I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world,
to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

Some of these poems are autobiographical, some are entirely fictional, and some are a mixture of both. The intention is art rather than self-expression. I don't allow factual details to get in the way of poetry! (I do seek emotional truth.) They are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here. Copyright also applies to almost all photos posted here, most of which are my own, though a few are licensed under Creative Commons.
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blog posts as much as possible.

24 October 2016

The Burgeoning

Spring in Murwillumbah brightens the breeze
now the jacarandas are once again 
purpling and the Illawarra flame trees
crimsoning streetscape, river bank, bush lane,
and here and there a neighbourhood garden -
and their delicate petals nod and dance
in the quickening air, flutter and prance
to draw us out from desks and dark hallways,
because this, as the season of romance,
reminds us: light and life renew, always.


When the flame stretches a tendril of light
and catches the circling moth, there's a flare,
a sudden incandescence, briefly bright ...
then it's as if nothing was ever there –
only silence, only the empty air.

Of you and me, I didn't know which one
was moth, and which flame – until you were gone.
Mourning that death, I thought you the moth, who
in that blazing moment, vanishing, shone.
Then I saw how caught I was. Then I knew.

23 October 2016

To the One Sharing My Bed

I'm here with you, beautiful one, lying down
beside you, sleeping the whole night by you,
grateful to have you as my companion –
as I faithfully choose to be yours too.
You had no such choice; it was imposed: true.
You'd have been homeless; there was only me
to take you in. We started warily.
Now you let me fondle your sleek black fur.
You relax beside me, breathing safety.
Sometimes, I catch a momentary purr.

22 October 2016

Now That You Are Gone

Now that you are gone, there's no-one to tell
the small, inconsequential, trifling things 
that fill my days and thoughts – and serve me well 
to fix me to the earth. Well, who needs wings?
The time is not now for those high soarings.
Only, the daily trivia were sweet
in themselves, when I could come and repeat
the details into your listening ear.
I'm happy enough on my earth-bound feet,
but that I wish your step beside me, dear.

She Shows Me

My little cat keeps trying to entice
me to come with her into the garden. 
She beseeches me, with her speaking eyes,
from the doorway. I don't mean to harden
against her. Just, I'm busy; a burden
I am foolish to shoulder, when sunlight
is filling the garden. It's warm and bright
out there, and she is full of eagerness –
not to be there herself; she's there all right –
for me to join her, which is happiness.

Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #325


Remarkable how well I can remember
the taste and texture of fresh raspberries!
The Spring sun, returning each September,
startles awake these childhood memories.
The ceanothus hums anew with bees
as it did on our old front lawn back then;
though both tree and bees were very long gone
when I went back to that good home to see,
fifty years later. And while path, fence, lawn,
even house remained – not one raspberry.

19 October 2016

Feeling Frustrated

It is a serious issue for me
when I have no internet connection.
I need my hobby group (photography)
plus the whole online poetry section.
Lacking all access is a distraction –
not in a good way. I want to protest.
I want to protest vociferously
and do some violence too, if I’m honest.
I'm too far from the tower, they tell me.
Service is weak – too bad, end of story.

My First Gardenia

My first gardenia bloom has turned up
as if overnight, but there must have been
a tiny bud first: a tight, hidden cup
closing white petals in unremarked green,
allowing them to develop unseen.

Now that the flower appears, part-open,
turning to the sun a face just woken,
I see the big leaves are still leaning near,
lingeringly protective; half cloaking
the soft new life now emerging, now here.

18 October 2016

True Confession

They say that women read romantic books
because they cannot get the men they want.
The ones they have lack charm or wealth or looks;
or the dream lover is somehow absent –
busy, distant, even non-existent.

It's true that only since I've been alone,
with no desire to replace the man gone –
yet with desire – I've tried such books myself.
I can please myself, now I'm on my own.
Some thrillers can't yet be left on the shelf.