Lightnin' Hopkins

Just listening again
to you singing and playing,
hootin’ and hollerin’
on Blowin’ the Fuse
and you know, I’m darn sick
of all this piety I meet,
everyone so sweet and light.

I’m wishing for a nice dirty boy
like you, Sam; suggestive
without saying one bad word.
Just listening to your quiet laugh
your wicked laugh
and your music, I know
you knew all the right moves.



[Poem #32]

Favourite Uncle

You walked on your hands
across the floor, up on a chair,
along the dining table
and down at the other end.

And you could whistle
and play a comb and tissue
just like a mouth organ.

You called me Mary Rose,
my Dad’s name for me.
You were his youngest brother.

At 70, grey-bearded,
you rode a motorbike.
90 this year, you requested a party
'small but memorable'.



[Poem #31]

Surrogate Daughter

Slight, almost waif-like,
you walked past my market stall.
Mid-psychic reading I looked up,
caught your penetrating eye.

Returning when I was free,
you told me you’d seen how true
was my link to the Universe.
'You’ve chosen this work,' you said.
'And deserve your pay.'

Adopting me, you switched off
your own brilliant, burdensome gift,
preferring to cook for people
or give the homeless a bed.



[Poem #30]

Full Circle

When you started
on your path of healing
thirteen years ago,
I taught you Reiki, Level One.
Pretty little woman,
you looked nervous, held in.
It was grief you were holding
for the end of your marriage.

This weekend
you taught me Theta Healing
in the comfortable home
of your present love.
(Met him dancing rock'n'roll.)
Every year you look
younger, prettier, lighter,
your real self more revealed.



[Poem #29]

Fellow Student

The energy of stillness
beams from you,
sitting in the corner,
white-blonde plaits
contrasting with red
pants and shirt and woollen shawl
wound around your waist like a skirt.

Your big eyes gaze
over striped spectacle frames.
Long fingers prop your chin,
the deep crimson polish and silver ring
strangely like an understatement.

Then you speak. It’s definite, fast,
knowing. You ripple with laughter,
your movements are dance.



[Poem #28]

One Lover

You looked like Jesus
except he probably
wasn’t a red-head.

'So strange,' you said
our first night together,
'I’m in love with you
and not in love with you.'

I was older,
married with kids.

You gave me
Leonard Cohen’s poems
and an album of Ry Cooder.

Encountered decades later,
you were cynical
and resigned.

The young man I remember
was worth all the lies
and the tears.



[Poem #27]

Sister

When my father married your mother
we were already friends. Became
allies – against them.

You taught me to smoke:
puff, cough, sip raspberry cordial,
lie down dizzy on your bed.

We escaped to Melbourne,
you dragged me from studying to parties:
dancing in the dark to Nat King Cole.
Later we hosted children’s birthday parties.

Always talked for hours;
literature and theology, with coffee.
Wish you weren’t dead.



[Poem #26]

Dr Mac

It was the old doctor I liked,
his gentle voice and smile.
I liked his worn brown jacket,
tweed with elbow patches
matching the faded brown eyes
in his worn face.

The way he talked about me
to Mum, I knew he knew
there was a person in here.

I sulked for his replacement,
a loud young man in a navy suit.
At four, I didn’t understand retirement.



[Poem #25]

Enemy

Once friend.

We were a threesome,
kindred poets.
The Three Musketeers
had nothing on us.

Wine and talk
in your flat,
she and I escaping
children, husbands, pets.
Wicked laughter, gossip
and literary theory.

Then you found cause
to sneer at me,
when the Human
Potential Movement
got me too.

Our third Musketeer
I lost; she
found me again.
Your poisoned words
failed to destroy.



[Poem #24]

Dinah

Calm light fills your space.
In the garden you’ve created,
profusions of leaves
pour over fences,
flowers abundant as weeds
mix with the trees to enclose
a sanctuary for creatures.

The cat you rescued
purrs on your knee.
Once he was shy, fierce
from cruel mistreatment.

Your smile is deeply dimpled.
You read us a meditation
channelled from Mary Magdalene.
The air is singing,
the light turns gold.



[Poem #23]

The One I Care For

Light arrives with the roses.
I’m nourished by such small things
which are in fact large.
What could be more important
than Life manifesting itself
in that form, that fragrance,
those rich yet delicate colours?

'Beautiful,' you agree,
'But those two flowers look sick.'
I explain they are buds
gradually opening; and know again
how life starts to elude you,
little by little the world
unravels, becoming unknown.



