At My Writing Table

Late afternoon. The hot day cools. I come outside to my back yard writing table, and the cats follow me out and settle themselves in their favourite spots. Levi goes and eats grass and throws up, with much body contortion. I'm glad this happens outside on the concrete, which I can hose down later. He positions himself on the doormat to have another go, but I whisk it out from under him and he chooses the dirt of the yard instead, where it soaks in and disappears. All organic, I tell myself, and biodegradable. Never mind the hose; I fetch a jug from inside and wash the mess on the concrete into the dirt as well. Freya decides to depart, wandering off around the side of the house. I expect she'll end up on the front doorstep, from where she likes to survey the street. (Later I find that she has gone through the cat-door instead, back inside.) I settle to my journalling finally, my water bottle beside me on the table, with my cordless landline phone as well as my mobile. I applied Rid before I came out, to keep me safe from mozzies and midges and other little bitey things. There should be no need to go back inside until I finish my writing. Levi is curled up peacefully now in a patch of late afternoon sunlight.

Nap Time

The 'children' sleep, foetally curled, too deep for purring now; but their little ears are still pointed forwards, part of the cat-brain forever alert.

Return

When I come back after a few days away, she comes to bed with me just as she always used to do, and we have big cuddles. But on subsequent nights she's out through the cat-door again: her new habit. 

I try to be glad she needed so little reassurance.

Echo

I hear myself as I talk to the cats. I hear my dead husband's voice — his tone, his inflection, his phraseology. So perhaps for them he is not quite gone.

I hadn't realised what an echo I had become.

In the Guest Bedroom

1:

Hebe has put me in a bower of green and purple, the colours of feminism — in gentle tonings, leavened with white and accented with wood. There are plain, thin frames of dark wood around the windows and the built-in wardrobe. The bedside tables and the small semi-circular shelf in the corner are of blonder wood. The ceiling, the ceiling fan, and the wardrobe doors are white. So is the background material of doona cover and curtain. But the predominant hues are the soft green walls; the green leafy pot plants, their leaves ranging from dark to almost transparent; the pretty purple flowers on curtain and doona; the blown-up colour photo on the wall, of a spreading bush of mauve bougainevillea. The whole effect is of light and softness. I feel sheltered and expanded at once. I begin to imagine I can smell lavender.

2:

This bed I have never shared with Andrew. Nor this bedroom. It is a place where I can just be me without the memories, just for a few days. I would not want it to be like that all the time — I would not wish to be cut off from the memories — but it's good to have a short space in which they do not HAVE to be there. In my bed at home they are unavoidably ever-present. It's good to get away these few days. I do remember things while I'm here, too, of course, but only as they arise; they are not inevitable. Here I am predominantly myself, not first and foremost Andrew's widow. I am the self I have always been, underneath all the vagaries and vicissitudes of life. I like the experience. It's like a renewal. And I like this me.

Late Afternoon

Loving to sit at my new outdoor writing spot. The late afternoon is warm, not hot. The vines on the fence still have some flowers. There is only the faintest breeze stirring the palm fronds; I can't feel it.  A small butterfly flits among my thriving green weeds. 

Tree Gesture

That bare branch extends 

like a naked arm 

from its clothing of leaves,

the forked twig on the end

a thumb and pointing finger.

What does the tree want to say, 

gesticulating thus 

in graceful elegance

yet so significant?

'I am here,' it says. 'Here I am!'

'Here I am!' it says. 'I am here.'

(For Mindful Writing Day 2012)

Odd

Odd things I remember.

He liked his shower

what I would call too hot.

When he got out, I'd see

red lines like long scratches

down his pale back.

Suddenly ...

Suddenly the jacaranda is blooming all along the road — misty-soft, a purple cloud. And then another and another.

My Geraniums

In early Spring my geraniums flowered profusely. Already, after some very high temperatures, the cheerful blooms are few.

Waiting Room Shenanigans

The tiny blonde one

goes straight to the toy bin.

