When the last butterfly flutters by your seat on the grass When the sun moves overhead in one more timeless pass When the creek’s empty water flows by and on When the creatures of the bush all around you have gone Will you sit and reflect on what could have been When you knew it was coming it had been foreseen Will you ask why you didn’t when there was time and you could While you sat on the grass thinking I must then I should
It was the idea I loved. But, first came the words. The words were, “A winding track.” The words became the idea. The idea developed.
The idea of a two wheel dirt track ahead. It winds up a wooded hillside in the golden hour of late afternoon. This romantic winding track, no destination in sight, no point of origin, beckons. It’s mystery entices.
So, I now find myself travelling this track. I’m leaving things behind and I am excited by the unknown destination ahead. I am savouring the journey.
Savouring, now there’s a word! A word to savour. A word begets an idea, begets a reality.
Ah, here is the real joy, the savouring. The pleasure in the journey, the exciting anticipation of getting there. Wherever there may be.
I sit on my green cane chair The best chair for thinking It is outside It has the advantage of being in a good place A verandah from which there is much to see Even if the weather is cold it is in the right position because the wind slides past laterally In this chair you can avoid confronting winds of change You can sit here for a long time confident you won’t have to move or make way for someone or something You can watch all sorts of things unfold from this chair Insects birds animals people the day the night the light Seasons pass you by I unfold from this chair This is a sitting for thinking chair It gives access to great scope for thought A matching cane table stands by this chair It is for all the paraphernalia I choose to utilise for observation and thinking for research recording and writing Endless cups of tea Vegemite and salad rolls Fruit nuts stacks of books Pens paper Camera iPad and phone Background noises surrounding this chair are soothing Creek water tumbling over rocks An irregular breeze wafting at leaves Morning song birdsong evensong Another nice sound I often hear from this chair is children playing Always happy to be outside In cooler months running along the bush track In summer swimming in the waterhole by the bridge or excitedly calling to each other as they splash about amongst the cascades You need to wear a brimmed hat sitting in this chair regardless of the season This is to shade your eyes from the northerly and westering sun To balance the glare against the shadows on the surface you are working on This chair has soft cushions for the seat and for the back They rest against its structure of bent cane It is a very good fit You can sit for a long time before needing to move However, the arms of this chair are narrow They may confine you to a limited range of positions This has the advantage of forcing movement This state of affairs is conducive to constructive thinking by prompting physical activity around the house along the verandah in the garden along the creek Such activity can be necessary to continue to be effective A mental activity reset New approaches come with a reset Quite often they are so new you get a pleasant surprise This is because you didn’t know they were there within you beforehand Another way to reset is change the scene move this chair to the edge of the verandah or reorientate A different outlook New space New thinking You have to remember to take the cushions in every evening to stop them getting damp They get tired and worn They are due for a new skin Just like me This chair is exposed to the elements One day it won’t be there I wonder will another chair be so generous?
Breathe with the moment
Focus the eye
Tune the ear
when poems are nigh
Be transported
To experience afar
Adventure and romance
Illumination of stars
Poems are companions
For very good reason
For poets are adventurers
Beyond bounds of the seasons
Beyond bounds of the earth
No measure of their worth
Can keep words from welling
Can restrain the work of telling
They convey feelings through
the art of painting with words
Not read before not seen or heard
Beautiful weavings that awaken our hearts
To the emotions of others who cannot impart
Anonymous poems from times immemorial
Modern poems with layers to peel
Poetry is the magic carpet
Flying to places unknown
Ride on the carpet and know you have grown
These characters are buffoons.
Full of laughter they rail at you.
Carping and harping blaming all.
Innocent of everything when the law calls
Dangerous in their own special way.
Ready to trick and seize the day.
Yet by their pompous humorous demeanour.
You’d think all would have seen it sooner.
The vile attempts at undermining.
The rotten values they’ve been hiding.
Self confident enough to infect the masses.
Rich enough to corrupt all classes.
Replete in vanity self-declared divine.
So full of shit they make shit shine.
Larger than life with seismic crows.
Ready (not) to be the one big (side)show.
