The Island

She is a siren,

On the rocky outcrop of her self-imposed island.

Her song is a profile on the internet.

Pretty face and luscious legs,

Enjoys strolls on the beach.

Successful, employed,

But divorced,

And ...

She trawls,

And in her nets of vivacious and lascivious conversation,

She reels in the men she’ll drown.

It is not her intent.

But it will happen and she will be left further damaged for her trouble.

And this will fuel her need to continue to go fishing.

 

She is a beautiful mermaid,

But her heart has been hardened by hurt and disappointment.

She uses her sensuous body.

They will worship her.

She will do everything to please.

That is her power over them.

And their desire gives her self-worth.

 

She will coerce and manipulate her lovers.

And they will go willingly to their petit morts.

Beguiled by her attention.

But she cannot and will not love them.

She does not love herself enough,

To give herself.    

 

 

  

 

Beauty of the Errinundra Plateau

I cry out for you

I cannot sleep until I resolve this thing
Or at the very least
Have some sort of plan
Your silent presence
Weighs down upon my chest
Each moment the mass is increasing
Until I MUST get away
Even then I find it difficult to move
Slowly and quietly with the impetus of sudden resolve
I move away to my own space
To attempt to think
The clarity is continually obscured
By the ache in my heart
Which, although I attempt to stifle it
Cries out for you
I become more resentful
That you should make my attempts at thought impotent
And yet you do not come to me
All night long
My thoughts fly about like butterflies
Some landing for a moment
Others briefly flash their brilliant colours
And die
I am exhausted
My mind dozes momentarily
And is then startled awake
My eyes look about the room
I hear your regular breathing
You are asleep
I am alone
You have no answers
And despite all my effort
Neither do I 

Disappointment Great and Small

Some days you just feel, why..........
Why bother?
Are we.............
So special? - Meant for each other?
Soulmates?
Is anybody?
I suppose you can't feel the disapointment of misunderstanding
So profoundly
Unless..........
You do love that person.

Terra Firma

I survey the familiar country that is your skin
My fingers navigate the small rises and pause
On the tiny roughness of a blemish
I note the subtle weathering
And sip at your lips the salty notes of a tidal creek
Lay my cheek on the dry grassy earth of your chest
And familiar scents invite old memory

The rocky cleft of your chin moves against my crown
My hair is brushed from my forehead
Light falls upon your face and highlight the features
I gaze up to bathe in its warmth and find
Myself drawn to the glistening opal that is your eye

Without hesitation
I dive into the black reflective pool of your iris
Until the coolness of this dark recess is more than I can bear
My senses bombarded - I close my eyes
Then focus on a gentle graze
That sets the nerve cells of my skin tingling - I flinch

Slowly I become aware of a dull longing
To explore more deeply the pungent sweetness of rainforest gullies
That nestle in the softer recesses of your flesh
In the distance a gentle murmuring
Invites me to rest full length
Upon this warm earth

Songlines

I have not the voice to sing this country
A song thought silenced not so many years ago
By ears that refused to hear
But it sings still
Subtley
As the dance of the wind in the leaves
The tinkle of dew droplets from the forest canopy
Or the sudden rustling of the fleetfooted wallaby
Through the teatree scrub
It is perennial as Summer bushfires and Autumn rain
Just buried below the surface of the soil
An undercurrent that flows through the country still

My pattern is a foreign one
It grates in this wild place
My skin is too pale and reactive to this environment
Yet though I have not evolved in this country
I am still dust of its dust
I am it and it is me
And though I cannot sing its ancient song
I hear its resonance
And can add my voice

Premature Letting Go

For nine months my body held you
So tight
That your birthing took almost two days
Exhausted, it succumbed and allowed itself to open
You were born screaming
You continued to scream with colic
Till you were almost old enough to stand
Only in my arms were you calm
Only within sight - could I be
As you toddled about
You felt superceded and resentful
When you sister came
How you mistreated her
Your jealousy justified
Then the divorce
The shared parenting
Ongoing transitions
That you could not cope with
The rage
The tears
Always my guilt - like chains
The bottomless pit within my heart
I watch you become more removed from me
My influence receding
You see me less - and less
Busy with adolescence
I look into your three year old photographed eyes
Tears prick
How do I indure this
Premature letting go