His brown-haired brother

has brought a Matchbox car from home

and says, 'Vroom vroom vroom'

as he rolls it across the table.

Then the little one comes to me.

He holds his arm up to my face

to show me the red stamp

on the back of his wrist.

His brother presents an arm too.

His stamp is grey. My cry of delight

is not so loud as I gave the younger.

So then he swirls the other wrist

revealing a coloured sticker, so bright

and sudden that I shout — and now he's glad.

White Hawk Flies

White hawk flies over the road.

Big flaps of strong slow wings.

When it rose from the trees

at first I thought ibis, then

I saw how round the head,

how curved the beak.

It skims low over the forest

head-down purposeful

heading away from the sea

towards the Border Ranges.

Angel

A sky of angel clouds:

wings and several faces.

None of the faces 

is yours, but I'm reminded

that those who can see 

always recognised you 

as an embodied angel ...

gone now, to join your own.

Completion

My beautiful man passed away today about 3.40 in the afternoon. The nursing home phoned me just after breakfast so I went straight there and our dear friend Maureen joined me there, and we sat with him all day. The nursing home fed us, and we reminisced about him and his life, and talked to him too, and held his hands, knowing he could feel and hear us although he was unable to respond. He was very peaceful and comfortable all day, and went quickly and easily. He did wonderful things in his life, and was a treasured friend and mentor to many. I have been very blessed to have 20 years with this incredibly loving man.

First Day of Spring

I march out into the street, late afternoon,
the sun still bright, the air balmy.
New leaves are sprouting on all the trees.
A neighbour's bamboo hedge stands tall and thick.

I Step Outside

A cold, clear morning.
Ragged patches of cloud,
more navy-blue than grey,
linger after last night's
distant thunder.

Out On My Walk

Out on my walk
though I'm deep in grief
bright yellow Everlasting Daisies
with central circles of gold
cause brightness for me too
for a moment.

Lying Back in His Bed

Lying back in his bed
in the nursing home
he puts one arm up
behind his head.

'Why?' I ask him.
His eyes twinkle.
'Just because,' he says.

Hospital Patients

Two elderly men sit side by side in armchairs, chatting happily. They are dressed in their outdoor clothes. One has a deep red jacket, the other a mauve shirt. Both are in jeans. They are white-haired and balding; one has a thick white brush moustache. They are smiling and laughing as they yarn to each other.

My Husband in Hospital

All day he has been by the window, looking out at the hills across the way. This morning he was sitting up, admiring them. This afternoon he was resting. When I asked, 'Are you awake?' he opened his eyes, looked out at the sky, and said with pleasure, 'Oh, it's all bright!'

Early Morning Birds

Early morning birds
and the expectant hush
of Spring in the air
take me back

to my grandparents' house
amongst orchards
in Tasmania,
six decades gone.

Communication from a Friend

She sends me a song about holding on.
She sends me the image of a tree surrounding me:
a big trunk; strong roots going deep in the soil.
I won't fall, she says, no matter how windy the storm.
She doesn't realise that she has also told me
exactly how much I'll be buffeted and shaken.

The Purple Daisies

The purple daisies —
four with short stems,
in my tiny, spherical
cut crystal vase —
half close at evening,
showing their darker
undersides.

I found them
two days ago
when I came home:
stuck in the wire
of my front door.
Who gave me
these purple daisies?

In the Hospital Bed

In the hospital bed I notice
under the white gown
how thin his arms have become.

The Clouds ...

The clouds come up white
behind the trees
like a snow mountain.

Calling the Hospital

His voice on the phone is weak. And he can't hear me. No-one has remembered he needs his hearing aids. We yell at each other vainly, frustrated.

'Have you been to our place?' he asks.

'I'm here!' I tell him.

'I wish you were here,' he says.

Kay's Chicken Soup

Kay's good chicken soup
that she brought me
because I'm sick
stays with me.

Its warmth and flavour
and sustenance
continue to fill me. She
boiled down a whole chicken.

