Little grey bird
All day he sang his song
Bobbed against the reflection of himself
Bashing his wings into the pane of glass
Securing his mate with the pretence of the warrior
Protecting her from himself
His beautiful dove grey feathered ness
His surrendering song ending in a high note
The light fluttering of his and her feathers
ruffled in synchronicity
Love songs of spring
The sweat trickles down my back, soaking into the mattress. Little bugs and moths lie squashed in the matrix of cotton linen mix weave, hovering above the fan is dialled to full blast and whirls.
panting to my left is dog. She is always there. She looks forward to the end of day with the tongue lolling to the side of drool and stained fangs. She is steadfast in her love. Lifting her nostrils to the waft of vine leave farts and gaseous emissions.
a big few weeks have past. Fires and tears, the visions of burnt landscape and starving animals. The endless asking of charities for donations and gifting of time to volunteer groups. I borrowed money on my loan to gift to causes. I don’t know when I can pay back but it seemed right that I should. Perhaps guilt at the enormous amounts others were offering. And then there is the FB algorithms that show pages of burnt animals and crying unknown people in distress. It’s been a war zone. I’ve had to stop looking.
Evacuations every few days to an empty shop , showerless and surreal. The blazing street lights and the fire exit signs burning into the retina of my mind, as I try to close my eyes and relax into dreamland.
but , tonight it’s the heat and rivulets of body liquids, smelly farts from foodless kitchen and raiding of tins, from cupboards so that I don’t have to drive the 32 kilometres to the shops. The milk is about to turn and tomorrow’s morning coffee may be aborted.
tomorrow is another day, and it’s nearly here, with heat.
there is promise of a southerly and rain. It will come and there will be calm.
the pool is green and lifeless leaves , black from smoulder have sunk to bottom. They lie like shadows in clusters where the filter pump has pushed them.
I really can’t be bothered, there is so much to do and so much water to drink. Shade to find and magpies to feed.
I put bowls of water out and at dusk the possum awakes and slinks along the bullnose to find a drink. I don’t want him in my roof but I let him sleep safely and watch him drink a long cool drink. His little round eyes stare back at mine and my heart calls to his, wishing him some kindness.
tomorrow is another day, and the wallaroos will be in the valley floor looking for their pellets and sweet potato. I’m sure I’m feeding the wild rabbits, and the weeds are flowering. I will leave them so the bees have a meal.
I washed cushion covers and hung them on the line to dry. The squares of colours, Dehydrated zippered and stiff, scorching in the sun. Crusting on that line. I eye them off from inside the hot glass window and talk myself into going out there to rescue them from stroke. I can remember years ago standing in the creek bed, breathing in the hot air, and feeling it struggle entering my lungs. Now in the tomorrow, I have a house and walls, fans and shadows to stand in
The goannas stride the crunchy grass , and my shed python slinks across the valley floor to the other shed. I watch them with a mindless apathy.
I want to remember these days. The hard struggle of country. The ineptitude of our capital and the corruption of our leaders. I want to remember the dry, the heat, the fires. Because tomorrow will be here today and things change . But I don’t want the memory to be hardwired into my soul and life. I wanted it lifted away , like taking off a coat, or jumper. I look forward to a lightness of spirit, a higher code of heart resonance. I look forward to smiling ….
Under the stairs is a sweet place
To rest and hide the few more minutes
Before the day begins its rush
Dog and I meditate together
My purple shapes mingling
Dissolving the dark.
My coffee today tastes of almonds
Yesterday of cacao
Black birds have breakfasted
Digital screens blessed the morning ritual
Of waking to the reality of my making
And the mind ticks over a repertoire of possibilities
The fuse switch is just there
In the shadow of the stairs
The Dog already there
Silently humming fridge
Trundles in the background
The crystal ring sits patiently
For friends
The rain has blasted down in sudden dumps. Spring that was on hold finally broken into song and things of twos. From my perch I see the azure kingfisher has found another blue and gold sameness, and the wattle birds banded together into the yellow prongs of silkyoak. My beloved butcher bird sits in wait by the door for mince, one leg held up as if it is damaged, and may well be, but I think it is a ploy of sympathy.
The fat wombat saunters around in the dark, along with the water ship of rabbits. Micro bats in my roof squeak in unison at dusk. And my longtime friend possum stirs at dusk and dawn squeezing from a corner of roof that I promise myself I will fix.
The little Valley that is really a gully feeds a mob of wallabies. And this year the generations are of all sizes. They stare at me, lost for comprehension of what it is I am , and my position on this lump of land.
Lizards dive into the pool as dog approaches, snakes slither uphill, or green and bright dangling from sheoaks as I fix the pump at the river.
Lyrebird sings his repertoire at the edge of bush, and at night the dingoes sing theirs on the hills behind.
Grateful, yes.
