Fledglings

Feather and claw grotesque,

Posture distorted,
Eye dulled,
The road is littered:
Australian Raven, Magpie and Chough.
All struck before they knew,
The ecstasy of flight.

Beltane Lost

Children carve pumpkins,
Kept in cool store.
It's Halloween in Australia.
Here the wheel of the year turns widdershins,
Out of sync.
And the old year dies six months prematurely.
The God of the tribe,
Does not get to lay with his Land Goddess.
The only metaphorical orgasm,
Is of mindless consumerism.
That is the new religion.

To My Aspie Wife

To My Aspie Wife

Loving you has been easy, Living with you has been more difficult.

Years have been taken to smooth the edges of our misunderstandings.

I feel the passion of your embrace, the eagerness of your lips,

Casting power into a place of joy.

An abrasive word, a false smile, too much stimulation,

Spiral us into a maelstrom of harsh words and pain.

A gulf opens up that only true words can bridge.

You are not from this world of lies and competitive social protocols.

Your star has an honest shine;

Its illumination direct to my soul,

No pretense or agenda blocks the clarity.

Real friends are openly rewarded,

An intensity of empathetic communication -

Crafting connections and glowing hearts,

You must beware the snide remark, the jealous put-down,

A closing of ranks against the stranger.

Alone in an isolated confusion of unfathomable rules,

Clashing body language and pecking orders.

Your spirit quashed, breath held till superseded

By solitude’s relief or meltdown’s curse.

I am part you, spooning into your body,

Thoughts flowing from the headlights of your intelligence,

Beautiful ideas staining me with colour,

Possibilities your life force -

Solutions no problem.

Sensitivities require consideration,

Meaningful language a negotiation,

Miscued pitfalls avoided,

Intimacy prioritized.

Constraints released to promote the vitality and necessity,

Of you being free, understood and grounded -

Connected to me.

Snowy River Men

So young,
The Snowy River Men.
When Baragry mounted the stage,
And called,
"Who is with me?"
Twelve looked toward adventure,
And escape from the labours of axe and plough.
They commenced the long walk.
And at each juncture,
Were received as pre-emptive  heroes.
Ladies fell upon them,
With embraces, hot tea and sandwiches,
Men, with the promise of glory,
Or a hero's death,
Swelled their ranks.
Footsore and weary they tramped to the beat of their song;

"We have come from the mountains and the everlasting snow,"
"We have come from the mountains where the Snowy River flows"

They may have been "ready now for glory" but none of them knew,
If they'd be coming home.
So one hundred years on,
We still know the youthful faces,
Those naïve young men.
Who didn't come home.
Their optimistic smiles radiate beneath,
The green felt hat and emu feather.
From the walls of the Delegate School of Arts,
In brand new frames.

Leave the Water on - An Ode to the Bathtub

Oh great receptacle of iron cast.
That within its warmed contents,
I enjoy a sweet repast,
Of solitude.

And at the day's end,
Wash away the bitter stresses,
And send,
Them into purgatory.

For who could resist,
The water's sweetest tinkling,
As it kissed,
The enamelled edge.

Or the velvet tenderness,
As it caressed my weary flesh.
For me, such feelings of happiness,
As those,
Are not so often expressed,
in Prose.

Yet my tub and I shall thus sojourn,
Through pleasant evenings of our life.
Once I have left, and clothing donned,
Will yearn,
To be within its soft embrace,
Again. 
  

Time to Fish

The barometer is showing 'head ache.'
The pressure is heading for storms.
And the kids are fractious and whingey.
The afternoon is slowly cooling,
And an almost full moon is rising.
Looking out the window absentmindedly,
I could sense it before I saw the signs.
It is time;
To stop all the pointless chores,
To go outside,
Grab that jar full of fresh-dug bush worms.
The rod and bag,
And go fishing.

The ants are flying. 

The Reassurance of Hills

To be surrounded by forested mountains,
Is to be embraced in a hard, cool, freshness,
Much like a firm hug,
From a parent straight from an ocean swim.
It is comforting and invigorating.
Wet body - cold,
Smell - unpolluted, natural, familiar.

