The Edge of Dreaming River

You are leaving, he said to me,

and never again shall we see each other.

What am I going to do? And what

will you do, when we are far apart?

We sat at the edge of Dreaming River,

letting our bare legs dangle

in that green and rushing stream.

The clouds were swift, blown sideways.

I shall have my flask of green water

gathered from Dreaming River. I shall drink

drop by drop the memories of me and you,

and I shall not thirst, I said.

The clouds in the sky became

even frothier clouds in the river.

On the edge of the water, gripping

the grass tussocks, he saw this and swore.

I want to go too, he said. I want to go

far from here, as you can do —

but me, I'm eternally caught.

He glared at the clouds as they raced away.

I shall come back, I promised, after one year

and one day. Watch as the clouds pass over.

You will see me flying back to you. Only wait.

Meet me at the edge of Dreaming River.

But when I returned in a year and a day,

he never looked or saw. His gaze

was turned towards a laughing woman

who led him away from Dreaming River.

That edge, I heard her say, is dangerous.

One day, she said, you could fall

and be submerged in the green water.

She danced him away from the edge.

I am watching the clouds as they scud

sideways in front of the river wind. I am

dangling my legs in deep green water,
dreaming, at the edge of Lonely River.


Note: A fictional imagining, not autobiography!

The latest Play It Again at imaginary garden with real toads, asks us to revisit a previous challenge. I chose In Other Words from Jan. 15 2015, which asked poets to take a book title which already used words in unusual combination, and replace some words with others, also unexpected. I Turned The City of Dreaming Books into The Edge of Dreaming River. 

Sweet Dreams

A clear memory

involving you and me

in our heyday,

when we were vigorous

and efficient

in the way we did our lives —

our life together.

We are helping

a woman, a visitor

resting on our bed.

She is lying face down;

I don’t recognise

who she is, but I am familiar

with your compassion.

Then I become

lucid, and realise I dream.

At once I understand

this never happened here:

in my dream

I am dreaming another dream

as if remembering.

Can it be

we had a life, a continuity

beside this one,

on some other plane?

Did we always

inhabit each other’s dreams?

I like the thought.

Happiness was

the irrelevant by-product

of sharing our lives,

conducting them together.

It was being aligned,

interested in each other.

And we were helpful!

Happiness

was active; it was engagement.

I like that it goes on

in another, simultaneous realm

accessed by dreams.

Perhaps it keeps continuing

even when I wake.

In my mind now,

my awake, remembering mind,

I am running

to meet you, across a green field

by a stream.

There are low hills in the distance,

and wildflowers.

Written in response to the current Midweek Motif at Poets United: Happiness.

The Seventh Night of the Year

Pale faces thronging the dark —

the dream only fragments now,

fag ends or tangles of smoke ...

athletic bodies fighting

fierce and fast, like acrobats.

The dim light caught shaven heads,

naked limbs white against grey.

Or tumbling on a trapeze

higgledy-piggledy, but

there was still room for singing.

Singing and swinging alive,

disappearing in distance.

I was caught, one leg fastened

by intertwining others.

Perilous extrication

leaving me fully alone,

leaving me lying alone

on a floor I could not see,

surrounded by smoke too thick

to discern any image.

A distant smell of burning.

Seven turns of the clock face,

seven lean hours of the night.

Seven — number of challenge.

Seven explores the unseen.

I woke. My cat on the bed

leaping, pouncing on nothing,

continued to wrestle air.

The seventh night of the year

I made a spell for dreaming.

Did it gather all the dreams —

dreams of the politicians,

dreams of teenagers mingling,

pooling inside my one skull

in frantic kaleidoscope?

I remember a woman.

My dress was red and purple.

'These,' she said, 'are the colours

designating a priestess:

from base chakra up to crown

where the light collects and blooms

like an explosive flower.’

(When I was seven I knew

I would always be alone

inside the populous town

and the warm family home.

For why? I was the dreamer

'head in the clouds' and my feet

trailing behind, straying slow.)