I Sit Outside

I sit outside to meditate, my spirits immediately lifting as I look at my sweet, nurturing back yard. It is both enclosed like a shelter, and open to the sky and plethora of trees beyond the fences. I am both protected, and connected to the Vastness.

Gone Again

He's gone again.
The sun
just won't get warm.

Bottlebrush

I step outside. Overnight
those dry trees on my lawn
have covered themselves
with bright red blooms.

Welcome!

The house feels warmer
now you're back home.

At midnight

The witching hour —
but this old witch
wants her bed.

War Movie

We are watching a move about World War I, the trenches.

'My father endured that,' he says.

He thinks the movie is wonderful, but he is taut and angry as he gets ready for bed.

The Rush of the Wind

The rush of the wind through the trees is quiet and sustained like white noise. I listen to it with joy and wonder. If I wasn't sitting still and paying attention, I might never notice. But I am and it sounds big, like the hum of the motors that drive the Universe.

I Like the Bite

I like the bite
of the evening air,
not really cold but fresh,
as I step out into
blue dusk
surrounded by mountains
familiar as bread;
they too are sustaining.

Oh, the Frangipanni Blossoms

Oh, the frangipanni blossoms
are a cloud of pink and white.
Spring is here at this bend of the road,
though Winter has another month to run.

Half Moon

the bright half-moon
lies on her back
floating
on a deep pool of sky

My Hula Hoop

My hula hoop is silver
and hot pink, shiny.

Tess made it for me
because she knew

it's just what I need
right now and I love it.

I Look Around ...

The cats are asleep on the armchairs. The coffee table and dining table are getting piled up with newspapers again. The clock on the window-sill ticks loudly, going slow. The light is bright and warm. There are too many ornaments crammed on the few shelves, and my desk has higgledy-piggledy piles of paper each side of the laptop.

Cluttered and untidy as it is, I like it. I see the items that speak of him and me and the life we live here. There is comfort and functionality. There is art and there are words, words on paper — words, words, words, piles of words. And the laptop and various pens. Over on the far wall is a bookshelf, chockablock. We are writers, we are readers, we are people of the word.

Contemplating Flies

I was brought up to see them
as dirty,
covered in germs,
particularly those fine back legs
hair-thin,
that pranced on food,
rubbed together, danced.

The back of this fly
is iridescent,
down at the end
under the flare of the wings.
The wings
are transparent silver;
they flutter lightly and flick.

(I know this observation
feels abrupt,
unfinished. There is little
more to say, having overcome
revulsion,
having contemplated and seen
what is still, after all, merely fly.)

On Waking

morning meditation
in the garden
a soft breeze
through my hair

Garden Time

Wind rustles my fern garden,
long fronds wave and toss.

I wipe the cobwebs away
from jade bush and umbrella plant.

Near the top of the plant's trunk
a circlet of tiny, bright leaves
glistens newborn, still sticky.

Two Young Women Jog.

They are slim and muscled.
One has a little white dog
running on a leash
just in front of her.
He scampers and bounces
turning his head as if to say,
'Come on, keep up!'

I Walk Out

I walk out into drizzle
perceiving the beauty
of this grey day

the mountains dimmed
their edges softy blurring
into the thick white sky

everything paled
everything gentled.

Pausing to Listen

Internal voices crowd out any external sounds I might hear. So much chatter going on in my head! It is just on the edge of consciousness; I catch snippets of conversations.

Translucent Petals

On the wall of the private dining room at Heritage Lodge is a big painting of flowers — flowers I used to be very familiar with, since earliest childhood, but haven't seen in the decades since I moved away from temperate climes. They have an unusual form: two big, overlapping, curly petals. I try to remember what they are called. I know there's a delicate scent associated with them too, not sweet but ... clean.

Flowering beans? Bean blossoms? No, that's not right. Some kind of peas? I can see in my mind, vividly, the ones I used to see, the sun shining through their delicate blue and green petals with a faint hint of gold. The ones in the painting are soft pinky-red, like a blush.

