Saturday, December 29, 2012

To my children on their leaving

I wrote this in 1990 when my children were 19 and 17 and we were living in India and they were studying in Adelaide. There had been many leavings prior but somehow, at this age, there was a sense that they were grown and the leaving was more absolute.

Every time you leave I realise
how much space in me you fill.
I rattle around for a few days,
and then, somehow the emptiness
ceases, filled now with the
memories of you both rather
than the physical 'now-ness'
of you. It's always a surprise,
to discover, how much room
you both take up, but then
you have been slowly but surely
excavating a place for yourselves
in my heart, for a very long time-
nearly 20 years. That's a long
time to work on something, and
you both work well. And even
when you began, you both
knew just where to dig. How
far to go, and when to stop and
rest for awhile. In the process
of course, you have simply
served to make my heart
larger and for that I thank you.
The space inside was so much
smaller before you came along.
Who would have thought
that something so small would
have arrived so well prepared,
for making such a secure place
in this world. For it is secure.
You have helped to make me
what I am and the place you
have dug for yourselves,
in my heart, is always yours.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Love and pain

I never knew that love would bring
such pain and tearing hurt,
that holding others in my heart
would lay me waste and burned.
I never knew that caring deep
for those I brought to birth,
would mean a life surrendered
to all that they brought forth.
There is no other bond so great,
which holds both mind and soul,
in chains of constant caring;
as endless years unfold.
It is as if their DNA is written
in my blood, and swirls in pure
remembering, no matter
where they are.
There is no place beyond the truth,
and we remain entwined,
in complex, cast of being;
a mother's life defined.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Sometimes I think

Sometimes I think
I know myself,
within, without,
beyond all sense
of who I am,
beyond all sense
of knowing.
And yet I stand
reminded when
hidden memories
call, that I am always
more than this;
the me perceived
so small.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Joy and grief

The whisper drifts around
my mind and waits,
silent, patient, hidden
in the mists it calls
itself to being, never late;
it will appear when joy
bestows her kiss.
The words are murmured,
quietly, soft and cruel
they linger in the recesses
of thought, a presence
bold and ever powerful;
reminder of the lessons
I've been taught.
There was a time in childhood's
dream of life, when triumph
smiled at joy, and said:
'Long may you prosper
and inspire';
but in the wings stood fate
embracing death.
These two had formed
a pact to conquer joy,
so fragile and so
newly born she was;
no more than child's toy -
an ungrown thing, so small
and easily destroyed.
So now, when joy arrives
with timid touch,
full close behind comes fear,
then tight imprisoned
in her ugly arms,
the child's broken body;
remnants of the dream.


Thursday, December 20, 2012

The echo of my love

The echo of my love was heard
in shadowed halls of heart,
as softly, grief on tiptoe
made her way into the dark.
The hardship that she carried,
was wrapped time's bright cloth,
and held the truth of motherhood;
eternal - never lost. 
On soulful, softened, gentle feet
she walked through gathered years,
and whispered love is never lost;
discounted all my fears.

This week's words:

Echo;noun: A sound or series of sounds caused by the reflection of sound waves from a surface back to the listener; a close parallel or repetition of an idea, feeling, style, or event; verb: (Of a sound) be repeated or reverberate after the original sound has stopped.

Hardship;noun: Severe suffering or privation.

Softly;adverb: In a quiet voice or manner; with a gentle or slow movement; in a pleasantly subdued manner.

Sweeper Woman

Thin, brown stick of woman,
her face grown old with pain,
dark eyes of long forgetting
the years not seen again.

In youth she dreamed so easily
but living gave her truth
that Harijans must keep their place;
they have but one good use.
And so she sweeps and cleans away,
the dropped debris of life
as mourning mimics ages past;
there is no place for pride.
In India imprisoned souls,
for freedom only yearn,
with centuries of barriers built
to block their every turn.
She knows not of the changing world
and is not meant to learn
for sweepers creep amidst the dirt;
from birth so cruelly spurned.
Fresh, foreign eyes cannot make out
the mark so clearly seen
by Hindus from the higher castes,
which so condemns her being.
This curse which crowns and crucifies,
denied - yet honoured still,
will be the death of India;
though she may never yield.
Thin, brown stick of woman,
your being burdened low
by centuries of hatred;
which only India knows.

Another poem Out of India as I trawl old files because there is not enough time to write.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

My children grown

My children grown and suddenly,
the sense of something lost,
intangible and barely known;
I'd overlooked the cost.

As I had stretched in welcome,
in tumultuous birthing hour
a sense of new beginnings
rose; for time to then devour.

