The Passionate Crone

Views

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 07:57:00 +0000

He showed me how to swing a hammer, the right grip in the right place on the handle. I thank him again in my mind, every time I hammer a nail or a tent peg in. It must have been 1992; then he was twenty-three.

He was fifteen the time I turned from outfacing an abusive tradesman on the doorstep, and found him right behind me, ready in case I needed help.

After my huge, beautiful dog died, he channelled him for me one night on the phone. It was unexpected and a strain, but he stuck with it. I don’t know if that ever happened for him again. The message was good, and true. I was grateful.

He was just a kid, maybe ten, that night when his dad was away. He heard footsteps, furtive, down the path next to the house. A torch flashed briefly outside his bedroom window. “Dad!” he yelled, thinking fast (more deterrent than “Mum!”). I switched on lights and stomped loudly. The intruder ran. We heard him scrabble over the back fence, just as sudden rain came pelting, drenching down.

I remember him walking with me to the shops, chatting of this and that, nearly as tall as I was, casually hand in hand; how happy it made me feel.

Broader and taller by inches, coming off the plane after his student months in New York State. A cowboy hat and an Indian feather – a great honour, he said. His brother and two of his mates bursting in later on his jetlag sleep, grinning. “G’day, Yank!”

He finished renovating his father’s house after his father died. He went to Pam’s house too, to complete what his dad started there to help our friends. That didn’t last; he got kicked out. Gets kicked out of lots of places – even, at last, mine.

Visited his cousin Ellie last time he was home, and his Uncle Robert, the brother his father disliked. Both were glad; needed that family feeling he gave them then, so he said. Maybe he needed it too.

Adventurous always, on our journey towards Ayers Rock he declared, “I’m a born mountain climber.” He was eight; we smiled. He was a born mountain climber – soon out of sight of the rest of us struggling towards the top. He ran up the Rock! No use worrying for his safety; it was out of my hands.

Now too, his fate is out of my hands. He is moving, he says, towards his own truth, his own discovery of love. The final repudiation of Mother, the final claiming of self. So mote it be.

19/10-3/11/09

Tanka on Tuesday: October 2009

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 03:48:00 +0000

4/10/09

dragonfly's wings flap
causing storms across the world
they'd have us believe
internet's even faster
is this chaos or theory?

6/10/09

warm day already
the grey cat curled on my bed
stretches out purring
I decide to stay longer
stroke her and open my book

13/10/09

From the low vantage
above the storm-damaged beach
the sea, my old love,
lately appears unfriendly
surging in rougher, closer.

**********************

Orion

The sky warrior’s
belt and sword are clear to see
turned upside-down –
the friendly southern image
a domestic cooking pot.

14/10/09 See Climate Change Tanka (previous post)

20/10/09

Those smiling snapshots
chubby tot, eager young man
are from long ago.
Now he glowers from photos.
The child in my mind is gone.

27/10/09

after the thunder
a return to calm sunlight
I’m dazed and blinking
thinking of a troubled man
who may never find such peace

Climate Change Tanka

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 13:00:00 +0000

(Reposted from Tanka on Tuesday, for Blog Action Day)

From the low vantage
above the storm-damaged beach
the sea, my old love,
lately appears unfriendly
surging in rougher, closer.

*************************

And two from my side of a debate in verse with a friend who says global warming is false, the earth's been cooling since 1998, and it's a ploy to raise global taxes for the New World Order:

Here in my country
recent years have exceeded
1998
with greater extremes of heat –
but I don't know what this proves.

Warming or cooling,
new world order or new tax,
on this we agree:
our politicians' motives
are seldom to be trusted.

Tanka on Tuesday: September 2009

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 14:49:00 +0000

Reposted from MySpace

1/9/09

First of September.
A voice in my dream cries “Wake!”
A dead branch hits the garden
fallen from the palm,
flagging another summer
littered with falling branches.

***************************

sleeping underground
is the safest for wombats
we pray they don’t try
a path across the highway
and turn up their toes, skittled

8/9/09

Close, he looks nervous;
closer, secretly amused.
My smile looks happy,
reflections obscure my eyes.
Body language? We look close!

(See here.)

