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

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

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' 

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

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

Watching the Anzac Day March

April 25 2010

(1)

They are old now, the Vietnam vets
marching slowly down the street,
some wheeled, behind their banners.

I remember them as boys, conscripted,
shuffling their feet and trying to joke,
lining up at Victoria Barracks.

I was lined up too, on the footpath,
with other women from Save Our Sons —
though my own sons were far too small.

One of the mums of the young conscripts
came up and said, ‘I’m on your side!’
after kissing her boy goodbye.

At that first demo, one of my boys
was still in my belly. By the time the war ended
he was seven, indignant at the television.

‘They’re lying!’ he cried. ‘Australian soldiers
wouldn’t do that!’ as sudden footage of atrocities
shocked us. I had to say, ‘I’m afraid they did.’


(2)

They are old now, those young men
who didn’t want to go but were taken.
So are those who hid, and went to prison.

And I am old, and no longer judge
the lads thrust into nightmare
fifty years ago / yesterday.

Then I see, alongside the barrier,
a small boy marching in perfect time,
his back very straight, his face intent.

The bagpipes are skirling
the drums keep the beat
and quietly I start to feel sick.


NaPoWriMo Day 25

Flamenco Dancer

Rich red
the sinuous dress
which curved round her hips
and flared
at the swirling hem.

The repetitive stamp
of her black boots,
the decisive click
of her castanets
at the ends of her raised arms,
and she swept the floor
with the watching crowd.

Sweet was the music,
sweet and deep,
and a mournful note
slipped underneath
and between and around
the rhythm, the rhythm, the rhythm.

And then she was gone
from the stage
from the town
and all the troupe with her,
but not from the brain
of the child I was.


NaPoWriMo Day 24

Nonsense

(Topic suggested by Eddie at WordsFlow Writers today)

I’m totally stumped for something to say.
He asked for nonsense, he wanted to play.
But I am a serious kind of a girl.
What is this nonsense, could I give it a whirl?
It mustn’t be real and it mustn’t make sense.
It mustn’t add up but sit on the fence.
It mustn’t make sense, it mustn’t be real.
It mustn’t be thought but I suppose you could feel.
Can you feel it tickle, can you feel it nudge?
Is it light and airy or heavy old sludge?
Nonsense, not one sense, it’s all in my mind.
Can I get to it from here? Will it leave me behind?
I’m wary of nonsense, it might just mean mad.
And mad isn’t senseless but it’s very, very bad.
Senseless is silly, senseless is dumb.
Maybe nonsense could even be fun.


NaPoWriMo Day 23

In Neil and Dorsey's New House

In Neil and Dorsey’s new house
the statue of serene Buddha
stands in the garden, inviting
(I like to think) discourse
with plants and passing butterflies.
I expect that the nature spirits
respond to the courteous request.

Looking east while reading haiku
Neil can see tree limbs
illumined by dawn. Consolation
for the great tree felled by storm
at their old house. How
could they have stayed there
after that? The soul was gone.

Now ten generations
of butterflies (Monarchs)
traverse the new garden
en route from Mexico
to Canada and back.
The old place, driven past,
looks small and dark. Of course.

The new house seeds new poems.
I steal some happy lines.
Stone walkways in the garden,
gemstones in the floors,
doors with blue and purple —
this house is a work of art
and art is no small thing.


NaPoWriMo Day 22
Some lines, phrases and pieces of information appropriated
from Neil Meili’s chapbook ‘Ten Generations of Butterflies’.
(Austin, Tx, New Texas Press, 2010)

The Night is Full

The night is full of white noise
which sings constantly, just
beyond the edge of hearing.

What are its messages —
if they could be deciphered?
How can I separate out the words?

You want me to come, now,
and I want to come, now,
to some poetic conclusion.

We would like it to be
both simple and profound.
We would like it to be illuminating.

It should have a feeling of rightness
without being too obvious.
We might gasp with delight.

