Hating Christmas

It sounds extreme,
Hate.
The opposite of love,
The harshest word,
 (That is not a curse)
Not to be written or stated lightly.
But yes I can say without hesitation,

I hate Christmas!

Why:

Asperger's dislike of all faux,
The superiority of a dominant religion on parade,
The obligations,
The rampant consumerism,
The overconsumption,
And the machinations of insincerity,
Bah Humbug.

And they Walked

There is no-one untouched.
"I don't know how many laps I can do?
But I'm walking for Carol."

Carol is on morphine now.
A few weeks ago she was among the sopranos,
In our community choir.

Penny and her sisters have raised so much.
Ignoring the signs,
Like a man,
Their dad succumbed after only a few short weeks.

As night falls,
The candles are silent sentinels.
Their scribbled messages,
Each tell a story of loss,
Or sometimes hope.

I walk for the collective loss.
Those of my friends.
Their sister, daughter, aunt.
His mate, a long way away.

I walk in gratitude of good health.

Relay for Life.

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.




 

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.

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.

Natural Cycles vs reality of life in the21st Century

The cycles of birth, growth and death cannot be escaped from,
But they may be morphed.
I plant my garlic in April and my tomatoes in November.
Commercial growers in their irrigated, temperature-regulated greenhouses,
Plant any time of the year.
My veggies are in soil enriched with manure and compost,
Mulched with old straw.
Commercial veggies may not even have their feet in the earth,
But in an NPK chemical-cocktail.
My fruit feels the cold of frosts, moisture of rain,
And has the light of the Sun and Moon on its flesh.
Commercial Fruit, gassed, waxed and polished is stored the long year.

And while I like to follow the patterns of nature,
As a human being:
I still use artificial light to stay up later than my body finds healthy.
I travel  in a carbon-spewing vehicle much faster than my two legs can transport me.
I regulate my behaviour to the machinations of  human society,
And bow to the responsibilities of its membership.
I work in an air-conditioned, artificially-lit and computerised building.
I buy products wrapped in packaging that takes an eon to decompose.
I follow like a sheep, the commercialised festivals of the year,
All of which I abhor.
I am a consumer!

How to reclaim the natural cycles of being a human animal?

Dance Practice

Thursdays are dancing days.
A long drive with school wearied children.
Their faces lunch smeared,
Their hair adrift from braids
Arrive.
Always late.
Rush! Rush! Rush!
"Quick out of the car.
Yes I've got your bag
Just lean on me while you get on your tights.
Wrong foot.
Yes I've forgotten the hair brush.
Oh your faces are so dirty."
Look around at the perfect coiffured mummies.
Their perfect painted nails,
Expertly arrange hair.
Their ballerinas immaculate.
My jealousy is palpable.