15/9/09

in September sun
as new leaves and buds glisten
my friend telephones
her dying father’s lucid
they have had a lovely day

22/9/09

it’s Spring Equinox
here in the South of the world
a time of balance
between the light and the dark
then new life starts as light grows

*************************

sunshine and thunder
wind and the smell of new rain
from a warm blue sky
and the blind vine thrusting up
seeking light and sustenance

***********************

only three this year
gathering for Eostre
from the old coven
lighting the wishing candle
surrounded by Archangels

Stormbringer, LightStar
and DragonStar (Queen of Wands)
joined hands round the light
and remembered the others
feeling their spirits present

a sky high and blue
a spreading mulberry tree
dripping with ripe fruit
our hands stained with juice like blood
symbol of death and bright life

24/9/09

TELL THAT TO THE MALDIVES
A response to a friend who claimed climate change is a lie,
as rivers pouring into the sea don’t cause its level to rise.

There is a balance.
Rivers and rain enter, then
evaporation.
But when icebergs keep melting
small Pacific islands drown.

**********************

A fresh Spring morning
yesterday’s choking dust cloud
vanished from this coast –
to infiltrate the ocean
or arrive in New Zealand?

29/9/09

with sunshine outside
long hours at my computer
it’s my life story
before computers long hours
thumping my old typewriter

Sevenling (Orchids and clover)

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 14:30:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 30
Write a poem about the end of something.

You can find out about sevenlings here.

Orchids and clover hung from pots
on the outside wall of his house,
and that strange white night-blooming flower.

The stars were out, shining clearly,
and moonlight vied with lamplight,
illuminating his hanging garden faintly.…

When he moved away, he took not one plant.

LOLcats Morning

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 03:08:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 29
Write a poem that gets shorter with each line.

Levi+Freya iz fatcats, greedeecats
alwiz pretends 2 b needeecats.
Hates numeat, roomeat,
doezn’t smell b4 eat.
Roomeat woz off
peepl sez Pew!
Levi+Freya
4 bigspew
can haz
carpet
yet.

Stillness

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 03:05:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 28
Pick two or three words from [For the Dean by Peter Wild] and use them to start your poem.

My words are "with great stillness" – and the content is not to be read as autobiography, lol!

With great stillness
I sit in my house by the sea,
the always moving sea
roaring at night its threats
to encroach further.

With great stillness
I stand on the cliff to watch
as wind-swept waves
come thundering, yellow
as if carrying sickness.

And the man is far away
with the last of my money.
And the timbers creak
and the eaves rattle
as a storm approaches.

An old woman
with nowhere to go
I wrap my shawl tighter,
send the hungry cats out to hunt
and await the Great Stillness.

New Light

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 13:55:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 27
Pick a morpheme and use it to add adnomination to your poetry.

I've used two: light and mag.

Moonlight and your shining face.
Your light voice murmuring
magical words, that danced
lightly through my imagination,
their meaning magnified.

And your eyes danced, alight.
The image of love, I thought,
but after all more probably delight
in what you might term mischief,
taking it lightly, but I, now
seeing the light, call damage.

Imagine! I thought you majestic,
your head thrown back, your hair
catching the light as you turned
slightly towards the lightening sky
as daylight dawned, soft magenta.

It was a magnificent ride, a flight
to unimaginable heights, away
from the light of reality (that
magisterial blight) but now
the magnetic pull of gravity
returns me to earth; I alight.

The Presence of the Observer Changes What’s Being Observed

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 13:37:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 26
Write a poem about a natural event.

I start my walk to the shops.
Few people along this village road.
A toddler, pushed in a stroller,
spies me going past the other way,
cocks her finger at me and gurgles.
She changes me. I fill with smiles,
waggling my hand back at her,
exchanging grins with her mother.
She changes us all, and
changes our interactions.

I take the upper path, above
trees and river – almost step
on a flattened cane toad
some driver didn’t miss. Think
of the handsome goanna
sprawled across half the road
the other day, his proud head up.
Luckily no traffic there.
I tooted, swerved and missed.
He took off into the bush.

Next day my sleek black hunter
nosed at an open drawer.
I thought he was trying to climb in
(he likes cubby-holes, that cat)
but later he brought out on to the floor
the upturned white-bellied body
of a small lizard, dead.
I wondered then,
does Nature demand
a life lost for a life saved?

I contemplate, too, the woman
who shares her space with wombats.
“They think so differently
about the world,” she says,
finding that charming. “We forget,”
she adds, "That we are animals too.”
I am an event in nature,
like a wombat or goanna.
I am an agent of change,
like introduced cats and toads.

