Roses from Ondine

When Ondine gave me roses in the street,

she found me loading shopping in my car

and said my name. I looked up, and a star

was shining in her smile, that we should meet

so unexpectedly. I went to greet

(the usual hug) and then she said, 'Aha!

So now I know — it's you these flowers are for,

that I was just presented with.' How sweet —

she'd wandered in to see the flower show

and some strange man had thrust them in her hand,

these fully blooming roses, palest pink.

She felt they were for someone else, and lo!

her widowed friend (that's me, you understand).
I sink my face in scent and colour; drink.

A Miltonian sonnet submitted for dVerse Form For All #28

On 6 June 2016 submitted for Prompt Nights: Roses

Instant Gratifcation

for Neil Meili

Neil's latest poetry book 

arrives — and no-one else

to grab it first.

'See!' I say to Andrew.

'That's what you get

for being dead.

'This time it's my turn

to read it right now, 

no waiting.'


Submitted for Poets United's Verse First: Passion. (Poetry is my passion!)

Full Moon in March

I went out under the night sky

clad for ritual

in my small, enclosed back yard.

(I have quiet neighbours

who stay indoors after dark.)

The moon emerged from cloud

bright white

and stood awhile above us

meeting my eye.

My black cat came out too.

The night was mild.

No breeze — only

as I lifted my arm to cast circle

a quick cool breath on my wrist.

I paused, then asserted my right.

Barefoot on mossy earth

I flung out my arms in joy

and breathed up sustenance.

It filled me.

I had nothing to utter but thanks.


Submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #89

Comment on St Patrick's Day

I do not like saintly old Patrick

much less his one memorable hat-trick.

The snakes were symbolic

of Pagans, who frolic

not there any more, since his antics.

If anyone can suggest a better last rhyme, please do! 
('not there any more, thanks to that prick' did occur to me, 
but creates a much nastier mood than I intend.)

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #143

I Cry About the Strangest Things

I'm losing weight at last —

not interested in food these days,

with only me to cook for. Which I do,

and I eat healthy; feel I owe it to you

and myself. I don't have sugar treats

stashed away in cupboards, 

comfort foods; and I don't

rely any more on two small glasses

of red wine every evening for the stress.

All that stress is gone, of caring for you:

keeping you, the doctor said, alive 

and well enough, beyond what he'd

have managed, or the hospital. Now

I have only grief, for which I find

scant comfort. Not even chocolate

does it, not even shellfish — so

I am becoming slimmer, and with ease.

And you not here to see! It makes me cry.

Submitted for Poets United's Verse First: Reaction

I am the cat ...

I am the cat
with silent eyes

I mark the fall of the leaf
and the grasses glistening

I listen to life
and death.

Life grieves
death leaps
outside

and both together breathe.

I sleep in the warm
inside.
I am tied to the loves of my house.

But sometimes
I come untied.

Wild in hail or rain
electric to thunder
voluptuous for sun

I am chameleon

old wise woman
the witch

and then
the child on your lap

I am a universe.
Cat.


First published Luna, 1981
Also in Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
and SecretLeopard, Alyscamps Pres (Paris) 2005)

Resurrected for submission to dVerse Meeting the Bar: Negative Capability

What Do Women Want?

Poor Sigmund!

Has no-one told you yet

what women want?

Perhaps it's because 

there are so many answers

to that question; perhaps

if you had a week or two ...

But here's an answer

I think true — we want

to be beautiful, seen 

to be beautiful, admired 

for our beauty. And 

we want to be loved 

for other qualities.

Submitted for Poets United's Verse First: Women

Three Cinquains

Familiarity

Two cats

curl, one each side

of my recumbent feet

in perfect love and perfect trust,

asleep.

Rosemary Who?

My name

in the new book*

appears in its old form:

strange, halved, yet sweetly nostalgic:

Nissen.

*Notes for the Translators: from 142 New Zealand and Australian Poets, 
ed. Christopher (Kit) Kelen. Macau, ASM, 2013.