At Poets United, our Midweek Motif is January Seventh and we are asked to write anything to do with the number seven. In this piece the structure echoes the theme: each line, including title, has seven syllables; and there are seven verses, each of seven lines.

Guantanamo

 The former US vice-president Dick Cheney has defended the CIA torture programme as ‘absolutely, totally justified’ —The Guardian

We all remember the towers collapsing

over and over again on our TV screens,

crumbling downwards in clouds of smoke,

and the tiny figures falling, falling.

We all recall the following reports

of all those cell phone messages.

'I love you,' they all said, the most important 

last-chance truth to tell before they died.

Now you claim it was in their name

you committed.... Torture; who does that? 

How do you choose, how do you train

those who will coldly perform cruel harm?

What startles me is the fuss of surprise

now that the facts are out. Surely,

didn't everyone know? I did! I only

had to look at the Aussie they returned.

He came back broken. And the other,

the one they kept so much longer,

his health will never recover from years,

yes, years of — say it — torture.

News flash, CIA: you can't get

useful information from innocent men.

This country is their home and it's mine:
so they are family. My anger is not done.

And I understand America's anger

at the burning towers and the bodies

forever falling. But now your Government 

is just the same. So is ours. They knew.

And if they didn't, they should have known,

not turning the blind eye, swallowing lies.

There is no justification. There never was.

We are all terrorists until we reject revenge.

Submitted for Poets United's Midweek Motif: Human Rights 

Alice Afterwards

It’s such a fine day, she thinks,

as she saunters down the path to her gate —

a late morning after

her fine night painting the town

red and other colours.

The adventure of escape

no longer leads through rabbit holes

or mirrors. Now she needs

more control, can’t leave the kids

for unpredictable lengths of time.

But if anyone ever had cause

to become an artist — all

the bizarre and beautiful

things she’s seen….

So she slips out at night.

While husband and children snore,

she’s away with her spray cans.

Her signature, Lice,

is so obvious if you know.

But no-one knows.

The slight figure, like others,

is hooded in the dark. She is still

slim and small enough to pass

for a teen, a boy. They never talk

if they even meet. It’s a solitary thing.

She’s fond of solitude now,

having all those offspring and him

in the busy days. She likes her space,

in those silent hours when even

drunks and the homeless are asleep.

She needs no potion these days 

to be tall as a tower, tiny as a flower;

no smiling demonstrations

of a disappearing act. She has her own

magic, dispelling walls.

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' last Friday, Fireblossom asked people to write mash-ups, putting someone famous in a new and different situation. I only just discovered this prompt, a few days late, and it caught my imagination.

Storm Watching

I sit outside in the cool,

in the rain and lazy thunder,

under the wide overhang

of the back verandah.

My companion stretches and shifts

on his blanket, attempting calm.

But his sister was the brave cat.

Without her, he's uneasy.

So we come inside from thunder

and spraying, pelting rain.

I like all that — but he, I guess, has no need

to prove himself to me. He knows

I am very tender of him, I won't

challenge or scorn or compete.

Instead I usher him in, get him settled.

Then I find me a spot on the front verandah.

I see him through the flywire

draping himself inside the door,

looking out — near me
in safety. We are both content.

Both dVerse and Poets United, not surprisingly, are asking for gratitude/thankfulness poems right now. Perhaps I can sneak this in, with the idea that contentment qualifies!

The Dead Woman

The dead woman
wants to embrace you;
she is watching
as you sleep.

The dead woman
regrets that her children
are no longer babies.
She wants to hang on.

The dead woman
smells flowers with gusto
taking long sniffs,
then tastes them.

The dead woman
has no hat for the sun.
She lets the heat
burst on her face.

The dead woman
in front of the television
sits without turning it on.
She has x-ray vision.

The dead woman
is a camera. She dreams
of a hoard of images
and snaps and keeps them.

The dead woman
bailing herself out of jail
tells herself that the rain
will wash away prison stink.

The dead woman
is laughing
because being dead
is nothing like she expected.