But the nature of white noise
is not like that; I think it’s anti-poetic.
It is both there and not there.

But it’s not a paradox either,
just an awkward fact, with nothing
riding on it, hanging on it, whatever....


NaPoWriMo Day 21

As Night Falls

As night falls
the cats get skittery.
Their collar bells jingle
as they race
all around the carpet
chasing invisible
friends or prey.

Dark deepens;
they start eyeing the door
and then banging on it
politely
but with great insistence
until I give consent.

They survey
from the top of the steps
the night world below them:
quiet street
lit by just two street lamps
and by the moon and stars.

They can see
in among the grasses
movement that we cannot,
and sometimes
other cats come around
for fighting or friendship.

It’s their world,
unknown to us in ours,
one they don’t care to share.
At daylight
when we open the door
they come in, eat and sleep.


NaPoWriMo Day 20

Not Clones

Identical twins are not clones,
I discovered when Lynette
went psychedelic and Philippa
practically came down with vertigo
from the wild mix of colours;
or when Philippa fell for the bricklayer
with all the tatts, that time,
while Lynette was still dreaming
of some wimpy type who dumped her.

So it was surprising when, after all,
years later they fell for the same bloke.
It caused the most frightful ructions
when he settled on Lynette. Half the family
decided to boycott the wedding,
the other half insisted they’d all be there
with bells on. Everyone took sides.
The prospective bridegroom
didn’t quite know what he’d done.

In the end they all turned up,
and to everyone’s amazement
Philippa walked down the aisle too
as chief bridesmaid. The trouble was
she got incredibly drunk afterwards
and offered to do a striptease.
The groomsmen cheered. The bride,
not to be upstaged, joined in
while their parents almost fainted.

They were indeed identical twins —
well, as far as we got to see.
The groom grabbed the bride
and yelled, ‘This has gone far enough!’
She stopped the show to kiss him.
‘You can have him,’ Philippa said.
‘I wouldn’t want anyone
ordering ME around like that,’
and off she stomped, all snooty.

Everyone ended up legless
and Philippa disappeared awhile
with the best man — a little bloke
with a ribald sense of humour.
So they all lived happily ever after?
Not exactly. Philippa took up strip-tease
for real; Lynette joined a fundie church.
And they argued about it; alike in that
they just couldn’t agree to differ.

NaPoWriMo Day 19.

The Visit

This afternoon I ate two slices
of crisp, sweet Peruvian ground apple
in a house among trees
in northern New South Wales,
Australia — how about that?

The newest god-daughter is now
taking steps and saying words.
‘Up!’ she says, and ‘No!’
She likes to scurry on her knees
outside, across the veranda
towards the trees. She also likes
Peruvian ground apple.

I’m wondering now if she
was conceived in Peru,
but I’ve forgotten the dates
when her parents were there,
and anyway I never could count.

And anyway it doesn’t matter.
She came from wherever
when the time was good.
Now she is 14 months old
and totally expressed.
Just watching her
is an entertainment.

She wrinkles her face
and cries a little when we leave
but refuses all kisses, just waves
goodbye to the back of the car
from her father’s cradling arms.

Amanda Comes

Amanda comes
with white flowers
from her ginger plant,
long stems and wide green leaves
and that perfume that wafts
romance and the tropics
through our room.

Amanda brings
cinnamon buns
to have with coffee
and a water melon at the perfect
stage of sweetness,
the exactly right
burst of juice.

Amanda looks
cool, fresh and airy
in her white pants-suit
and her three-strand crystal necklace
purple and gold and green.
Her lipstick is bright.
She’s like Spring.

Amanda comes
with her dog, Leo.
She brings him on a lead
up the front stairs and outside
to the courtyard garden
where he can see us
through the glass.

Amanda says
she likes our new house.
She admires the blue paint
in the kitchen and Andrew’s office
and the way we’ve hung
all the pictures, and
our cosy garden.