To run about on a grassy hilltop,
Is to feel as free as flying.
Wind fills your hair and lungs.
It caresses your skin,
And the warm sun smiles,
Down on your upturned face.

After driving for many hours on monotonous plains,
I look out for the hills on the horizon.
It seems that my soul requires,
The reassurance of hills.

My Tribe

My tribe are misunderstood.
On the edges looking in.
We are honest as the day is long,
Loyal to our ideas, ideals and our friends.
Happy to plough our own furrow most of the time.
Have sensory super powers.
Are rational pragmatists.
Disoriented by the difference between what a person says verbally,
And their body language.
Ignorant of pecking orders and social standing.
Are difficult to offend but easy to crush.
Are mono-focused and frequently oblivious.
Are passionate, empathetic and compassionate...
Just frequently oblivious to others needs.
We require periods of solitude.
Are talented and intelligent.
Naive and easily taken advantage of,
We are into purpose not ego,
And find our busy, amazing, stimulating and wonderful world,
Overwhelming sometimes.

Daydreaming

It is in those quieter moments,
I find myself wondering what you do.
What vista your eyes look over.
A bustling commercial street, a hilltop,
Blue water expanding out to the horizon,
Or a light-pierced, velvet night sky,
Perhaps just your kitchen sink into your garden.
I always imagine you looking out.

That is because,
I too am always looking out,
Into the next possibility.
In the moving pictures of my mind.
I conjure my future.

I feel a sense of solidarity with you.
Because it seems to me,
Each of us is on a quest.
Seeking the assurance,
That out there in the hurly burly,
That is our lives,
There is one safe place to be ourselves.
A sanctuary.

In Bed in the afternoon.

It is delightfully decadent to be lounging in bed,
In the afternoon.
Five unsupervised.
But I can hear their voices,
Occupied in various levels of activity.
The cluck and clatter of scooters on concrete.
 Rhythmic as they clear each expansion joint.
In the kitchen banana smoothies are in production.
And the blender whirrs.
No doubt at least one will be curled up with a book.
But I am warm and the pillow welcomes my heavy head.
My naked skin too, the comfort of soft cotton against it.
There will be consequences for retreating like this.
But right now,
It is the weight of my weary body resting in this comfortable nest,
That is my primary focus.

Motley

Our crew is motley.
We are a range of ages and BMIs,
A farmer, a teacher, a barmaid, a sawmiller.
Yet our enthusiasm is undaunted,
Despite our reservations about abseiling
We waddle precariously close to the edge,
And with words of encouragement,
" Stick yer thumb up your bum."
"Keep your legs straight."
"Come on now this rope has a breaking strain of 3000kg."
To fill in the long periods of trepidatious stalling.
By the  person, 'on rope.'
Finally a fat bottom is over the edge
They pass the point of no return.
A startled scream as the rope catches the edge.
And they're down.
With only a few red' words.

I Should be Sleeping.

Sleep.
It is very underrated,
Yet so welcome,
When the undertow of fatigue,
Pulls at all your vitals,
And drags you down,
Into deep unconsciousness.

I know I should submit.
In my rational mind.
Yet it is my rational mind that prevents me.
Too many interesting thoughts.
Too large a sensory meal to digest.

Oh grant me a firm, warm bed,
Sunny, breeze dried sheets,
Well fitted,
A plump pillow,
And you,
To entwine with my legs.

Then perhaps I should sleep.

Christmas in Australia

It sneaks up on you.
Christmas and the Summer holidays.
Already the diary is filling with those,
Compulsory Christmas events.
Countless Christmas parties with freezer food and too much soft-drink.
Santa in all his incarnations and levels of intoxication.
Kids petrified by the blaring fire truck,
Handed a bag of mixed lollies.
School productions with 'parents please bring a plate,'
And' a gift under the tree from Santa.'
Ridiculous images of snow, reindeer,
And an overdressed octogenarian with rosacea,
When it is forty degrees in the shade.
I enjoy the Summer holidays,
The singing,
The excitement of small children,
And their deep philosophical discussions of the existence of Santa,
As a real being or as a metaphor.

But besides that...

Bah Humbug.

