Appetite

I just ate a packet of biscuits,
Salty crackers.
(You Scotch Fingers- Will be next!).
Two apples already today
And a coffee,
While I can still stomach it.
To my dismay I found the cornflakes
had all run out
Neglected Weetbix to the rescue.
And then cordial weakened
To a sunrise sheen of palest orange.
If you have had the spark of life,
The tiny beating heart,
The sharp tendril of conception,
Implant upon your womb,
Perhaps
You know the hunger
That can eat your heart out.
Making you empty and overfull
All at once.

it's the small moments

Sometimes awakenings are found in small moments. Big moments can slam you in the face, but small moments have power too, subtle power.

I am seeing the graduating class of 2012. I see them framed through a doorway. I am not part of that moment. I am part of that moment, with the champagne on my tongue, yet I couldn't do it fast enough to catch up.

I have been thinking all morning about who I am. I wanted to grab the time for speeches and captivate the audience with my stunning insights into the terrible beauty of studying, personal growth, the thankfulness and love and compassion that has grown in me the last three years. My thoughts wouldn't be caught, and my confidence was pinned to the chair. The speech went unspoken.

I wanted to say how I have not just learnt, I have become. Teaching is not a job, it is a lifestyle and that is what university has meant to me. It has been people, students and lecturers alike who have revealed myself to me and in turn let me reveal myself to the world in new ways.
Not always gentle these people have changed me forever. And I am grateful.

I wanted to say thank you. I have so much more gratitude now. I came thinking I would improve myself academically. When I leave I will know that I have instead grown as a person. Opened my mind for information and found so much more valuable learning.

I am not leaving yet. Not this year.

When I leave I will make a speech, or not. I think we all feel these small moments in their subtle pressure, in our hearts. Small moments may not always be spoken aloud, yet they exist.

This is a small piece that came into being as a draft a few weeks ago. It has sat as a draft for some time....but then, where better than to speak of small private moments than in a blog on the worldwideweb....hmmm ;)

Fear of the Blanks.

Write\\

Fear of a Blank page?

So write,
Write about the bills that
Sit and stare,
With beady eyes
And fangs to bite - so -
Write
About the list
As long as an arm
And twice as thick.
Write, so ,
In silence
When white noise is
Gnawing at your ear,
- as if you had a choice -
Write like your life
Depends,
To make amends
And then some.

Knock Knock...Who's There?

Children entered my life,
Without knocking.
Opened the doors
Like a tidal wave
Would.
Surging first through gaps,
To push with great weight
And intensity.
Insistent, rough and curly,
With a turgent
Rolling depth
Sucking violently at,
Independence.
Pulling at ankles,
Thighs.
Breasts.
Lapping into my ears
Until my head is heavy
With salty water,
Like a million tears.

Interesting Snippets

The Rule of Three

...this intrigues me. So I have decided to stick it here for now. Like my little bloggy scrapbook. For me to think about or forget.

I am having a week of assignment writing, not quite as much fun as poetry. Not quite as whimsical.

The temptation to stay here and blog for the rest of the day... it's strong!

sigh.

Dreamt

Drive By 

(listen)

&

(read)

I dreamt a dream

Where I was between two men

Who wanted me.

And who would I choose,

Whispered my dream voice.

I chose to lie

To lay

In the bed of one

With the body 

Of the other.

Until

They both left my dream.

I let them both leave. 

Also,

Drove them away

With anger and desire,

Mine.

To dream of myself. Upon

A bicycle, pedalling

Furiously.

Facing my future.

Heading to work.

Merging into traffic.

Taking the exit that

Had me flowing, so

Fast it was like falling

From a great height 

Into the very small 

And far away

Pointy, busy, bustle of

Life.

xxx

From a writing workshop, with thanks to Lynda, for the sounds.

Lady in red

The red lady
She comes
Advances
Squeezes my breasts
In greeting.
In the moonlight
She advances
With fine fingers
To stroke my mind.
The moon swells
To pull her closer
Until she is inside me
To eat my heart
Until it bleeds
To still my body
In the waning moon
To pat my head
Like a mother
Soothing a restless
Child.