I was once known as Rosemary Nissen, but have been identified as Rosemary Nissen-Wade for about 20 years. This editor, living overseas, obviously remembered me the old way. Well, (smile) both are me.

Slow-down

Six months
after his death
I slow down to a stop,

letting vigilant habits go 

at last.

Submitted for dVerse Form For All: The Cinquain

Delightful How the Cicadas

(A Pi poem for Pi Day)

Delightful

how

the cicadas

sing

in repetitive

yet

intricately musical chantings —

when slowed

for our unaware ears

by digital means,

so that now

we distinguish notes

which we imagine as coming

from exotic, unknown instruments …

as, most sublimely, they do.

(I once heard such a slowed recording — amazing, unrecognisable.)

Pi poems are also known as Cadae (the alphabetical equivalent of the first 5 digits of Pi). Both syllables per line and lines per stanza follow the Pi sequence of numbers.

The Gift of Feathers

She gets it wrong sometimes, my little cat,

although she reads my mind with perfect ease.

Like, once I found a feather at my door;

a friend said my late husband left it there,

a sign of love from Spirit — I was glad

to think he might have left me such a token.

She must have thought that if a single token

so gladdened me, then she, efficient cat,

could find a gift to make me tenfold glad —

and she could manage that with feline ease

as soon as opportunity was there.

Next day I found a whole bird at my door.

Oh, I was ill at ease and far from glad

to find it there, that corpse outside my door!

Yet it betokened all her love ... dear cat.


This mini-sestina form is the brain-child of Australian poet Myron Lysenko, 
though he suspects he is not the first to make such an adaptation.

This poem is submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #141

No Cure, But ...

I drive back

from the coast, 

a familiar road

into the little town 

I've called home

nearly two decades now.

I am driving towards

a small house on a hill.

Two cats wait for me there.

I arrive to find them

out on the front lawn

enjoying the late afternoon.

There is no husband

waiting as he always did.

I am a widow, not a wife.

There is no cure for death;

it's final. Death itself, though,

finally cured his ills.

                 ***

I notice how much I like

the little town

that grew to be home.

As I enter its streets

their familiarity enfolds me

like a warm greeting.

The house and the cats

and the grass,

the late afternoon light

and the hilly road 

where I sometimes walk,

feel like mine, where I belong.

Emptiness, absence — these 

are the big truths of my life 

since he died. There is no cure.

But I drive home, I arrive,

I know the place.

I think there may be healing.

Submitted for Poets United's Verse First : The Cure
and for dVerse OpenLinkNight #87

Photo of a Man in a Café

There you are, caught off guard,
leaning back in your chair,
a just-lit cigarette
stuck between two fingers,
flipping open your wallet
for the price of our meal.
Your hair looks dark, tied back.
(Loose, it had blonde lights.)

You're wearing jeans, one earring,
the copper medallion I gave you
and a T-shirt with a Gold Coast logo
you thought would please me
and bought specially: 'Look,
your country's famous swimming team,'
not knowing that to me it was just
some surf club, one of many.

At this point you still think
we might go somewhere afterwards
and make love. At this point
I still think I might let it happen.
Home now, eighteen months later,
I view your image onscreen.
My cursor traces your profile
as my fingers never did.

You were twice as tempting
as Lindt to a chocoholic.
But I had this other place
to return to, this other man.
You bought me wine
though you abstained.
We talked a very long time.
You drove away alone.

Well, it wouldn't have done.
I was never going to be
a gracious Southern lady
nor you an understated Aussie bloke.
And we kept having to explain
what we did and didn't mean,
cutting through tangles of different
strange accents, foreign words.

Now we're friends instead.
You learnt to use computers;
we meet online.
And there are changes.
You stopped smoking; I no longer drink.
Your latest photos show you
wearing dreadlocks and a beard,
and the medallion I gave you.


An old poem, resurrected to submit to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #140
Also submitted to dVerse Open Link Night #86