Wendy Rule's Concert, 31 Jan - 1 Feb 2018

To Andrew

The full moon singer

live on my computer

is in America, next to a mountain.

It's cold there. She is dressed

in warm black pants and jacket,

red beret and hiking boots.

She plans to see the dawn, 

she tells us, after her singing.

Here in Australia, it's midnight.

I'm still in sarong. The electric fans

are still blowing air around my living room.

The sky outside is black with cloud. 

Between songs, Wendy reminds us:

the blue moon blood moon super moon,

Leo moon of creativity and sovereignty,

is present though we cannot see.

So are you, whom I also can't see

except in my mind. When 

did you not celebrate full moon with me?

When did you not watch an eclipse

alongside me? When didn't we 

attend Wendy's concerts together, here

on her visits to this our magical home

under our own mountain?

I know your spirit is with me tonight

as she casts the circle. Here in the South 

it's Lughnasadh, aka Lammas, a time 

of early harvest. I gather up in thought 

blessings that form my harvest, including 

you and the times we had together.

In the Northern half of the world it's Imbolc,

beginning Spring: new life. And I renew.

For Midweek Motif  ~ Moon at Poets United.

Musician Wendy Rule, an Australian now based in Santa Fe, is also a witch who casts circle at all her concerts. You can still find this one on YouTube.

Summer Evening

The heat cools to comfortably mild.

I look out the front door

and see, on the top step,

my dear man taking the air

in his chair on the landing.

Our pantherish old black cat, Levi,

sprawls near him on the mat.

Tortoiseshell Freya is curled up neatly 

close by on the second step.

And there's me. I am sitting  

on the top step, leaning back

against the rails: positioned to see,

talk to and touch all three....

             *********

It's five years ago and more. 

All of them are dead now.

Even on such a pleasant evening

I never sit, these days, on 

the front steps, enjoying the air.


Sharing at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #388.

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.

The Opening of Doors

I usually barge right on through, and usually

there is some light on the other side, even

when one might think I’d have done better

to leave that door shut. Sooner or later 

there is always light – some – and  often

a late burst of unexpected brilliance … and

sometimes the door opens onto sustained

sunlight, and I need only enter and bask.

And there are times when I’m just here, 

and a door opens to let someone else 

come through, towards me, and that 

can be sweet or exciting or possibly

nothing at all – but nothing demands nothing, 

which is restful; and so, one way or another,

I tend to like it when doors open: I tend to see it 

as a good thing … for the most part, anyway.

Best of all is when doors become irrelevant:

when, instead of traversing some boundary or

entry, some turning-point or edge, we rise

skyward, unfettered, on waves of pure thought:

lifting into flight, cavorting on clouds, floating

and dancing in long arabesques, ethereal

pirouettes … which pleasure is encompassed

even better together, and so let our minds 

entwine. Meet me in the middle of the air!

The final sentence is stolen from a Paul Kelly song based on the 23rd Psalm. This particular line, which he inserts into it, is by Kelly himself and not the psalmist – and has different connotations from those I give it here.

This poem was inspired by the Doorway(s) prompt at Poets United this week.

A Manifesto for the New Year

I have not got the music

but I have the words.

I have not got the dance steps

but I have the words.

I have not got the numbers

but I have the words.

I have not got the science

but I have the words.

I do not have the lovers (any more)

but I (still) have the words.

I call out loudly with the words.

I throw my arms up and my head back,

shouting the words triumphantly.

I whisper softly with the words,

bending close to your secret ear

and breathing them, 

exhaling so lightly you can hardly feel –

but listen hard and you'll hear.

Sometimes I shout them in rage. And outrage. 

Sometimes, I wish to whisper venom.

The words are mine

to do with as I will.

(God said so, 

who gave them to me at my birth.)

I can make them sing, 

I can make them dance.

I can make them count.

I can make them explain – if you will follow –

the secrets of the Universe.

I can make them bring back my lovers.

Yesterday is breaking up, falling away.

Yesterday is getting thrown out with the garbage.

But the old words live on,

unable to be entirely discarded.

Words have power. I call up the power

from deep inside. I call up the words

from where they too are anchored within.

I set them free. I let them loose.

