I know I’m always impatient at this time of day,
But I love it when she gets home.
I look out till I see her come around the corner,
And into our street.
The determined swing of her arms.
Her quick feet on the pavement,
The tune she hums as she walks.
She tells me it’s her favourite time of day,
Her “me and you” time.
Our “us” time,
When we cook together,
Laugh together,
Tell each other about our day.
And then bed,
And a chapter of the latest book
We’ve chosen to read.
I love it at this time of day,
…when my mother gets home.

OK! So I’m embarrassed!
But please understand,
I was just playing slightly,
And things got out of hand.
With one tiny wriggle,
The blind just kind of slips,
And before I quite know it,
I’m strung up by my tum and my hips!
I know I look pathetic,
But I’m very sore,
So please just unravel me,
I’ll mess around no more!

Why did you choose your body paint?
D’you seek approval or complaint?
Is it adornment or just tat?
What makes you want to look like that?
A symphony in black and white?
To criticise you would be impolite!,
Each stroke is loose and yet exact,
Both detailed and a tad abstract.
I really can’t make up my mind,
If this is art or if I find,
That you intend to jolt and shock,
With this, your personal ‘writer’s block’.

Originally shared by David Treadway

Our river is our lifeblood,
It’s here we bathe and often drink,
It’s where we go to wash our clothes,
It is a giant sink.
We try to build our towns close by,
So we gain from its largesse,
But some of us walk for mile on mile,
Just to clean a dress.
The river’s flow is strong and hard,
It weathers any drought,
So it is our perfect treasure,
Of that there is no doubt.

Looking through a glass,
Through another,
Times six,
I see a transparent tulip,
Unfurling.
Do you?

I don’t mind saying, there’s no mistake!
I REALLY do love birthday cake.
I’m always happy as a clam,*
With a Victoria sandwich spread liberally with jam!
Or a really lovely chocolate sponge,
So I can cover my face with cream and grunge!
So don’t hold back, just load my plate,
I’ve an empty stomach, my need is great!

* an American expression mes in ecstatically happy.

Riding the boxcar,
Clickety clack,
I’m not travelling far
Just to Tulsa and back.

Riding the boxcar,
Through the still of the night,,,
Just the hum of the engie
The wash of the lights.

Riding the boxcar,
As the sun starts to glow,
We’ve come down from the hills,
Onto a barren plateau.

Riding the boxcar,
Clickety clack,
This journey’s a treat,
Travelling to Tulsa and back.

Smell and taste,
The two most evocative senses,
The tantalising scent of baking bread,
And I am instantly transported to my grandmother’s kitchen,
Her quick, agile hands kneading the dough,
Her soft, dulcet voice explaining the alchemy of baking to young, eager ears.
The salt, seaweed wind coming off the ocean,
And I salivate, just thinking of the first oyster my father shucked for me,
And the sweet, sharp taste explosion as it slipped down my throat.
I do not need to see the spices I eat to travel around the world in a heartbeat,
One tiny frond of coriander in my mouth,
And Thailand bursts full-throttle into my world.
Bite into an olive and I am transported,
To Provence on a sultry summer’s day,
The perfume of wild herbs in the air.
Smell and taste,
The two most evocative senses,
Because they are inextricably linked to memories,
Both good and less good,
But all brought to sharp focus in that instant of savouring, smelling,
A “soundbite” of my life.

I found this very perfect spot in which I thought I’d sit.
The truth is that it’s just my size, and there’s nowhere quite like it.
If I sit here quietly and pretend that I’m the sphinx,
You might let me keep my cat nap pot forevermore methinks

A camel train
On a stretch of sand,
Under a herringbone sky.

A sheet of water, incongruous,
Reflects back the long, patient line,
Echoes of a distant past.

An empty landscape, yes,
An expanse of water, unusual,
Except that this picture is Australian…