Author: colleen

my grandchild

colleen General, Poetry , , ,

Becoming a grandparent is a special experience. I have written lots of poetry about my grandchildren.
This is the first and only poem in this Anthology
A Call to Listen. However i am hoping to gather them all up at some time and put them together for the family. Some of you will relate to the sentiment in my grandchild

my grandchild

gathered up
in my arms
warm and snuggled
is my grandchild

a tiny hand reaches out
to explore my nose
it grasps my glasses
my earrings fascinate

eyes shine with curiosity
smile with delight
laughter is bountiful
and this tiny warm body melts me

i whisper it is a beautiful world
and it is

yet in the background
i know it too is a troubled world

my eyes mirror a world of love
and i hold this precious baby ever closer

rainy day woman

colleen Poetry ,

I stood outside a small intimate Art Studio in Roseville, waiting to meet a friend to share a meal and movie.
A painting in the window, caught my imagination.
I hope these words capture the beauty and mystery of my experience.

rainy day woman

oil paint drizzles
down a canvas
raining over
brushed collaged skin
alabaster
nuanced buff pink

a softly curving body
lies naked across a bed
open
a sacred text

orange cushions
luxuriate around her

chin rests on bent arm
fingers pensively
touch a lower lip

eyes
lowered
hold her mystery

at a takoyaki bar

colleen Poetry , , ,

Recognising and meeting a woman, one has not met before is a feat anytime, but in the busy streets of Tokyo it is more so.
One of my students from The Aromotherapy School in Toyko came to Sydney to study at Nature Care in Sydney, and her mother wanted to meet me as she want to hear about her daughter and to know more about Sydney. As a mother of a daughter I deeply understood.
Two mothers of daughters meet and spend the afternoon together.

at a takoyaki bar

by her smile in a sea of faces
on a busy street in Tokyo
we find each other

she elegant petite Japanese
I Australian in jeans jacket and backpack
her daughter our connection

at a takoyaki bar
we two women two languages
tell the stories of our lives
deep mesmeric wells of story
as one can only do with a stranger
with the distance for perspective
noticing the far can be near

with banter of nods and laughter
we chat and listen
listen
with heart and eyes

and with common feminine symbols
we understand each other

our sharing a shuttle
pulling weft across warp
no beginning no end
our fabric of conversation
seamless
and silence part of the weave
we enjoy the aroma of takoyaki
as it is prepared and cooked
share the meal
and together sip green tea

Takoyaki is a sea food dish, a Japanese specialty
cooked and served with ritual at the table sprinkled with bonito flakes and aonori

rendezvous

colleen Poetry , , ,

The following poem was written from a memory of a rendezvous. There were no words. Few would have noticed it. Early one morning sitting at a small outdoor restaurant on a narrow cobbled street just off the exciting Plaza Major having breakfast in Madrid, Spain . Yes we were people watching and we witnessed this exchange.

rendezvous

she plumply blooms
flowery blouse
curved simple skirt
bobby pinned hair
round smiling face

she sweeps the cobbled stones
around the entrance
to her shop on calle de zaragoza
tourist route to madrid’s plaza mayor

she moves to a rhythm
her sweepings her friendship offering

glances down the narrow way
then waves and blushes

the street cleaner in his eco-truck
moves towards her
nods
eases around her about her
his wet angled spinning brooms roar
he smiles and continues on

glowingly she looks after him
content with her rendezvous

she is flower enough

colleen Poetry , , ,

The following poem was written after a visit to the fruit and vegetable markets which is around Homebush area. It was early morning as we wanted to be there before the crowds to find red roses for a wedding. We bought roses from quite a few stalls and here I express a moment of one encounter of this early morning. A slow motion, stand still moment, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the markets.

she is flower enough

loose hair caresses her shoulders
its pink streaks fall over her face
a shy flick
reveals a golden gypsy earring
and eyes that spark new bloom
the freshness of dawn

I reach out my hand
to touch the black velvet
in the folds of her red roses
and look up into her smile
catch her gaze

like pushing pause on a remote
the noise and haste of the flower markets
its busy orbit of colour and perfume
acrobatic swing of boxes and buckets
of tulips carnations and lilies
the pirouette of forklifts
the bustle
the call of bargains and buys
become still and mute

life rushes back
a trance broken with my whisper
three bunches of red roses please

sisters

colleen Poetry , ,

The following poem was written for my sister Margaret.

