Haiku

 

These Hands He Held

He held her hands

tracing 

the bulging veins

and the wrinkles

of a life 

and time 

together.

He laughed 

at the 

chewed down nails

remembering 

family feasts 

and celebrations

she'd planned 

and plotted 

and lamented over

and the worn places 

she'd paced

in nighttime vigils

for fevered tots.

These hands 

he held 

had weathered 

like the granite rocks

from which 

he'd built a hearth

to be the centre 

of their home -

but she

he knew 

was the centre 

of their home.

And as 

he reached 

the lifeline

on those hands 

so full 

of her stories

he held her tight

kissed her 

and gently 

said goodbye. 

(I found this stunning photo taken by Mishelved on Pixabay)

Haiku

 Sad thoughts fill her head,

paintings of dreams left behind.

Summer leaves falling.

Haiku

 All down the street

sweet scents tickle my nose ...

must be spring.

Haiku

 Elephants

running through the mist -

cloud pictures.

Haiku

  

Autumn breezes

push the leaves this way and that, 

wind serenade.

Moth Boy

 How strange 

that I should find him

sitting here at my feet 

in this music room.

I first met Moth Boy 

as he was monikered 

by my daughter 

clinging to the walls

of her nightmares 

when she was but 

a very little girl. 

He returned 

from time to time

over the years 

and each time 

I watched 

my daughter's fear 

gradually give way

to the possibility 

that Moth Boy

was bringing with him 

tidings of change

in her life.

His visits she said 

coincided with 

new beginnings 

and transformations

and fear transcended.

Moth Boy she said 

offered her his wings 

to fly above her fear

then one day 

she grew wings 

of her own

and Moth Boy 

came no more

until now 

in this music room

where I sit 

with budding wings

making ready 

to fly 

above my fear.

Haiku

 Grassy skirts asway,

playful sea breeze ups tempo.

Palm tree dancer.

In the Hills of Bangalow

 The glow 

of the fire

flushes cheeks 

munching rapturously

on sweet treats

crafted by  a wizard's 

heart and hands,

her kitchen alive 

 with the savoury aroma

of tastes to come.

Sighs of ecstasy

fill the silences

between 

the crackling 

of the logs

as comfort 

envelops the room.

Beside me, 

corduroy legs,

 shoes abandoned,

curl catlike 

on the sofa. 

If only I could 

bend far enough

to untie 

my laces.

Haiku

 Shadow puppets

dance across the wooded grove -

sun puppeter.

Wings to Fly

 I am propelled to write down

thoughts that fill my head.

Some days they're full of laughter

some days it's tears -

the days are such.

This day there's a grappling

with cruel words

coursing from mouths 

and pens uncaring

or is it just unthinking

of their mark. 

There's an unkindness 

in this world

the seeds probably sown

at the dawn of time

now propagated and evolved

into a cruel monster

lurking in this thing

called social media.

It makes me want to 

gather up my family

wrap them in my wings

and keep them safe forever

but they too have wings

and want to use them to fly

so I jam pack their hearts

with love and things

that glow in dark places

let go

and watch them take flight.

(This captivating Pixabay photo by Pexels)

Recalibration

Sometimes

I find myself

buried deep

in that icky

sticky stuff

that holds so fast

any effort 

to break free

drains resolve

and so

I stay put

deep

in the mush

until the marrow

of my existence

is restored

with injections

of precious things -

warm words

sometimes stern

but needed words

an outstretched hand

an inner voice

echoing

from my gut

that I

all too often

dismiss

in favour of

prevailing notions

of what is right

music pulsing

in my veins

a well-aimed smile

a melting hug

blue feathers

that just happen

to appear -

these joyful

wondrous things

strengthen me

to haul myself

out of the morass

recalibrate

my compass

and set forth

once more.

I Do Not Know

 Perhaps angels 

speak to me,

I do not know.

Perhaps the voice

is my Father's

long thought to be

one of Brisbane's ghosts.

Perhaps it's 

the Lakota Chief

from my days

of ouijie boards

sitting cross-legged 

on a bed

with my friend Julie

saying, 

'Was that you? 

It wasn't me. 

Are you sure

you didn't 

move the cup?' 

I do not know.

Perhaps the voice 

is mine

trying out answers

to the whys 

that fill my head

in these days

of disquietude

I do not know ...

Twenty Twenty-Two

 Post Moderna aching head

wanting to lie down in bed

but the birds are singing

and the day's brand new

the first of twenty twenty-two

and I'll be damned

if Delta and Omicron

are going to win

this war they've begun;

I'm needled and masked

and I'm stepping outside

to soak up the sunshine

and step into my life -

to walk through forests

throw my arms around trees

feel their healing vibrations

from my head to my feet -

to play bird-call bingo

as the birds sing me along

some of them laughing

when I get the calls wrong -

to smell the musty smells

that hint at the wild

and play eye spy with creatures

evolutionised to hide -

to stand under waterfalls

that wash away pain

and let the rhythms of nature

seep through my veins -

to attune my heart

to the sounds and the smells

and the life force of all things

in Mother Earth's world - 

to soak up the goodness

and take it back home

with energised chakras

that block out my qualms -

but maybe first

I'll just walk

through the park

and osmose dogs playing

in that space 

where their thoughts are.