Shut Down

When all your systems shut down,
You cannot speak.
Yet in your head,
The conversation goes on.

They,
The ones who love you,
Ask questions:
You cannot answer,
Will not answer,
Or are so upset,
(Because they know you are mute,
But persist in the  incessant ridiculous questioning,
And back you into a corner)
That you will EXPLODE!
If you answer.

And then you will be ashamed.
Because it is not their fault.
That you are full.

The Hill

The afternoon sun grazes my hill with a bright orange brush.
And brings out the tri-layers of this tree-clad cake.
My paddocks below are in shade now,
As the sun makes its steady descent.

But my hill-cake shines on.
The snow gums on the top-most layer, the icing,
Are a sparkling silver greyish green.
Below them, the white trunks of Alpine Ash,
Are wearing curly wigs of a greener-green,
They're still sparkling.

And as I compose this poem,
The Messmates and Peppermints,
That make the lowest tier,
Are slowly darkening into a deeper green shadow.

Intimacy

Stay present with me as we negotiate,
The uneven path that is our intimacy.
Look into my eyes,
And tell me with those mirrors of your soul,
Your darkest secrets and most private desires.
Speak the words that speak your truth.
Listen for mine.
Read my gestures.
Keep the bond unbroken.
Do not stray into,
You own secret places.
But be with me,
Until the cacophony,
Of our everyday lives intrudes,
And we must again part.

The subtleties of Misogyny

Misogynists are not always full of machismo.
Sometimes they are placid, misguided souls.
Protective,
And maybe self-characterised as,
Gentlemen.
Even chivalrous.
No, they do no real harm,
So they think.

Yet their gender stereotypes are ingrained.
It is them,
To their very souls.

By their ineptitude they court,
A well-meaning,
Feminine guiding hand.
Who soon becomes a dogsbody.
Somehow we are duped,
By their charming hopelessness.

They are aggrieved that their,
Sensitive new age men's club,
Should be perceived as,
Unwelcome to female members.
Yet it is by its old boy, back scratching,
Laissez faire attitude,
Exclusive.

And heaven help,
The immodestly loud and persistent woman,
Who might challenge any one of them.
For she is a harridan.

The Daisies

The hill of feral daisies is in flower again,
I know they are a weed,
But beautiful in their bounty nonetheless.
They measure the Springtimes,
Since I met you.
Despite the fact that we have parted.
You, like the daises are part of me.
And when I see them,
It is that Summer,
All over again.
When I fresh-faced picked posies,
To fill my small rented cottage.

I remember,
How each year they slowly crept,
Out from their stronghold,
The travelling stock reserve,
And down the road like each seasons,
Grazing  cattle.
The cows and the cars,
Have spread them almost to town.

The other afternoon,
As I was driving home,
I saw a patch on my own road.
The daisies are moving closer to me.
So I shall have an annual reminder
Near at hand.

Wool Classing Exam

Thirteen hopefuls,

All pretty rough and ready,

Rousies, shearers and cockie's wives.

All nervous.

Before us:

The AWEX Descriptors,

A recent wool report,

Small blue cards,

Our reporting sheet,

And three kilos of greasy wool.

Mixed oddments and fleece,

The pile looked huge.

And the clock ticked.

Thirteen sweated and sorted.

Made and remade piles.

Sifted through the dregs,

Cursed under their breath.

And then time was called.

We all cursed then.

Thirteen repeated the ritual.

Fine wool from New England.

Cross-bred from the Wheat Belt,

And medium wool from Condobolin.

Thirteen looked pensive.

Had we done enough.

Most thought that it would be close.

One looked sick with stress.

Thirteen waited.

The clock ticked.

Thirteen were summoned,

Still the clock ticked.

The announcement was subdued,

Some missed it.

But when it was repeated,

One regained his normal palour.

Thirteen now were wool classes.

It's in the eyes.

I watch people's mouths.
(Apparently an Aspergian trait)
The way they form each syllable.
Each hesitation,
Curve of the lip,
Exhalation of air,
Secret smile.
It's mostly there.

Words.
Now those are things you cannot trust.
The tone,
And the undertones.
What is actually said,
And what is revealed,
By what is not said.
No you cannot trust the words.

The mouth and even sometimes,
Well quite often actually,
The language of the body,
The movement and placement of limbs,
The stance,
The little mannerisms,
Yes it is almost there too.

But the place it exists with all its passion,
Fear, ecstasy, hatred, disdain, sympathy, longing,
Disgust, cruelty, frivolity, empathy, joy, despair,
Anger, hope, envy, lust, indolence, confusion,
Sadness, pity.....
And love
Is in truth revealed by a person's eyes.

Uncomfortable

Sometimes,
Due mainly to my Aspergian bluntness,
I make people uncomfortable.
I know that it is because,
In this ego driven society,
Of insincere politeness.
Truth is not acceptable,
And it is extremely rude to point it out.

On dogs and some men.

My new dog cowers.
He has submit written on his forehead.
Even my Mini-Foxy can have him retreating,
Head and ears down,
Crouched,
Tail held stiffly between his legs.