Extreme Weather

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 13:42:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 25
Write a poem as that uses every letter of the alphabet at least once.

Coming in from the coast
I thought what a fine morning
the sky clear after last night’s dust,
but approaching Murwillumbah I saw
thick haze along the Border Ranges
the highest peaks almost invisible
ghostly traces behind the white.

As I unpacked the car, while the wind
came in buffeting gusts, I felt it
in the back of my throat, stinging.
Water couldn’t quench that fire,
it wasn’t exactly thirst.

It’s still here, I can feel it now
just as a tickling cough – even though
mid-afternoon I was wracked
by sudden sneezing, explosive,
over and over, and shivers
ran down my back.

I have the central desert
inside my body. I don’t know
if or when or how it will ever leave.
Too much and it might kill me.
So far it is not too much. This time.

By noon we could no longer
see it in the air. The sky was blue,
the sun shone, the day grew warm.
On the television screen tonight we saw
the rapid floodwaters in the Philippines,
rivers through Manila streets
I walked in ’78; counted our blessings.

I Want

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 11:29:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 24
Write a poem that begins with the word "I".

I want a little car
that could follow me like a dog.
I like to walk, I need to walk,
but sometimes I walk too far
and then it would be handy
if my car was right at heel
gutter crawling slowly on a lead.

I could ride home happy
sitting at the wheel
as if it needed driving,
my clever little car.
I’d feed it oil and petrol
give it a drink of water
and put it to bed in the garage.

I wonder if it would come
if I whistled?

Valley of the Incas

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 12:46:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 23
Write a poem using iambic pentameter.

To Bill and Helen

I caught a glimpse of morning in Peru
through someone else’s holiday account
and suddenly I climbed those slopes again
the steep and winding streets, the blocks of stone,
the mighty, rocky Andes, homes of gods.

He writes “Ollantaytambo” and I thrill
remembering the amphitheatre there
and how I lay full length on one flat stone
and opened to the sun, while somewhere close
an Indian man played softly on a flute.

Another tourist came and gawped at me.
“The sacrificial altar isn’t here,”
he said. “You’ve got it wrong.” I turned my head
and went on with my ritual, silently
communing with the Apu of that place.

In Aquas Calientes when we strolled
along the river path to those hot springs
in nothing but our swimsuits and our towels,
it was the locals gaped (at work below
breaking up the rocks to clear the stream).

At Machu Picchu only half a day,
I sat beside a spindly little tree
alongside one great boulder on the grass
and watched the climbers from the Inca Trail
descend into the ruins single file.

We’d been through fire-black areas at height
and looked across to Wiracocha’s face
emblazoned on the great peak opposite.
I, with my fear of heights, had almost pranced
around those paths and ledges, those deep drops.

The shaman whom we met was prophesied.
It’s nice to read he still has that same shop
where we sat down eleven years ago
to take our journey to the jaguar cave,
and afterwards we wept as we embraced.

Those boys we knew are men already now,
the orphans of the streets who helped us learn
the good cheap cafes where the locals ate
and how to not say “good” when we meant “well” –
their English better than our Español.

The Urubamba River frothed and seethed
beside the trainline for a certain way
and glaciers gleamed along the topmost peaks.
Inside stone walls now topless we could hear
the screaming victims of the sacrifice
loud in our heads, and clapped hands to our ears.

We talked with healers, three, just newly trained.
“Show us your way,” they said, “and witness ours.”
They stood and prayed. We joined them. Sparks of light
danced across their palms and ours too.
The older woman channelled messages.

“Return!” the angels said. “They love you here.”
And down in deepest jungle lies the skull
of amethyst, that Andrew is to guard.
But that is in another time, or else
his spirit guards it, being everywhere.

I tossed into the ocean one black stone
hollowed on the top, that I brought back –
a shallow dish perhaps, for catching blood.
At any rate, it seemed to make us ill
and once it left, so did our heaviness.

Eleven years. Jaguar, condor, snake
were my protectors there, guiding my steps,
and still would come, but now I seldom call.
We do return in dreams, but otherwise
Australia is home; this too is good

Dark Sky in Daylight

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 02:37:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days
Write a poem in which a similar or identical phrase
is repeated three or more times throughout the poem.

Once upon a time
this was a lush continent
but that was long ago.
Now we have drought.

Our dry inland “outback”
dry like this for centuries
became that way long ago.
Now we have desert.

