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.

Shape of a Girl

 This album

that I hold 

in my hand

dappled with

my tear drops

of laughing

and crying

rings

with the stories

of a little girl's

now grown life.

They're told

in songs

and music

shaped by her

and a brother

who filled

his musical palette

with the rhythms

and textures

and melodies

of all her years

to sculpt

the sounds

of her stories.

This album

that I hold

in my hand

is rich

with love -

it's the knowing

photographer's eye

of a life friend

catching

that moment

of vulnerability

between smiles -

it's an artist

she calls

soul sister

wrapping her

in brush strokes

born of 

their harmony -

it's her love

caressing her

with the music

that passed

from her

through his heart

and back 

to her

as his violin

sang her stories -

it's the voices 

and instruments

of those 

who stepped over

the snoring cavaliers

to squeeze

into the studio

they called 

Tiny Dream

and into

the music

that when

it was finished

fitted so perfectly

into the shape

of the girl

and into

this album

that I hold

in my hand.

The Flower

Moving forward

step by step

breath by breath

billboard slogans

infiltrate

my mind

reemerging

from within

when I am lost

to steer me

where

I otherwise

might not go -

I hope 

I'll pass by 

a flower today

for somewhere

encrypted

in the data

of my memory

are murmurings

that

if I could see

the miracle

of a single flower

my whole life

would change.