It seemed eternity had called
and smiling, offered all,
yet written small, ironically,
the words:'A loan. No more.'

Time took drifting wisps of years,
rolled up and ravelled fast,
and handed them so seriously;
the day did come at last.

And with the final reckoning,
the coins for counting called,
I straightened childhood's collar
and waved a sad farewell.

The cost had risen with the years,
a price I'd never thought,
yet one to pay with honour;
my children's future bought.

I wrote this in 1990 when my children were 19 and 18. I had yet to learn that you always remain connected and that even as you let them go, you remain linked by bonds, albeit unseen, and will do until the end of life, or, perhaps even beyond.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

God's great cloak

The starry cape
of God's great cloak,
has settled
on earth's edge,
as hunched,  God sits,
and still, watches
waits and broods.
With glistening folds
of flaming light
to drape around
those thoughts,
reflecting tears
of mirrored years
which roll unchecked;
slow kiss the dew
of night.
Encompassed in this
cloth of love
which warms
the world's brave
heart, we close
our eyes,
put out the stars
and cower
in the dark.

Monday, December 10, 2012

Can mother ever love enough

Can mother ever love enough
when child perceives the all;
encompassing, sense of more,
a mother beyond time and place?

Can mother ever love enough
when child believes the all;
enfolding mother image, will
keep them safe, secure?

No mortal mother loves enough
to keep the wanting child
from feeling failed and fearful;
to the Goddess we must turn.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Ah love

Ah love. You crept
 inside myself
when I had
glanced aside.
Your gentle tread
was barely heard,
your soft touch
drifted by.
Defences down
and turning back,
I saw your shape
and cried
and yet too late;
you found your place
and claimed
your ancient right.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Isis Remembered

The world well wrapped
in welcoming wings,
assured, a place provided
where safely spent,
the years could rest;
peruse the pages silent.

The Goddess gathered,
garnered close
the sore and scattered
parts, of all her broken
peoples - of life's
wild, wilful thoughts.

The nest made safe,
soft-feathered, strong,
she offered sanctuary
and bade us all: 'Repair,
restore.' Rebuild
the broken body.

The nestlings nursed
with shuttered eyes,
cold-huddled to the past
and buried in blind
fragments, stretched
upwards to her heart.

And in the raw remembering,
they rose, reached out
and found, the many, now
re-made as one:
the work was surely done.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012


Green grass groaning
in wild wind wake
of monsoon's crooning
call; grey sky hung
on horizon's head -
the moan of newly born
The mantra dark
and mournful soars
high to crown the day
her words wash well
the face of sky;
rub dusty days away.
The clouds hang heavy,
hug the edge,
of sunshine's faded face,
then fall to earth
with ominous roar;
prostrated at her feet.
Her slow, shrill song
sung sweetly now,
the message straddles
time and marks with sure
solemnity;the blessed
baptismal rain.

They burn women in India

They burn women in India.
It doesn't take long ...
the flimsy nylon saris
are perfect
for burning;
it's the dying
which takes a long time,
but then
the dying started
a long time ago anyway.
On the day of the wedding,
the young girl learns
what price
her parents will pay
to be rid of her. She
must pray
that they will
be able to pay enough
so that someone will take her.
For when a woman has no value
in India, and an unmarried
woman is an object of shame,
and so her family is shamed.
A very good reason
to be rid of her of course.
So she becomes
someone else's daughter;
at least, that's what
her parents like to believe.
The truth is often
that once the price is paid,
the family which has been bribed
to take her away,
don't want her either.
So they burn her. That's what
happens to rubbish; to things
of no value.
Only the Goddess weeps
as woman burns in India.


Monday, December 3, 2012

The price of a daughter in India

You sold your daughter,
tied her sari tight
and sent her off,
to strangers. The bonds
were there before she
left you. There for
all her new family
to see. Not that
they looked too closely
at her. They were looking
at the new car,
and the fridge,
because that was how much
you had paid them
to take her off your hands.

Your hands are empty now,
and so is her heart.
What a price
you were prepared to pay
to dispose
of the inconvenience
of 'daughter.'
Not that you can call her that
anymore; she is gone
to others
who should call her daughter,
but they do not.

"Lazy bitch,'
comes more easily
to their lips. They
 have no time for her.
Why should they?
You paid them
to take her away.
There was no talk of love.
You did not ask that
they love her.
You gave them a car,
and a fridge, and
all they had to do
was give her a roof
over her head. Love,
now that
will cost more.

Is your daughter worth it?
What daughter?
Well you may ask.
And you will
when there is an accident,
and her sari melts
along with her,
and another daughter
must be found
to take her place
and bring with her
gifts and money.
Such is the price
of a daughter.

