Oneline, 2012 October

birthday coming the first without my husband

25/10/12

rain on the roof gecko chirps

28/10/12

red roses at twilight rain coming

29/10/12

full moon the cats are restless

30/10/12

poisonous oleander pretty in pink

31/10/12

Life Goes On: October 2012 haiku

the Bali I knew

is gone, but

rambutans remain

rambutans —

I hunger for

Bali and Java

the isle of the Gods

tastes of

rambutans

1/10/12

life goes on

banality

settles in

10/10/12

new follower

tweets her dislike of cats

I don't follow back

22/10/12

No Halloween

Last year there was a knock.

Three little girls from over the road

had climbed our front steps.

Two were dressed witchy,

the littlest one was a fairy

with gauzy wings. 'Oh come and look!'

I said to my love in his armchair.

Both of us, in the narrow doorway,

bent forward to smile and admire.

Luckily I found some jellybeans to give

and had enough left, an hour later,

when a stout little boy arrived alone 

looking brave and hopeful

in his cardboard wizard's hat

and pillowcase cape.

This year I was well prepared

with a whole bowl of mixed lollies.

I thought they could each take a handful

like a sort of lucky dip. 'I'll definitely

get visitors tonight,' I told my friends. But no. 

It's nearly ten. The street is very quiet. 

Are they — or their parents — 

being sensitive, choosing not to disturb 

newly widowed me alone at the top of my steps?

I remember his face last year

tender with delight, beaming

at the young ones and their costumes.

He was hunched, and later we didn't

celebrate Beltane traditionally

(our real Sabbat here on this date)

because his back was hurting.

I wrote a poem instead — as I do tonight.

I have no Beltane fire, but I'll light 

a candle for love, which will not die.

Submitted for dVerse OpenLinkNight #68

October tanka 2012: full moon

full moon 

I cast circle

ask only

for peace and purpose

a very short ritual

31/10/12

(just one tanka this month)

There's Only Me

1

There's only me.

The grapes rot

before I finish them.

There's only me.

I play music

without headphones.

There's only me.

Why do I wear

my prettiest sarongs?

2

There's only me.

The cats spread out more

on the bed.

There's only me.

It takes four days

to fill the washing machine.

There's only me.

But his voice in the passenger seat

still says, 'You're clear this side.'

There's only me.

I arrange the pillows

a different way.

There's only me.

I can eat all

the chocolate.

3

There's only me.

I can finish writing a poem

uninterrupted.

There's only me. 

The morning news on TV

stays off.

There's only me.

In the top cupboard I find

his favourite soups.

There's only me

to give the cats

all their cuddles.

4

There's only me.

I come to a sad acceptance.

Then the real grief starts.

There's Only Me

1

There's only me.

The grapes rot

before I finish them.

There's only me.

I play music

without headphones.

There's only me.

Why do I wear

my prettiest sarongs?

2

There's only me.

The cats spread out more

on the bed.

There's only me.

It takes four days

to fill the washing machine.

There's only me.

But his voice in the passenger seat

still says, 'You're clear this side.'

There's only me.

I arrange the pillows

a different way.

There's only me.

I can eat all

the chocolate.

3

There's only me.

I can finish writing a poem

uninterrupted.

There's only me. 

The morning news on TV

stays off.

There's only me.

In the top cupboard I find

his favourite soups.

There's only me

to give the cats

all their cuddles.

4

There's only me.

I come to a sad acceptance.

Then the real grief starts.

Out Walking

As I come down the hill,

the dog I talk to barks

but not at me.

A man in the yellow shirt

of a Council worker

strides through the gate

followed by three or four

schoolgirls in grey skirts

and sky-blue tops, shapeless.

He enters the house.

They cluster on the veranda.

I'm too far away for details

but then they run

squealing and giggling

through the side gate

to the next yard

with the trampoline,

and they bounce.

In the doorway

of the house of the dog,

a young girl stands.

She is wearing a grey skirt 

and a sky-blue top, shapeless.

She lingers, staring out.

When I return that way

fifteen minutes later,

there is no-one at all —

only my friend the dog

waits for me to reach 

through the slats of the fence. 

I scratch behind his silky ears.

When I leave, he gives for his people

a pretend guard-dog bark.