UHF

The road to my work-place is special.
Especially corrugated, narrow and winding.
Through cool mountain forests,
Home to the fleet-footed,
And sometimes,
Not fleet-footed enough.
Wallaby, wombat, lyrebird and kangaroo.
Flashes of fur and feather.
And of twenty five tonnes of log truck.
With accompanying dust.

So the ritual calls commence.
"Gap Road,  Bendoc to Jughandle,
Mustards to Delegate River,
Playgrounds to Burtons rd.
Legge Rd, heading down the Brown."

And the replies.
"Yeh you should be seeing my dust soon."
Or...
"Watch out! I'll be coming up in a minute."

And then the trucks to each other.
"Yeh Mack, a little one coming up next."

I sneak up on them and eaves drop on their conversations.
" Yeh she was a wild night at the club..."
" Now what's this Dick- head doin?
F'kn tourists."

As we' pass the time of day on channel forty,
I feel a sense of solidarity,
Of one who is a local,
In the know.
In their club.

Don't Settle for less.

Out there in the wide wide world,
Their is someone,
Who lives with the exuberance to match your passion.
That likes to run and climb and hike up mountains.
And lay on quiet hilltops to gaze at the stars.
Who will suddenly see you,
And unbidden bound into your arms.
Will match your caresses with their own.
Whose sweet voice will be like soft silk on your eardrums.
And whose every recess will match your curves,
So that you will fit together like Lego.
They will smell just right,
And will thrust their face deep into your nape,
And take in long draughts,
Of essence of you.
They will be your complement.
And you will regret any time that you missed,
Before you met.

The Wave

Last night when we made love,
It happened again.
I tried so hard to remain grounded.
To stay with you in those moments.
But I felt them moving in me.
Coming from that well, deep inside.
They bubbled up very quickly,
And I was caught unguarded.

Every uncomfortable discourse,
Each uncertain social interaction.
The crash, clatter, whirr and constant drone,
Of this adulterated, wonderful world.
Every miscue and faux pas,
The rolled eyes and the cringes.
The joy and excitement.
All the stresses,
And the exuberance, of just being me.
In those moments I felt them flow up and out.
A bottle effervescing with emotion.
More than I could handle.
I lost sight of you,
And was left to ride this wave,
Alone.

The Scouts and the Witches.

Unlikely cohabitants,
We Scouts and the witches.
Yet we are both tribes.
Our uniform and coded language attest.
While they make merry with mead.
We have red and white wine at our formal dinner.
They, their athanes, garlands and flowing gowns,
We have scarves and woggles.
They will dance around the Maypole,
(Perhaps skyclad.)
Our eyes up-cast salute the flagpole.
They welcome the coming of Spring,
We await Jamboree.
What make they of our raucous BRAVOs.
We are definitely apprehensive about their 'Great Rite',
As we retire to our segregated bunk rooms.
Blessed be!

Laurie Keeps Calling

Orana! Orana!
Orana to Christmas Day!
We are rehearsing for the Christmas concert.
Our CD newly minted is in its spangled green cover.
Baby Jesus not even opening his eyes.
We listen to the playback,
I hear Rowena's syrup thick honey voice,
My own birdlike vibrato,
John's bass vibrates my every molecule down to my toes.
And then we get to 'that' part.
I look across to our conductor.
He is thinking what I am thinking.
Our smiles meet in conspiratorial recognition.
Probably no one else notices,
The one voice that we hear above all others,
In a tree of thirty calling lorikeets.
" Laurie Keeps Calling!"

Fidelity

It was not so much that they had an affair.
Or that she had tortured herself for years,
Knowing this longing was festering inside her,
Poisoning the rationality of her shallow mind.
Nor that they came together after so much yearning,
(At least it seems on her part.)
No I can accept that.
Who am I to judge?
It happened to me once.

No what is upsetting is the deceit.
The careful calculated planning.
The slyness.
The half truths told to accomplish the goal.
So much thought,
Yet so little of the consequences.

What did she hope to achieve?
Positioning herself in close proximity.
Pathetic, a helpless damsel in need of rescuing.
Right on his doorstep.
And him alone too,
What hero could resist her tears, her flattery, her love confessions.