That clamorous reed warbler
With the protracted breeding song
Passages of enamouring power
Designed to bring along
A partner for the season
With whom to court and spark
To share nesting in long reeds
At the edges of the lake
I do not know the words
Of this loud and spirited song
Launched from this small bird’s throat
Into the gathered avian throng
In the early morning,
at the end of each long day
Persistent and single minded
Seeking a mate to hold in sway
But the message is clear and proud
I am the one for you
Come to me my darling
Let’s see what two can do
My view of the world is not an honest view because my expectations interfere. My ego inserts itself into every unconscious and conscious perspective. I create altered realities for bending the world I see toward addressing my wants. This constant aspiration engenders a manipulative restlessness within my persona. I look, see, expect and act accordingly, never finding the time or mental resilience to resist. Never engaging with the appreciation of a moment or the truth of where I am.
The more I understand this, the more I seek to stop, observe, contemplate and appreciate. I try to place myself differently in the world, as within rather than without, as an internal part rather than an external entity, as influenced rather than influencer. I think this practice is helping.
When Sissy
went into the water
I followed.
Naturally.
Because I,
a younger brother,
had an older sister
I adored.
Well, what else is a sibling
water daughter for?
I saw her wavering figure
deep down ahead,
cutting through
crystalline
mountain water
like an arrow.
Streaming effervescence.
I saw her
touch the bottom
of washed sand,
of rounded stones
smoothed by years
of grinding,
with a pat of her hand.
Box ticked.
Camp task
number one
accomplished.
River mastered.
She rose then.
A lithe silver nymph
spearing her way to the surface.
And I knew I was in trouble,
as I
continued down.
Caught by the current
like one of those
smooth stones,
tumbled and bumped,
grated and ground.
I had no hardened surface
to resist the battering,
no thick skin
to soften defeat,
no awareness
of up or down,
no ability
to swim or float,
not even the desire to flap about.
I just froze,
one with the chilled water.
Not desperate,
not fearful.
That would come later.
I was
simply,
absolutely,
completely,
unable to comprehend
how I could find
myself here.
What did it mean
exactly?
Incapacitated
by lack of learning.
Paralysed
by ignorance.
Alone,
for the very first time
in my very short life,
the refracted sky
above was still blue,
the fluffy clouds
were still white,
the trees on the bank
were still green.
I,
however,
remained unseen.
The water became
my atmosphere,
thick,
tangible.
The known world
began to disappear.
The water
filled my ears.
Sound disappeared.
The water
filled my nose
and my mouth.
I couldn’t call out.
The weight
on my chest grew heavier.
I couldn’t breathe,
anything,
but water.
As I head
toward the door
Questions
head my way
Where are you going?
Walking.
Where to?
It doesn’t matter, I say
Walking
a destination in its own right
Walking
the easiest way
we can fully engage
With the natural world
In walking
we place ourselves
at a new destination every minute
we escape ourselves
And we expose ourselves
to genuine experiences
of our surroundings
and the elements
on the human scale
What will you look for?
I smile
knowing whatever I look for
I will also find many things different
I don’t need to look
for anything in particular
because I will find
small parts of everything
Walking always takes me there
Cold, wind, sleet, sun, rain, wood chopping, fire, magpie release, novel reading, photo learning, koala watching, glass and nail collecting, vegmite roll, tea, miso, water, Coca Cola, salad roll, apple, banana, writing, poetry, improving news, art, music and a photo a day.
Birds sit in the top of the trees
Planning attacks on insects and bees
They sit on their branches
Scanning insect sky dances
With shelter from leaves as their eaves
Birds on the end of a bough
Twitter loudly just to show how
They can talk to each other
Every sister and brother
In a way that says Hey, we know how!
Birds that forage on the ground
A set who are basically unsound
They defy law and order
Like lambs to the slaughter
Because predators are always around
Birds that drink from a dish
Do so in order to wish
For more handouts of bread
To keep them well fed
As their tails twitch and go swish
Birds that peck at a window
Are very much likely to forgo
Food on their plate
Appetite they may sate
Fighting themselves as a foe
Birds that fly in the sky
Look down and say my oh my
All the people down there
At whom we can stare
Choose to be grounded why oh why
Birds that float on the water
Think it’s the place where they oughta
Because the land is not safe
From trouble and strife
The water is a more secure quarter
Birds who love to eat worms
Queue to take it in turns
At freshly tossed compost
Of breaking down humus
Knowing a worm never learns
TT for the month of August, 2020 via the link.
