Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The house is dark.
I go out to seek light.
Only orange scratches
on the black, isolated
white flashes. Where
is the moon?

Rosemary says 'she'
is growing, going about
the business of accretion.
What is a lump of rock
we refer to as 'her'?
What is the moon?

I call him my 'sonshine'.
His light blazes and fires
and lights upon her.
Yet in his absence
she glows from within.
Is she a moon?

Tied yet independent.
Perpetual motion, and still.
Two-dimensional, sphere.
Harvester and harvest.
Expressionless, romantic.
So distant, so familiar, moon.


Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Moon 2.

What? You are not appearing tonight?
But we've paid you, paid our dues!
Your complaint is ...?
Ah ... the affectionate arrogance of clouds?
I see a moonless miasma.
The Hakata says this is
"An uninteresting, uneventful, inconsequential
impassive, emotionally uncomfortable
disturbing, lethargic, restless situation."
What a burden you carry in your absence!

Monday, August 29, 2011

I am starting journalling my relationship with the moon here, as poetry.

Facing the window
the light globe reflected there

will never be eclipsed
never rise round and red

never pull my tides
never leave me wondering

what's on the other side
what holds it in place

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Just Beyond Daylesford

Four crusty-shanked old gum trees
lean outwards and away from
the new home in their midst.

Notice - it is not built of timber.
In fact, it is more like a tank:
a modest square corrugated iron
box with a shining roof.

Perhaps the reticulated neurons
tree roots thread through the earth
are sensing the possibility
of the presence of water.

From the confident way their white torsos
above the crusty bark zone
pour themselves towards the sky

I am struck by the possibility
of mutual respect, peaceful
cohabitation, shared strength.

Listening to Moliendo Cafe and Inti-Illimani
typing in time to the guitar
skipping through my wishes and hopes
handing out smiles and sudden shifts
into significant looks ( you know the kind!)
the body snaking around voluptuous chords
the syn
co - pation - making shoulders
sinuous, the neck and the wrist
dancing to pauses more entrancing
than passion.
And now it's the South Pacific
songs rowing across oceans
as act of faith. Speaking of possibilities
more exciting than the limitations
of mere horizons.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Magpie Tales

You saw me and laughed.
Brittle, the sound broke me.

I fell from the past
into the future you 
so brightly painted
on the balmy air.

Underneath me, my bike
broke, threw my caution

to the winds, catching
your hair, holding you 
back - it was a dream
I believed to be real.

You saw me and laughed.
Brittle, the sound broke me.

Monday, August 22, 2011

for Sue McDougall

They are definitely
mountains. Torn edges
explain erosion, uplift,
crashing and banging
into the ones already
settled. Roughly mounted
and pale blood colour,
they invite fingering
yet linger untouchable
behind cold flat glass.

The artist was a collage.
Poetry, portraits, person -
you couldn't sit for her
without the verse of reason
turning your face to the brush.
Impasto? A hint. All
other depths described
as cold flat symmetry.
She has forgotten now
how she understood you.

Saturday, August 20, 2011


Without an address book 
I can't call you. 
There are more kilometres than I trust
between your starting point and mine.

You emailed: "Unless I hear from you
I'll be there" for conversations sweetened
by cake, chocolate and surviving fifty years
knowing there are some distances 
new technologies just cannot bridge
some uncertainties conquerable only by
a teenage pact to always be friends.

Over hot chocolate with chili
stirring the chocolate glue
we agree to exchange mobile phone numbers.
The real test is keying them in.

After the Lerderderg Library is Officially Opened

Of course, that sulphur-crested commentator
just had to express "his" opinions from the top
of the leafless elm.

And now, near dusk, the cuckoo shrike
makes its move on the feast otherwise known
as my verdant garden.

The honeyeaters have gorged themselves
the pigeons and sparrows hunched together
as "Old World" birds do.

The trees are suddenly still.
Bees, numbed by cold, gone.
A chirping announces fairy wrens!

"Of course, your garden's quite a jungle, Jen".
But safe. Cat-free at last (perhaps trespassers
all died). Safe.

The leucodendrons lose light
as last light flees to the sky
and everything rests.

Hang on, it's still winter
Walking up the slope from town
blessed by perfumed vines, their scents
drawn into my clothes

fitover sunglasses
keeping my eyes dry, not watery
from glare. Going home

to a garden full of honeyeaters
in the flowering gums, bees
on the rosemary ...

only the heat indoors reminds me
the air is still chill to my mother
shawled, sleeping in her favourite chai
 Free Verse Weekend

Thursday, August 4, 2011

I came to my blog and found treasures in other people's. Nevertheless, hay fever is dominating my experience of life right now. More WATER.

Clogged after drought
water pools, leaks into communal
drains, stays there, backed up.

If he who dribbles ink
is eating poetry, I without
sense of smell or sanity
am cooking it.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Have decided to write about WATER some more. I often walk by our local rivers, I spent 10 years as a child living by a big river, and I spent several years living in a bayside town. It is hard to put into words what "water" actually means to me, it is so much part of my own bloodlines. Isn't that true for all of us?


Elsewhere in the country
tragic losses - people,
land, livelihoods. I loved
the picture of young men
playing a piano salvaged
from mud.

We who walk the once-
swamplands are glad
someone created channels
the waters could fit into
find a direction in
be fully self-expressed
as rivers.

Photographs catch an
aftermath, a mere suggestion
of force exercised - tossed
saplings, reed slapped on fence
a tight weaving, admirable in any
gallery, museum.

The silence
of drowned frogs cannot
be photographed.
Can it be we who have
engineered this local
and sudden extinction?

Or the way things are
simple as artistry
plain to the eye
uncomplicated by fear,
past trauma, story.
Part of a process we'll
never fathom.

Monday, August 1, 2011

I'm back. To dance with my love, the poetic foot, the sway of language, its raw-throat song and silky spells.


Take a tumble
you are a stone, smooth
a carrier of river history
go with the flow, roll
make new statements
sit together
force the flood
having abandoned you
to flow around
to lick you, hungry
until some rain somewhere
powers the next
irresistible torrent.