My Cousin Anne

My cousin Anne was beautiful.

Dark hair and eyes, rich voice,

soft, curvy figure and that smile….

After childhood friendship,

life sent us apart.

Young women

briefly together again

in the big city, we still

talked long, shared books 

and clothes, and secrets.

The man she loved

couldn’t be hers – not 

full-time. (Wife, kids.)

And eventually not at all.

Known as glamorous, efficient

super-secretary, she who loved

children never had her own … 

though many fond nieces and nephews.

My Late Adopted Brother

Bulky, deep-voiced, bushy-bearded,

smoker (both kinds) 

acquainted with drink.

How could he be an angel? 

Thus: 
           ’deep down 

a gentle, gentle soul’

(words of a mourner

on facebook); ‘the kindest, 

sensitive, most creative … 

deepest feelings’ (another);

his musical gift; and the way

he always had my back.

I like to think of him

pleasantly surprised

finding himself there;

can well imagine he’d choose

to stay now, not come back

for another turn on the wheel.

Adios, Bro!



[Poem #106]

I'm sharing this one at the latest Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads', and at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #485.

My Dad

Grew roses,

strawberries,

ferns and bamboo.

Made wooden dolls

from round-topped clothes-pegs,

drawing faces on.

Sketched for me

water-colour flowers; I remember

pink heath’s delicate bells.

When I had nightmares

sat with me into dawn,

telling stories.

At parties, played

comb-and-tissue

mouth organ;

declaimed with gestures

‘Abdul the Bulbul Emir’

or some Rabbie Burns.

On every family birthday
made an acrostic poem,

the person’s name down the side.

Laughed

sang

danced.



[Poem #105]

Cross-posted from my poetry blog, The Passionate Crone, from whence it is linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #309

David at 20

My son David —

slim and golden, beautiful —

looks good in all his clothes now,

and is more adventurous with them.

The red T-shirt lightens him up.

He smiles and talks to me

more than he used to.

He seems very happy lately,

confident and free;

even laughs at my jokes.

He has been growing muscle

working as a builder's labourer

(holiday job) for his dad

in Tasmania, at the caravan park.



[Poem #104]

Found poem from old journal entry 14/1/87

The Client

I did psychic readings at Sunday markets approx. 1995 to late 2013.


A good, round face,

a smile,

brown hair cropped close

(just beginning to recede),

bright, round eyes,

direct gaze,
frankness,

ready understanding,

tears and laughter when

he speaks of his dead Mum.…

Good things,

but none explains —

nor even all together —

why I like him so much

and trust the liking.

Is it that indefinable, his energy?

Perhaps it’s the warmth,

or his insight,

or the way this kind, brave man
believes himself ordinary.



[Poem #103]

A double posting. This appeared at my Stones for the River blog yesterday. I realised that, with only a little expansion, it could become one of my Verse Portraits (with the same number of words as years of my age: 74 at present). As they are collected here, this has to be here too.

Writers' group: Nan

Nan is the wicked one

who surprises newcomers 

whenever she reads.

It's not that she uses 

naughty words, or blasphemes;

it's her thoughts that are naughty,

her soul that's irreverent.

(More truly reverent 

than many a churchgoer,

she likes the Lord — she's just

not in awe. Her humorous tales

are in fact moral fables.)

And she's the effortless 

prize-winner:
in competitions always 

commended at least.

Underneath it all,

she appreciates

loving-kindness.



[Poem #102]

Writers' group: Anne

I once told her

I thought she'd write something

important one day,

or at least that she could.

Did that make her fearful,

give her too much

to begin to live up to? 

For months after that 

she found no words to write.

We missed her acerbic wit.

But she kept coming,

listened as others read,

offered feedback.

Then sudden fantastic beings 

poured across her page, strangers

revealing themselves

to her fascinated scribe.



[Poem #101]