I wrote this when I lived in India in the early 90's. At that time a woman a day burned to death in Delhi and a woman an hour in Gujarat State. These kitchen 'accidents' claim more than 100,000 lives in India every year and are sourced in the iniquitous dowry system, which, while banned, remains entrenched.
The husband and mother-in-law are usually responsible but charges are rarely laid and most young women, charred and dying, usually refuse to say who set them alight. Kerosene and nylons saris combined with the attitude to women in India and the dowry system makes for a deadly mix.

Sunday, December 2, 2012


The souls are brought to being,
placed patient at the line,
which marks the start
of mortal wanderings
which fate has mapped.

So comes the hours of darkness
which leads into the light
when knowledge is extinguished,
so learning may begin.

Eternal seed is sown
as heaven shows its hand
and flings new hopes
on soil fresh-tilled; prepares
the way again.

And each is planted deep
below the mother's breast,
new life is sanctified;
a Self restored to Earth.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Red chair

As sentinel of crimson pain,
it offers velvet arms,
to time's destructive callings;
to life's eternal claims.
Upon a rotted floor of hurt,
within love's peeling walls,
you wait in mouldy sanctuary;
until I will return.
But shadowed light is falling
and night has called me home;
the door forever open
to dreams and ghostly forms.
The colour of our passion,
has held in shining dyes,
to honour what we shared
in bright, lost, helpless lies.


Tumble of silver and grey
crosses the evening sky,
blankets the blue of day-
wrapped ready for the night.

The ocean calls
to the trailing sky,
with whispering crash
and sand-choked sigh.

The gulls rise screaming
in fearful flight,
a winged, wild wave
to the facing sight.

The silence creeps
to the murmuring shore,
draws one last breath
from time grown old.

The light a moment loiters,
then darkness draws it's cape,
the sea is hushed to softness;
day settles down to sleep.

Friday, November 30, 2012


With wild and woeful wanderings
through desert's trackless depths,
I sought a place of silence
to study best myself.

And when at last I stood alone
and knew the place was reached,
of utter isolation-
I turned and walked within.

From that dry and barren place
the journey was begun,
with baggage from my tired mind
left lying on the sand.

Within the ways of wandering
I followed ancient signs,
which drew new steps on dusty roads;
revealed my hidden lands.

Then having seen I journed back,
through now familiar scenes,
and found my ash-dead desert camp
where I had first begun.

Nothing here that I would need,
my inner world was mapped,
its hills and valleys written deep
upon my very heart.

And now, full-known, returned,
renewed, to my true sense of now-
time again to take my place
within the murmuring crowd.

Thursday, November 29, 2012


The clench of hand was surely seen,
I saw what was to come
and only wished that I could faint;
retreat from what I knew.
But courage came in powerful prod,
to keep me where I stood,
and whispered that the time was here,
when I should hold my ground.
The actions you were set to make,
had ridiculed my mind
and made a joke of all I was;
I had to draw a line.
I would not run from your cruel rage,
but stand and call you out,
as coward, bully, hurting child;
my strength had now been found.


Reality licked sober lips
to feast upon the world,
in sweet and sour surrendering,
of light and taste and sound.
The clouds built solid shapes,
marooned marshmallow form,
and floated on a syrup sea,
of sky, in sharp line drawn.
The earth spread heavy table,
beneath deep heaven's song,
and gathered up the foods of life;
devoured what was begun.
In shocking shapes the universe,
revealed its hidden plans,
brought perfumed truth to being;
said this is who I am. 

We’d like you to look at altering the conventional descriptive sense and language you apply within your poem. As above for example, “sky” would more commonly be described with visual cues, but here we used auditory mated to an albeit colored reference that also invokes a sense of taste. Getting the idea? Whatever’s the convention, you use descriptive terms that seemingly don’t apply – then observe what that does to the experience of the poem.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012


Your voice rang hollow
with the words,
that you had packed
for me, in neat and tidy
circumstance they mocked
all I had been.
And yet they offered
insight into the man you were,
and opened to reality;
sincerity deferred.
If I had not been brave enough,
to fall into their depths,
I never would have known
the truth, or found self-confidence.
Within the echoed callousness,
of those brief, thoughtless words,
the truth took me in hand
and led me through the door.
HOLLOW (adjective)

: having an indentation or inward curve : concave, sunken
: having a cavity within <a hollow tree>

They said that I was mad

They said that I was mad,
because it made them feel
better. The finger pointed
at another; projection dangled,
dappled doubts, upon the
form of hangered mind.
In sending out the fear,
and rage, and terrors of
the dreaming night, they
draped themselves in
purloined clothes of
purity and distance.
And I stood there,
holding on my empty form,
the worst that they could
be and disappearing into
the robes of insanity,
made manifest as me.
The scapegoat of the
family; the villain of the
peace; the one who would
be other, so they could be
deceived and know
themselves as perfect;
as all that I was not!
In crucifix of being,
they nailed me with
their thoughts, and
sent the spear of certainty,
into my waiting side.
I was their demon saviour,
the monster manifest,
in bleeding, waiting
sacrifice; the one who
loved them most.

