I make things. I’m interested in how we use storytelling.

A Story in Rhyme

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Painting by Nirdesha Munasinghe, licensed from Shutterstock.

A girl left her home one day
followed her feet away
knowing, she could no longer stay.

Tied to her wing
was a heart on a string
It was all, that she needed to bring.

She walked through the wood
where the monster-boy stood
Sneering his notice from under his hood:

‘Crazy creepy little me
Once tied my heartstrings to a tree
There was no one around
when the tree hit the ground
But of course, there wasn't a sound’

‘There’s none that will hear you, there's none that will see
There's no one to witness, what happens to thee.’

‘Oh good’, said the girl — ‘then I'm where I should be;
When it broke from the tree, it floated to me
I’ve come to return it: your heart back to thee’. …

Wearing Love Makes us More

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Photo by Vitae London on Unsplash

With my Love Pants pulled up,
It’s not that absurd, for me to imagine Angels
Leaning over each blade of grass,
Whispering softly, ‘Grow, grow, grow…’

With my Love Pants pulled up,
It’s not too Grand of me, to observe
that we; that you and I, might Matter
to the Whole, to the Entirety

And with my Love Pants pulled up
I was able to sit, with my heart screaming inside me
And stop my eyes, from looking away,
From the horrifying violence, of a Brother’s parting

And now, with my Love Pants pulled up, I Bear Witness
to the collapse, and to all to the Wonderous Beginnings
And I whisper into the storm, into the Winds of Change
‘Grow, grow…

My Floating Childhood was Anchored in Leadlight and Woodwork

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Photo by Jack Douglass on Unsplash

Dad’s in his Workshop — All’s right with the World

My family traveled and moved a lot (over great distances) as we grew up. We lived in many homes, but the constants in all these homes were always a sewing table in the lounge room and a workshop out the back or under the house. I write about my mum quite a bit because I still sometimes reach for the space that she left when she passed, but I rarely mention my dad. Because, well, — he’s always there.

My mother used to get restless and go ‘walkabout’. She’d take her car and go places. Sometimes she took us, kids, with her. Sometimes for weeks on end. …

A Poem

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Photo by Suad Kamardeen on Unsplash

I don't want stars
or fairy lights
in trees too green
for summertime

coconut snowflakes
or sparkling red wine
Mama, I hurt
I want Big Love

I don’t want more stories
from far away
Some child, not mine
yes, let him be safe,
let him lie warm
by his own mama

Tell me the stories
you used to tell
Your own Big Love
How did you say?

That’s right; my hands, my tiny hands
were your own Big Love
all that you were
and wanted to be —

Mama, I love
I have Big Love

This year I missed my mother more than most Christmases, and I remembered a story she told me when I was sad. Even when I was a teenager and an adult, about how my tiny hands were dear to her. Remembering this story, I knew what it was to be cherished and deeply appreciated. And holding that gift, that knowledge in my heart, made Christmas joy, easy to do again.

A Poem, a Tale, from before ‘The end.’

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Photo by Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash

For starters, our home —’twas never a shoe.
Only tied to our door, was a boot without laces,
With flowers to sell, to the Little-to-do;
Left by Eliza — who we lost to the races.

Nor were we whipped, or beat with a stick,
There wasn’t the time; far too many to mind.
That idiot Jack, who thought himself quick;
Rhymed for the littlies — and he was not kind.

We were each left alone, in the wild world to fend,
Breadcrumbs didn't matter, we weren't wanted, I fear. …

Via an Argument over the Phone

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Photo by Segun Osunyomi on Unsplash

My Brother's Girlfriend
On-again, off-again, who could ever say?
Were they ever going to — we just stopped asking
Then, this year we heard; she was coming to Christmas
Mentioned off-handedly, but we, all of us knew
That this, this was going to be something new.

My part of an argument (and no, I'm not proud of this)
Hey bro, I’m about to walk into the station…
I’m booking our seats — Wait, why aren’t you awake?
You’re picking us up — The little one and I; Who else, you twit?
What, don’t tell me you haven’t got a child’s seat yet? …

Some Thoughts on Hope

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Photo by Nathan Bang on Unsplash

Hope springs out of my potted geraniums

Hope springs eternal, right here in my overgrown back garden. Yes, from that geranium pot right there, next to the Buddha statue, drowning under the overgrown lavender (or whatever they are). Of course, it’s hope — what else could keep bringing that geranium back from the sheer level of neglect it receives? Every year, I only remember the pot is there when the geranium actually flowers. Then we water it for the Buddha.

In all seriousness, I did sit outside with my coffee this evening and wonder at this geranium, which I only just noticed had been flowering again. I was bone-deep tired — Resting my eyes and mind on the geranium rejuvenated my spirits. I don't think I need to explain this; we all know about this kind of magic. (Could there actually be any poets without nature-gazing, I wonder?) Anyway, after a little while, the geranium kind of popped out like it was backlit (and ‘hope springs eternal’ came into my head). And the backdrop of my garden pulsed to life for me in a way it hasn't in a while, and in those moments I was excited to write again and I had some thoughts about…

On the Eve of a Planting

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Photo by Nikola Jovanovic on Unsplash

It wasn’t always a Seedling, merely a Seed
But I’ve carried it always, somewhere on, about me
Pressed against my comfort, knotted in my rest
It bruised and it turned me, like the princess on her pea.

Often, I tried to ask me, I did really want to see:
What is it we have here? Why does it ache so, this vision of me?
But whenever I did look, I saw with my mind
and sadly, that’s all I could see, so
Each time I decided, it wasn’t for me.

The Seed had a price tag and the price was too high
All it was asking, was more than I was
And all that is mine, was not mine to give
Yet I yearned — just to hold it, just for a moment to dream. …

Dream of another, older kind of Being (Neanderthal)

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Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

He Dreams…

The cells that I’m made of
dream of you

The dream that dreams me
remembers you

The pulse that quickens me
whispers of you

Luminous Stranger,
I’m a-blaze with you.

She Speaks…

Ah, Childling man, (yes, I know you do not call yourselves Childlings but as we know; so you are — weak, stringy, baby-hairless, and so ready to perish in the cold)

Think not of the valley you named us for, nor of the gravesites you know us from. You collect our bones and make such stories — it's a merry tribe-meet to hear them told.

You do well to honor our line in yours. Think us not weak, for not being there to share your time. For that is merely another Childling fancy. Remember; we did walk here for 250 longer spears than you and yours, who’ve only begun. …

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