[Poem #22]

Joseph

(Magnetic healer, Philippines)


He told us about the jagged scar
on his neck. Tumour.
Even the Manila doctors
wouldn’t cut near the artery.

He climbed the mountain
behind his village and prayed,
one hand cradling his throat.
The swelling burst and drained.

The people said, 'You must be
a healer. Cure this boy.'
He prayed, laid hands; the boy lived.

'I can’t explain,'
said my doctor back home.
'Your cancer’s gone.'



[Poem #21]

Primary School Headmaster

'Mum!' nudging her,
'It’s Mr. Wilson.'
The vague-eyed man
lifted his hat, but I saw
he no longer knew me:
a soft-faced child
under his silver hair.
And I was grown.

Always silver-haired,
he’d wander into classrooms,
his impromptu English lessons
more enthralling than stories.
He gave me then my grasp
of Latin roots.
Every child in the school
loved him. He knew us all by name.



[Poem #20]

Mistaken Identity?

I called her name through the crowd.
'It’s me, Rosemary,' I said,
rattling off places and dates.

A soft, uncertain girl
surprisingly steely if pushed

(rebuked my urgent force
after a fit, when I jammed a ruler
hard between her teeth)

she was still plump and pimply
hanging her head.

Finally she lifted her eyes.
'That’s my name, but I don’t know
you or anything you’re talking about.'



[Poem #19]

Prisoner Poet 2: Kindred Spirit

Swift recognition,
though at first
you were wary
behind your exercise book.

Some years later
published poet, on the way
to an Honours degree.…
Out, you returned
to the thrill of oblivion.

Visiting after I broke my leg
you brought armfuls of food,
your methadone,
your wife and baby son.

I never saw you again;
you just vanished,
our birthday pact
broken that year.
Rumour said you OD’d.



[Poem #18]

Post-script 2019. We both moved house unexpectedly – to different parts of the country – around the same time, and didn't have each other's new addresses. But rumour was wrong. Many years later we met again, and became friends again. He has remained a happy family man.

PS2 2024. He died in October 2023 after battling a severe illness and appearing to have recovered. A month before, he had celebrated his birthday happily, with family (including grand-children) and friends. He did much good in his life and was greatly loved by many.

Prisoner Poet 1: The Youngest

You sussed me out a while,
finally sidled up. 'I got
these poems here,
they're not very good.'
They were very good.

I bought you a handsome pen
engraved with your name —
an illegal act, I found out later;
but no-one told.

After five years, still angry, you emerged.
We got drunk together, mourning
our friend who died.



[Poem #17]

Indigo Child

Never saw such huge, round, dark blue eyes
as that baby’s when she gazed at the air
above people’s heads, laughing aloud to watch
their rainbow auras flicker and dance.

I heard the child’s thoughts and she mine;
we talked that way. When Bill died,
she asked me if she could have
'something special of his'. I gave her
his quartz crystal. She held it to her heart.



[Poem #16]

Myself

... the one I met first of all,
who discovered and gave me

the fuzzy feel of a blanket
lightly rubbing my lips

the pattern of whorls
in the straw sides of my cot

intonations of voices
coming and going around me

the sensual pleasures of food,
light coming in a window,

whose thoughts and fancies now
enrich my dreaming hours ...

perhaps she is my best
friend, perhaps not



[Poem #15]

Finally

How could I not
know it was over,
that day in the local café
for lunch – my idea –
your sour face glued
to the daily newspaper,
your back half-turned away?

In this café today
Andrew reads the paper,
looks over it at me,
laughs, asks a question.
So different!

It wasn't, after all,
the mere fact of reading
that gave me the signs
I ignored,
and remembered later.



[Poem #14]

At the Place of Tall Gums

You came chasing rumours:
a Reiki Master
out back of Pumpenbil.

Missed the famous one;
wrong house.
Found me.

Your frail friend
was deathly sick. We gave her
another decade, it transpired.

Always allies, we added
Reiki and magick
to your Youth Centre.

I left the hill. You sold
your corner cottage, moved
interstate to your daughter.

Where are you now,
what are you doing?
I miss you.



[Poem #13]

Thanks for the Memory

It wasn’t the rite before the altar
but the way, next morning
when I fell over that damn rock,
you picked me up and held me.

'I’m OK,' I kept saying, 'I’m not hurt,'
as if I didn’t want to lean
forever against your chest.

You’d slept all night by the fire,
I in your truck. You told
of waking, watching
a red eagle soar from the trees.