My mother wrote

My mother wrote to me
and, coming as it did,
so long awaited -
but not expected
I almost failed to
recognise it for what it was.
My heart at first misread,
the words so clearly seen
by eager eyes,
and as the pages fluttered
in my hands, like
precious cloth,
they gently wiped away
the long-remembered hurts.
And as I lingered
on those final lines:
for being my daughter.'
the tears fell,
washing clean
my unforgiving heart.
But those few crumpled
sheets were more
than enough
to dry my eyes.


Tuesday, November 27, 2012


Blazing brightness disappeared

the desert sleeps and dreams

and soothes the searing memories,

born in the belly of the day.

The holy wafer offered,

the blessing is received,

the endless mystic ritual

still triumphs over hell.

The icy sanctity of night

relieves the fevered brow

of earth's bright face,

cools bitter sands;

tucks in the sleep-humped hills.

The desert holds the hem of night

and stretches sunburnt hands

to drink the blessed cup of life

which only darkness brings.


Monday, November 26, 2012

Sibling revelry

The moments in the darkness
of laughtered light and smiles,
came from our shared becomings;
in deep and constant ways.
In brothering and sistering,
we drew upon our souls,
to make a place of safety;
where sanity could hold.
A look, a smile, a joke, a word
would tap upon the door,
of hope and dark forgettings;
of respite from our world.
We called upon that knowing,
drank draughts of all we knew,
familiar and yet strange;
as through the years we grew.

Part 18: Sibling Revelry – Write about one (or all) of your siblings. If you were an only child, was there a cousin who filled that gap? If not, write about your feelings about being the “one and only.”

The scent of you

The scent of you fell listlessly,
around my mind and sight,
to fill my senses needfully;
to fleck my days with love.
The truth of you held sway,
draped slowly  round my world,
held still my aching heart;
brought end to my turmoil.
The load of flimsy hopes, 
now lay in lightened heap,
as faith skimmed doubt's
rich cream: revealed my destiny.

fill, scent, sway, held, fell, sight, fleck, still, end, load, skimmed, heap.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

African home

In scattered dross of gathering,
you drag what you can find,
onto a vacant piece of earth,
to build a place to hide.
 It doesn't matter what it's called,
 burlap, or hessian bag,
you gather it to make a home,
along with shreds of rag.
And any bits of timber,
that life will throw your way,
along with plastic sheeting
and grass and mud and clay.
This shelter teeters on the edge,
of brief stability,
yet offers house and fragile home;
meets orphan children's need.
Using the word burlap

Vision splendid

I see the vision splendid,
in peaceful grace displayed,
as life in motion is revealed;
in minutes, hours and days.

 Motion, peaceful, vision

Friday, November 23, 2012

I said goodbye

I said goodbye to you,
in a time of dark forgetting,
on a deep, tea-drenched day.
It was a place for endings,
for halting in the mind
all memories, all knowing,
of who you were
and I, who hardly knew
who I had been, or even was,
so rubbed and faded
by the moments we had made,
so blurred by brightness,
cruel and unexpected.
I said goodbye to you,
and knew myself forgetting,
on a deep, tea-drenched day.


Thursday, November 22, 2012

Bombay child

Nestled rest in crumpled filth
the child sleeps,
flung across the gutter, innocence,
abandoned; presently at peace,
she dreams of promises and
clutches the rug of oblivion.

Maya waits in patient watch
beside the dream world,
ready to rescue her charge
from the soporific arms
of the slant-eyed Goddess
who holds you, limpid,
 at her breast and kisses
black, protected eyes,
bestows in beauty, visions.

Sweet whisperings invade that
tiny ear, of glorious gardens,
rich-throated birds and cities,
redolent with perfumed dreams
and riches beyond all belief.

But the Goddess cannot keep you
in this world beyond waking,
when and as she chooses. She must
sweep her glittering phantasms
to the squalid edge, and rub
those kohl-rimmed eyes
in gritty daylight,
when truth dictates.

