Mount Superior

Mount Superior

 

I find myself 

Wondering

How rarefied the air

Must be 

On the moral 

High ground

 

Is it altitude

Sickness

That causes 

Blindness

Inability to see 

The possibility of pain 

 

Caused

By the stones of

Judgement

Rained down on those

Who don’t look

Like you

 

Who don’t think

As you do

Who don’t believe

As you do

Who don’t live

As you do

 

Many who climb this mountain

In order to comment on the

Ubiquitous cyber world of news and current affairs

Lighten their load

By leaving their true identity

At base camp

 

Some obviously have

Multiple degrees

They are psychologist

Health expert

Philosopher

Law maker….

 

This plethora of degrees

Equips them

To share their hard won

Expertise

Under intellectually inventive

Pseudonyms

 

During their gruelling

Years of training

Many miss the odd subject

Compassion

Humility

Empathy

 

Strangely

Moral principles 

Appear to have

No place on

The moral high-ground 

Of Mount Superior

 

Tricia 30/4/12

 

(Of late I’ve found myself frustrated by the rush to judgement of many media commenters. This is my response.) 

Walking to the Moon

Walking to the Moon

 

Is the name of the book

As I begin to read I love the words,

They are sumptuous and red green

But I can’t find the story

I think I have it but it keeps

Walking in another direction

Then suddenly it is inside me

Where my story is clamouring

 

I try to focus on Walking to the Moon

But I keep slipping onto the paths I have not taken

Stumbling over the words I left unsaid

Not even halfway into the book

And the clamouring

Of years of words not spoken

Force my fingers to fly over they keys

Searching for the soft sea blue

Of a story that longs to be told

 

Tricia 2009 (Inspired by the book Walking to the Moon by Kate Cole-Adams)

 

 

Fifty

 

Eccentricity has always appealed

Now at fifty I feel a freedom to be

Happy, sad, playful, joyful

All the things that are authentically me

I love teddy bears and yes I talk to them

They don’t answer me, which is just as well

There’s a line between eccentricity and neurosis

I’ve occasionally crossed it I’m not ashamed to tell

Over fifty years I have grown in wisdom

I don’t think I’ll be crossing that line again

Because I know myself and I like myself

I no longer feel any need to pretend

I walked down Chapel Street in a purple feather boa

Carrying my darling mate Ted E Bare

Some people smiled, others gave me a wide berth

But quite frankly I don’t care

What others think of me is no longer important

It’s how I see myself that brings me peace

I’m no stranger to sorrow and suffering

I walk side by side with grief

Yet within me lives a childlike joy

An appreciation for the beauty nature displays

By accepting and living each sensation that arises

I survive the sad and relish the joyful days

From this freedom to be who I am

Flows an acceptance for others to be

Authentically living in truth to themselves

We all have the right to be free

As I explore how I feel deep within

I find I love being fifty years old

I am who I am and that’s comfortably

Reubenesque, courageous and bold

Thoughtful, forthright, honest and open

Aware that I still have a lot to learn

I struggle with the concept of limitations

But I’ll get to that in its turn

Yes I’m fifty and slightly eccentric

Trying to contribute my bit to this world we all share

And ‘though fifty doesn’t look like twenty

My cupboard of beauty is far from bare

 

Tricia 12/2000

 

The above poem is almost 12 years old, but I’ve been having a wee debate with a journalist on the Huffington Post about women who play with dolls. This poem was my final retort.

Hands

HANDS

 

She couldn’t stop thinking

About hands

 

At first it was his hands

And her inability to remember

Their look

Texture

 

     The way they felt

     As they tousled her hair

     After he touched his lips

     To the top of her head

 

          The warmth of them

          Cupping her breast

          Thumb teasing nipple

          Gentling her into sensuality

 

               Their comforting circular rhythm

               Easing her into sleep

               On nights her mind

               Roared and raced

 

Conversely she could never forget

How cold and heavy they were

When she lifted them to her lips 

For one last kiss

 

The hands of a clock

Winding down

As the mechanism of her life

Slowed

Once simple tasks

Now as daunting as Everest

 

Her own hands

Gripping the handles 

Of her walking frame

Tenaciously gouging 

Independence

From an uncooperative body

 

Hands of strangers

Tentatively offered

Gratefully accepted

As she struggled

With the minutiae of life

In public places

 

The hands of family and friends

Reaching out

Giving comfort and assistance

Wrapped around the handles of her wheelchair

Pushing her lovingly

Back into the gallery and theatre of life

 

Tricia 03/2012

 

au revoir

au revoir

 

I turned in the night to find your arms around me

we spoke

our words deep blue sapphires

dancing amidst soft white clouds

we kissed

our kiss the burnt orange of summer’s sun

sinking slowly into the ocean

we held each other

until the dream ended

and death

claimed you

once more

 

Tricia

This was my first post on the blog. Decided to repost as a way of  getting started again.