Perhaps one who used the frontal lobes of his brain.
But he didn't,
And they 'did it'.
And now for the fallout.

Fidelity is honesty.

 

He's Crying

My infants class are restless on the carpet.
The maths lesson is going longer than their concetration span.
They fidget,
One picks furtively at the books on the shelf,
One has their socks in their mouth.
I know that it is time to wind it up,
Before the learning moment is lost.
Then it is his turn.
The child with too much going on at home.

His wide smile and over eagerness show,
That he is excited to be up next.
But he has not understood the question.
Before my eyes I watch him crumple.
His eyes look shocked and bewildered.
Everything droops like a flower deprived of rain.
Tears well in his eyes.

And I explain that it is all right.
(I want to hold him, but of course I can't.)
"We only learn from our mistakes," I say.
He tries to explain his confusion,
But he can't.
His eyes are leaking now,

And the other kids are ready to cut him, the weakest, down.
They have the blood lust.
I must save his face.
"Stop!"

All eyes are on me.
I have command of their attention.
I apologise for not phrasing the question better.
"It is just a misunderstanding.
I have confidence that you will get this 'perfectly right',
Now you understand," I say.
And he does.
" Sometimes we just can't choose when we will cry," I say.

Our philosophical discussion goes till lunchtime.

Copulating Snakes

Our country school has water views.
It is near the willow-choked river.
This proximity has challenged the teachers of old,
Who must cross a ford to gain access.
Floods trapping them on either side.
A well stocked freezer and a comfortable stretcher bed,
Are testament to the frequency of this occurrence.

Animals are attracted to the river.
On hot summer days the legless, cold blooded variety are particularly enamoured.
In the old days (not so long ago,)
The Snake spade was kept by the front door.
Students made the treacherous journey to the toilets in pairs.
The student requiring the facilities,
And 'The Snake Killer' wielding the spade.

Mostly this was the bigger country boys,
Who already knew how to drive a 'paddock-basher' and shoot a with a 'twenty two'.
Mostly, but not always.
Some girls were taught by their equally daring mothers,
How to 'crack' a snake with their bare hands.

But we are living in more civilised, politically correct and litigious times.
Gone is the snake spade.
Instead in its place,
The ridiculous, misguided and downright stupid reactions.
Of what can only be described as  'not country people'.

Today there were two snakes 'making whoopee' in the school grounds.
The students were fascinated by an act of reproduction being performed,
Before their very eyes.
The reaction of the matron who had seen it all was priceless.
(With a sly smile), she got the nervous principal.
The teacher was adamant the children should be sent home immediately.
It was decided at last that the children should be locked in.
It was then that the 'country teachers' chimed in,
That snakes had frequently found their way into the classroom,
By various gaps near the water heater.
The spade was procured.
Just in case.


   

Pissing in his pocket.

It was just so apt.
Looking in from the outside.
The way was clear,
To me at least.
All these people getting 'soooo' upset,
And over nothing.
Where they blind, stupid?
Apparently.
But it was simple really.
All I had to do to remedy the intractable situation.
And get the immovable, moving.
Was....
'Piss in the right pocket!'

The Songwriter

I am learning his song.
Recorded in a hospice.
He was a songwriter.
Which really means,
He was a poet.
I could see him in his lyrics.
I could feel his pain, his optimism,
And the love he had for his wife.
I could feel his gratitude,
For the opportunity to reveal himself,
So publicly.
No truer portrait,
Than this self portrait.
Each time I tried to sing it...

The poignancy of the last line,
Caught in my throat. 

Sensual

Warm water envelops me,
Swaddled in a womb.
Pressure welcome against my eardrums.
Sounds pleasantly muted.
Floating in a cosseted embrace.
All upsets forgotten.
Just bathing.

Karaoke

A few beers and everyone is a singer.
The vintage of each soon discovered.
Barnsey and Dragon,
The Big O and Johnny Cash.
Hits from the 50s 60s 70s 80s and beyond.
Arm in arm the old mates croon.
The girls with 'sass' strut their stuff.
The microphones squeal with ear-splitting feedback.
Drinks are spilled,
And  newly minted,
Lovers for the evening, dance suggestively.
In preparation for a very forgettable bonk.