For a dVerse prompt: write from the perspective of dead man, or woman (based on Marvin Bell's 'Dead Man' poems). I wrote this when I was very tired and half-asleep, so as to let the ideas well up from the subconscious. I wanted a different kind of logic from the everyday.

I discovered the form needs a part 2: 'More About ...'  It is here.

Completion

On being asked to write about what this date, celebrated as 
Halloween (which is based on Samhain) truly means to me.

Tonight

I would light a candle.

I would stand it

beside your photo.

Tonight

I’d recall

the daily rituals

of our time together.

Tonight

I’d set a place for you

at our table.

Tonight we’d feast.

If it were truly Samhain

here in the warm South,

that is what I’d do.

However, it’s Beltane.

The hot, hot summer

is coming. But

the way we ushered it in

my dear, is over.

You are ghost or angel,

more ethereal than smoke.

And I shall be lighting
no fires tonight.

Image: Beltane Fire Dancer by NataliaLeFay (free download)

Note: For those who don't know, Beltane is traditionally celebrated with sexual passion. 

This was written when my late husband, Andrew, had been dead only two years. I'm sharing it now, 31 October 2025, with Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #201: On Halloween. Having written a number of Halloween poems over the years, rather than write another I'm choosing to show this old one to an audience that didn't see it last time. 

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writers Resource Center). Prompt: Completion.

Also a follow-on to the previous poem, which was in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif: Halloween, or Celebrating the Dead.

On Samhain Night

On Samhain night, when the veil is thin,

I collect photos of those gone before.

I set them out for viewing,

I do them honour.

It is the time of festivity for them,

our predecessors — sires, mothers,

siblings, lovers, spouses, friends,

others even longer gone….

How deeply must we reverence

those who bestowed their love

upon us, those who were here

in their lives, living.

They were here in their homes;

they knew us.  They return

to our homes which were theirs

for one night’s visit.

We owe them this: for love, for blood,

for respect, for the proper

sequence of things, for every

bond which lingers.

This is the time which we give

to them, to remember

who they were then, once —

now only ghosts.

Welcome, beloveds. We esteem you.

Here is your spot — sit, dine!

Be with us. When you go, rest

in our love until next time.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writers Resource Center). Prompt: Use no words with the letter a, except one word where it appears twice.

Poets United Midweek Motif: Halloween, or Celebrating the Dead; what does it truly mean to you?  (I addressed the prompt as given. However, this is the Southern Hemisphere! For what this date really signifies to me, see the next poem.)

A funny thing, grief

You think you're going along

nicely, then some little thing

triggers it and you're lost.

'Oh, my precious, beautiful girl!'

I suddenly say to the air, as

out of nowhere the thought of her

grows large. My sweet cat,

who stayed with me 16 years.

I knew it was her time. I knew

she'd been happy in her life.

Focused now on her brother,

loving him through his loss,

I imagined I'd handled mine.

I have come to bed.

He is outside,

enjoying the cool night,

sprawled on our top step

or the car bonnet.

At some stage he will come in

and settle himself

next to my pillow.

It's become his spot.

But she was always

the sleeping companion before,

arriving as soon as I went to bed

at whatever time

from wherever she was,

even outside. It beat me how

she knew, but she always did.

She would cuddle up and purr

loudly, then snuggle all night.

He has not come in yet;

too early for him.

Therefore I am not

distracted by his presence ...

nor am I distracted

from her absence.

Her absence acquires

its own huge presence.

I lie down alone

and the tears come.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Write the final line of the  poem first, then work out how to get there.

Visiting the Podiatrist

'What have you been up to lately?'

he asks, as he settles my feet,

and I say, 'Poetry'. It's always poetry.

The big, curved, metal clippers click

as he enquires, 'How long

have you been writing poetry?'

'Since I was seven,' I say,

and then he remembers. 'Oh yes,

You told me that last time.'

Out at the reception desk,

Teresa's typing briskly

in a staccato clatter.

In here, Justin resumes.

'Do you have any special themes?'

'No,' I say. 'There are no unfit subjects.'

He laughs. 'Except, maybe,

visiting the podiatrist.'

I tell him about today's prompt:

Include one or more sounds.