[Poem #12]

Ice Demon

It’s freezing tonight!
When it’s this cold,
my thoughts turn again
to you, Miss Winter.

Grade One teacher,
Grade A sadist, you liked
bringing the bending cane
down briskly, to sting
our six-year-old palms
for any reason.

You taught us all year,
but in my memory
it was always winter.
Your name filled the world.
Even your face 

and voice chilled me.

I thought I’d never
be warmed.


[Poem #11]

I'll be sharing this (long after it was written) with Friday Writings #116 at Poets and Storytellers United, where we are prompted 'to write about someone who made an impression on you as a child (for good or ill).'

Screw

Usually the screws were polite
when I entered the prison
to work with poets. Only
this day I was late.

It was Visiting Day. I lined up
with others just arriving.
Women mostly: wives,
girlfriends, mothers.

The blonde in uniform
barged through us,
shoving contemptuously hard
with her shoulders and hips.

Glaring, we knew
not to protest.
I realised right then
I was one of — not them, us.



[Poem #10]

Images That Come

Front page: 'Mother and baby
lead march.' Slim again
after your third, carried
snug on your chest.

Backyard picnic.
Red wine, hot debate.
The police helicopter passing.
Your bright face raised:
'Wave to ASIO!'

Dinner. Our favourite
food and music; goodbye kisses —
your farewell, we comprehended
when, two nights later,
you jumped into death.

Honey-blonde hair,
open smile, emphatic voice
rippling with quick laughter….
Never saw you cry.



[Poem #9]

Note: ASIO – Australian Security Intelligence Organisation. Acronym pronounced AY-zee-oh.

Black Sheep

You were the aunts’ whispers,
the rebel we shouldn’t meet.

Grown up, my brother said,
'I met that cousin. She’s brilliant!

You must meet, you’d love her.'
So I did, and you were, and I did.

Actor, dancer, thinker.
Spiked hair, bangles, throaty laugh.

We adored each other through decades
of marriages, babies, moves interstate.

Then what happened? A sudden
freeze. I still don’t know what I did.



[Poem #8]

Flint

I kept seeing you
before I even knew
there was a you,
walking with me
down to the road
for the morning paper.
I got colouring, height,
even your approximate age.

When you turned up at my door
thin and rather scruffy,
'You’ve been homeless a while
haven’t you?' I said,
bringing you in for a drink.
Then I looked again.
'Oh, it’s you,' I said.
'You’ve arrived.'



[Poem #7]

Disclosure:
I can name this one because 
a) he’s long dead now, after a good life, and
b) he was my wonderful dog.

Mentor

Years after
you'd been the bluff neighbour,
I encountered you
in a Geelong café.
I’d just done a prison visit,
a poetry workshop.
You said you could tell
I’d been somewhere very sad.

You were sad yourself —
marriage broken, job lost —
but you’d found
certain compensations:
a singing talent
finally expressed,
and psychic gifts.

You became my friend,
my teacher:
a great magician
I understood after you died.



[Poem #6]

Balinese Waiter

You came upstairs
with our tray,
tall golden lad
wearing jacket, sarong
and awkward grace.

I was even charmed
by your too-big
feet in floppy thongs.
But you grew into them.

Six years later,
our last visit,
you kissed me
a little too long.

My youngest said, smiling,
'He’s just like another
boy, isn’t he Mum?'

Your voice went husky.
'I think, not boy
any more,' you said.



[Poem #5]

Unknown Reader

You make your impression
by being unknown —

unexpected, unidentified.
Your blog is set to private.

I had a student once
with your first name …

but, a respected poet now,
not likely secret or shy.

And there was a friend.
We shared a son

a long, long story.
His early death

drove us apart, our pain
in each other’s faces

too much to bear.
You will not be her?



[Poem #4]

Old Man Hitching

Rose from the side of the road
exceptionally tall and thin,
sudden scarecrow in the mirror
only better dressed.
Grey suit in a country summer.
Waving his stick for attention,
smiling like a child,
flopping awkwardly towards
the only car.

Might have waited ages.
(We were a bit off track.)
Going to town to shop
five miles; in eighty years
he’d never been further!
Said it proudly, gladly.



[Poem #3]

First Boyfriend

We eyed each other off a while
before you made your move.
Or was it I who invited you?
So long ago …

You came to my house.
When I heard the knock I couldn’t
walk straight up the corridor,
stumbled though I wanted to skip.

Our mothers chatted politely.
We ran outside to play.
It ended when you told me
you didn’t believe in fairies.
(We were five.)



[Poem #2]