He is my new dog,
Because his owners,
Lovers of many dogs,
Knew that he was bottom of the pack.
The alpha male,
A tall border collie was his constant torment.
He as a young entire male,
Would not have any place in this pack.

The law of the jungle,
Use violence to maintain power.
But we humans are not dogs,
We can make better choices,
More 'humane' choices.

My friend has a broken heart.
A broken spirit,
And her beautiful face is broken too.
In the pack,
At the party,
She found herself excluded.
She upset the alpha male,
Her boyfriend.
So his pack set on her.
Beat her and left her unconscious,
On a suburban street.

Same law of the bully,
Just a different jungle.

The Principal

When I was a child,
The ditty ' The Principal is your pal'
Meant that I could at least spell the word correctly.
And for the most part,
The Principal was my pal.
Someone I respected and feared,
Just a little.
Someone I wanted to impress.

Now I know, the sometimes thankless profession,
That is, being The Principal.
Ever questioned by disgruntled entitled parents,
Are the motives of  The Principal.
Who of course is out to victimise their precious little darlings.
Who does nothing to stop the bullying, apparently perpetrated on their baby,
The biggest bully in the school.
For of course despite their lack of qualifications,
The parent is by far the better pedagogue.

The school just lets the children run riot.
The school works the students too hard and has no other extracurricular activities.
Or the school is doing so many other extracurricular activities the students aren't learning.

How dare The Principal question any person's parenting skills,
Even when children arrive dirty and unfed.
Or are reticent to return home to the loving bosom of their families.
How dare The Principal suggest that a child may need educational support,
Because they have a learning challenge,
When it is clear that the child is a genius.

I have observed the school mafia at the gate weaving their intrigues.
I have seen them cut The Principal down till they leave,
Anxious and disillusioned of their noble profession.
And I have read the abusive correspondence,
Which must remain confidential,
While the parent mouths off around town.

Yes I know the disdain and even hatred poured onto a Principal.
But I have also seen the love poured onto the students,
By The Principal.

Precious

Precious our mini-foxy is brave.
She runs at the pony's hooves yapping,
To show that she is on duty.
She chases the small birds,
That invade our territory.
And sounds her loud warning bark,
At the approach of any strange car,
Or human on foot.

Precious watches over my daughter,
Who gets fatigued,
By her nightmare induced insomnia,
And makes her feel safe.
She sleeps in her pink bean-bag at the foot of the bed,
With one ear open.
Sometimes, when it is too cold,
Or she can't be bothered,
She defecates inside the house.
We forgive her this small indiscretion,
Because she is brave...

At least when we are at home with her.

The Blame Game

He told me me the gossip going round town.
She had whinged to him...

"We weren't even given a warning.
So and so had got a ticket as well.
It just wasn't fair."

To Him, her argument seemed compelling.
It engendered some sympathy.
Perhaps they should have received a warning rather than a fine.
She had left satisfied at his reaction.

But in the game of saving face,
She neglected to mention,
Her disregard for safety,
And the obvious signage.
Reminders in the newsletter.
Or the way a complainant had been mocked,
And felt compelled, before some one was hurt,
To act.

The blame game,
I think is a primitive reflex.
An action arising from the reptilian brain stem.
'When attacked fight back.'
There goes the few million years of evolution,
That developed our frontal lobes.

Being Moved.

I was not moved by the loss, the despair,
The real and perceived dangers.
Not by the anguish of the victims or their families.

I was not moved by the speeches,
Of the people of consequence.
I was not moved by the warmongering,
Of those seeking retribution and revenge.

No.

The courageous people,
Who stood strong and did not give into hatred,
Who refused to be defined,
By those, who because of their own suffering,
Chose to kill and maim their loved ones.

Those who refused to turn on their neighbours,
Who act out of love and compassion,
Despite their own unbearable suffering.

These are the people who move me to tears.

Vive.

Crazy Time

The compartments that make up my life,
Are too quickly filling.
They are breeding while I have my back turned.
People are making more and more demands on my limited attention.
I keep my head just above water,
And mentally celebrate,
When I can strike an action off my list,
As already accomplished.
I look into my mental calendar and note,
That it is in fact achievable,
As long as no wheels fall off,
Or anything goes remotely pear shaped.
I can breathe.
Even if I may not sleep.
Hopefully the adrenalin keeps the vehicle in fuel and maintains the momentum.
The question really is...
For how long?

I know I love you because I miss you.

It is not what you do,
How you look,
What you feel like,
How good a lover you are.
How compatable we are.
Or the interests we share.
It isn't even your conversation.
Or your unique smell.
It is not because my friends say we make a good couple.
Or that I am lucky to be with you.
It is not because we made children together.
Have shared assets.
It is most definitely not to avoid loneliness.
Or that I have made my bed and must now sleep in it.

The fact is that I know I love you.
Because I am happier being with you,
Than being without you.
I think conversations to you when we are apart.
And in those quieter moments,
When I am not distracted by other thoughts or responsibilities.
I miss you.

