Pen Pusher

2002-08-01T05:07:00.000-07:00

Garnets
A soft shaft of sunlight splashed across the dresser enlivening the deep red of an earring. It lay on the lacey cover that wove in intricate white patterns, formed long ago by one of the women of the house, though no one could remember who. The light beam also hit a crystal bowl spreading into rainbows on the dark polished wood and sprinkling coloured spots across the mirror. Lying lazily inside their crystal bed were silver chains a little twisted around an emblem here and a jewel there, a brooch in the shape of a four leaved clover sparkled with laughter. It was grandma's, though again it probably came from an older layer of the family tree originally. Tiny perfume bottles of delicate tinted glass danced together with golden trim, the hint of the east about them, their shadows rippling like a baby's sigh whenever the curtain ruffled in the breeze. The earring had a twin, unlike some others in the collection, torn from their partners when a sleeve caught them and flung one onto the ground, to be picked up by an unrelated person, or turned over and over on the ear between finger and thumb, until they simply dropped to the earth. Like the seeds of fragrant bushes, hoping to sprout a jewelled tree. The garnets arrayed in a square, the marquesites inside that, silver grey framed by blood red and backed with gold. A copy of some Etruscan design, resting peacefully upon the lace, upon the curling dark grain of walnut surrounded by light and perfume, waiting to alight onto the tender ears of a lady. Waiting to whirl around the dance floor, sparkle in the candlelight of dinner and enhance the rosey lips of a lover.

2002-08-01T05:04:00.000-07:00

Rain
Rain pelting hard
Upon the windows
Upon the doors
Upon the roof
Driving in sheets
Lashing the trees
Running in rivulets
Down the green stems
Down the brown bark
Down onto the grass
Pelting, driving, pounding
It comes in waves
Loud and insistent
Softly pausing, the silence of expectation
Fresh aromas waft now
Through the open window
Pungent and cool, mixed with grass
Mixed with lemon
Mixed with life

2002-02-04T02:06:00.000-08:00

In a Flash

Sun glitters brightly into the rooms
Penetrating to feel the furniture
Casting its warm sheets on the gateleg table to see, it has to know what lies inside
The flotsam and jetsam that hid cosily in the night time hours
Is now revealed in its chaotic piles
Waiting with some urgency to be ordered

Thursday Morning Coffee

A fly buzzes half-heartedly
Up the window pane
And then gives up
It's frenzied movements
To sit, to watch, to rub its legs together

I drink my coffee lazily
Gazing in an absent way
The glass, the water, the cup
I can't be bothered moving either

We share a moment
This fly and I
A pregnant pause
In the ever shifting patterns of life
And then the fly moves on
But I will sit a while and contemplate
......Nothing...........

Balmain 14/12/01

Sky hangs low with pregnant clouds
And the terraced buildings seem to lean
Busker on the sax surrounded by pigeons
The air is moist, palpable and soft
Summer in Balmain, in the city
Christmas buying expeditions, what to get
What to leave, where to go, parties
Sky hangs low with pregnant clouds
And the terraced buildings seem to lean

Loneliness

Sharp and creeping, a constant threat
I have truly tried and still I come home to
Nothing.....
Others have families, partners, children
But not for me, and I don't know why
Surely I am not so repulsive that not one human being
Can bear to be with me, I only have the crumbs
And to tell the truth, it isn't enough
Don't tell me others are worse off than me
It doesn't ease the pain, yes there are poor people everywhere
Poor people with families, photographed in their mothers' arms
Fathers interviewed about their wives and daughters - but not me
Don't tell me you would like my life - I wouldn't wish it on anyone
I do so much now, achieve so much, but never the one thing that I crave
Someone to come home to, to chat to at night in my bed, there's never anyone there.

Travel Titbits

And the hot wind rushes across my face swirling behind me playing with my hair
unannounced it arises coming with force a small breath and then again this way and that
rustling the trees under the hot hot sun that beats without mercy on the bitumen
on the grass on the leaves lighting up the tops of mountains with boundless ferocity
firing up the cicardas in their song like the engine of a huge truck
the landscape is filled with the noise bouncing off the sky which has retreated to an enormous height above me and in the V shape between two hills white/brown smoke sits
sits and spreads from a distant bushfire.
It is summer here now summer fierce and hot and dry -
dry as the sigh that I breathe deposited matter-of-factly on the turtle green picnic table with iron roof and concrete slab provided by some thoughful government body for weary drivers like me on their way to turquoise bays sparkling next to soft white sands and the sounds of children playing
This is Australia, Australia at Xmas time. Noel

Dutchies

Breeze across the blue
Red gum with white fluff
Like a baby's skin
Fresh green enlongated leaves
And hedge
The picnic tables
Painted white and blue
Boats rock in the water
A slight chill in the air
Bush fire haze on the opposite shore
Sprinkler on the lawn
Elements blended together
For our summer holiday up north

The Ridge

Climbing up the hill
Towards the houses
With hills hoists
The towels burnt off
And the swimming pools pumped
By exhausted firies who saved them
Saved the houses, the sheds
Not all but most
Most of all on Xmas Day

2001-12-11T02:32:00.000-08:00

The pen pushing begins in earnest tonight.