 

 

 

women on beach classic

 

sisters

we lunch together
in a cosy organic café
roast pumpkin soup with crusty bread
turmeric and ground peppercorns

share familiar laughter
love of being together

we celebrate
the milestone of another decade
and that word ‘remission’
a green shoot springing
from the scarred black earth

we drink melon and apple juice
for their vitamins and minerals

and splurge
with a lust for life
home-made lemon and lime tart
with fresh whipped cream
topped with a slice of fresh lime

toast with a glass of bubbly
joie de vivre

from my bedroom window

colleen Poetry , , , , , ,

lorikeet.

One of my best friends from my school days is in a rehab hospital after hurting her back. I visited her today and found the place rather depressing being confronted with the world of rehabilitation, age and struggle of those trying to get better. The most beautiful time of my visit was a short walk we took into the garden and both of us stopping and watching two Plovers or maybe the cousin two Masked Lapwing feeding and chatting and busy about minding their space.
Such a rewarding experience. We couldn’t see the eggs anywhere (they lay them in the grass) but both parents were making their raucous ki ki ki ki call every now and then and continued to forage in the grass ignoring us. Their uniform black and grey and white with their yellow neck decoration makes them distinctive and they were enjoyable to watch.

I call this a moment of grace for us both. Some could say a triumph of light over darkness. Moments of grace so often a gift from nature, change us – our perceptions, our perspectives and our lives. I feel the following poem taken from the section called The W, The Web,, plumbago,eb from A Call to Listen speaks of this.

from my bedroom window

a low aching sky
colour of wet elephant skin
swathes its heavy hide around me
a tunic for a warrior woman

blue flowering plumbago
laden with rain droplets
quivers in the breeze

a rainbow lorikeet dangles
from a drooping grevillea

the yellow-ribboned spider
orbited in diamond splendour
awaits her prey

the rusting gutter weeps a spangle of tears
ripples rhythmically the puddle it makes
its slow-tapping beat
becomes the music of this silver-slated day

A New Poet Discovered

colleen General , , ,

At our U3A today I was introduced to a new poet, a Scottish poet Kathleen Jamie born in 1961, and in 1994 picked as one of the ‘new generation poets’. Some of her poems use quite a bit of Scots ( which I discovered is different from Gaelic and Celtic languages.) Listening to her reading her work on Youtube helps to appreciate her writing. Thanks to Betty who introduced our Poetry Appreciation Group to this new work.
I would like to share this small poem Landfall by Kathleen Jamie

Landfall

When we walk at the coast,
and notice, above the sea,
a single ragged swallow
veering towards the earth
and blossom scented breeze,
can we allow ourselves to fail?

It reminds me of that equisite poem The Death of The Bird by A.D. Hope beginning:

“For every bird there is this last migration;”

and my favourite story The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde

“Little swallow, little swallow will you stay with me one last night?”

I am sure both these references can be read on google and a wonderful experience will be had to find them.

early morning rain

colleen Poetry ,

Mornings bring a new day, a new freshness. Even in the rain, mornings are new and the pains that are with us and the aches that beset us looks different once the new day begins. The following is a poem I wrote expressing the transformation that comes once we are up and out walking in the morning. It belongs to the section in A Call to Listen called The Web

early morning rain

mouth wide open
tongue thrust out
to jab the flat metallic sky
jolt it into action
eyes tightly closed to taste
the full sensation of the rain
kerplopping on my tongue

fresh manna from heaven
its tickles make me laugh
showers down my throat
into the marrow of my bones
arms high with cries from my heart
more please more
it falls pelts against my body
i jump in delight splash
down into puddle

the sky crying
cleanses make new my body
wracked with sobs and bitter salty tears
wept through the night

the web

colleen Poetry , , ,

waiting_spider_web

This is the second section of my poetry book A Call to Listen that you will get to enjoy, one poem a day to think about. It has 13 poems in this section about life and the moments and memories that are part of that. Enjoy.
This first poem actually called the web which the section is named from, was about one day I was sitting in the garden admiring a butterfly enjoying the beauty of a white azalea and the blue flowers of the plumbago. She flitted about amongst the flowers as if all her christmases had come at once.

Meanwhile I was also admiring the yellow black striped spider . . .her web across the shrubs. I had earlier admired the beauty of the web with the jewelled dew sparkling in the early sun. It was dry now, but I could still see the web. When the encounter happened I jumped up in response and cried out ‘no’ but the whole thing was almost instantaneous.

spider web
” . .it spins out
jewelled glistening dew . . ”

the web

curves and lines orbit
between the slate blue plumbago and the white azalea
illusive in the stare of the day it spins out
jewelled glistening dew
long dried as noon had come

a butterfly in flights of fantasy
each interlude on its terms
flits and flirts with a shimmer and quest
communing with the nectar of life

its next encounter a delicious tangled seduction
contortionist struggle into the stillness of surrender
the yellow-ribboned spider winding with nimble fingers
caressing touch a consummation