I hold the image of those others in my mind, a memory that goes right back to childhood. My Dad loved them too. I can see him standing beside them, talking ... ah yes, sweet peas, that's it!

My Mother's Perfume

Standing by the stove the other night, about to start cooking, I smelled, quite sharply, my mother's perfume. Unmistakable, and nothing in the surroundings to account for it.

She has been dead for 14 years now.

She always wore Tabu.

My Weed Garden

My weed garden flourishes. Only the aloe vera persists, of the poor herbs we planted so many months ago. No, I'm wrong: the lemon verbena is still here, straggly but strong. And something which may be gota cola, but I'd have to check. Otherwise we have ferns and ground cover, quite pretty.

I take away the twitch grass, before it crowds out everything else. The rest can stay. My life's too busy now to look after a made garden; better to allow the things that insist on growing here.

The orange blooms on the vine wandering in from next door are festooning the fence.

The Baby

The baby cuddles in.
I breathe the fragrance
of his warm scalp ...
instantly familiar,
after all these years.

I Sit In My car

I sit in my car at Knox Park, looking out at the trees, the play equipment, the houses beyond, the occasional bird. The rain has stopped; now the weather is steaming. I leave my door open.

I notice others in cars, with doors open, watching the park. It must be a Murwillumbah thing to do. Some of them are eating lunch. I'll just get mine out of my bag....

The Headlights Flash

The headlights flash
as the van goes over a rise
coming towards me
through the rain.
It veers, big green tank,
its muddy tyres squealing,
the low trailer behind it
jerking. I cringe
and then it's past,
rear view receding.

She Enters the Café

She enters the café
and sits with a sigh.
He looks at her
enquiringly. 'It's nice
to come to rest,' she says.

In the Doctor's Waiting Room

In the doctor's waiting room are the old and the young. The old sit quietly, the young are active and noisy — as it should be. At each end of life we are more vulnerable, more in need of care and maintenance.

The Children Roar

The children roar like wild animals, with laughter under the sound. They thump and run inside the fenced-off play area in the doctor's waiting-room.

The young mother sits calmly. gazing into space, her profile turned as if watching them, but her eyes distant, her body relaxed. She is used to this, able to tune out.

Then she returns to the here and now, goes in and fetches them out, puts the littlest on her lap and the other on a chair beside her, laughs with them.

Day's Ends

A fragment of birdsong outside

greeted the sunny morning.

I opened the curtains. Change,

and a day of fine grey rain

moving slowly to cold night.

l close the blinds and curtains.

Outside, a fragment of birdsong.

Elfje Variant

Oh!

winter flowers

pink and white

like delicate Spring blossoms —

frangipanni.

Effective

A rainbow pennant flies

from the corner of the street

marking the entrance to town.

'Peace and pennants', she wished us,

joking (not 'peace and pennance').

And there on the café sign behind it

a painted lotus blossoms, its petals

open to the light ... a symbol of peace.

She does good wishing, that woman!

Elfje

orange

sudden blooms

on the vine

over my back fence

prolific

Having just discovered the Dutch form, elfje, had to have a go! For more information: http://simplyelfje.wordpress.com/

Visible Sound

The wooden elephant

carved and painted

in lines of gold on black

is exaggeratedly narrow 

from chest to tail.

The legs are impossibly

tall and straight.

The head's thrown back,

ears falling long, and the trunk

raised high to the sky.

'I can hear him trumpeting,'

Andrew says. I look

and yes, the sound

is clarion. 'How joyous,'

I add, 'How triumphant!'

Tree Poems

Moving in the Breeze

I'm not the first to see

that the trees' bare branches

are like slender arms —

but I see this

as if for the first time 

now.

*******

Anchor

One old, thick trunk

among the more recent

and more delicate ...

from its solid width

the lowest boughs

extend like wings —

strong wings

of guardian angels.

The roots are spreading as far

as the tips of the topmost leaves.

