A Long Friendship

Today, her ‘life celebration’

(she died peacefully at 92)

over a hundred people; she 

was entwined with this community.

1995, came to my market stall 

for a reading, then every month, 

always my first customer – 

my luck, I said – 

bringing me a gardenia 

(I started bringing a vase).

Months ... years. I brought her 

to Tai Chi, she shared André Rieu.

Walking from different directions

we’d meet for breakfast.

She promoted my readings

to friends, family.

(I still have the hand-crafted 

earrings her niece bartered.)

Poem #108

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.

Poem #107

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]

Writers' group: Helen

Her smile is always

the first thing I see

as she enters the room.

She exudes a cosy kindness that belies 

the cool, precise, administrative intellect.

Now she is all about family.

When she can't come, it's because

she is baby-sitting grandchildren

(not the only one to do that, but

the one who does it most often).

And she writes about family,

exploring generations past

whose lives enthral like an epic novel.



[Poem #100]

Writers' group: Hebe

She's like some cousin

I never knew I had.

Indeed, in my youth,

unsuspected cousins migrated

from her land to mine.

The Anglo-Indian connection

Mum kept secret.

Her father's Scottish complexion

allowed that, and my Dad's

English heritage.

The dark I longed for

died with Nana, she

more Indian than Anglo;

that warmth....

Hebe arrives –

childhood stories

that might have been mine

had the family stayed

there: not Tasmania.

And, that warmth.



[Poem #99]

Writers' group: Eddie

Insists he believes in nothing;

really believes that. Can argue

in support of this position.

Is not vehement against

other people's beliefs,

simply adamant

that he himself has none.

He likes hot climates,

dark-haired women,

and playing guitar.

Arthritis cut the music.

We older women, and Eddie, 

gather weekly to write,

learning each other,

building mateship.

A friend, meeting him, remarks,

'He is at ease with quiet.

That's rare in a man.'



[Poem #98]

Writers' group: Cheryl

How can I fit her into

seventy-three words?

She'll think I mean

her physical abundance,

but no. It's her bigness 

of spirit — 

                   ready

with tears or laughter,

vocal with passionate rage,

quick to hug me

if ever I'm sad.

She faced down death

with prayer

and black humour

stays alive

in green pastures

with a man she loves

beyond reason

(and sundry pets ditto)

as a writer

fears no confrontation ... 

remembers singing.



[Poem #97]

Writers' Group: Jean

Jean is new to the writing group.

She fits right in at once.

I'm glad to be joined by another 

poet. (It gets lonely.)

After her first session, 

she asks, 'Will you have me?'

Our question is, will she 

have us? Yes! She comes back.

Retired English teacher,

good proof-reader, witty, polite ...

When I read my widowhood poems

she understands exactly.

I see her getting every word,

feeling them. Oh, she knows!



[Poem #96]

Writers' Group: Bron

Bronwyn has a lover,

likes to say it, likes the word.

She likes to play with words —

sensual, musical, 

shaping stories;

likes to write of deserts

of foreign landscapes, and 

the interior space of the mind; 

by inference the heart.

Her own heart is with the sea

and hints of tribal secrets;

makes of them poems.

In a friend's house I admired 

a sketch, a graceful nude.

She told me, 'Bron did that.'



[Poem #95]

As I Drive Away

As I drive away from the park 

where I've been sitting 

looking at trees, and writing,

I see him squatting 

atop a wooden table 

in the gazebo near the pond.

He wears a hooded jacket;

a small back-pack clings

to his hunched shoulders.

It's only 4:15. Already

the cold hunkers down

and the slow mist comes in.

I wouldn't like to be homeless

tonight, I think, shivering

as I drive away.



[Poem #94]

Shared, years later, in Writers' Pantry #37  at Poets and Storytellers United.

Nursing Home: Jeanette

Tiny woman.
Soft, full hair
beige blonde.

Seated at our table,
at first glance
looks fifty.

I think she's used to
no conversation;
responds when we begin.

We ask how long
she's been here.
'Do you know,' she says,
'I think it's four months ...
I can't be certain.'

Her son works
in the kitchen.
She can see him
sometimes.

Used to live
by water, misses
her house ... voice
trails wistfully,
eyes grow distant.



[Poem #93]

Cross-posted from my poetry blog: The Passionate Crone, where it was submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #49

Nursing Home: Marjorie

1 Meeting

‘Another author!’
The Activities Officer
delightedly introduces
someone Andrew can talk to.
But it’s me who’s interested.

Marjorie, my mother’s name.
And her book, that she clutches
and displays, recounts
her childhood in India.
My mother was a child there too.

Still pretty, she’s also gracious:
beautiful English manners
from the last days of the Raj.
Like Mum again —
but this Marjorie
was legitimate Officer stock,
not a little Anglo-Indian girl.


2 Getting acquainted

She shows me a baby photo,
her family’s newest; can’t quite
explain where he fits.

And her son is a writer
(I know the name).
She describes his home,
which she visits. Sure enough,
on Mother’s Day she’s missing;
they must have taken her out.

She asks about my writing,
double-checks
that man’s my husband,
a writer too. I think
of giving her our books.
But I never see her read.




Cross-posted from my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, from whence it was submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United.

[Poem #92]

Nursing Home: Keith

He’s thin and slighty stooped

but the grey hair’s thick and wavy

and he moves at normal speed —

except when he’s with her.

Holding her hand 

or arm around her

he leads her to meals

or out to the sunny garden.

She turns to him

a gentle, vacant face.

He greets us cheerily,

eyes full of comprehension.

We realise he lives here 

to be with her.

He looks happy. 

So does she.

Cross-posted from my poetry blog, The Passionate Crone, from whence it is submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United. 

[Poem #91]

Nursing Home: Bobbi

Bobbi walks quickly 

along the corridors,

keeping to the edges.

One day she tells me,

whispering:

‘I hurt my hip. Now 

I have to keep walking 

or it seizes up.

I feel conspicuous

and embarrassed.’

She is slim

in her neat slacks

and cardigan,

sweet face framed

by a short pageboy.

Her eyes widen

a moment and I glimpse 

fear, want to hug her 

but will not intrude

on her frail dignity.



Cross-posted from my poetry blog, The Passionate Crone, from whence it is submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United. 

[Poem #90]

The Lady from Lombok

‘My husband beats me,’ she murmured,
eyes downcast, to Bill in reply to his praise
of her gentle beauty. Perhaps she thought
to reject an advance? I never saw a mark
on her delicate face, nor a bruise
on her dainty arm, and she didn’t move
like one with hidden injuries; she was lithe.

Nor did she, later, reject his advances.
I wasn’t with him on that trip. But I knew.



Cross-posted to my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, where it now also forms part of my 'Remembering Bali' series.

[Poem #89]