Submitted for dVerse OpenLinkNight #67

Mugs

The mug I use for my coffee

is a carnival of coloured spots

on a bright white ground.

Across the front is written:

'Espresso yourself,'

which I do. 

This mug sits beside me 

as I write; this mug

looks over my shoulder 

when I'm reading; in talk 

it helps me gesticulate. This mug 

punctuates my life.

After the wake-up

shot of caffeine

it holds only decaff, I promise —

or sometimes ginger tea.

It's a travel mug with a lid

to minimise spills.

Andrew had one 

with a lozenge design,

saying, 'What am I doing

out of bed?' That one

I've hidden away
in the back of the cupboard.

Garden Sitting

Nice to sit outside

letting the air touch me.

It rustles through leaves

of trees and shrubs and vines

while an unseen bird

trills intermittently.

I am sorry you are not here

to listen with me

and feel the breeze,

gentle down here behind fences

on this warm day

in the enclosed garden —

But I am here.

My ears, my hair, my skin

are alive and here today,

savouring everything

that is still

pleasant in life.

Resuming Tai Chi Lessons After a Long Gap

In the Tai Chi class

we move together

breathing, turning the waist,

sinking and rising.

'Switch off your hands,'

the instructor says.

'Push out 

from your back foot.'

The movements

have beautiful names.

Cloud Hands ...
White Crane Spreads Its Wings ...

It's been two years

but my body remembers.

There is a rightness, like

meeting an old friend.


Submitted for Poetry Pantry #119 at Poets United.

Game

I am panther, sleek blue-black, shinier than a blackbird’s wing, more jet than a jungle night without a moon.  I am deep in the jungle today, in a thicket of green hung with vines, so the light itself is green, as if I am underwater.  I know about underwater: sometimes I romp and splash in hidden jungle pools; their light is also green.

Blue lipstick froths on her lips, pours from the tube all zingy like champagne.  She loves applying it in front of her mirror, feeling the tang, the wetness, seeing the strange colour paint all her face in its difference — her eyes purple, her cheeks mauve, her hair faint green in the light — all in relation to the glow from her thickly-blued lips.

I am looking for my dinner, and a mate.  Dinner is more urgent just now.  I leap through my thicket, listening for possibilities.  My ears twitch and swivel to all directions.  I am alive to the sounds of my home forest; I know it for miles by sound and smell — can detect both the beautifully familiar and the tiniest alteration.

She wonders if the unusual texture is to do with the dye, and why this lipstick is so unlike others from more conventional sources.  This colour is ALL blue, not just red with a blueish tinge.  She loves to encrust her mouth with it, layers of frothy blue on frothy blue until it looks matted, indelible.

There is an old bullock tethered right at the edge of the jungle, east of here; I catch the scent on the wind.  At once I know everything about this beast.  It belongs to a poor farmer who is trying to find extra grazing land there on the dangerous edge of the jungle.  It is fat enough to make a meal, but weak and slow, which is all the better for me.

She runs her fingers through her hair to spike it, and puts on huge loop earrings of an alloy that looks like heavy metal.  She drapes a fishnet stocking over her hand, stares a moment, then tosses it back on the bed.  Tonight she will leave her legs bare.  High on her thigh, just below the hem of her black satin skirt, is tattooed a tiny mouth — a laughing mouth, lips parted, showing teeth.

The edge of the jungle —  the border where two worlds meet —  is dangerous to those of either world.  The danger is in the encounter with the other side.  For me, there is risk in getting this easy meal.  It may bring men into my green thicket after me, with guns.  For the farmer and his beast, I am the danger.  I might kill the beast.  Also, I might kill the man.  I sneak nearer.  I am panther, hungry panther, choosing my game.

Published in Secret Leopard. Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005. (See sidebar.)
Submitted for dVerse Meeting the Bar: Postmodern (prose)

Frail flesh discarded: September tanka 2012

in Spring

the time of new life

my dear love

makes ready to travel

to the Summerlands

1/9/12

Frail flesh discarded

you can accompany me

so easily now

to the edge of the creek.

Two dragonflies skim the water.

23/9/12


Submitted for dverse Open Link Night #64

Waiting in Silence: September 2012 haiku

He is free. 

The soul reunites 

with itself.

4/9/12

waiting in silence

for poems

which do not arise

26/9/12