A Daily Prayer

I am blessed to be who I am
And to be alive at this time

I am blessed to have food and shelter
And to be free of pain, fear and sorrow

I am blessed to be truly loved

I ask these blessings for all

Today let me remain mindful
Be kind, patient, tolerant, joyful
and compassionate

The Song of Country

The singers of this country are silent now.
Gone into the stars,
and the dust of this land.
The dreaming buried deep in the hearts of the survivors,
estranged from their country.
The song lies latent,
waiting for the people to return.
So too the ancient sprits,
of forest and stone,
wait.
They hear the country sing its own song,
in the rocks and streams.
It is wasted on the people who now inhabit the land.
Few have ears to listen.
Fewer still,
have the voice to sing.

Spirits of Country

I look out onto the dark shape that is Yerungunderah,
the plateau like a reclining giant,
silhouetted against a starless night sky.
The gentle rain falls like a caress on the tin roof.
And I listenfor the songs,
of the ancient spiritsof this country.
A whispy flurry of sound from the treetops,
excites my imagination.
Turongs toss twigs onto my roof at intervals,
then scamper away into branches.
The dog barks,
and I know they delight in tormenting him.
A low almost inaudible rumble begins,
from high in the rounded tors atop Wardoo 
The vibration travels to the ground beneath my feet.
It is a chorus of nyols singing deep within the stone of the land.

Bagini

Just looking at him she knew that he was not one of the children of the land.  Nor was he a 'mrat'. She could see that plainly.  No,  he was not of her country. His resonance was not the same as hers. Yet he did have a song. No, she decided he was a child of some country, but not hers.


She had eavesdropped at the campfires of the children of the land and heard them talk of the 'mrats' who had the power of 'Brewin'. Light-skinned and light-eyed, some with hair flaming, others with hair of dry grass. All with a pointed stick, 'boo boo' that put 'bulk' into a man and the magic of the 'mulla mullung'could not drive it out before he was dead. And if not the 'boo boo' then some other magic that brought on sickness and death. Yes, the children of the land are having some sorry times. Looking at him again she thought, "You are not a mrat and not a spirit of the land either. The children of the land are wrong"


The man turned to look where the rustling sound had come from. He felt a small fear creep into him as he stood so close to such a great bird. The emu now motionless seemed to be staring straight at him.


The surveyor knelt to put the last logs on his evening campfire. The night was cool so he would not be as bothered by the insects that had plagued him earlier. Perhaps this late in the autumn had been a good time to undertake this expedition he thought to himself. It was a clear night and the spot he had chosen for his camp was ideal. The ground was soft and dry and the grass tussocks that had obviously been grazed were short and made for  a comfortable bed. A creek with accessible clean water was nearby and its gentle gurgling was a pleasant companion.


As he settled himself into his swag he thought how nice it was to be alone in such a perfect example of God's creation, away from the base camp and its mix of uncouth humanity.  Here he would sleep restfully.
It was the clean, fresh smell of moist earth and leaves that awakened his nostrils. Then the silken softness of hair brushing his cheek. He had known a few woman but all of them perfumed and powdered, plump softness admist a confusion of skirts and petticoats and laced bodices. They beneath their veneer of toilette smelt of the grime and squalor of muddy township streets.


Strong, lithe,slim legs grazed against his and the surveyor was compelled to reach his hand down and feel for the smoothness of rounded hips. Small hands raked their way through the soft hair of his chest.  He felt the weight of her. Again that smell of earth filled his nostrils.  He entered her and felt enveloped in soil. He moved to a perfect rythm .  His being in tune with the land. His senses drowning. The sensations unlike any he could ever imagine. It was as if he could taste the land he was now laying on. He felt the warmth of sunlight on his face, the coolness of breezes in his hair, the singing of water in his ears and the soft moist earth against his skin.  His climax rang out into the stars.


He woke suddenly.  His skin was flushed and damp and a cool breeze was making him cold.  His heart was pounding against his chest and his legs felt weak and lethargic. A swift rustling drew the surveyors attention. He looked and made out the indistinct form of what he thought was an emu escaping.  As he lay back into into his bedding he felt an uncomfortable sensation on his chest.  Closer examination revealed five small scratches like those made by sharp fingernails.