When I climbed the mountain
to stand at its summit
and declare
my love to the world
I had no idea
you were preparing
to leave
down there on the flat.
To turn away from my
rugged individualism
my heroics
my boyish raffishness
I had no
idea it was coming,
your going.
No insight you might even
have entertained
the idea or could be
thinking that way.
I didn’t know I was that way,
in your way
You never told me
what it was that got
your goat.
How was I to know I had to
change to keep you
or is that?
how was I to know I could
never keep you,
no matter how
much I tried or thought
I needed too
When I came home
from my victory
and declaration to
the world below. I was
still walking on air.
On the cloud of
the conquering and
the anticipation of you
You said there was
no evidence that
was the way
I felt
and there was never
likely to be.
That I was the only
one who knew
what was going on
in my head.
You said I was
my own best company,
that I should go
back to the mountain.
Where I belonged
The way a beloved dog rests a lazy head upon your knee
The way a wooing look invites you toward mutual intimacy
The way a cup of tea slows time and calms an over active mind
The way a good book immerses you in new realities that bind
The way a word becomes a story, a poem comes of rhyme
The way a voice becomes emotion, movement becomes a mime
The way a favourite song transports you back to that special place
The way a touch can speak of love as it brushes across your face
The way a first wildflower discovered announces coming spring
The way a view from a mountain can make your heart leap and sing
The way a beautiful landscape incites gratefulness, awe and joy
The way a true love will not waste time with you by being coy
The way a walk in the forest restores hope, balance and well being
The way a look deep into the stars can change your way of seeing
The way a composted garden grows better in space and over time
The way a perception can be a knowing, a knowing can be a sign
The way a naked body is a beautiful body as long as there is beauty inside
The way a grievous loss becomes warm memory after someone special has died
The way a child’s innocence equates with unqualified trust
The way our lives play out
Live best you can
After it’s just
Dust
Their hands when they touch
Flow from rolling of wrists
Each touch is a signal
Each touch is a kiss
Their fingers are folding
On whispers and secrets
Cupped hands are holding
All ahead that will be
Their fingers trace circles
On their palms telling futures
Tender are the touches
Of their hands as their tutors
Their hands rest together
One on top of the other
Their hands mark their measure
Their harmonious hands
Their hands spread out
Open and true
Telling each story
Each soul on view
Hands hold each heart
Supporting each core
Their hands do the learning
Of what more to adore
The extension of hands
The parallel lines
Pads of sensitive fingers
Their dreaming defines
There are fists and shaking
There are dips and rise
There are quivering fingers
Before flickering eyes
When hands arc with arms
To gracious embrace
The lovers say nothing
As hands touch each face
Delicate lines are drawn
Across soft skinned cheeks
Then with touches to lips
Mouths start to seek
Two seeing hands
guide the blind
Sensuous and caressing they massage
Four hands synchronise
to breathe in kind
Entwined
in waves of love
My aubade for thee
Played lovingly
Under window thine
On morning fine
Post sleepless night
Love’s tortured plight
I sing to confess
Hand on breast
As my music plays
I see our days
Together ahead
In love’s soft bed
Rich with the melody
Of my love for thee
Listen my love
At rest above
Unto me call
To climb thy wall
Open thy window
Into which I’ll go
To lie with thee
In love’s company
Click on the link:
Click on the link
Here once on this path love’s torment
Found me quietly pleading in fear
Then twice by this way love’s sonnet
Helped me to see my way clear
As I thrice put my case love’s comet
Struck me, rendered me seer
Four times in the midst of love’s torrent
My heart stricken by love beyond peer
A fifth run to the end of love’s gauntlet
Win or lose shapes my life on from here
Diary of a Retiree: Day 247
181 days since my last diary specific entry.
Where have I been?
I have had this question a few times. Maybe it is time to answer it. I have been in a headspace called preoccupied. A week or two ago, I had a realisation. I realised that I may have finally arrived somewhere else. Where? Well, I think I arrived at some sort of understanding or reconciliation with the fact that I no longer need to be preoccupied with the concept of working under the instruction of others. It has taken eight months.