Amanda goes
with another hug,
a goodbye to the cats
and a shrug at the rain starting.
We wave from the door,
feeling cherished now.
We love Amanda.

NaPoWriMo Day 17

Oh You Robinson

To my son David

Oh you Robinson boy!
No, Robinson man —
over 40 now.
Though you bear
another name
the genes tell true.

At certain stages
you could have been
my brother’s younger twin.
He said he’d look across at you,
thinking, ‘How can I be
over there when I’m over here?’

In other ways
you recall my Dad,
a man who loved dancing.
He too was the most
patient, fair and tolerant of men,
and as widely loved.

All his life
since the age of 10
he had a gammy leg.
It gave him pain
but it never
stopped his dance.

Your injury, I hope,
will be less permanent.
I suppose there must be pain
though (like him in that, too)
you don’t complain. I pray:
May you keep on dancing!


NaPoWriMo Day 16

Some Do Dying Hard

Some do dying hard
with pain and fear;
sometimes it’s slow
and exhausting.

I heard of a woman ...
but I won’t tell you that.
Her story horrifies.
I heard of a man ...
his makes me weep.

Some on the other hand
do living hard. Pain can be
a lifetime companion.
Sight or movement
may be lost. Or perhaps
one endures great sorrow.

I don’t know what works
in these conditions.
What would I or anyone
do to maintain a self?
I might learn to pray.

As it is, I know myself
blessed to be alive
and doing it, not easy
not hard, just peacefully.


NaPoWriMo Day 14

Preparing the Temple

1)

Sweep with your special broom.
Cleanse, exorcise and charge water.
Cleanse, exorcise and charge salt.
Mix. Sprinkle around the perimeter
in an anti-clockwise circle
(we are in the Southern hemisphere).
Place your altar in the north (west /east).
Set the sacred objects upon it
in their right places:
dagger, wand, chalice, pentacle.
You will already have
your statues and pictures
your crystals and candles
displayed around the room.
If you wish, make a circle of rope;
it can be permanent.
It will be good if there is a window
through which you can see the moon.
Speak the words of consecration.


2)

Just walk outside
into a space among trees.
Clear away any man-made litter.
Find your directions.
If you don’t know, use a compass
(essential equipment
for the urban witch).
Find a feather, a twig,
a shell, a stone.
Look up. Breathe in.
Extend your finger.


NaPoWriMo Day 13

This poem also appears in Sherry's Poets United feature: A Chat With Rosemary Nissen-Wade ~ On Poetry and Witchcraft.

Evening in Tulipwood

The rain comes down hard
and sudden with thunder

the heat unravels me
I begin to blur at the edges

he has draped purple orchids
along the top of the window

I am looking for sunset
wanting it to flame fierce

between the two of us
are cords and tangles

dusk grows dimmer
and my eyelids droop

he is lying down already
his silence invites me

the rain dwindles
and the heat abates

shadows begin to play
along the far horizon

sound has all but ceased
and the light intensifies

Rosemary watches the day
blaze before it dies.


NaPoWriMo Day 12

Curled

Curled against his chest
I feel ridiculously
small and cherished.


NaPoWriMo Day 11


Still working on April PAD Challenge 10. (Always a day behind with that one in any case, in Aussie time, as the prompts emanate from USA.)

After the Wine

After the wine and the tim tams,
after the fish dinner, after
enjoying our favourite TV shows
together — we draw apart.
Suddenly he is enemy, suddenly
he is complaint, suddenly I
am at fault and the source of his
dissatisfaction.

It is the same story after all.
(The wise woman said,
‘All men are different but
all husbands are the same.’)
Everything I dream of
will not happen.

What I want in my old age
is peace and time to read,
and finish all the writing still unwrit.
I want to create our home
finally, in comfort and beauty
and in harmony.

I want to be where I am
and savour that.
What he wants
is money.


NaPoWriMo Day 9