Today there’s a haze
thickening the whole eastern sky.
Wind and fire outback yesterday,
now we have dust.

We have it here
far from the red centre,
blown all that way yesterday.
Now we have darkness.

Written and posted as it's happening,
Wed. 23rd, 12:37 in the afternoon.

Two Equinox Tanka

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 14:22:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 21
September 21^st is the last day of summer in the northern hemisphere and the last day of winter in the southern hemisphere. With that in mind, write a poem in which the seasons play a role.

As I get the prompts a day early due to the time difference, this again coincided neatly with my regular "Tanka on Tuesday" efforts, already on that subject:

it’s Spring Equinox
here in the South of the world
a time of balance
between the light and the dark
then new life starts as light grows

sunshine and thunder
wind and the smell of new rain
from a warm blue sky
and the blind vine thrusting up
seeking light and sustenance

Don't Cry

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 14:16:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 20
Write a poem that begins with a line of advice or instruction.

But I need my tears
for the hurt –
to speak my hurt,
to show you and
to take my pain away.

I’ll cry it out
until I’ve used up
all my breath,
until I’m worn out
from crying.

Then I’ll fall into
a deep sleep
and when I wake up,
I’ll be calm.
I’ll feel new.

Don’t try to take away
my fierce tears,
my needful tears,
my gentle tears.
They’re mine.

This Evening

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 11:10:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 19
Write a poem that begins and ends with three single syllable words.

Dark comes down.
What’s that noise?
Ah, it’s rain, fresh
rain, heavy, cooling the air.
The heat became thick
as the afternoon wore on,
like a blanket pressing.

Rain, welcome rain,
as night falls, air
you can breathe again.
Dry brown plants
plump up, stop sagging,
stop dragging limp leaves
along the ground.

But I’m tired
from the hot day, listless,
reluctant to move –
and from anger. It takes
much energy on any day
to keep being furious, why
don’t I let it go?

It has me, I can’t
shake it. I know
this is not the way, I
know I risk loss, might be
sorry later – don’t care.
The rain evaporates too quickly,
dark comes down.

"Get a Life"

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 03:26:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 18
Write a poem in the form of a letter (epistle).

For the sake of the exercise, I've taken personally a comment which was not actually directed at me. And because this piece is long and prosey, I've at least created a pattern of words per line: 4/4/3)

Dear CyberFriend, thank you
for this excellent advice.
I also liked
the suggestion of hobbies:
speed-dating, you thought,
or the gym.
I’ll certainly try hard
to fit something in
between making poems,
running writers’ groups online
and also off,
arranging my trip interstate
for a featured performance
this coming December,
regretfully declining the latest
invitation back to Texas
for the festivals,
planning my new course
for the Community College
in “Brilliant Blogging”,
editing a friend’s website
as a gift because
I like him,
editing a student’s assignments
for the lovely money
(liking her too),
visiting a sick cat
an hour’s drive away
to give Reiki,
afterwards having a swim
in the grateful owner’s
heated inground pool,
attending Tai Chi classes
weekly during school term,
taking long walks
on the local beach,
doing beginners’ weight training
with my husband,
being his official carer
and usually his chauffeur,
taking the Minutes
of Neighbourhood Association meetings
monthly as their Secretary,
reading my way
through the library books
piled beside my bed
and constantly changing,
rewriting my Tarot course,
testing the proposed upgrade
as I go
on the current students,
working at the markets
giving psychic readings
three Sundays a month,
doing daily magickal rituals
which I love,
casting spells as needed,
interacting with nature spirits
and with angels,
looking after my cats,
sometimes cleaning the house,
pruning and weeding
the resurgent Spring garden,
waiting again for buds
on the rosebush –
that twice yearly miracle
both Spring and Autumn
(just add water),
assisting a writing student
who decided to produce
a class anthology,
taking a car-less friend
on fortnightly shopping trips,
giving budgeting advice,
having a monthly massage,
meeting friends for coffee,
going to movies,
watching favourite TV shows,
also catching old movies
now on DVD,
talking to old friends
on email or facebook,
making new ones
on MySpace and Twitter,
discovering all the ways
of cyber activism
e.g. for the Iranians,
Aung San Suu Kyi
and climate change,
taking part in meditations
both worldwide and personal
to manifest peace,
in global Reiki groups
as and when requested
sending absent healing,
listing names of people
asking me to start
a lightworkers’ group
here in this locality –
and I will, but
it’s just, when?
I could go on
but it’s now clear
why you think
I need a life
not to mention hobbies.
I simply don’t
blog all this stuff;
not a daily diarist.
I post essays
on matters of opinion,
or for light relief
fill in quizzes.
I confess I only
occasionally manage to read
other people’s blogs,
even yours, which may
surprise you – notwithstanding that
it’s so enthralling
reiterating your life dilemmas,
those circles you keep
going around in …
anyway I do hope
I needn’t give up
my self-pampering sessions:
the long, leisurely baths
with scented oils, candles
deep breathing exercises,
colour therapy and meditation,
to get this Life
dear CyberFriend? g2g