The air is warming , the dawn begins in red, and after the clouds have dissolved, a blue .
I was woken post dawn with the sound of two motorbikes roaring through this tight squeeze of valley floor , and thought about the villagers who throw rotten fruit and veg at tourists.
My neighbours have decided that their contribution to life’s plan is to open a wedding resort. So, last night, having decided to get out of my bed ,put on my dressing gown and pulling myself in my car nearing midnight , still with ‘love shack’ ringing in my ears. I drove down the road to see how ‘the sound of music’ is travelling on the front house block, being in direct line with the river. Perhaps all the base beat and ‘love shack’ will drive the micro bats further down the valley to safety. That now is a positive. But all I encountered on my track was the fat wombat that has been treated back into health .
It did cross my mind that I could join the party, perhaps they would give me a glass or two of bubbly and then in a drunken stupper I could tag along with the others to their little tents dotted along the road paddock, and I could follow the bumpy, patchwork road from councils black dollops back home. But thought better of it. After all , it was pumpkin time and the aliens have been active lately.
So , here I am, feeling like I have partied, but not. Sitting here , sipping tea, listening to the wind.
Today I found a splinter in my thumb nail.
So I spent my morning digging a hole in the centre of the nail and looking to see what sort of splinter it could be.
I removed a tiny black dot and then abandoned the process thinking that perhaps it was an impossible task and that if it was going to be a fateful end, my nail will either be removed under anaesthetic or quietly grow itself out.
My mind travels to all reaches of its grey covered skull and I have another analogy to my life from that tiny black dot.
Too much time on your hands, I hear you say, and you are right. But living in isolation for many days at a time and gardening and renovating has its limits. So there are vast amounts of tea and coffee drunk and in those moments I let my mind ponder willy nilly.
Let the cat out of the bag, the bird from its cage. And more to the point, it is excessively windy outside and it upsets my harmonious delicate nature to be active in it.
Is it me, my generation, that looks back into the throng of life and sees the copious amounts of ‘self help’ activities, and now moving into ‘help others’ activities. I make no judgement calls or have opinions on these matters.
Heaven forbid I flounder into the senile roll of my age, with lack of the new thought movement. Me, from the hippy era and the times, now past peace and war protests to the seriousness of white supremacy and same sex marriage, religious mass migration and nuclear devastation of our food supply.
But because I have a black dot on my nail that needs gouging out and investigating I am asking.
Find your purpose. I read and hear.
I have been looking for my purpose the whole of my life.
Do what you love, that is your purpose.
Is it really?
How many people actually find joy? Most of us blunder through life and glean snippets of wisdom through our failures and misfortunes. Ending in a bandaging of spirit and dodging the throws of others in their wake of survival and greed. Very much like dealing with a tiny black dot on your nail and wondering how the hell it got there. What force managed to penetrate the hardy protective nail and embed a black dot of pain, to be dug away with surgical implements. In my case a needle and tiny knife. I did think of the toy kids drill that I have used for shell jewellery, but too lazy to look for it.
Howling winds, people throwing matches to the dry grasses. Only a few days into spring and Armageddon is upon us. I guess I could try and find my purpose and live happily ever after. But realistically, any more pondering, meditating will just end in tears.
I have never been one to put up my hand and say. Hey ! I’m drowning over here. It is the human condition to work through all the shit of daily life and find the joys in the small , and large , things.
I take note of other peoples crap, dodge bullets, but, give a damm , and if I can mentally cope, help.
If you look , there is always someone having a harder time than you.
But the find your purpose.
Humm, so few have that luxury, and for the ones that do, sometimes it is only fleeting. We are in constant change, and our thoughts and actions move and flow with information available at the time.
Tomorrow is another day and truths of today are forgotten ,changed because of new information or general conscientious of population, either from propaganda or conspiracy ideals.
That tiny black dot is now a crater, still hurting, but at least I have done my best, with my limited skills.
I have , with alacrity, circled myself into the corral. With eyes wide open, mastered the dodge and weave of my existence, and waited, with bated breath, for the purpose of it all.
The twittering started, songs of love and courtship, silence broken
And in pairs they assemble. Rallying around the tentacles of lust. Little white underbellies of tails, flashing signals. Playful red fox rushing the riverbank to roll and rumble. Bunnies standing on two legs summersaulting logs.
The wedgetails touching wings in tandem with the blueness above, whilst the wombats clean out their earthy dungeons for local guests. Brush turkey colouring their gobble, and echinacea polishing quills.
The slitherers will soon entangle, fat flies will adorn the pane, whilst spiders spinning balls of babes wave to marching ants and buzzing bees and wasps.
It has broken, the silent white into a golden realm, basking its glow in the trees.
Play dates. Tea cakes. Hanging out on decks of wood.
Looking for that special one, to hide go seek , tweek and twerk.
Love is.