Now I make them new, like seedlings, like cubs.

They will play. They will grow. They will climb all over you.

At 'imaginary garden with real toads', Bjorn invited us to write a manifesto for 2018. I am not much for such things ... but then I watched Patti Smith on YouTube (who does have the music and the dance as well as the words) and – in the mysterious way it happens – suddenly became inspired.

Also sharing this at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #386

Discovering Three Pratchetts Not Yet Read

I'm sitting up in bed last thing at night

reading Terry Pratchett – one of my grand-

daughter's books, which I seized on with delight

when I discovered it so near at hand.

I’m visiting for Christmas. It's all right 

that I'm in her space; she’s a good girl, and

is young enough to like the blow-up bed

she gets to use in the front room instead.

Or else she sleeps on a trundle mattress

in the study, but anyway I get 

her room and her bed and – what happiness –

three books of hers by dear Terry Pratchett:

Sir Terry, whose name I shall always bless

for Discworld and its inhabitants – yet

this is tinged with some grief. Though they live on,

their gently humorous author has gone.

They are ‘young adult’ books, a genre I

often choose for its own sake anyway.

I may be regressed, but I don’t know why

I need worry about that. Reading’s play

in my book (ha ha ha!) and I’m not shy

of admitting this. Could there be a day

without a book in it? No, not for me –

glad I’m still here, in bed with Terry P. 

Winding up the month (and year) with a final offering for the Poetic Asides Ottava Rima Challenge.

I'm also sharing this with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #384, the first after our 2017 Christmas break.

Happy New Year, dear readers!

That Sentimental Place, the Past

She dreams of roses. Her father grew them

when she was a child, in all the colours

roses came in then. She remembers him

tending them closely. He would be outdoors

morning and evening, flexing his green thumb

(he hoped) outside his daily working hours,

and longer on weekends. The hues and scents

he revelled in, she treasures … and laments.

Yet another ottava rima for the Poetic Asides form challenge

Also shared with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #387

On Going Within

I speak into a void. He, Hermit, goes

so far into his cave, no-one can see

his lone attempts to heal his current woes.

I don’t know if he’s even hearing me;

he’s possibly so deep he never knows

that messages are sent at all. Will he

restore himself by hiding as in womb –

or does he pull around himself a tomb?

Another ottava rima for the Poetic Asides form challenge

Sharing this (nearly a year later) with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #428

Un-Scrooging

It’s Christmas time, and I do not believe

in all that crass, commercial carry-on.

I like to give. Most focus on ‘receive’

this time of year. The feasting, though, is fun.

I did that twice, the first on Christmas Eve;

then Christmas Day we fronted up again.

I must confess, the presents that I got

are great. ‘Bah, humbug!’ doesn’t hit the spot.

I had good conversations. One young man

regaled me with his fishing expertise;

I matched him catch for catch and line for line,

our heads together half the evening. He’s

a schoolboy, still a youth of just sixteen,

while I am far into my seventies, 

and yet we found such happy common ground

each counts the other now as a new friend.

On Christmas Day we dined with son’s old mates

(several I have known since they were small).

The hours of well-spaced courses, fun debates

with smart, like-minded people did not pall –

music, movies, books, fish, cheese, desserts …

we rose reluctantly as evening fell,

and drove home peaceful, happy and replete.

So now, goodwill to all! My life is sweet.


Another ottava rima for the Poetic Asides challenge.

Later: Although it is now far past Christmas (February, in fact) I am sharing this one with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #390

Prodigal Friend

I had not looked for him these many years.

It seemed I must resign myself to fate.

Despite a sense of loss, there were no tears,

and certainly no reason to await

a reappearance. No-one reappears –

do they? – after such a lengthy absence,

such an unrelieved and total silence.

Yet here he is, with thanks upon his tongue

for all the truth we shared a decade past –

and suddenly I’m roused, as after long

and peaceful slumber, opening eyes at last ...

awakening to dawn and daylight, song

of early birds crescendoing, and vast

blue skies unfolding to the spreading sun.

Written for the Ottava Rima challenge at Poetic Asides

(12 Aug 2018) I've just removed first and last lines, which were banal and unnecessary, so it's no longer a proper Ottava Rima; maybe I could label it a truncated one.