I mention the clippers and the keyboard,

and some rustling of paper out there now.

'And the low hum of the air conditioning,'

he adds with a small flourish. I tell him,

'Ah, you're writing your own poem now.'

'Do you know any poems of Kipling?'

he asks suddenly. 'I live in Kipling Street.'

I tell him Kipling wrote novels and stories too.

I tell him that Kipling's most famous poem

is 'If' and how I dislike it. I recite

a phrase or two. He Googles the rest.

We get onto war, and the state of the world.

He asks if there are violent, hating poems,

seems to have encountered only the uplifting.

I talk of ancient times, other cultures;

guess that readers might prefer gentler stuff,

so that would be what lives. Then I remember rap.

'Rap's full of all that. It comes from

the disadvantaged. They have cause.'

'I forgot that rap's a kind of poetry,' he says.

I'm ashamed that I forgot too. 'Often

very good poetry,' I hurry to say, 'Even if

I don't always like the message.'

He lets my chair down. It’s a slow chair,

soundless. My feet feel so comfortable,

it’s as if they no longer exist.

Teresa books my next appointment.

I ask about her beautiful accent. (She lilts.)

Swedish, and she lived in Scotland.

The phone rings, loud and brassy.

I wave and walk out on to the street,

listening to my own light footsteps.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Include one or more sounds.

Submitted, a year later, for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #275.

The Regimen

It’s a hot day, a very hot day,

but it’s time to swing my weights

up fast, slow down, each side

from waist to shoulder

then from shoulder to overhead

(don’t let them meet in the middle)

up and down alternately

in front of the body, seated

curling up to the shoulder, seated too,

then forward and back, on one knee

always five times each side, each set;

count ten seconds, repeat

remembering, you can go up fast,

but bring them down very slow

finally put them aside, and bend

arm over head, twice, left and right

hold each bend for fifteen seconds

and feel the stretch in the bending hip.

Do this every other day.

On alternate days, go for a walk.

I’ve always walked, on and off,

but the weight training is new.

After my mother fell and broke her hip

she never went home again.

My bones, I’m told, are brittle

but I’m not yet ready to break from life.

Also I now keep my mobile

attached, in pocket or bum-bag.

Don’t want an agonising crawl to the phone

like hers. But I’m living alone, like her.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Use an inspirational tool from this list:

Call a friend and talk about old times
Collaborate with another poet
Exercise
Give yourself a deadline
Give yourself permission to write badly
Go someplace new
Interview yourself
Just start writing anything that comes to mind as fast as you can
Listen to your favorite music
Look at old photographs
Meditate
Read a magazine or a newspaper
Read someone else’s poetry
Read your own poetry
Review your old work
Start with a title
Take a swim, bath or a shower
Take a walk
Try another medium such as drawing or painting
Try something new

(Obviously, I exercised.) 

He Lies on the Floor

He lies on the floor at my feet

in front of his new scratching post —

which he ignores.  Lifting a paw,

he washes behind one ear.

The old post is out on the kerb

for the hard rubbish collection.

After two years of two cats

it was shredded. But change upsets him.

So at first the old and the new

sat side by side in the house.

I took each of his front paws in my hand

and raked them down the coiled rope.

I swung the dangling balls of synthetic fur

and pulled the toy mouse on its quick elastic.

He batted the balls a bit, then pounced so fast

on the mouse that he almost got me.

But playing of his own accord

hasn’t happened yet.  He doesn’t

have his sister any more

to compete and encourage him.

He murmurs and stirs, and looks up at me.

Again I see him as panther: that all-black coat.

He is docile though, and becoming happy

to hang with me in our pack of two.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Write a draft in paragraphs of prose, then turn it into poetry. (Interesting! The poetry required a lot of tightening. I went from 393 words to 173.)

In Soft Morning

In soft morning

memory and pain,

dying away in silent light

before the birds begin,

pretend to be dream.

I let them so pretend.

I fill up my consciousness

with tasks and simple joys

that keep the days passing.