Pottsville Beach, Late Afternoon

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 12:17:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 17
Write a poem that is set at or near where you live.

The shoreline is utterly altered after the storms
but summer is coming, we can get to the beach again.
Someone has partly restored the path that became a cliff
easing it into a soft hill of sand we can trudge down and up.
Others are here already, walking or fishing.

The waves come in now in opposing directions
turning on each other like the edge of half a whirlpool.
The shallows are all uneven; in places huge licks extend
reaching nearly to the foot of the cliff, in far beyond the rest.
This is a sea I don’t want to turn my back on.

But I do while I fossick for stones in the slush:
interesting shapes, beautiful colours, satisfying textures.
Here is a comma and here a heart. Some are marked with crosses
others circled by raised, contrasting rings. One is a pearl, translucent white,
others are black and smooth, shining like onyx.

Then everyone stops. We all stand still and gaze.
I’d heard two days ago there were whales about, seen
from the headland at Hastings Point, and now they are here
disporting themselves in leisurely ease, back behind the breakers,
cresting and diving, leaping and plunging.

A glimpse of graceful tail, a curving fin or a snout,
a sudden spume of white, a burst of foam. A silver glint
from the underside of a fin caught by the sun. And the sky vast,
pastel blue with long white feathery stripes of cloud stretching across.
The ocean sparkled, seeming to sing.

The Definition of Lost

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 09:39:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 16
Write a definition poem. A definition poem takes a word or a concept and attempts to define it,
provide perspective, redefine it, or create a definitive example of it.

It’s this three-year-old girl
face screwed up
eyes and nose streaming,
turning in frantic circles
looking and looking and looking
for one familiar point
in the swirl of large legs and bodies
noisy faces thrusting, asking,
“Where’s your Mummy?” – as if
that wasn’t the whole problem –
in the strange new landscape
of the picnic ground.

It must have been only a moment,
then she’d have reappeared.
A little woman, as I discovered
when I was much older,
she’d been hidden, perhaps,
by the crowd. Maybe
I let go her hand
and so we were separated
briefly, but long enough.

I always thought my ridiculous
fear of losing my way
in unfamiliar places
came from that time the conductor
put me off the tram when I was seven
for tendering the wrong fare.
I cried and wailed then too,
feeling not only small
but somehow dirty,
until kind strangers took me home –
at least I was well taught
to remember my address.

But now, in old age, exploring
that distress, that panic,
that wretchedness,
I find the three-year-old,
her terrified abandonment
my defining moment
of being lost.

A Conversation in Poetry

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 23:33:00 +0000

(Extraneous to the 30 Poems in 30 Days)

For Those Who Love
Thom Moon 10

Attune your brightest beaming
to Light that shines when you are alive
all past imperfect/once gone
light is mere remembrance
You loved Mary Travers
and sang with her this new age in
To better bring new visions
(every one is a song/that's why lines like this(unfinished..
and when she leaves(as we all must leave
you feel a temporary sadness/loss
the cost of time's attrition
the casualties of age
Perhaps like young Elvis -to focus
upon the best that was possible when alive and spark
became art that activated.You are now
the one who remembers .Your transformational joy
to be shared by a newer generation
For what is love but change?
Forms and faces,habits and rituals
are only garments for this nakedness-
to give is all-once given,gone
And now you bring the new
from those who never knew
her or you.Beam for her!
Beam for the best and brightest within you!
MOVING E MOTIONS September 17,2009

Thom Writes of the Death of Mary Travers.
Rosemary Nissen-Wade

And so poetry brings the news
is the news, just as we always dreamed –
that immediacy, urgency,
sense of surprise,
that thing we are eager for
even as we recoil.