So sleep, small girl child,
the time is short for sweetness
and the gutter makes
resplendent bed, for this
brief, shining moment.


Perfection is illusion born of fantasy and dreams,
ignoring true reality; denying all that's been
and turning life into a world which isn't as it seems.
Write a poem comprised of three perfect sentences.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012


Flesh surrenders silkily
in passion's sensual cause,
to dance the steps seductive;
reveal pure reason's flaws.
As skin in tingled dreaming,
connects with heart and soul,
the drift of perfumed lust
consumes and soon enfolds.
The song orgasmic sings
through cell and dreaming mind,
in notes of wild surrender;
in melodies sublime.
Through rising tides of joy,
the waves will carry all,
beyond the place of knowing;
to spent and shuddered shores.

We are asking for an open write this week--33 to 333 words of erotic writing.  You can interpret that how you wish; we are imposing no other rules or limitations on you this week.  The goal is just to explore a type of writing you maybe haven't tried before.  It's, allegedly, not as easy as it looks.

Destiny embracing

Image pale reflected,
of all that might have been,
in mirrored spread delightful,
seductive and serene.
The smile of disappearance
slow drifts in curdled lisp,
of watered deep remembering;
of peace in dance burlesque.
In breath of shimmered hope,
it spreads itself, revealed,
as destiny embracing;
as pain surrendered full.

Describe a body of water as seen by a teenager contemplating suicide. Do not mention death, suicide, or the teenager doing the seeing.


The heart croons comfort
through the thin, red sand;
sings itself to being -
humming at the edge
of nature's self.
In timeless echo of the word,
it knows of worlds before
and those beyond,
of days unwritten
and of nights;
of moments breathed and hoped-
of heartbeats tracked through time.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Water lily

In settled kiss of watery home
the lily pads are spread,
upon a face of liquid light;
afloat on sodden depths.
Without the deliquescent touch
of pond's perennial gift,
life would enter into death
and all would drown within.

Saturday, November 17, 2012


In secret, slivered slip of leaf
the frame is put in place,
a languishing of eucalypt;
as perfumed, drifting grace.
The myrtle from the southern land
is born in fire and death,
and drapes the days in waiting
until it burns again.
With serpentine releasing,
its skin is shaken free,
revealing flesh fair beautiful
as bark surrounds the tree.
The moon shines on its purity,
caresses milky trunks,
as phoenix-like she rises
on watered, ancient roots.
Like demons born in torment,
they raise igniting arms,
as if to cry for mercy
when nature calls them home.

Friday, November 16, 2012

Tongue of pain

It is the wound which has the loudest voice,
the tongue of pain which stumbles on our fears,
and wraps around the hurt of hidden days,
to speak of things we have not fully grieved.
The words which will escape in tortured ways,
will have no need to be in essence heard,
in any way that we could recognise,
dressed as they are in feeling's dark disguise.
But even without substance, form or shape,
the message will be brought on crippled feet,
to kneel before the sword of bitter truth;
the name revealed; the healing is complete.


Through small remembered rooms

I searched, for what the child

called home, in distant days

and darkened nights;

lost houses where we lived.

As strange became familiar,

as cool walls warmed and stretched,

to hold the grimy handprints,

of children as they slept.

Beyond the grasp of solid wall,

the garden groped and fell,

into a jungled bursting;

where dreams could live instead.

Was home the narrow, sagging bed,

the couches worn and tired,

the table, green and laminex;

the wardrobe where I hid?

Or was it furrowed brows,

slow drifting smiles and shouts,

of adults with no time to spare;

of worries deep and loud?

Perhaps there was no house to hold,

nowhere which held its place,

and yet the home stood deep within;

as solid, gifted grace.

Through small remembered rooms

I searched, for what the child

called home, in distant days

and darkened nights;

lost houses where we lived.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

You were mine

Your eyelash settled on dusted cheek
and rose and fell in silent sigh,
as breath and beat held sleeping court
and skin surrendered to the sheets,
with whispered tones of almond and honey.
I watched, held court, with time’s assent,
that rise and fall of chest and belly,
in wonder at the touch and feel
of Eros spreading wings in life.
You slept, not seeing what I saw,
nor hearing gentled tones of sound,
which sleep allowed escape and cause;
reminded me of what I had.
The dawn had given form to shape,
had filled the vision lastly felt,
and drawn my eyes to deeper truths,
which lay in languorous, light salute.
And in that moment, you were mine,
in all that life could offer up;
a holding fast to absolutes –
illusion smiled at both of us.

Write a personal love poem, and do so without using the word “love” itself in your poem.