Only when night returns

and finally I lie down,

still on my side of the bed,

a hidden door to the real

opens and lets them in.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Start and end poem with same word.

Linking to the Tuesday Platform for October 20, 2015, at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

Posing Nude

1.

When I was 25,

newly divorced

and needing cash

three friends

all artists

became my helpers.

First I posed just for them  —

to get comfortable,

to find out if I’d like it,

to see if I’d be any good.

They taught me the tricks:

strike a pose suggesting movement

(more interesting)

but distribute your weight

so it’s balanced;

shift your weight

subtly, infinitesimally,

if you go numb;

wear your robe between poses;

rest between poses;

insist on a heater if it’s cold.

Surprisingly, I loved it.

Briefly, was the highest-paid

artist’s model in Melbourne —

until the next husband

wanted exclusive views.

2.

At 45,

plump mother of schoolboys,

I reclaimed an old identity.

An artist friend,

a neighbour,

became my recruiter

for the new life drawing group,

old hands and beginners both,

at the Community Centre.

I gave it a try

to see if I still could

(it’s harder work than you’d think,

stressing the body in various ways:

legs, back, arms;

cold, stiffness, pain)

and to find out if I’d still like it.

Yes to both questions, but

the long, reclining poses

became my forté now,

easier to hold

gentler on the body

and just as interesting

if the sketchers found their own angles.

(My friend liked to draw my face.)

The second husband

was less possessive by now!

Decided to be proud of me instead.

But then we moved away

and that was the end of that.

3.

I’m 75.

You must be joking!

Well yes, it is a joke

but one with serious purpose.

There’s Leigh, Helen,

Delaina and me

four friends

four poets

four collaborators.

Who came up with this idea first?

That we celebrate and promote

the paperback version

of our new book

by posing naked with copies?

I forget, but my guess

is probably either Leigh or Helen.

Leigh kicked it off:

abundant flesh behind

four fanned-out copies;

otherwise dressed

only in a huge smile.

This wasn’t the sort of thing

Delaina had ever done

or contemplated doing,

but she did. Part of the group,

she said, and therefore game.

Side-on, with leather jacket

draped over the far shoulder,

the book in front of the near;

and, I do believe, an eyelash flutter.

Helen’s away,

we’ll have to await

her no doubt brilliant

exposure on her return.

Meanwhile, me.

Yes, I did say 75.

Living alone

without a photographer.

Oh I know,

my massage therapist.

She sees me naked anyway.

But she’s booked solid,

can’t allot extra time.

OK, put the hard word on a friend.

Practise at home first

in front of the full-length mirror.

Hmm, hafta use two books

to sneakily push up

as well as cover the tits.

Decide the angle.

Maybe one book, open?

At friend’s house, she poses me

in front of the drawn blind

(in case of nosey neighbours).

I do the tit-push with two books,

I do the tit-push with one,

I let some flesh peek around the sides,

almost expose a nipple.

We examine the first results.

'I look ... low,' I say.

'I wouldn’t worry,' she tells me.

'Lots of young girls too

look just like that.'

But when I get home,

I realise what’s really wrong:

too much boob, not enough book.

I resort to my last option: selfies

with the Photobooth on my laptop.

I cart it around the house

to find a neutral background

without mess, ornaments,

pictures on walls,

or dangling clown puppets

growing out of my head.

I hold the book high this time —

never mind proving my cleavage —

and try for the right expression.

The wink looks gross,

the smile forced,

the calm face elderly.

I settle on a pursed-lip smirk.

And there I am, depicted

visibly naked again

(without visible rude bits).

Artistry it ain’t,

but this might have been

my hardest

as well as my last,

and — good heavens! —

my most widely-seen

nude pose.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Do something that scares you just a little, and write about it.

dVerse Meeting the Bar: lists. (This one is a list of three episodes, within each of which are lots of little lists.)

Music Practice

The boy who lives across the road

is playing his recorder over and over.

I am trying to recognise

the phrase he keeps repeating.

He is playing it slowly, again and again.

I know that I know it.  Then finally

I put the single, spaced-out notes together:

Jingle Bells revives in my memory,

carrying me back to when I was a child.