Hibernation

As the title suggests I have been in blog hibernation for a couple of weeks. I have almost 200 unread emails in my inbox, and may not have time to read them all. I will return to the blogosphere next week. Every now and then I just have to take a time out. Hope you are all finding the words.

Bye for now. Tricia

Valentine

Valentine

Valentines Day
Was never on their radar
Love was for life
Not once a year
She knew she would never
Have what once was
Life and time
Changed and moved
And she would never again
Be the same
But the knowing could not stop
The longing
To be held once more
In the arms of the long dead
To see again the sparkle
In the eyes of love
To touch the cheek
With its hint of stubble
And the laughter
Oh how she missed their playtimes
She wondered when
If ever
The knowing would become
Acceptance

Tricia 14/02/2012

Luscious Life

Luscious Life

 

Rain falling
Nature calling
Grass succulently sweet
Caressing weary aching feet
Sagging breasts once soft white petals
Glistening where rain drops settle

Neither Botox nor fancy creams
Can fulfil ethereal dreams

Open heart

Weeping sky
Dance naked

Learn to fly

Tricia 22/11/09

 

Anniversary

Today was my 42nd wedding anniversary, my 3rd without my Rod. I tried to make it a day of celebration but sorrow had its way with me.

Anniversary

I lunched alone

In a restaurant that was not “ours”

Because “ours” would have been

Too painful to contemplate.

As I celebrated our love

And our life together

Your absence was a thirst

That today

I tried to quench with alcohol

Cosmopolitan to begin

Followed by 3 bloody mary oysters

Soused in vodka

Then white wine from Western Australia

And finally Butterscotch Schnapps with coffee

The food looked delicious

But my tastebuds were deadened

By grief

Sobriety stayed

No amount of alcohol

Could ease the missing of you

On this our 42nd wedding anniversary.

Lunch is over

I am left with a headache

Nauseous at the thought of alcohol

Knowing there is no answer for absence

Tricia 7/2/2012

THE FOG THE DUCK THE LITTLE WILLY WAGTAIL AND ME

 

The Willy Wagtail

 

 

Some years ago I was staying in the city for a conference. My accommodation was at the edge of the Melbourne CBD in Victoria, Australia, opposite the beautiful Fitzroy Gardens. The following prose poem is the story of a wonderful early morning experience I had in these gardens. And yes it’s true, I talk to ducks, birds, dogs, even teddy bears. The above photo is courtesy of Wikipedia. I couldn’t find a foggy photo.

 

THE FOG THE DUCK THE LITTLE WILLY WAGTAIL AND ME

 

I roll up the blind, see the fog, it calls to me “Come out and play”. I experience a sense of excitement as I hurry through my shower and pull my clothes on. Blow waved hair, makeup, these things no longer important.  The fog! I want to be part of the fog. I hurry downstairs, cross the road and run into the park. Drops of moisture caress me as I break through the fog’s mysterious, seemingly ever moving blanket. I can see it before I reach it but when I arrive at the place it appeared to be it is no longer visible to me.  This fills me with a sense of wonder; I giggle with glee at the fog’s game of hide and seek. As I move deeper into this wintery world I turn to find a high fence of fog surrounding the park. I hear the muted hum of the peak hour traffic, but it has disappeared from view.  It is as if the park and I have been magically transported up into the clouds. I walk towards the pond where a duck swims in the icy cold water. He looks black, but as I get closer I see the subtle rich green of his back. I speak to him “Good morning Mr Duck, you are very beautiful. Aren’t you cold swimming in that water?” He opens his beak and honks his reply. I can’t speak Duck but I sense on the deep important level we understand each other. I tell him “I’m sorry I didn’t bring you any food. I was in such a hurry to get out and play in the fog, I forgot. I’ll bring you some tomorrow.” He again opens his beak and honks.  “So long Mr Duck” I say. He honks, swims in a circle, then glides off. I return to my game of trying to catch the fog. I chase it but it outruns me, I try creeping up on it but still it eludes me. I sit on a seat to rest; go inward to that place of synthesis where I sense an analogy between the mystery of fog and the quest for total understanding. We may never be able to grasp either fully, but what joy filled, enlightening experiences we have if we try. As if to consolidate this insight, a little Willy Wagtail lands on the seat beside me. He entertains me with his dance, which is a combination of little hops and great flourishes of his beautiful tail. As his performance ends I experience an enormous sense of gratitude for the mysterious beauty of the fog, the duck, the little Willy Wagtail and me.

 

Tricia 24/7/98