Celebration of the Green Tree-Frog

The small frog squats at night

in the track of the sliding door,

hunched below the level of the glass.

Lamplight turns him brown;

his eyes are amber beads.

He is carved stone

watching the moths.

They flutter above him,

little brown leaves

falling against the flywire

and twirling off.

In daylight the frog is green,

sticky and shiny with big webbed feet,

transparent as a leaf.

On top of the water tank

in the gap between pipe and filter,

just where the rain spills in,

he rests and celebrates.

When storms lash and the pipe gushes,

we hear from his tiny throat

a pulsing, continuous drum-beat

heavy and huge and deep.

                              

19/2/96 - 21/8/00

Resurrecting this old poem because I had occasion to post this photo in a facebook group today. This pottery frog was given to me by a friend in Texas in 2006, after he heard me recite the poem. (It looks more blue than green in the photo, but that's a trick of the camera.)

Of course, the Aussie ones look more like this. 

Sharing at Tuesday Platform, 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Missing San Antonio

The small white square of the Alamo
was a glimpse only as we sped past,
one building in a street
of newer, taller, wider forms
that had it surrounded.

It looked ridiculously tiny
but pretty; its crenellated rim
like an edging of lace.

It was natural, I suppose,
that my mind would turn
to the old, sweet song about
the rose: Rose of San Antone,

Where in dreams I live
with a memory …
An interlude of joyful
dancing music, players
like jesters and troubadours.

And the tall stranger afterwards,
talking of shades and angels.
Enchantment strange …
but we had to go.

Broken song …
It plays in my head now
each time I recall those moments,

a tender lament
for dreams half-remembered,
that never were, or might have been....
Deep within my heart …
by the Alamo ...

Submitted (several years later) for dVerse Poetics: Trip the Poem Fantastic

Morning Routine

1. Wake too early,
embraced by heat.
The local weather? Or is he —
already out and about —
sending me warm thoughts?
My own thoughts are warm.
I stretch and snuggle
and start this morning’s poem in my head.

2. Look at the clock
with the usual surprise.
Wherever I am, in what country,
my body always wakes me up
after only five hours’ sleep.
Don’t talk to me about eight hours.
It isn’t the light that does it;
it’s still dark and my curtains are closed.

3. Get up. Pee. Head for the kitchen.
Examine more lines of the poem forming.
Repeat them aloud so as not to lose them.
Boil water to brew coffee.
Leave breakfast for later.
Take the cup back to bed.
Pile up the pillows behind my back.
Settle with coffee, notebook and pen.

4. Think censored thoughts.
(This has actually been going on
the whole time.) Also think
soft, sweet, sentimental thoughts (ditto).
Experience delightful spasms,
involuntary, aroused by thought alone.
Start scribbling. Sprawl. Scratch head
with end of pen. Sip coffee.

5. Remember last night —
jumping around on a low stage
with poets and musicians.
Already, here with these youngsters,
I find community.
They love me. I love them.
I’m wild and funny.
They say I’m a legend.

6. Re-examine clock.
Not yet an hour.
Decide it’s too early to phone,
knowing it’s probably not.
Imagine a conversation.
Realise they never go as imagined.
Turn into awkward adolescent.
Defer the call for now.

7. Think of his voice. Roll over
on tummy and squirm. Think of
his hair, his eyes, his everything. Wish
he could have seen the poet last night:
no glamour, just herself, in old black daks
and t-shirt, having a ball. Be deliciously aware
that happiness is a cool scene and a hot lover.
Be deliciously aware that happiness is now.

April 2006

This Morning

I wake hearing the ocean
thunder at my back door
like wind in the trees.
… I am not at home,
there is no ocean.
The trees outside are still
against the lightening sky.

The roar of the spirit wind   
is full of you; I breathe in deeply
the knowledge of you in my life.

The sound of wind or ocean
surges again. It might be a plane
or a truck. I think you must
be awake by now. I imagine you
waking, stirring and stretching
like a big cat. I imagine lying
next to you, stroking your body.

A cardinal flits through the branches
outside my window. I breathe
in Texas, a new day begins.

Note: Texas is very far away from my home in Australia

Linking (nearly 11 years later!) to The Tuesday Platform for 13 Feb 2018 at "imaginary garden with real toads"

Promises

Last night I made vows.
I will keep them.

I promise to love you
all my life. I believe
I will love you longer than forever.
I promise to share with you
whatever wisdom I have or acquire.
I forgot that you’re likely to get
all my folly and ignorance too.
I promise to send you energy
ongoingly for your wellbeing
and empowerment. This I have already
been doing ever since we met —that night
and every night. And finally, I promise
to stay in touch with you, if you
stay in touch with me, keeping me
up-to-date with your contact details.
I came so close to missing you!
I want … more than is possible,
but will rejoice in communication.

I ask for nothing in return.
I may ask for things, I probably will —
but nothing is owed. Nothing.
No obligations, nothing you don’t choose.
This I decided from the first,
not knowing if I would even
see you again. This is
my free choice. This
is my response to you.


The great advantage of time and years
is stepping into truth.
Believe me, as I believe you.



18 April 06 8.15am