He doesn’t make it jolly. He doesn’t

connect the notes into a tune, not really,

and he plays it mournfully slow

so his bells don’t jingle — but,

if he keeps on practising, perhaps

his music will be dancing by Christmas.

Meanwhile I resign myself to all the weeks
when, inadvertently, perforce, I must listen.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Centre). Prompt: use a verb in every line

That Day

The call came just after breakfast.

‘Right,’ I said, briskly, ‘I’m on my way.’

But first I called Maureen, our friend,

who always said, ‘When that time comes,

if you need me to be there with you, I will.’

I had not expected to need or want her —

her or anyone — but when the time came,

yes I did.  I’ll never know whether she had

any other plans that day. She just came.

I arrived first; it was so close to home.

I was used to popping in and out.

I had time to whisper some messages

just between him and me. I knew he could hear

though his eyes were closed, and I knew

he understood me. Perhaps he would have

even without help — very probably—

but I used direct telepathy, just to make

perfectly certain. (We Reiki Masters have ways.)

‘We’ll find you a private room,’ they said,

and did. When did Maureen arrive? About then.

Hard to remember that detail exactly, and of course

it doesn’t really matter. She arrived, kissed him

(did she? I think she did) and sat down

in the chair on the other side of the bed.

We were both calm in our demeanour.

We talked in low voices, to and about him.
I held his hand.…  And so that long, quiet day began.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Write about a real moment in your life without discussing its larger meaning.

Also submitted for Poets United's Midweek Motif: One Day in the Life of

Moments / Years

We danced a sudden jig

among more sedate dancers

at the kindergarten parents’

end-of-year party.

Who was it slipped us

the whispered news

in that conservative gathering?

I can’t remember, but I do recall

whispering too, unable to contain

extreme jubilation: ‘Labour’s won!

Labour’s won! Labour’s won!’

We signalled our friends.

The after-party at our place,

on into early morning,

was a talkfest of delight.

That was in 1972.

And we were right to be glad

as rapid reform began.

Three years later

my best friend phoned.

‘The Government’s been dismissed!’

Half the country, of course,

had been listening to Parliament,

glued to our radios

as the crisis appeared to stalemate.

But at that point it was hard

to credit what we heard.

‘Profound division in the country,’

a commentator remarks.

Ah yes, they were fierce days.

Like many (though not the man himself)

I can still find the rage.

Today, in 2014, I read his death on facebook

over my morning coffee. Parliament

suspends all standing orders, spends all day

(both sides of politics equally)

honouring this man

who seemed eternal

but has finally left us.

'Great leader, great Australian,

great friend, mentor to many.’

‘He changed the nation.

There was before Whitlam and after.’

His list of achievements is long:

the arts, indigenous affairs,

the status of women …

‘A giant’, people are saying.
Let me say, Colossus.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Write a three stanza poem that shows a progression with each stanza. The three stanzas should serve as a beginning, middle and end respectively.

Also submitted for dVerse Poetics — Good News, Bad News, Your News!

It's Time

Vale Gough

It’s time for mourning,

time for knowing

all that we’ve lost

since his time.

It’s time to remember

that long-gone euphoria,

time to ponder

the brief taste of freedom,

time to farewell

the last of the giants —

it’s his time.

It’s time to be thankful

he once walked among us,

time to praise

the reforms that he gave us,

the peace he enacted,

the pacifists un-prisoned,

not before time.

It’s time to celebrate

affordable health care

truly life-saving,

free Universities

for all who could qualify,

the restoring of land rights —

oh yes, it was time.

It’s time to believe

we must not forget him,

it’s time to recapture

the decency, the caring

of that earlier era,

time to maintain

the rage for our time.

It’s time for morning,

a new day, a sunrise.

Yes we can do it.

Yes, now, it’s time!

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Start with a negative, turn it to a positive.  Also submitted for dVerse Poetics — Good News, Bad News, Your News!

In honour of Gough Whitlam, 1916-2014, former Prime Minister of Australia