Kitchen Memories

My mother’s sugar spoon
that I lived with
all through my childhood
and live with now
stamped EPNS:
only silver-plated,
its deep, round bowl
already well-worn
by the time she died and I
souvenired it.

My stepmother,
the one they wrote about
in the fairytales,
feeding my brother and me
mouldy vegetables,
stews with bits of broken glass.
(No we didn’t eat; not silly.)
And the rubber-tiled floor
I had to scrub on my knees
with cold water.

Darling Aunty Ev
who rescued us
and took us to live
in her own house
showing me how lemon juice
cleans an electric jug,
and when you take lids off
always to put them upside-down
keeping the dirt and germs
on the outside.

Sitting in a rented kitchen
with my first husband, Don,
hearing over breakfast
the news on the radio:

President Kennedy shot
and taken to hospital;
President Kennedy dead.
Eventually we rose
and went to work as usual,
not as usual.

Dutch-born Bill,
the father of my kids,
teaching us to savour
salt herring out of a barrel,
sauerkraut and mashed potato
and the rich warm taste
of Rokwurt dipped in mustard.
Encountering that again
tonight after many years,
I think my palate sang.

Coming home with Andrew
(my third-time-lucky)
after Darrell and Lottie’s wedding
where they fastened hands
and jumped the broom,
to a supper of coffee
with wedding-cake.
He asked me to cut off
half the icing from his share
to have myself. I knew he would.


NaPoWriMo Day 30

And Suddenly Dreams Come True

Details in the real world
the star forecast says,
may prevent us, today,
from having lovely fantasies.

True. Today I’m having
lovely realities.
Suddenly Patsy phones.
(My friend who looks out for me.)

‘Do you still need
a full-length mirror?’
Suddenly her neighbour
is giving one away.

It’s the one I’ve dreamed:
a high cheval,
frame and stand of timber
polished golden.

‘Over there in that corner
of the bedroom,’ says Andrew.
Yes, I’d always fantasised
exactly that spot. It looks good.


April PAD Challenge 29
Prompt: And suddenly ...

Nights of Meteor Showers

(Found poem, compiled from friends’ LiveJournal posts)

nights of meteor showers
I think I heard someone singing about it
they take sound away with them as they go

the crystallisation of water on leaves
an image of cherry blossoms fallen
the passing nature of the world

emblem of intersecting circles
in the center of the window,
the bright, round moon


NaPoWriMo Day 29

The End of the Line

This is where we have come to rest,
at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac
in sight of the ranges that mark the border
between one state and the next.

This is where we expect to enjoy
the rest of our lives in these bodies:
at the top of a small hill, high enough
to feel removed yet accessible still.

You could say we have come
to the end of the line, or close.
I see it rather as a crossing-place
to stay in and savour before we go on.


April PAD Challenge 28
Prompt: The end of the line

As Dark Falls

As dark falls,
running footsteps
up the street
draw close.

For a moment
it’s thirty years ago
and my son Steve,
aged 11, runs
up the street to home —

in a different suburb
in a different State.

Then the illusion
passes, and it’s night.


NaPoWriMo Day 28


Submitted 11 Dec. 2011 for the Arrivals and Departures prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads' 

The Boy Across the Road

The boy across the road
is singing all by himself
as if he thinks no-one can hear,
or doesn’t care.

His voice is very sweet.
The whole street listens,
quiet inside our houses
not to interrupt.

He is tidying up the yard
where his little sisters play,
looking out over the valley
to the Border Ranges.

Yesterday he brought me
one small sister, who wanted
to sell me chocolate: two dollars
or three for five.

She is saving to buy
a Play Station. He bent
with his arm around her,
smiling up at me.

Muggings in Knox Park,
addicts round Sunnyside,
but a boy like Nathan
creates hope.


April PAD Challenge 27
Prompt: a hopeful poem.

Right Timing

The moon will soon be full.
I take the rose quartz heart
out of its starry pouch
and connect it,
with hands and thought,
to the energy of Jan’s daughter
who is ill. I heard her voice
this morning on the phone
and I know her name. That
will be sufficient. Tomorrow
her mother comes; she
will place the crystal
by a photo of her daughter,
and tomorrow night
the moon will be full.


NaPoWriMo Day 27

More Than Five Times?

Let me count.
I must have started
at the beginning of March,
that first Tuesday.

This is the final week of April.
There were five Tuesdays
in March alone.
And four more this month.

So yes, it’s definitely
more than five.
How many more?
I missed at least one.

OK, I’ll take a look.
Hmmm, hard to remember;
I didn’t write it in.
Could have missed two.

That would still
be more than five.
Let’s say definitely seven,
seven at least. So far.

But see, I don’t think
I’ll continue.
I’ve almost
made up my mind.

More than five, yes
but not much more.
Oh, it’s been
quite interesting. But


April PAD Challenge 26
Prompt: More than 5 times

The Perks of Age

On late, lazy mornings
we old folk sprawl on our ample bed.
Two of us lounge against pillows,
reading and sipping coffee.
The other two settle against us, purring.
No rush to rise and face the day
for any of us —
nothing better to do,
nowhere else to be.
We can please ourselves.


NaPoWriMo Day 26

Wild Goose's Sister

(Inspired by Frankie Laine’s ‘The Cry of the Wild Goose’)

Not a girly girl,
though I seemed to be.
I was quiet, timid, dreamy:
‘nose in a book’
‘scared of her shadow’
‘head in the clouds’.

Well they got that last one right.
I wanted to fly with Frankie
like the Wild Goose,
to breast the wind and ride the sky,
sailing on open wings
over the horizon, far and free.

In dreams I was D’Artagnan,
I was Robin Hood.
Never Maid Marian.
It was always
the dashing hero I wanted
not to win but be.

I grew into a woman, wanting
and getting what women dream:
husband, home, children,
all that — a woman
who is always finding
feathers in her path.


April PAD Challenge 25
Prompt: Write a poem inspired by a song. 
Include the song and artist (if known).

Submitted April 2013 for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #144

Evening in the Eyrie

As evening falls on our hill
nest becomes eyrie.
We are just above
the floating mist.

We watch the street
settle down and get quiet,
the children called inside
and the cars arriving home.

Lights in the houses
go on and then off.
The streets lights
come on and remain.

The quiet cul-de-sac
goes to bed early.
Only cats and writers
are wakeful late.


#AprPAD 24 
Prompt: An evening poem.