(Oct. 2018) Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #423

Women's Craft Circle

They are making ‘soft blossoms’

from pieces of fabric

that used to be clothes –

hot pink, shiny blue, 

variegated browns,

pale green, warm orange –

cutting them in circles

traced around cups,

then threading cotton 

on fine needles, running it

in and out around the edge

and drawing it tight.

As they work, they talk

about growing trees,

keeping chickens,

and whether they like

being addressed collectively

as 'you guys’ (not ‘you women’).

They are making soft blossoms

to decorate the rims of buttons,

attach to hair clips, 

dot around belts,

edge the pockets of shorts,

adorn the frills of skirts.

Brooke is smiling wide,

demonstrating ways 

to make them tiny like daisies 

or full and bulbous; how to leave 

enough thread at start and end

to knot them off, complete.

The tip of Kymmie's tongue 

is held between her lips.

(I do that too

in concentration.)

Bronny is showing us

photos of her drawings.

Suzie is holding up

her first circlet of flowers.

She thinks it's clumsy (it's not). 

Everyone notices, also, and craves

her necklace of iridescent blue

glass that she treated and fired.

Me, I’m making a poem

of what I see, which is:

intent or laughing,

open or focused,

all of their faces 

are soft blossoms.

Shared with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #385

Full Moon, Dark Moon

The Full Moon

huge and golden

seemed to bounce

to our rhythm

as we rode

that tiny motorbike, 

hired from strangers,

fast and eager

alongside the paddies –

to make love

our first time,

in dreamy Bali.

Many months later,

back in Melbourne,

I heard you

that last time –

riding away forever,

further and further,

your own bike

large and purring

across the night,

while I lay 

awake, listening long,

at Dark Moon.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Dark Moon, New Moon

Also written for the facebook group THE POETRY OF THREE, Three Words Per Line

In the House of Love

In the house of love 
I am but a decoration. 
I hang on the wall, 
ignored for the most part. 

When anyone does notice, 
they smile. I am pretty. 
But I count for nothing. 

I would like to be a book, 
that people would open and read, 
exchange thoughts with. 

I would like to be a spoon, 
to be dipped into food and brought back 
full of nourishment and sweet tastes. 

But I am a mere decoration, 
useless, unnecessary, 
with nothing important to do. 

Occasionally someone dusts me off. 
No-one ever applies polish. 
No-one ever takes a photo. 

They moved the mirror opposite; 
now I am even forgetting what I look like. 
I cannot see myself. I cannot hear myself. 
Perhaps I will cease to exist.


This is a fictional character, NOT autobiographical! Written in response to a prompt in a writing group, which consisted of the first two lines of this poem. They are from a piece of writing by Kyminy Cricket.

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #376

Pretty Pierette

Some people hate clowns,

think them murderous 

with wide, round, staring eyes 

and crazy grins.

I, myself, despised

the lumbering, stupid

circus clowns of my childhood.

Then I found these others.

Now I am in love

with the clowns from the Carnival,

their patterned costumes,

their shapely masks.

Here at my left hand, overlooking 

the desk whereon I make poems,

there sits the loveliest of all –

a gift from a knowing friend.

Her white porcelain hands and face,

her elaborately painted eyes,

her bows and bells and glitter

show me she is beautiful but sad.

I know sad. Those frozen tears

on her blank, helpless face

remind me. They are for love lost:

remembering a different beauty.

Written for Poems of Garden Gnomes. The prompt: to write about whatever is just out of reach of one's left hand.

Also linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #389

Cat Games

She is bored.

It's wet outside.

Like me, she thinks

to relieve it with food,

but I don't inflict on her

the ill-health I risk for myself.

She prowls around my chair,

circles from it to the door,

rubs against me; soon

may even try a miaow.

There's one solution: 
I must be playmate.

Toys for dangling

Toy for chasing

Exercise: 55 words (excluding title)

Also linking to Monday Writes #125 and to Midweek Motif – Animals at Poets United

Ghazal for —

Where shining joy was the most blended with piercing pain;

of many loves – all true, all lost – you are that one.