Admittedly, particularly in the last five years or so, I enjoyed a significant degree of autonomy in my work – a very fortunate and often rewarding circumstance. On the other hand, I found plenty of reasons to be dissatisfied, especially when I felt outcomes could have been better. Instead of settling systems into place, I have seen widespread and rapid change with poorly considered impacts on work groups become the norm. The recurring, patronising platitudes and executive level incompetence I have seen offered up in approaches to radical change management have been gob smacking. I have felt stymied by management incumbents and structures that do little other than promote power plays, churn and corporate memory loss. I have seen stabilising, value adding loyalty between employees and employers evaporate.
I have worked with some brilliant people. I miss and take my hat off to so many of my ICU and HITH nursing colleagues for their enormous depth of experience, their vast reservoir of knowledge, their diverse skill sets, their advanced professionalism, their teamwork and individual initiative, their collegiality and their highly-developed sense of empathy and compassion. How blessed to work with such people! I have been Supervisor, ANUM and Educator working with some outstanding Nurse Unit Mangers and fellow Educators. Very sadly, after 36 years of working in healthcare I can’t make the same observations about the medical profession. I have worked with some good medicos, but as a generalisation, I would have to say self-serving and arrogant are still the words that come to mind. The medical culture is toxic to efficient and cooperative healthcare institutions.
So, where have I been? Coming to terms with the haunting of my working past. Lifting the weight of working to protect colleagues and patients from harm at the hands of my employers.
The frustration is fading. I am beginning to look ahead, toward the possibilities of the future. The new question is, where am I going? It feels like an optimistic one.
The misting rain as light as being
The pitter patter rain of anticipation
The sun shower rain of joyfulness
The dawn lit rain of new awakenings
The driving rain of persistent harassment
The piercing rain of pain and hurt
The bleak rain of uncertainty
The saturating rain of grief
The pounding rain of anger
The cold rain of fear and loathing
The persistent rain of melancholy
The drought breaking rain of celebration
The tropical rain of surprise and relief
The tin roof rain of night time snuggles
The slanting rain of getting under your skin
The fat wet rain of things to come
The dull rain of misery
The easing rain of hope for a day
The sheeting rain of washing your sins away
The aerosol rain that never settles
The eddying rain of indefinite endings
The ominous rain of growing darkness
The thunder laden rain of shock and fear
The storm driven rain of nature’s authority
The drenching rain of no escape
The floating rain of disproportionate outcomes
The harrowing rain of oppression and spite
The lightning flash rain of vision burned
The unexpected rain of scrambling for shelter
The flooding rain of tears
The icy rain of an unknown future
The sleety rain of chilled to the bone
The sunlit rain of clarity of purpose
The dancing rain of swirling possibilities
The evening rain of contemplation
The elemental rain of fundamental outcomes
The cloaking rain of secrecy
The wispy rain of dissipation
The hard rain of death
The transparent rain of release
The soft rain of peace
The cold can bite you here. It is sharp and crisp and penetrating. In the dark of a cloudless, moonless, star bright landscape, in the nocturnal brilliance of moonlit contrasts, in the shelter of a blackened room, it stabs through the bedclothes. It targets your knees or a hip, whichever joint is most elevated and least supplied with a warming blood supply. It ices your brain.
Then the morning comes. The frozen grass cracks under your feet. The birdbaths are glazed and crazed and the world is a wonderland of white light, of reflective crystals. It’s all worth it.
Then comes the sun. Gently rising over the tree lined eastern horizon, shafts start breaking through the cold barrier in scattered beams of raw illumination. Light sprays jump from each hoary crystal bed they touch. But just as quickly, just as they commence their flashy dance, they are replaced by translucent droplets, silvery and clear, mirroring the world around them in fresh formed globules like polished convex glass.
Then the rich, thermal bath of undiluted yellow sunshine begins. It bathes our world in a warming golden glow, washing from our memory the cold that was snapping at our heels such a short time ago. We revel in it. We revere it. We relish the transition from the sharp edged winter’s night to the slow, melting, immersive onset of another glorious North East Victorian winter’s day.
