Glimpses

Glimpses 

(Micropoems)

where did she go?

oh – a cat-shaped lump

under the rug 

 

*********

   

you look pretty

she says, to the half-face

above my mask 

*********

in the story

her husband dies —

I cry and cry

*********

close confidante once

she fobs me off for years –

at last I unfriend

*********

rainy day –

no butterflies, did they

stay in bed?

The second lesson from David Lanoue's book, Write Like Issa, is about viewing the world in a direct, child-like way: 'Reflect on a past or present experience without your adult blinders.... Don't be afraid if your haiku doesn't sound fancy or important—for this is actually a good thing.' For the record, I don't think I succeeded very well in recapturing a child's view, but the attempt produced better results overall than if I hadn't made it.

Sharing with Writers' Pantry #85 at Poets and Storytellers United. (Apologies to those who have seen these already on Instagram or facebook.)

Snippets

Snippets

cold night –

even for the cat

more blankets

*********

drowsing

over my laptop –

warm day

*********

Night Terrors

(1)

high shelf –

cat hesitates 

to jump down

(2)

ibis feet

banging on my roof

4am

*********

loud thump

prowling cat

lands hard

*********

from next door

a high note —

child’s play

*********

Spring music –

the magpie also

craves company

*********

scrambling the wall

tiny spider sees me

as danger

I'm giving myself a little course from David Lanoue's book, Write Like Issa. The first lesson details Issa's empathy with other living things. Summing up, Lanoue says: 'Write like Issa. Write with compassion yet understatement. Leave space for your readers' minds to wander and wonder.'

Sharing with Writers' Pantry #84 at Poets and Storytellers United. (Apologies to those who have seen these already on Instagram or facebook.)

The Sunflower

 The Sunflower

The first thing I notice when I look close

honing in with my attention

is all the little holes in the leaves.

What has been eating your leaves,

tall yellow-faced flower? What

tiny thing has been making

windows in expanses of green?

You don’t care. You stand tall,

your round yellow head held high

crowned with untidy, abundant petals

as if you had just tossed it – but no,

you have been turning it slowly

to find and drink the light,

moving invisibly on your strong stem.

Your top leaves stand up behind your head 

like protectors, guarding your back,

close in, at the ready, alert 

and trembling very slightly

with the thud of my writing….

Ten days later, though, you hang your head

permanently, no matter what I do.

No matter how much water

I pour into your tall vase,

your frill of yellow petals

(faintly browning) hangs in place 

like the tracks of slow tears. 

Above your lowered head, 

your sepals jut like a crown of thorns.

Shared at my own prompt, Pay Attention, for Weekly Scribblings #83 at Poets and Storytellers United. Most of this poem was written in a LitChix workshop on August 7th, as discussed in the Weekly Scribblings post; the final nine lines, beginning 'Ten days later ...' were indeed written ten days later.

Saturday Morning Lazy

Saturday Morning Lazy

I sleep in to 8.20 – after reading in bed until 2.30am.
 

Warmth wakes me. Our late (sub-tropical) Winter resembles early Spring.

My little cat has had a vomit after eating grass, as cats do. Aha! the new passage floor is vinyl – quick and easy to clean.

I find her drowsing on one of the rugs brought from her old home five months ago. It's one she's previously ignored. She settled in here well – already knew me, soon loved and trusted – but perhaps craves extra security just now? Recent renovations have changed some details of the space.

A gentle pat, then I leave her be.

I go to my computer for another look at my revamped poetry blog. Another gloat. I finished it last night, and I love it so much! I changed the theme so my ‘Follow’ option is visible without hunting. I found a deep red background reminiscent of both the elegant, stylised roses of my original ‘Enheduanna’s Daughter’ and the naturalistic rose of its predecessor, ‘The Passionate Crone’.

I’m renovating all my environments!

A little play on facebook ... suddenly it’s 9.14 and I haven’t had breakfast. Not even coffee! Well, it’s the weekend. Late breakfasts still in jammies are the way to go. On weekend mornings I can treat myself to lovely, unhealthy raisin toast. I do.

