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Showing posts from July, 2018

Seaside Memories

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Seaside Memories

‘Oh I do like to be beside the seaside,’ sang my Dad when I was young. ‘Oh I do like to be beside the sea.’
We were there of course, when he did – a family clump, sitting around on the sand: parents, brother, uncles, aunts, cousins.
Only a few small excursions into the sea. We lay on top of the waves, blue waves, above the fathers’ large, spread hands
guiding and guarding hands, palms up beneath the water. Our trust gave buoyancy despite white froths of spray, despite
the secretive current, the undertow. ‘Swim sideways, not across it.’ Aussie kids know these things.
But from the sand the sweet sea sparkled, the sun poured down. We sprawled under big round beach umbrellas.
We smelled of insect repellent, sunscreen and last night’s barbecue sausages eaten cold with tomato sauce.
The parents slept a bit in the sun, taking turns to watch the children make sandcastles or bury the dads.
A final quick salty swim before sunset. Gathering up towels etcetera any old how; driving home still in our damp ba…

Clouded

Clouded

Such a tiny piece of dream – like a torn-off scrap of fabric caught on barbed wire – but enough
to know you visited briefly, cheerful and kind as it was in the old days. Now I wonder
was it my wish taking shape as illusion, or did your soul wander my way?
And if you truly came, was it in your own sleep, or in deliberate daydream? Or are you air now, or ether?

Linked to Weekend Challenge: A Little Night Music at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Sweetness and Weather

Sweetness and Weather

I walk out my door some days into a feeling of Andrew, my late-life husband: things we did together, places we saw ... the same exact mix of sunlight and breeze.
Or I go to my little boys, down the back yard on a good drying day, playing under the clothesline. Me pegging, and watching them. Their white singlets and nappies.
Not often my own childhood – here is so much warmer – but sometimes the way the winter sun glints on the river, or the rare pockets of fog in the hills, a smell of coming rain....


Featured by Sherry at Poets United in Poems of the Week ~ Then and Now, along with poems by Wendy Bourke and Mary Kling.

Complaint

Complaint

My fingers cannot grasp with feeling –
tingling, numb. A pinched nerve in my neck?
The doctor can see me in four days.


Another for Fussy Little Forms: Tricube at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. (Yes, this one is autobiographical, I am irritated to say. But pleased to note how well the form lends itself to the topic/mood.)

Winter Light

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Winter Light

Its brightness these mornings promises warmth.
Venture out and that sun proves ice-cold.

As when we meet – your smile glittering.

Written for Fussy Little Forms: Tricube at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Failure of Discourse

Failure of Discourse

When a youngish John Travolta on TV, in a doco about Scientology, asks, “Where else can I find a religion whose primary goal is joy?” I laugh, and reply out loud, “Ever heard of Paganism?”  but of course he can’t hear  through the screen.


Sharing at The Tuesday Platform for 17 July 2018 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. 

A Picture of a Dinghy

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A Picture of a Dinghy

That rowboat, reflected in clear water, empty, and tethered to the pier – just the sight makes me happy.
It bobs there gently, I know, a vessel waiting to be used – perhaps by me, as in childhood.
So many memories! The cold beaches of my island, the thrilling sea. My little brother, Mum and me
and my stepfather, jovial kind boatman who taught us to row ... later how to steer a motorised runabout.
And how to fish – lines trailing over the sides, at anchor, or stretching behind us as we trawled.
Little blue boat in the picture – little wooden boat on blue water – thank you for a sweet journey!

Written for Artistic Interpretations with Margaret at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Picture used with permission. Artist: Toril Fisher.