Oasis

I enrolled in the Writing and Spiritual Practice course because I want an oasis, a space only for me. Late at night, I read the first questions and exercises. After awhile I notice I am sucking my thumb. I did that when I was a child. It gave me self-comfort and deep contentment.

Frog on the Pane

The window-frog

half the length of my thumb

has a pale underside

and littlle green toe-pads 

like pin-heads.

(Written 28 Nov. 2011 and just rediscovered.)

The Sound

... the sound of the rain outside

like loud whispers, gradually 

surrounding the house ...

Man in Café

You can see

in his pose

how much he enjoys

that mug of coffee

at his lips:

the raised elbow,

the head tipped slightly back,

the rapt look.

Then, with what
diligent focus

he peels and eats

bite by bite

the long banana.

The strips of skin fall dangling

from its slender curve

becoming stump.

His gaze is focused, 

calmly intent. 

But underneath 

the straight-legged chair 

his sneakered feet 

are kicking up

in a tiny, involuntary 

joy-dance.


Based on a series of photos by John Palcewski.

I Open the Door

I open the door

on a cool, clear 

Autumn morning.

A chorus of birds

rises over the hill.

From Both Sides Now

My back yard is clear and sunny, even if a little chilly this autumn morning. I open my front door and there’s dense grey fog to the rooftops on the other side of the street; behind them nothing, everything gone.

Facebook Status Update

When all's said and done, it is calming to be able to stand in one's back yard, surrounded by trees, on a mild night, under the full moon (not quite obscured by cloud), pour a libation to Nature, perform a simple ritual and say some prayers.


(I looked at this next morning — this morning — and realised it could be a small stone too.)

Small Moments of Beauty

I am going through trouble and sorrow just now. But one day as I leave the hospital, I find a huge, thick, shiny golden leaf on the bonnet of my car. I take it home carefully and put it in front of my picture of Brighid, Goddess of Poetry. Another day, as I go to unlock my car door for my trip to visit the hospital, I find a butterfly perched on the handle. I put a finger close to its nearest wing without touching, and it gently flutters to a branch just above. Nature, I decide, is sending me comfort. 

The Best Feeling in the World

Another blogger invited people to add to her list. Here are my nominations:

Breathing air that’s clean.
Cresting a hill and seeing the sparkling blue ocean.
Stepping out my front door, early after sunrise, on a beautiful autumn morning (such as today's).

Cool Autumn Morning

cool autumn morning

rain clouds edged

with remnants of dawn

the cats go out early

liking this lapse in the heat

Happiness:

Hearing a Kookaburra laughing in the rain.

Leaf

(Written as a WordsFlow exercise 11 Nov. 2011 and just rediscovered.)

I found a brown leaf, curled and twisted, with one red spot on the front near the stem, and a little hole the other end, like a pinprick. Did an insect start to eat it and give up? Did it get damaged falling from the tree? What tree? The wind must have blown it quite a way. It has yellow spots too, very small, very faint, and the veins are strongly marked in darker brown. The underside is paler, more golden brown. The stem is only half as long as the leaf. It’s a graceful, pretty thing, scalloped, fluted, with a point at the tip. It’s ephemeral, isn’t it? If I take it home to keep forever, it will dry and fade and crumble and I’ll end up throwing it away. I’ll throw it away now, back to the air and the earth.

I Open My Door

I open my door

to the wet world

morning after rain

the temperature now

cooling to autumn

even the near hills

are hidden by cloud

and the trees

in the still air

drip gently 

From the Clouds

From the clouds piled above the mountains

tendrils of light reach down into crevices,

long white fingers probing.

Looking at those hills

Looking at those hills

I know an old home of mine

is still there beyond them.

This Kaleidoscope

This kaleidoscope that Janet gave me
twenty years ago
has never left my desk —
whatever desk, in whatever house.

Tiny gold tube
in slim black drawstring bag
of hard-wearing felt
(more like charcoal grey by now)

it’s a miniature kaleidoscope,
designed for reminding me
of childhood dreams
with grown-up elegance.

