After the Fires, Koalas

After the Fires, Koalas

After the fires, koalas

run to people who offer water, 

drink eagerly,

allow themselves to be handled,

taken away in soft bags

(or one woman’s shirt 

hastily doffed) 

for rescue: their burnt feet 

ointmented and bandaged 

or put into bootees

especially knitted.

They may not know 

what long-term human failings

caused the raging flames

destroying so many of them,

so much of their habitat –

but how wondrous they do know

individuals they encounter

or who approach

can be trusted utterly 

to offer help. How good 

that they are right.

And also see this story. 

Written for 'imaginary garden with real toads' – 
WORDY FRIDAY WITH WILD WOMAN: 
STAYING STRONG IN A WORLD OF CLIMATE CRISIS

(Images: Fair use.)

Escape

Escape

I am here with my family, away from the smoke

that increases the nearer you reach the Equator.

I am having a Christmas respite, pretending

that all will be well, and plans for the future

can come to fruition; this beautiful world

continue to nourish us, let us still flourish –

but no, we are ending, no lie and no joke,

and yes the world can continue without us

and better it should, for none can outsmart us

so well as we turn the jest back on ourselves.

This moment in time is peaceful and happy.

Everyone’s going about their business

as usual, as if we had years ahead of us. Christmas,

a time of feasting and family (and spending money)

will happen once more, as it has done for forever 

or at least a few centuries one way and another.

If it wasn’t so sad, it might be funny – but

soon there’ll be no-one around to laugh with …

and in that long moment the planet will sigh

and begin to start living without us. Goodbye.


Written in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Year's End; and, belatedly, for the previous Midweek Motif ~ A / The Moment. Thank you again for all your Midweek Motifs, Susan and Sumana.

(I sat down to write, intending my subject matter to be something quite different; but this is what arrived. I feel it is important that we not give in to despair, which leads to inaction and impacts the collective energy – yet this poem expresses undeniable despair.)

Smoke

Smoke

These weeks becoming months 

the clouded horizon merely thickens or thins –

not with cloud, with smoke. It isn't true

that smoke's evanescent, ethereal. Not this smoke.

It blots out the sky; fluctuates, fades a trifle,

only to come back denser, higher, closer.

Where there's this smoke, there are certainly 
fires; we can smell them. On our screens 

we see them tower, spread, engulf.

We live with it, begin to stop mentioning its presence

to each other, knowing others in areas around us

are worse off, this little town so far spared,

although some smaller burns come close

before being dowsed. Meanwhile we stockpile

face masks, pack our emergency bags, conserve water

(even before restrictions are announced).

My own breathing remains unaffected – because,

paradoxically, I already need to use an inhaler daily.

Eventually, as time goes on, I notice

I no longer have to glance at the horizon

in order to know when the haze presses close

or lifts a little. It has entered into me,

part of my person. I walk not as myself alone, 

not only as myself: I walk carrying the being of smoke.

It lives inside me, I know it intimately.

Everyone who lives here would say the same.

I have become, I am, the embodiment of smoke.

Written in response to Weekend Mini-Challenge: 13 Poetic Bits of Kerry at 'imaginary garden with real toads', using a line, 'I am the embodiment of smoke', taken from Kerry O'Connor's poem Fortress of Dreams

I live in one of the several parts of Australia where huge fires have been raging nearby for weeks – though not quite as close as in some other places.

Mortar and Pestle

Mortar and Pestle

Wouldn’t you think a witch would cook?

We imagine her over her cauldron, stirring 

potions to make someone fall in love,

or hearty soups to keep her family healthy.

We think she’ll be grinding herbs very fine

for either of these recipes. Well, you know what?

I haven’t the patience. I’m a quick-and-easy cook,

and as for love potions, I think they’re unethical.

I do use herbs, but I don’t grind them myself.

I was telling a friend only today

(quoting Erica Jong, in Fear of Flying)

‘You’re a poet. You don’t have to cook too.’

I’m a witch and a poet. I make my magic 

with words. That might be the oldest way.

It’s surely one of the most potent. With words

and thoughts and passion. Not so much

with plants. So I’m sorry, I can’t show you 

a photo of my mortar and pestle; I have none.

 
Written for #decemberwitch 9 on Instagram.

Some witches – and poets – do enjoy cooking, and good luck to them. But this is my excuse for not having a mortar and pestle photo to post on Instagram.

Also sharing with Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose #9. 

Happy Holidays / Holy Days, everybody!

The Only Constant

The Only Constant

Driving to town, I saw the old flower shed –

still labelled with its big sign out front, still

with sunflowers painted on the outside walls.

It’s been closed for – my goodness, years. That’s 

what happens when you live in a town so long.

I wanted it to stay the same. Yet I like

some of the changes: the new cafés,

the pop-up gelato shop, the downtown 

arts precinct … and hey, the flowers at the shed 
were too expensive anyway.

Changes happen. Once more I’m without a cat.

I decided I won’t get another, but maybe one

is trying to get me. He came and sat peacefully 

in my back yard the other day. He jumped up and left

when I spoke to him in surprise, but he didn’t run.

The place where I live has changed 

since Andrew lived with me. Gradually

I’ve geared it more and more to one person 

living alone. No-one to please but me. I wonder 

if his spirit notices the changes to his last home?

Some people hate change. Some embrace it,

find it exciting. Others are simply resigned:

it’s what it is, no sense resisting. At different times 

I’m all three. But we can’t change the fact 

that life is constantly subject to change.

'Change is the only constant in life' – Heraclitus

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Changes

Sunflower image: Public Domain

Tagllock

Taglock

I tag you by your fingernail clippings,

lock them into the folds of a small doll,

hidden from sight, and cast my spells.

Wicked witch? No, it’s a healing 

I am bringing about for you

by means of this magical connection.

Secretive? No again. You knew.

You willingly gave them to me, 
these cast off pieces of you, when I asked.

But it’s easy now to disbelieve

‘all that silly superstition’

when you’re walking around well.

Written for #decemberwitch 6 on Instagram

Altars

Altars

My main altar has a mirror

with runes around its oval edge,

drawers full of witchy supplies –

incense, candles, a herb-cutting knife 

etcetera. All the four elements 

are represented and displayed

on its surface, as on all my altars,

even the tiny one in my bedroom;

even the writer’s altar above my desk

with its pictures of wide-eyed Brigid

wearing blue like Mary, and graceful Pan

alive in black ink, fiercely intent.

On the desk itself Minerva stands

with her owl. Close by are both

Sekhmet and Thoth, he of course

holding a tablet and stylus: inscribing.

The bedroom altar is more for healing.

There’s a picture of the Blue Madonna

with names on the back, in pencil 

to change for the now well, or new ill.

My working altar, my casting altar,

has dragon statues; the oracle 

I channelled and made; several wands

and my athame (a crystal laser).

Sometimes I think I want to spell it ‘alter’, 
for the work of change. Oops,

that’s the other kind of ‘spell’. Or is it?

Even before altars, we had Word.

Note for non-witches: 'Athame' (a witch's dagger, for cutting energy) is pronounced either ATH-uh-may or ah-THAH-may. I say it the first way.

Note for witches: No, I have no trouble mixing pantheons!

Written in response to the #decemberwitch challenge on Instagram. Another option was to photograph my altars. That felt too personal. But then this poem wouldn't fit into the space of an Instagram post, so I used just this one photo.

Also linking to Pantry of Poetry and Prose #7 at Poets United.