I look out my front door through the flywire. Not rainy, but not all that sunny either. 

I fetch a jug of water and give my jade bush on the porch a quick drink, with an overflow to my geraniums in the ground below.

Inside, I refill the vase of the sunflower a friend gave me eight days ago. It’s wilting a little. I draw back the curtain further and turn the flower to the light – but this heat-proof house doesn’t let in much sun.

House? It’s a unit. Two bedrooms. Poppi-cat thinks the spare room's hers. When I moved in there during renovations, she was thrilled. Relationship, to her, means togetherness – what better could I possibly have to do? But my nurturing space is my own bedroom. She joins me sometimes. Mostly we have daytime cuddles.

I write. The morning passes. Now a shower before lunch.

Sharing with Writers' Pantry #83 at Poets and Storytellers United.

“War is over! If you want it.”

“War is over! If you want it.”

– John Lennon and Yoko Ono

Who doesn’t want war to be over?

All of us dream of peace, don’t we?

Remembering John and Yoko, we imagine …

Instead of distant heaven, a paradise on earth, 

Simply living as one, sharing our wealth.

Or so he sang. As they built their world of love.

Violence, they tried to say, is not the answer

Ever. Yet violence was the full stop to his song.

Remember John and Yoko, their peace shattered.

If you want it, war is over. We swear we want it.

Funny how war persists, through all our history.

You don’t want war. I don’t. We don’t. Yet we empower

Our Governments – ours – which always find reasons.

Under our veneer, we are still squabbling on playgrounds.

We are still fighting for possession of the best toys

And to stand on top of the fort. Girls as well as boys.

Not all girls, but too many of the few in power: 

Thatcher springs first to mind. Not all boys either, but….

It’s a case of who profits, isn’t it? Somehow there are still 

Too many who want power and possession more.

For Weekly Scribblings #82 at Poets and Storytellers United, Magaly invites us to be inspired by the quotation I've used as my title (and as an acrostic).

Meanwhile (and because I am committed to not staying silent in the face of injustice) this is not at all unrelated – especially the opening bit:

When Everything Changed: 2.

Continued from this post.

When my father remarried, he moved my brother and me far from sparkling rivers, hilly streets, craggy mountains and the surrounding sea – to the flat, dry Mallee where his new wife had house, business, and her own children older than us.

The river there was wide and sluggish. The few trees were small and squat. My stepmother lived near an expanse of grape vines, the primary industry there. We could walk into the village by crossing an irrigation channel spanned by a wide plank. I was terrified, but I learned to walk it confidently and alone. 

My new stepsister held my hand and showed me how to place my steps. She was 18 months older than me; we’d met when Dad brought his ‘new friend’ to our home town and introduced her around. They clearly wanted their daughters to chum up. With a love of reading in common, we did. But it was puzzling. When they married, it became instantly clear.

Merrie was often away long weeks at boarding school. When she was home, we lounged on her bed talking, sneakily smoking cigarettes she pinched from her mother’s stash. She taught me how to smoke. I was 16 by then; I wanted to be sophisticated.

Navigating my stepmother’s strange moods, strict edicts, bizarre accusations and weirder punishments, and my much older step-brother’s silent, glowering resentment, was even scarier when Merrie was away. 

Our father never defended us. The only time I asked, he said, ‘I’ve had one marriage break up and I won’t let you kids wreck another!’

When I told new friends at my new school what was happening at home, they frankly disbelieved me. I was already known as a writer, a dreamer. I must be making it up.

On holidays at home with Mum and our kind, fun stepfather, I said nothing. I wanted to escape from all thoughts of that. And I believed the court ruling – term time with Dad, holidays with Mum – couldn’t be changed.  

My brother said plenty, I learned years later; but without my corroboration they thought he must be exaggerating.

It took me months to realise my stepmother was drinking heavily. She masked the smell with strong perfume, sickly-sweet.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #81 at Poets and Storytellers United: Change and Renewal, where the invitation is to write of either or both.