I hold it to the light
and turn the end.
The coloured lumps of glass
tumble, forming flowers and stars.

Mouths

They are attracted,
you can see in their mouths
which look at each other like hungry eyes,
talk to each other like making kisses.

A Dry Day

A dry day (mostly)
though heavy with cloud.
Town is grey,
empty. Even the air
feels exhausted.

There’s a piquant smell
not quite sour
not quite sweet —
some kind of plant
reacting with all that water?

The fallen frangipanni flowers

The fallen frangipanni flowers
white with yellow-gold centres
are like five-pointed stars
only softer, rounder. Their texture
looks somewhat like cream,
somewhat like very fine velvet.
Up the trumpet-shaped back
of the bloom, where it wants a stem,
are fine pink lines and green
fanning to the ends of the petals.

Sheltering

Hunched, wet-feathered
on the veranda railings,
two Noisy Miners
don’t even squawk
when I open the door,
don’t even bother to move.
The street is awash, the sky
obliterated. This once
I don’t chase them away.

Suburban Vignette

Steady, heavy rain all morning.
Driving home up the hill, I see
that old dog, Coco, hunched
wet and shivering, poohing
in someone else’s gutter
across the road from his house.

Riding the Dragon

I cast circle,
ignite a red candle.
His white hair
shines in the light.

He closes his eyes
for the ritual,
speaks firmly aloud
his New Year desires.

He asks
to get closer to God,
resolves
to meditate on this.

Then, turning his hands,
he gives
energy back to the earth
with gratitude. So do I.

More Rain Coming

Crickets loud
in misty dusk,
black shapes of birds
flying fast into dying light,
clouds looming grey.

He sleeps pale

He sleeps pale
translucent,
wakes to talk of dying.

When I tickle him,
blood returns
with his laughter.


Submitted for dverse OpenLink Night #28

Bright

The flame trees are out now
all over the place,
orangey red
against our dear, drab greens:
explosions of sudden joy.

Smells of the Town

Perfume from one pharmacy, faint and floral. A sort of sterilised smell from the next, almost a non-smell, but stifling.

From the Austral Cafe I expect warm, savoury odours of the all-day breakfast, but there is only a whiff of tobacco from the cigarette butts in the ashtray outside.

The day is hot but there is just a trace in the air of the smell of coming rain.

In Coles a large, handsome man wearing only board shorts and a piece of cloth tying his ponytail drinks deeply from a big plastic bottle of milk before putting it into his trolley. I want to be close to enjoy looking at him, but his smell drives me away. He doesn’t look dirty but he smells unwashed — not reeking but stale. I decide he must be homeless.

Quiet Street

He opens the blinds.
Sunshine
and the leafy tops of trees.

I could be waking up
on a morning in Bali
nearly 40 years back.

Garden Drama

White butterfly —
no, moth, being a night creature —
on the other side of the glass.

I gaze, rapt,
at the snow-white body and legs,
the white wings outlined

by a stripe of black
following the curving shapes
just in from the edge.


Tonight again
it’s on the outside looking in
while I look back, and see

two rounded chunks
gone from the wings on one side
— torn or bitten out?

I slide open the door.
It flutters efficiently into the night
as if nothing was missing.

Photo of Mac

I see that his eyes are fierce and grumbly
with pain or worry — can cats frown?

His paws are pulled in close, tight
folded arms that say ‘Keep off’.

He is ginger and pretty, soft-furred (you can tell);
white nose and chin, tiger stripes all over.

Those eyes are a definite green, clear.
Most cats’ eyes are a definite yellow.

Crouched on his cushion, he glares as if
he’s just been woken to have his photo taken.

Old Basket

This round woven basket
was my mother’s button bag
when I was a little girl.

That red stain underneath
was there then, and
the green marks on the sides.

Now it’s grey with dust
in spite of washings. Straws
around the rim are broken.