Yet he didn’t intend
to shout out information.
Rather he meant to say:
It is your own past you mourn for.
And: As she brought new visions
for a new age, now
create your own for this age
even newer. Honour
the past by inspiring the now,
carrying that forward into the future.

Yes, and still
I take time to mourn.
Tears start unbidden.
I Google for details, shout them
to anyone who happens near.

That golden girl, tall girl
who swayed as she sang
a willow in the breeze,
her curtain of shining hair,
the hopeful melodies.
How did she get to be
an old lady of 72 with leukemia?
(And how did I get to be … )

Other news this morning
arrives as usual via TV.
Confirmed, a different death.
The mastermind of the Bali bombings
shot dead by police in Java.
My mind spares only a moment
to pronounce coldly, carelessly, “Good.”
The Summer of Love is history

this poem an elegy and that a full stop
if I choose. But Thom reminds us:
It’s never over. Start again! Go on!

18/9/09

Interpolation

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 02:56:00 +0000

Nah – I realise I REALLY don't like initial capitals for every line of my poems. Some people make it work, but it doesn't suit all the things I want to do with verse. I'm going to go back and put right all the (few) pieces I did that way.

A Tanka

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 02:00:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 15
Write a tanka.

It happens, as regular readers know, that I host Tanka on Tuesday at MySpace in order to teach myself this form, and to have fun playing with others who are doing likewise. And this prompt came on Tuesday 15th, after I'd done my tanka for the day, so again we have a piece doing double duty.

in September sun
as new leaves and buds glisten
my friend telephones
her dying father’s lucid
they have had a lovely day

Walking the Ridge

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 00:07:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 14
Write a poem about a specific but minor memory you have from more than five, but less than ten years ago.

We were still living
around the bend
and up the hill
from Kouranga.

I set out for my walk
alone in the late afternoon
loving as always
the various trees along the road
their different tones and colours,
the calls of high birds
and glimpses of gullies.

I crossed the causeway.
The water was low.
I could see the rocks
underlying the shallow flow.

Up the rise where once
a red-bellied black
lay coiled in the sun
in the middle of the road
and I turned sharply
before coming up too close.
They are so fast and so deadly.

No snake today.
I go on down the dip
before the road straightens
by the turn-off to the Hermitage.

This day a group of men
sits at the roadside
wiping their faces and necks
and taking a drink.
Neighbours, members of the Land Council,
they’ve been clearing noxious weeds
all day along the creek.

I know them all. Good men.
But I’m suddenly shy.
I turn before I come near
and walk back the other way.

Sick

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 03:20:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 13
Write a poem using Skeltonic Verse (also known as Tumbling Verse)
Keep the line lengths between three and six words. Every end word rhymes with the last until you start a new set of rhymes. The poem should have energy and be fun.

I’ve got a cold
I’m feeling old
I can’t be bold
with daring verse
both funny and terse
I’m feeling worse
at the very thought
you didn’t ought
to do this Sport
inflicting strict rhyme
at such a time
when surely I’m
incapable of thinking
I sit here blinking
and might take to drinking
my mind is blanking
but enough of this wanking
I should be thanking
good Mr Hewitt
who believes I can do it
and look I’m through it!

Note: J.C. (John) Hewitt is our prompter at Writer's Resource Center (aka Poewar)

As Needed

rosemary.lifemagic@gmail.com (Rosemary Nissen-Wade) — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 06:23:00 +0000

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 12
Write a Ritual Poem that takes a ritual (real or imagined) and brings a sense of meaning and reflection to the ritual it describes.... Turn the actions into steps or commands.

I decided to write about an actual ritual that I perform often.

1. Enter the temple
(Mine is a whole room of my house
but it might be one corner
or a space outdoors.)

2. Close the door
(I also hang a “Do Not Disturb”
sign on the outside knob.
You never know.)

3. Take up the wand/athame
(Good to hold and wield,
its crystal point a laser,
mine is both at once.)

4. Describe the circle
(Me, I combine Druidry,
High Magick and Wicca
to make a strong, clear light.)

5. Call in the Archangels
(Or nature spirits, or creatures,
according to your training
or purpose. It all depends.)

6. Perform the core of the ritual
(Make the gestures, say the words,
create the visuals, absorb
and move the energies.)

7. Close the ritual
(Give thanks for blessings received.
Farewell the Guardians.
Open the circle.)

8. Return to the world
(Put away the athame/wand.
Open the door, take down the sign.
Notice you feel better.)