We meet in dreams, and in my memories, again

and yet again. It seems, briefly, death has not won.

‘Shall we meet once more in another life?’ I asked.

‘Nothing surer!’ declared my friend the magician.

With that I must be content as the slow years pass.

I was angry a long time that I must go on.

How full and rich life became for me after all.
Yet, still haunted, I never say your name, dear  —.

You owe me something. I will hold you to it, soul-

bound of old. I am your love. I claim reunion.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Reunions

Book of Words

My book of words 

is a testament to rapture,

a mimicry of treasures I find

outside the book – leaves

in a tracery of lace on sky, 

clouds like angels 

vastly soaring aloft, 

liquid-throated calls 

of currawongs ... do you see

how my book of words

frees these delights 

and countless more
each time I open the cover?

Written for Words Count with Mama Zen at 'imaginary garden with real toads': a poem of up to 60 words, preferably entitled 'Book of Words', and including three words from a list of her children's favourites. (My three are 'testament', 'rapture' and 'mimicry'. Great words, kids!)

Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #370

Respect (Argument)

Let's spread respect today. Let's show it and praise it and trouble it and mend it. – Susan Chast

1.

Let’s get real on Unconditional Love. How can we

spread it to all those we can never like, admire,

respect or approve? Look around – evil abounds.
Today the world is full of the mad and the hateful.

Let’s admit, the task is impossible. They hurt me! 

Show me how I can find love for those people.

It’s not a thing I can feel for them, not for them,

and you shouldn’t ask it. I must defend myself.

2.

Praise be, love is not a feeling; that’s a myth.

It is a choice, an attitude, a set of actions,

and we must not mistake it for softness of heart.

Trouble and hurt and evil will come. Nevertheless

it is possible to show respect, even kindness.

Then we do not ourselves grow hateful. We can

mend the broken, even though we must not yield.

It is respect which is the true Unconditional Love.

Written (simultaneously) for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Respect and dVerse's Meeting the Bar – the Acrostic. (This is a first word acrostic, using the words quoted.) It also grew out of a recent discussion in the local women's Wisdom Circle, on unconditional love.

Fallen

Will you not come,

lonely and broken,

to drink from my eyes

the love you are craving,

to receive from my hands

a softness like flowers?

I thought you would. I thought 

I could touch you, gaze on you, 

give you enfolding,

a caress like sleep

or the fragrance of roses

inhaled gently.

But then you let me see

the hard light of your stare,

let me hear the cold 

in your careless laugh.

The mask fallen can't be replaced.

It is I who am broken, lonely.


(Not directly autobiographical. An experiment in style as much as anything else.)

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #369

We Gathered in the Sacred Grove

We then fanned out into the forest, each of us picking a tree:

our brothers and sisters who, like us, love you, Goddess of Light.

Goddess of Shining Light, we see your radiance; let it be

that which awakens us from the fearsome horrors of the night.

You are arising and shining, Goddess of the Forest. See,

we are here, who adore you – you limpid flame, you flaring bright.

Each of us stands with a tree, side by side, sharing all we be.

It is a custom here, and so it seems to us good and right.

We sing with strong voices; our breath, helped by the trees, pouring free.

Joining together to love you, we become one in your sight.

This ancient ceremony

is yours: oh love, oh delight!

Written for the Meme prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads': using the 7th sentence on page 13 of a handy book as inspiration for a love poem.

The first line of this poem is the sentence, or as much of it as was on the page. The book (read as an ebook, so page numbers don't necessarily conform to the paperback edition) is Fairies of the Wild Wild Moon by Vyvyan Ogma Wyverne. It seemed fitting, given the source, to make this a love poem to the Goddess.

It also seems to fit with Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Nature: Her Words

And it's an attempt at the chanso form recently aired at Poetic Asides.

My Garden Gnomes

They carry garden tools

but live in the house.

They have a job to do

and it’s not gardening.

They are my Finder Gnomes.

‘Silly,’ says my friend. ‘They 

aren’t alive. It’s your angels.’ 

All I know is, when I lose 

anything, I ask them.
Then it turns up.

Written for 'The Truth About Gnomes' at Poems of Garden Gnomes. 
Also shared with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #368