In Defence of Weeds

(Make love not war)

Now the harsh sun

softens for Autumn,

the drenching rain 

becomes a trickle, a drizzle –

don’t begin a dirty war, 

don’t kill our thriving weeds!

They that grow

with hardy ease

are to cherish:

medicine plants.

Let them flourish! 
Let them nourish the bees.

Picture: Megan Stoyles, October 20, 1966. See this article in the Canberra Times for details. Photo used according to Fair Use principles. 

For Signs of the Times, Day 12 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are invited to let a protest sign inspire us to a non-political poem. This has always been my favourite – and the image was famous at the time.

This piece was simultaneously written for Quadrille #30 at dVerse: a 44-word poem containing the word 'drizzle'.

Lovers' Morning

Dawn whispers curl,

so hot they scar the breath,

cue sparks.

Clouds and shadows open. 

We leave them ajar:

roses spill on the breeze.

Spring-green, scented

zephyrs skip and twist,

shimmer and melt. 

Our grins bubble 

into laughter without lull

as morning dances.

Written for Quadrille #25, dawn at dVerse. This one uses all the prompt words from Quadrille #1-25, in reverse order.

Seduction by Quadrille

I dance, even 

when music lulls –

I'm a bubble.

You grin, I melt,

we shimmer.

You twist, I skip.

Green breeze 

spills roses,

as from a jar;

leaves open.

A shadow

clouds our spark. 

Cue: breathe fire!

Old scars curl away –
whispers at dawn.

Written for Quadrille #25, dawn at dVerse – using all the prompt words from Quadrille #1 onwards, in order: dance, lull, bubble, grin, melt, shimmer, twist, skip, green, breeze, spill, rose, jar, leaves, open, shadow, cloud, spark, cue, breath, scar, curl, dawn.

Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #348

She Becomes an Indoor Cat

In heatwave, dawn and dusk 

are the times she likes to go out

into the cool, to her garden.

But these are the times forbidden –

mosquito hours. The allergy 

strips her rich fur.

She distrusts help, resists 

calendula cream or diluted 
lavender oil. Stalemate.

Denuded on belly; thinning on paws, eyebrows and behind ears


Actually she is being treated by tablets crushed in her food, which will help even without the topical calendula cream. But I must not let her out at all during her preferred hours – and without the lavender oil to discourage the mozzies, I can't let her out at any time.

Written for Quadrille #25, dawn at dVerse.

The Voices

I overhear fragments 

of conversations bypassing me – 

not whispers, not secretive; 

I'm simply irrelevant. 

They feel no obligation 

to address me directly 

or at all. Merely, my head 

is the space where they live, 

their context, background. They 
have their own lives going on.

Responding simultaneously to Quadrille #24: Whisper at dVerse and Mini-prompt: Voices at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. Also linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #337.

Mothers' Secrets

Without warning

time reels back, 

returning always 

over and over

to those fragments 

best forgotten – 

which of course 

we don't forget.

A half-revealed eyebrow

in a photo, the reminiscent

shape of a stranger's shoulder,

a stray curl on a forehead ...

our lost children.

Written for Quadrille #23: curl at dVerse.

Some Scars

Some scars I wear proudly 

on the surface, bold.

Others are deeper, 

unseen and untold,

buried under layers 

of thickening years.

The long-ago rivers 

of painful tears

at last stopped flowing

and finally dried.

Only I know the poison 

still infects my blood.

Another for Quadrille #22: scars, at dVerse

Stormscare

Or, The Play Of Scars

Now is wild summer.

Storms carve the sky

with sharp light; 

thunderous drumrolls

reverberate.

Small cat is careful, 

places herself underneath 

my big wooden table, 

folds herself smaller still.

Memories carry

two other cats

who crouched, gazing,

in the open doorway,
revelling in storms.

Another piece for dVerse's Quadrille #22. This time the obligatory word 'scar' is hidden – four times.

All His Life

From ten years old

twice daily

my Dad's injured shin,

open to the bone,

was dressed in red 

mercurochrome

and re-bandaged.

Above this gaudy wound –

more horrifying  

to child me –

on his smooth, pale knee

a dimpled scar

gouged  
(like a blinded eye).

For quadrille #22 at dVerse we are asked to include the word 'scar'. It brought back a vivid memory.

(Dad's legs were almost unnaturally smooth and pale, as he always wore long trousers to conceal the large bandage. Years of attempted skin grafts never took. The deep scar on the knee was from the same 10-year-old accident.)

Early Summer

The day, hot blue,

smells of earth.

The sky stills;

clouds, hills, horizon blur.

Hear the silence: 

afternoon, 

the little town by the river

slowing down in the heat.

Somewhere a smell 

of sunscreen – 

warm brown skin, 

bare feet.

Take a Breath

Imagine a star,

high and golden.

