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.

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

Launceston Girls

My Mum saw her sobbing backstage
after the elocution competitions —
second to my first. We were eight.

Grew up in the same suburb,
came to each other’s birthday parties,
attended High School together.

Thirty years later, surprise:
reunion onstage in another city,
reciting our own works.

Awhile inhabited the same
publications, venues, academies.
Supported each other, allies.

Went different ways again:
fiction her love, poetry mine —
rivalry, like childhood, past.



Cross-posted from my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, where it appears as: 30 Poems in 30 Days, 2010: 12 (Prompt: A poem about a rivalry)

[Poem #88]

His Ex-Wife

At first meeting, was glad
to see she looked old.
I was wearing my red jacket
and I wasn’t fat then.

Hearing her talk, liked
her forthright politics,
imagined being friends.

But how, disappointed in life,
could she like me?
(And I warmed
to one she despised.)

That was 18 years ago.
Her youngest tells me now
she’s near her end.

My stepchildren’s mother.
My love’s first love.
This stranger.



[Poem #84]

Occupation, Poet

Disappeared three days
after high-grade grass,

just wandered off
into the dark.

But mostly drunk and rude.
Forgiven for talent.

‘Soul of an accountant,’ remarked
the portraitist, painting that.

Mistook me once
for acquiescent. Disabused.

Poetry was blood and breath.
His words could sing or kill.

Moved, seeking the son
abandoned years earlier.

I came across his elegy
for the young man's drug-death,

telling their whole story
honestly ... wept.



[Poem #63]

Brief Encounter

In the waiting-room
a baby wailed,
held to his mother’s shoulder
as she stood at the counter
her back to the rest of us.

He was bald and pale,
swathed in white.
The huge sound of his distress
shattered the air.

I sent him a beam of love
across the space.
Immediately his cry stopped.
He raised his head,
looked straight at me,
held my gaze and smiled.

Shared with Writers' Pantry #40 at Poets and Storytellers United, 4 Oct. 2020.

[Poem #59]

Prisoner Poet 3: The Suicide

After 26 years and more,
more years than your life,

I can remember you
with joy exceeding sorrow –
though, as The Prophet suggested,
they’re sides of one coin:

always some tears,
a swift pang.

When your death was recent,
it was anguish to notice young fun –
pinball machines, amusement parks –
you might have enjoyed

if not for a youth in prison,
if not for your final escape.



[Poem #54]

Shelton

I like that photo
on the front of your book, mate:
head up, inhaling pleasure,
against sky and steeple.

Not a book you wrote, this time;
one we wrote for you
to attest your undying value,
returning, for your life-giving words
our own, which you always encouraged.

I wasn’t there for your death
nor your wake; won’t see
this book-launch ... I’m glad
I was there in your life.



[Poem #41]

All Travellers We: Poems for Shelton Lea (Eaglemont Press) will be launched in Melbourne on August 21st.

Firstborn

I gave him something
and I’m glad I did:
some happy memories,
a love of cats and poetry.

I remember talking
in his teens and since:
quiet conversations
about ideas,
and sometimes
of turbulent feelings.

My snowy-haired
clear-eyed child,
fearless climber and diver,
grew to make poems, stories,
computer programs
and lasting friendships.

I rely on him now
for sense, honesty
and understanding;
the most fair-minded of men.



[Poem #40]

Faithful Wife

Good husband,
successful children,
comfortable home
in a posh part of town,
and still youthfully pretty.

Why that sadness
glimpsed far back in her eyes?

At last she told her story:
the first husband killed young,
no time to grieve
working to support their child.

She has no complaints.
She’s not ungrateful.
Love has lasted long this time.
It’s just, she never quite
adored him like the first.



[Poem #38]

Younger Stepson

We met at Christmas.
I guess you’d heard
there was someone new
in your father’s life.

You kissed me shyly on the cheek
and included me
in the present for your Dad:

scented bath salts.
'You might enjoy them
together,' you said.

16 years later, you’re not
slim youth but solid,
handsome man.

In one forgotten family drama
we exchanged fierce words.
Now we talk deeply,
good friends.



[Poem #37]

We no longer live near each other, but Younger Stepson is staying with his father and me this xmas, and the last line of the poem is truer than ever.

Cross-posted from my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, from whence, on 25 December 2011 (a Christmas 19 years later!) it was submitted for dVerse Christmas. 

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]

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]

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.