It’s lost the drawstring cloth
that used to be its top,
and where have the buttons gone?

I was allowed to play with them,
lifting them out, sorting
the different colours.

I let them run, rattling,
through my fingers. Sometimes
I played they were people

My mother was 83
when she died,
thirteen years ago.

I didn’t want
expensive mementoes,
just this basket of memories.

In the Distance

Two birds fly the evening cool,

one dark and quick 

against the cloudy sky,

the other moving lazily,

white wings flashing 

rhythmically on the dark blue hill.

Nightfall

Through the blinds, dying light
pushes the trees closer

looming silhouettes, like ghosts
ringing the house

the fading sky a backdrop
for their dark shapes

which intermingle, crowding
together, drawing in

until the darkness deepens
and they vanish.

Arthritic

My black cat, sleek as a snake,
climbs on to the coffee table beside me.
I take everything off to give him room.

He gazes mournfully into my eyes
swishing his long tail.
I think his arthritis is playing up again.

Tomorrow he gets his monthly injection.
It keeps him light on his feet.
I wish I could get one for mine.

Levi looking sleek

For Daniel

After a hard day

I read a friend’s poem online,

phrases of evocative beauty

and I play the music he posted.

Its sonorous notes roll over me

sweet, and I lose myself.

For a long, deep moment, I want

to be eaten up by it, swallowed whole,

stay there forever, but I shake myself free.

Spider

How fast and purposeful, 

the small Huntsman spider 

navigating our wall and ceiling —

small enough that I can see its beauty.

Yet I don’t want it above me

where it might drop.

I don’t kill these creatures,

but I do guide it outside.

Tennis

She moves so fast
in that low shot,
I think I see flame
rising from the court.

When People Die

I write very good poems
when people die.
Grief pulls them out of me.

And if there is grief
there might as well be poems,
turning a terrible event
to some kind of good account.

But I’d rather
still have those friends
than all the poems I wrote them.

Last Night

I found out my friend died.
We have been expecting this,
still I am wrecked by it,
broken into pieces
and I can’t come back.

This morning
I woke up different,
a different person,
one I don’t know,
clumsy, ungainly stranger.
Nothing fits.

I feel lost like a child,
ugly like a child unloved.
And I don’t care
that I’m doing it wrong,
not looking at the world.

I am the world
and this morning
I woke up wrong.
Pay attention!
Last night everything
went wrong with the world.

Construction Worker

His hard hat
bright yellow
sits aslant.
His smile is crooked too.

This makes him
look amused
or cheeky.
Is that an illusion?

Focus of Attention

The pain in my shoulder extends
across and down and up
behind the ear
along the neck
and halfway down my back —
in all my world today
the most noticeable thing.

At Last, Summer

Sun bright hot
in ample sky,
warming through skin
easing my spine.

Trees and mountains
clear, sharp-edged.
The lightest breeze.
A deep breath in.

Notes on the Process

Very strange this time. I have been much indoors the last few days, therefore attending to things close at hand. Far from falling in love with the world, I seem to be taking a rather jaundiced view! Which is interesting and potentially useful to notice.

Facing Up To It

My one surviving broccoli plant
finally put forth a head
from its tattered, bug-eaten leaves —
a dry, tiny thing, mostly yellow.

So I see it’s been starved for water
despite hosings, and despite
torrential downpours every other day.
I can’t slake such a thirst!

Poor thing, it’s struggled on
gamely, with great perseverance.
But it’s doomed. I have decided
not to repeat this failed experiment.

(I mean, you couldn’t even
eat the damn thing.)

Reality

The cats mew plaintively
they say they are starving
but I find black feathers
scattered in ugly profusion
just outside the back door.

January 1st

The new calendar
is rows of white spaces

daily doses of medicine
listed in green

pension days marked
with a big P

a few appointments
already pencilled in

no crossings out yet
no corrections

no circles with arrows
from one date to the next

nothing red for urgent
no boxes filled to overflowing

but I know it will get messy
as life does.