Shades of Love

I believe in shades of love.
The lighter shades,
Are the love of nature, animals and humanity.
The pastel shades are love for your babies,
These grow to brighter colours as they mature and become themselves.
And become a little more muted as they gain independenc from you.
There are the passionate primary colours of attraction and new love.
That become more earthy and nature based as you make a life together.
There is the patchwork of friendships in varying depths and hues.

All these shades of colour nourish and enrich you.
Within this kaleidoscope you live.

Affront

I said one word,
And they felt affront.
I planned my conversation in advance,
No contention.
I the injured party,
Was contrite.
To let them save face.
I laid no blame,
For there was none.
No malicious intent.
Just bad luck.
I wanted nothing.
I knew that the ramifications,
Required informing other parties.
So I calculated all possible outcomes.
Put on my most solicitous voice.
And yet,
It was not possible for them to not be defensive,
And go on the offensive and...
Shoot the messenger.
I will never understand neurotypical behaviour.
It defies all logic.

The Date

Today we walked in nature.
Felt the strain of lungs and muscles,
As we climbed.
Looked down into a cavernous ravine.
Watched fast moving water swirl and boil over rocks,
And heard its cry.
Were scratched and bruised by vegetation.
Listened for the waterfall.
Climbed down the precipice tentatively.
Slid on scree.
Hopped from Boulder to boulder.
And scrabbled.
Sat beneath a gum and ate a picnic.
Drank cool, unadulterated and dynamic water.
Shed our material skins and dived.
Felt the shock of sudden coolness.
Defied gravity and floated downstream.
Cleaned sand-clad feet, to put on socks.
Climbed again.
Wiped sweat from above our lips,
And felt it drizzle down our backs.
Saw smiles.
Felt the satisfaction of our own healthy bodies.
The perfect way to spend a day.

The Ballad of Ian and the Crazy Heifer- The Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March

It was Ian from Delegate,
Who caught the marching craze.
And lead the Snowy River Men,
To walk eleven days.
From Delegate to Goulburn
Three fifty Ks to roam
And sleep in halls, and tents and sheds,
Until they could go home.

And then on the Old Bombala Rd.,
A mishap did occur
It involved an Angus heifer,
A frightened angry cur.
The heifer had got out
And was upon the road.
She was surprised to see the men.
Their activity seemed to goad,
Her into action, and she ran into the fence.
Young and frightened she got entangled.
She was acting very dense,
And stupid, and tried to get herself free.
When standing unawares close by,
Peeing behind a tree,
Was Ian.

The heifer saw red,
For next to him, leaning on the tree,
Was the banner of the Snowy River Men,
And as the heifer was now free.
She ran at the red ensign.
And fumbling at his fly,
Ian bravely gathered up his wits,
And gathered up the sign.
And poked the crazy heifer.
Whose blood was fairly raised
Until she made her final stand,
Pawed the dust,
And ran at him,
Still dazed.

For a moment, of man and beast, I lost sight.
For they were behind the tree.
Until lying on her back, legs asplay,
On the far side of the fence,
I saw the heifer,
Who was at last,
Free.

But where was the brave Ian?
Tending wounds, from this terrible offence?

No, he was giving the cow a mighty kick, (to help it onto its feet),
And fixing up the fence.






tending mortal wounds

The Rascal- Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March.

Who is the oldest child among us,
Summers his name and disposition,
And he is seventy seven Summers young.
Still sprightly on his new knees.

Who leads the marchers?
Leaving youngsters, fond of life's vices,
Far behind.

Who leads the real kids astray?

Who rang Nimmity's bell?
Dong! Dong! Dong!

Who sounded the hooter?
To wake us from our slumbers,
In the footy change room.

Who keeps us in good humour with his shenanigans?
Neville, the rascal.

Nimmity's Bell - Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March.

Winds blast down from Kosciuszko,
Turning the generators blades as they go.
We hear the rattle of the shed- our accommodation,
Replacing one, where heavy snow,
Had caused devastation.

And here near the stage- a mammoth bell,
Just newly cast.
So later in the pub,
The question was asked.....

" A bell- Why a bell?
Did it replace one of old?"

"Well, sort of- not really- well...
There has been bells here- um- like... At the Railway Station,
And the old sawmill had one,"

So we were told.

Sixty grand was raised by the town,
One benefactor put a substantial sum down.
But, apparently it cost thirty five K.
And now as I sit next to it,
Plastic shrouded, today.

I think...
' Why the hell would any town want a big bell?
Who had the rush to the head,
And the charisma to tell,
A town that they would need such a decadent toy?'

Well they obviously thought it the go...
And Oh Boy!....
Is it ever LOUD!

We are Marching- The Snowy River Men - Recruitment March.

One hundred years on,
And we are marching.
Not the strapping youth of a new country,
The descendants are grey, pot-bellied grandsons,
And wide-hipped grand-daughters.
Age has wearied them.
They tramp along slowly.
The Lighthorse re-enactors,
Are heavier in the saddle, than their predecessors.
A single infantryman moves sprightly,
Despite his hard leather boots.
He's set,
With his bag of  newly baked 'hard tack'.
Original recipe, courtesy of Arnotts.