From each point, light 

radiates out, focuses in

on our world … 

this country … 

this town …

into this very room –

into you, filling you,

filling your heart. 

Breathe it in deeply!

Now, from our hearts,

we send forth
light.

For Quadrille #21 – Take a Breath, at dVerse

A Quaint Quibble

Queer querents queued,

queasily questing,

quashing their qualms.

Quite quickly

quaffing quince quinine,

the Queen quoth, 'Quiet!' 

'How Quixotic,' 

the Quartermaster

quizzingly quipped.

'I question your quenching,'

he quacked quarrelsomely.

The Quality quaked and quivered.

'I quit,' he quavered,

'quarantining this quintessentially 

quotidian quagmire!'

For Quadrille #20 at dVerse we are asked to write it around 'cue' – or 'Q'.

Never Mind

'Were you close 

to your father?' 

she asked. 

I said yes.

Hesitated ...

No spark 

of understanding

lit her eyes. 

So I omitted that night:

my drunken shrieking,

wanting to kill him

years

without contact.

'Yes ... a fun Dad

when we were little,'

I said.

Written for Quadrille #19: Spark, at dVerse

My Little Shadow

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me 

– Robert Louis Stevenson

My black cat shadows me 

wherever I am,

or begs I accompany her

to favourite spots,

even outdoors.

Our enclosed back garden 

feels like freedom –

as much freedom 

as she, fearful, chooses.

Is it a cage 

when you choose it,

freedom if you don't?

Written simultaneously for Quadrille# 17, Shadow at dVerse 

and Midweek Motif: Two Souls: Caged and Free at Poets United

From the Alcove

Open space,

yet sheltered:

outside the room

I sit with coffee 

and a notebook.

This early, the lagoon

is misty grey.

Three buoys, bright yellow, 

dot the water. 

A sudden dark shape

dives or rises –

long ripples: a fish,

leaping briefly

into the open.

Written for Quadrille #16: Open, at dVerse.

They Leave Themselves Behind

Walking down the hall, I see

through one door, Andrew 

at his desk by the window

(where the second bed is now)

pantherish Levi snuggled at his feet;

or glimpse Freya through glass

reclining outside in sunshine –

cats and man, all gone,

always remaining.

Written for dVerse quadrille #15: leaves / leave.

Featured by Sherry at Poets United in Poems of the Week: Furry Feline Friends We Have Known and Loved, along with poems by Toni Spencer and Susan Chast.

My Frangipani Has No Leaves

The sun glints 

on bare branches 

stretching up,

not dead – full of light:

skeletal but deeply waiting

for buds to begin, new life.

I've seen this. I know 

it happens 

suddenly – 

huge dark green

leaves as big as fans,

and star-shaped, creamy flowers.

Written at the end of Winter, here in the Southern Hemisphere, for dVerse Quadrille #15: Leaves, a prompt inspired by the approach of Autumn, or 'Fall', in the Northern Hemisphere – which does equally well for the approach of Spring here.

This is also doing duty for day 30 of #awakeaugust, a month of 'small stones' (mindful writings focusing on the external world). The others are at my 'Stones for the River' blog.

My Glass Jar

is displayed on the high shelf 

square and lidless as found 

left behind at the farmhouse

embossed with a wheat sheaf 

the words Peace and Plenty 

and 1879

a blessing I kept for every home 
true for the later ones 

with a different man.

Another for dVerse quadrille #14: jar
Also sharing at The Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

The Importance of Trifles

My public face, many remark,

smiles joyously.

Not false, no mask –

nor the whole story.

Showering yesterday, 

I felt my private face 

twist suddenly, sobbing

for the foolish reason

that I couldn't remember

if I bought that shower head

before or after you died.

A self-portrait quadrille written for dVerse.

At This Point on the Journey

Good companions are leaving – 

some without farewell. Let me now revisit 

places where I paused in delight, 

before I too stop travelling. 

                                              In Nepal 

I recall we walked through fields of weed

to meet the Bonpo Abbott. He revealed
wisdom but no lasting answers.

A quadrille for dVerse, on the word 'journey'.  

Back story:

Vivienne Blake, a warm and talented English poet resident in France, whom I knew only online, died suddenly and unexpectedly on July 5th. Billy Marshall Stoneking, an American-Australian poet and film-maker, died on July 15th. As far as I can gather, that was sudden and unexpected too. I remember him from the days when we were both young performance poets, committed to taking poetry 'off the page'. In recent years, we reconnected on facebook. Though neither was a close friend, it's a shock.

Today, over lunch with one who is a close friend, talk turned to Tibet, Nepal, Buddhism, and the earlier Bon (aka Bonpo) religion. This evening I looked at dVerse to see an interview with another poet I only know online, just returned from time in Nepal, plus a prompt for a quadrille on the subject of 'journey'. And it all came together....