Nature Girl

She does not speak with her mouth,

My Retts girl.

Her eyes and sparkling smile tell me of her love:

For the sun and its optimistic warmth,

It kisses her face and dazzles her seeking eyes.

For the wind and its merry dance amongst the limbs of the tree.

It whips hair into her blinking eyes and smiling mouth.

Of birds calling from all corners and out of view.

They flit about branchlets of the tree carrying nesting.

Of leaves and their soothing rustle.

They mimic her sparkle as they flutter,

Showing alternately their front and back.

I sit and watch as she absorbs her environment,

And receives grateful succour from it.

The Buzz

He said:

"You were buzzing last night.

I could feel you vibrating."

I knew what he was talking about.

The atoms of my body had been thrust,

Through thousands of kilometres,

At a hundred kilometres an hour,

Driving.

The tyres of my car dragged against the bitumen,

Their vibration travelled through my seat,

Into spine and the marrow of each of my bones.

The cochlea of my ears endured the hours of banshee screaming,

Of air scraping against the cars exterior,

As high pitched as a fluorescent light.

Drone, drone, drone,

Ever rhythmic, the motor's base,

Coming into my feet on the floor,

And my hands on the steering wheel.

I had been a human tuning fork.

And now free from vehicular prison,

I rang out.

Marking their Territory

Why is it when they know that they will leave,

They claim they will stay?

They claim that will not join their long line of predecessors,

Who could not live up to the,

Unachievable, utopian hippy dream.

"We are coming back,

This is just until......

We are a part of this community."

Yeh sure.

And then before they go,

They have to leave some testament,

To their temporary habitation,

Of this place.

This time it is a mural on the local hall.

Last time,

It was artistic signs along,

An unused and unmaintained walking track.

Their names and those of their children,

Etched in acrylic paint.

Marking their territory,

Just as a wombat,

Neatly defecates on the tallest stone.

Losing Connection.

It is only when either of us lose sight of the other.

The bond is broken,

For just a moment....

 

Together,

And we are in the throws of a sensory maelstrom of touch.

But I am full to over flowing.

And I lose sight of you.

 I am alone.

And that is when the demons,

Of overstimulation leak out,

Through these tiny cracks.

I re visit the sensory conglomeration,

That is my overstimulated life,

Breakdown,

And cry.

The Tough Nut

"I go to bed when I want,

Two thirty sometimes.

I can watch whatever telly or DVDs I want,

Mum and Dad don't fuck'n care.

Yeh I just do what I like.

So you can't make me..."

He is short and stocky.

Rosy round cheeks match,

His little round belly.

He looks tough,

But his 'face' is lost,

So easily.

Don't challenge him, he'll break.

He is a grimy cherub,

With a foul mouth.

Serendipidy

It was only yesterday we were talking about them,

Our mentors.

Two delightful lady lesbians,

Who after lives of challenge,

Found each other.

They have life 'sussed'.

Their joy creates boundless energy,

And huge potential to give.

Yes we were talking about them.

Planning when we could all get together,

Be re inspired.

And then as fate would have it,

In the most unexpected of places,

Just on a whim,

They were there,

Where I was,

Having just arrived.

We embraced. 

I said,

" You know we were just talking about you two,

Only yesterday, 

And here you are."

Serendipity.

 

Blowies

The light is attracting them.
They buzz and splutter in a chorus,
About my head.
They bounce of the darkened ceiling.
Morris left the door open all afternoon.
They were attracted by the kitchen smells,
Of fresh bread baking,
And Bowen's scones.
I had to rescue the cream before it was blown.
I should not complain too much.
They are a harbinger of the warm pleasant days to come.
They are blowies.

Billie-Grace Car Washing Service.

Her big blue eyes, that are mine,
Look at me through the windscreen.
On the bonnet, her five year old hands are rubbing at the glass.
She has a damp nappy, that was once hers.
I feign sleep so I can observe her without further engagement.
She is busy,
Making small smearing circles.
Her hard work is not effective,
Yet she persists.
Her tongue pushes about her mouth in the same circles.
She is concentrating hard.
As she returns the washcloth to the bucket.
I watch her lips form the shape of a song.
She is singing while she works.