laid my soul bare.
Then he said,
"Ok I'm going to take a shower"
Just like that.
It was not "OK!"
I realised,
Aspie mono-focus,
versus,
Neurotypical multi-focus,
This is where our differences,
Are at their most profound.

Smiling

Despite the cutting wind,
And the icy shadows,
The sun is smiling on us today.
Likewise the townsfolk,
As they go about their commercial pursuits,
With a lightness to their step.
Sunny solicitations all round.
Spring is here at last,
We all rejoice.

Homes for under 100k

Apparently Australia's population has ballooned to twenty four million.
But they don't live here.
Our hay day has been fed out to the sheep and cattle,
By ageing farmers.
Our preschool is now a pile of unused toys in the corner of three local halls.
Doctor?
He is accumulating hours for his pilots licence,
As he comes flying up from the coast.
Our lone policeman,
He of the states largest beat,
Can't go to the post office without his bullet proof vest,
Because it is also the pub.
He drives in his 4WD festooned with aerials,
But can't attend an incident. (without back-up from two hours away.)
Two families announce that they are leaving the area,
The school will have to make some drastic readjustments,
( and who knows what ramifications they will have.)
The specialty shop fronts, even in the larger towns are emptying.
How long will the local independent grocer hang on,
When the punters will go to Aldi on their next doctors visit?
(People don't get sick in time for the once a month flying visit.)
But the place is gorgeous.
The air and water are clean.
There is room to move,
And think...

And there are homes for sale for less than 100k.

My Homesteading Dream Day

Arise to a halo of blue.
Grey's passed away.
Grass green.
No jumper.
Sunscreen and squinting.
Slasher on tractor.
Poddy lambs gambling on the lawn.
Kids on ponies,
Or in sandpit,
Or on the fort.
Fresh farm egg omelette,
With home-made cheese,
Many thanks to the Jersey.
Sour dough bread with butter.
Golden daffodils.
My cup runneth over,
With fresh made kefir.
 

Reading to me.

When we first shared this bed,
We decided to also share books.
The intimacy of both experiencing,
Thoughts, ideas,
Or just a character's fantastical life.
Each night,
Turn on turn.
We started on our most beloved novels,
For me,
Jane Eyre, The Prodigal Summer, For Love Alone.
For him, Gerald Durrell and Harry Potter Books.
The idea seemed sound.
But he could only stay alert if seeing the script before his eyes.
I dismayed, watched as he re-read my previously orated chapter.
So we found a new pattern.
I listen,
He reads.
All goes well until sleep overtakes him mid chapter.
The slurring and losing his place are the precursors.
I enjoy letting the pictures form in my head,
Until he puts on a discordant voice for an accented characterisation.
His attempt at an Australian accent the most jarring.
But generally his soft tenor pleasantly strokes my eardrums.
And I can think of none so pleasant, passing of an afternoon,
Than laying together in the warm sunshine,
Sharing a book.

Chris the Sheep

Lamb of the Monaro,
Beneath the stark blue sky,
In the frost hollows, tree line inverted,
Chris the Merino grew to wether hood.
Spurned by his shorn brethren,
And frightened by men and their stockyards,
He fled.
At first his growing coat was a comfortable barrier,
To winter gales, rain, sleet and occasional snow.
In summer he sought the cooler shelter of the wooded hills.
Time passed but his overgrown staple,
Continued to overgrow.
He became dwarfed by his prison of fleece.
As he passed from lamb to, two tooth to old mutton,
His burden only became greater.
By shear luck he remained upright.
Many a less laden sheep has turned turtle and perished,
With ridiculous legs gesticulating to the heavens.
Luck was on his side.
For he was spotted,
After six years of avoiding the board,
And with great fanfare,
Shorn.
Chris the sheep,
Cultivator of the heaviest fleece,
In the history of shearing.

When truth hurts too much

It's in the eyes...
The truth.
The words are a cover.
They lie or more likely refuse to say.
The body too,
Flinches and gives away only a little.
But it is in the eyes.
The longing,
The resignation,
The flickers of hope.
The despair.
When the truth hurts too much,
That is when you turn your eyes away.

Changing Tack

When people get into a rut,
It is a euphemism,
For getting stuck in some humdrum routine.
Those with Asperger's also get into ruts.
Though not anything necessarily humdrum,
But it may sometimes be routine.
We etch a rill into our minds,
Through excessive focus.
We put almost our whole being,
Into some of the things we do.
This is the key to our successes.
This is also our undoing.

Our focus excludes.
We appear aloof and uncaring.
But in actuality,
We are not ambivalent,
Just oblivious.
And when the world external to our focus point,
Blares at us and demands our attention,
The shock is physical.
It jars.
We slowly recover and submit.
But the rut is very deep.
It takes time to change tack.

The Hottie

Dear Lord,
I give thanks on this cool evening,
For the simple practicality,
Of my Hot Water Bottle.
For the manufacturers, distributors,
And the small grocery store proprietors,
Who made it possible for me to procure one.
Also to the thoughtful friend who sewed a cover for said 'hottie',
And gave it as a birthday present to my husband,
Who also in kindness knowing my chilly disposition,
Passed it onto me.
May they, and particularly my husband,
Who nightly fills it with hot water,
When he brings me an Earl Grey in bed,
Feel the warmth of my blessings,
As I feel the warmth of my "hottie."