Oodles of Poodles

First haircut.

Poodles!

Oodles of poodles,

Ooodles of pup.

My cup runneth over, 

I love her

So much!

A spoilt little yap yap,

To snuggle in lap lap. 

A cute little poodle

To cuddle

And snoodle.

A cute little poodle

That I call my own.

Obsessions

Passions are something I have a few of. When asked to write upon them it was interesting what came up and out of my pen.

The word obsession seems to call to me a link with desires and, as a treacherous Scorpio, desire is one treasure that both torments and identifies me to some extent... I strive to defeat my desire while I also embrace it lovingly as part of being alive.

Obsidian. Photo sourced from http://volcano.oregonstate.edu/education/facts/obsidian.html

Obsessions,
like a shiny stone.
Obsidian,
Black with desire.
Cool as wanting.
I want,
Like fingertips want,
To slide across the stone.
Leaving their trail of
Sweat.

XXX

A Book Obsession

Agatha Christie has her own

Shelf.

But I keep this to myself...

As she is 'olde worlde' ish,

And furthermore

(so I have been told)

Boring.

For some reason though,

At my house,

Agatha Christie has

Her own shelf.

Messy business

This one came from a writing workshop (4/8/12) where we discussed mess. I love my mother dearly and it has been a journey to being able to accept her 'organised mess' that she lives with. 

 

Mess

My mother’s mess,

Her life

In boxes

Stacked.

In a rented flat.

Love is a wallaby on the road

This one is a favourite of mine.

Love is a wallaby on the road

Like a crushed up wallaby.

In the way of the car

In the dark

At night.

Poor wallaby twitching

Like a beating heart.

Blood escaping.

Wounded.

There goes my heart.

Trying to crawl off the road,

Out of the headlights

And into the waist high grass

On the verge of the road.

He rescued the wallaby,

Wrapped it in a rug and took it,

To an all night vet.

Who put it down without much ceremony.

He called me to tell me it had died.

But I already knew.

Pretty Things...

Pretty

Just because...it's pretty.

Pretty- what is pretty?

Is it red?

 pink?

 blue?

Or green?

Pretty what is pretty?

Is it Girl

I seen?

Pretty – what is pretty?

Pretty pretty hair?

Pretty what is pretty?

Is it lacy underwear?

Pretty what could pretty?

Can I eat it up?

Pretty what is pretty?

Pretty iced doughnut.

Leaves Falling

Written a while ago...no need for a back story, it was personal as poetry oftentimes is. The result though, are words that just roll around leaving a year of seasons and feelings echoing around me.

Leaves Falling…Autumn in the Summertime

Russet reds, browns and golden tones

Like autumn leaves in northern countries

Falling falling in my heart and home

Softly, softly, leave me all alone.

Tiny pieces of my heart got torn up

Into falling snow

A winter of my discontent

As humidity rose and then let go.

Summer swelters and heat haze wavers

Across my vision

So I cannot tell

What season is this after all?

When I feel that I could melt.

And plainly waiting for spring,

When buds unfold and beauty sighs

I see the grey mist of autumn mornings

Drop across my eyes.

And leaves like weeping children’s tears

Drift across the sky

And from stinging winter’s rain

I hide inside, seek warm and dry.

Looking for the fireside

Under a summer sky

Looking for the comfort that

Has somehow passed me by.

Dawn Chorus

It is the night for uploading my poetry. Here's one I prepared earlier.... most likely followed by more.

Dawn Chorus

It’s the dawn chorus

A dueling voice of whippersnipper.

Two at least

But maybe more.

One deep throated and one

Harmonious.

This one plays the high notes

And that one plays the low.

A solo now from one,

And then again

They are together.

Singing their sweet and throaty

Roar

At my bedroom window.

Singing their sweet and

Throaty

Roar

In large voice,

At my bedroom window.

Singing their sweet and throaty roar

At my bedroom window,

To welcome in the morning

At the crack of dawn.