Encountering Old Bones

 Encountering Old Bones

At first I thought he was dead, lying there in the desert, his legs and extended arms protruding from behind one of the sparse cactus plants. Then I realised he was consciously holding up his rosary. 

‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘looks like I’m the answer to a freaking prayer! How about that?’

I got one of the team to give him some water, slowly at first, then lay him across the saddle of the pack-horse and make him secure (moving some of the baggage to our mounts). He was damn near collapsing, and couldn’t seem to talk but only gasp and grunt, yet he still clutched that rosary with fierce persistence.

We couldn’t tell what he was doing out there, apparently travelling on foot. Sure he needed help pronto, but did he also need jail when we got back to town? Was he running from the law, or escaping some desperado? He’d have to have a guard on him, either way.

We knew the way to the springs, which our guest obviously didn’t. We camped there overnight. We did our best to make him comfortable, but when we tried to get food into him, it dribbled back out of his mouth. He was barely conscious. Tom tried to gently take the rosary out of his hand to settle him on the blanket, but he half-roused then, muttered something that sounded angry or desperate or both, and clutched it tighter. We figured he was delirious, but not much we could do apart from give him another drink before we bedded down, and more when we woke.

We got under way again early. We shielded him from the sun as best we could and stopped now and then to give him a drink, which he could only just manage to gulp. We took him straight to the doc in the little hospital when we arrived. He was unconscious by then, but even in that state his fingers seemed glued around his rosary.

The doc found us in the saloon later, to tell us the poor man was so far gone he couldn’t save him. Then he told us a curious thing: the rosary was carved from human bone.

To be continued.

369 words written in response to Weekly Scribblings #42: About Those Bones at Poets and Storytellers United.

(Episode 2 is here.)

What Price?

What Price?

Sitting on the ground at the edge of the car park, just outside the doors into the shopping centre, he blows the deep notes of his digeridoo. Its sound is resonant — as they all are, connecting to the earth — yet more mellow than some I’ve heard. It’s not an easy instrument to master.

I remember busking. I don’t think it’s big earnings in a small country town like this. I don’t see how it could be.

And I know, too, the need to get your art out there, to share and communicate. This expert player has something to give. 

It might be his only job, I think. (Where are the orchestra spots for didgeridoo players?) Even as an Age Pensioner, I can spare $5. When I come back down from the shops, he is just laying down his didge for a break, stretching out his legs in front of him and leaning back against the wall. I stop and fish in my wallet, then drop $5 in coins on his mat. 

 He looks up, and I see that he’s young, maybe twenty. He gives me the most beautiful, light-filled smile. 

‘Thank you, my sister,’ he says.

‘Thank YOU,’ I say, meaning it.

I walk away thinking how gracious he is, and gentle. 

I thanked him for his music. I might have thanked him for a great deal more. His people were here first. Much was taken from them. Some think we whitefellas ought to be paying rent. Suddenly, $5 seems very little.

Written in response to Weekly Scribblings #41: What's the Price? at Poets and Storytellers United.  (252 words.)

Walking Away from 2020

Walking Away from 2020

Can we walk away
from this apocalypse?
And if we might,
where to?

In the time of COVID,
walking away
consists of
staying at home.

Our poor minds
in our lonely heads
now walk away
into strange places.

We are walking away
from the selves
we used to be —
collectively.

We do not know
our destination:
the road, or all roads,
uncharted.

In the great cities
streets are empty
without movement
as if useless.
 
 
Although this was written to my own prompt for Weekly Scribblings #40 at Poets and Storytellers United, I had trouble getting into it until I gave myself a structure. When the first couple of verses were all I had, it was fairly easy to turn them into 17-syllable American sentences, but arranged in four lines each, and keep that form for the rest of the poem. (Yes I know the first verse is technically two sentences. Hey, even Allen Ginsberg, who invented the American Sentence, did that occasionally.)

October arrives, and my thoughts turn to …

October arrives, and my thoughts turn to …

(Separate micro-poems about different people)

private cremation –

still seeing your thin body

in that old T-shirt

**********

October and it’s over

or always used to be –

re-living all those deaths

in early Spring. But now

this is the month Letitia died.

**********

A year since you died.

For good practical reasons, 

I change the names of 

the haiku and tanka groups 

we held together – and weep.

Sharing with Weekly Scribblings #39 at Poets and Storytellers United.

The Universe Is Always Listening

The Universe Is Always Listening

'What is it?' she said,

'That invisible thing

marked with patience?

I should have it, not you.

I’m the pretty one.

All the daddies 

and uncles and cousins

like me because I smile

and I’m pretty. Pretty

and sweet. You

just stay in the corner. 

It’s not fair. It’s all

supposed to come to me.'

I didn’t answer.

How could I?

I didn’t know.

Not for a long time.

And anyway I wanted

the approval bestowed 

and the pretty face

that earned it.

(I was very young.

We both were.)

The pretty manners too. 

But I didn’t know how

to simper.

‘Patience wouldn’t 

please you anyway,’

I didn’t know to say.

Well it was long ago.

She’s dead now.

She did find ways

to get much

that she wanted.

After the face

grew ordinary

she still had

wiles and charm.

And calculation.

My invisible support, 

I understand now,

can be discerned

in its effects ...

if you’re looking.

There is nothing

I have to do. That’s 

what bugged her,

my jealous cousin.

I do sometimes ask,

but I don’t have to.

(I sometimes

forget that.)

After my last cat died

I knew I must have

no more. It’s not fear 

of further heartbreaks, 

but my old body 

no longer fit to do 

the work of taking care.

‘I hope I don’t

get mice now,’ I thought.

In time a python arrived.

I'm remembering a friend 

once, who said, 'The Gods 

must love you, darling!'

The actual dialogue in the first verse is fictional. That's the only thing that is.

It seems I should explain, for people not familiar with them, that pythons (not unusual in this part of Australia) are good at keeping the mice down; hence, if one doesn't have a cat....

The prompt was about temporary or hidden supports. I went with hidden; definitely not temporary!

Written for Weekly Scribblings #38: A Helping String at Poets and Storytellers United. 

To Those I Leave Behind

To Those I Leave Behind

I apologise for all the books

and the boxes of papers.

You could just throw them away

without looking. But there are

treasures among them. Well,

I treasured them. Maybe not you.

Give the books to the Salvos, 

I guess. Burn the papers. 

Or keep them, thinking you’ll 

go through them one day. 

You won’t. (I know because some 

are your stepfather’s, still unsorted.)

Never mind about my body.

Burn it of course, but don't worry

with funerals and things. I won’t

be in it any more. I won’t care.

I don’t demand respect for my

empty husk! Still, if you feel a need…

Yes, I was always sentimental 

about Things. Please find good homes

for my peacock feathers, my shells,

my collections of stones, my crystals.

Don’t chuck my teddy bears in the bin.

Find them some loving children.

I had adventures. I loved much.

I did all the things, even the ones

that scared me (some only once).

I got everything I wanted. I made

poetry and magic. I was a healer.

I laughed and cried. I had good friends.

I made mistakes and I learned. 

I lived long. I loved beauty. 

I was here! I always knew life itself

was the gift: feast and enough.

Look for me in oceans and rivers, 

in mountains and trees, in sunsets….

Written for Weekly Scribblings #37: Last Messages (my own prompt) at Poets and Storytellers United, inviting people to imagine their final message to the world.