Amen

Ski Resorts

Perhaps it was my 'Aspie' dislike of crowds.
Perhaps the glossiness of the thin facades.
Maybe the faux Europe style of architecture that grated.
The "wankiness" of the beverages and confectionery on sale.
I could not put my finger on it,
The discomfort I felt,
When we arrived at the resort.

I enjoyed the drive, despite the heavy traffic.
The uniqueness of Snow-gum woodland, snow covered,
The rounded rocks and herbage of the fast flowing crystal creeks.
I was especially drawn to those.
The air too and the snow deadened quiet.
The company was good and tobogganing promised to be fun.
Yet...

The resort was a Formica table in a Georgian mansion.
The surface cleaned to such a sheen that the reflected light blinded me.
No trees, just snow and bitumen.
The beautiful people were pretentious and orchestrated.
The uncool "wannabes" tried too hard, used far too much peroxide,
Squeezed bulgy bodies into unflattering snowsuits,
And wore excessive putty-like make-up.
Families with screaming toddlers,
Tortured by freezing hands,
Made half smiles and took multitudes of photos,
Proof that they were afluent enough to be here and were having fun (sic).

Perhaps if I had skied I may have had a different attitude,
I doubt it,
Because tobogganing did turn out to be mostly fun.

Poddy Mark II

She is a little cross-bred ewe.
The farmer has grown soft in his maturing age.
" He just can't knock them on the head anymore."
So we have her,
To feed with a bottle.
Bleeding hearts do not understand the cost,
Of a poddy lamb to the economy of a farm.
We are not farmers,
We can be indulgent.
So tonight we will bring her inside,
To be close to the fire,
To give her a better chance.
Hopefully we will find her bleating-hungry in the morning.
Not succumbed to the stress of motherlessness.
Like Poddy Mark I.
Then we shall give her a name.

Catharsis of Cooking

Despite a lack of enthusiasm,
From the consumers of my hand-made repast,
Kids won't eat it without complaint or bribery.
There was still simple pleasure in the act,
Purchasing those less frequently bought items,
Like calamari, deli cheese and a french stick,
The tactile experience of cutting veggies,
The anticipatory aromas of half cooked pork and seafood,
The periodic tasting of the various dishes,
The table set with fresh flowers,
Enough food so that there will be leftovers,
And having the time to take care.
Cooking a meal for my family,
Is healing for the soul.

Of This Town

He was of this town,
From the moment his eyes first perceived light.
Till they closed, as his light went out.
As he sat in the hospital in the next town,
His thoughts were always of his return.
The Catholic Church on the hill,
The house of his childhood,
The garage,
The town's water supply tank.
The pump house,
The golf club,
And his marital home,
These were the boundaries,
Of his life.
Within this town,
He grew, was educated, loved and was loved.
Here he found and served his community.
Here he was often happy.
Perhaps in the grand scheme of things,
Many may not find it worth celebrating,
Yet it was still a remarkable life.

Fermenting

I have been fermenting today,
There is a restlessness.
It produces gaseous exchanges.
That distend me and burst out at intervals.
It is yeasty,
Like my bread dough.
It is damp and mouldy,
Like my Winter wet house.
And it fizzes like Kombucha.
There is a sickening sweet smell pervading,
Like mature cheese.
And it craves sugar,
To feed its voracious appetite.
Perhaps some crispness,
Sunny Summer salad,
And light exercise in a drier climate will dispel it.



 

Optimism of a sunny day.

Potential,
Not yet realised but...
In your mind's eye you can see it.
You dampen down the doubts.
Tramp them with possible contingencies.
It seems to be the sunshine,
After an extended period of grey.
That brings on the dreams.

Don't go willingly into the fading of the light.

Rage against the dying of the light.
Ignore the aches and creaks of bones.
Look out into each new day,
As if newly minted and full of possibility.
Reflect only on the lessons,
That past hardships have taught you.
And offer the knowledge of your experience.
Wear your wounds and scars like badges of honour.
Seek the companionship of those,
Who eagerly embrace the wonders,
Saved for us who still live.

Third

They do go in threes,
The matriarch, the retired farmer and now the mechanic.
I was secretly hoping that he wouldn't make the Trifecta.
But he went at last.

When I was twenty two,
Young, eager,
And naïve.
I felt his gruff exterior abrade.
But I did not know his humour then.

I have been travelling the vital years of my life,
Marriage, children, maturity.
And he has been a constant.
Smiling knowingly,
Each time my car met with an unexpected mishap.
"You do realise that these things need oil."

A Catholic, dad seven times,
He fuelled my car and enjoyed my kids,
Tapping at the glass, smiling or engaging them in chat.

He told me once that he had raised those garage doors,
Every working day of his life since he was fourteen.
His son, third generation has recently updated them.
No need to put on the gloves and pull hard on the chain,
The new blue doors roll-up easily.

In hindsight,
It seems an unfortunate omen.




 

The Gang

Contrast flashes, white against black,
Moving up into the trees,
In organised mayhem.
These are a young gang of hoodlums.
This is their patch.
My approaching car precipitates,
a flight for cover.
Their numbers have grown,
A few more recruits have joined.
It is a 'welcome to Spring' sight.
The coolest gang of white-winged choughs,
On the block.