The Egg

In the adamant yet thirsty desert
when startled by Nimbus
in a deluge of bounty,
to the riverbed, the wadis,
swift is recurrence
in the verve of life.
Happy flora
And busy little legs
seed
revival,
embark again then...

When flux gives way to
numb oaks,
iced in crystallized jackets
and later redressed by our sun
in morning song ...
buds to bloom
all luscious full colour
and perfume,
ignite again then....

When landed there you find
a speckled egg
the spots, the dots coordinate
reminders
of imperfect light,
but history shared
and a gold centred heart.
Hatch downy dreams
and bold yellow to orange nerve,
take wings and up again and then

And when happy is the New Year,
forgiving in the first month of a circle
and then and when and then again....
the egg shall hatch
a dash of light
again
and then....

Skates

Consonant to Beckett

But a boy

But a girl

Buried to the collar’s edge

In concrete snow,

But your willful volition

And dreaming

And gentle yoke

Awoke

The brightest star.

You melted ice that way.

You did,

And there

And then

With space enough to find...

A silver sterling edged pair of boots,

I watched you dance and loved you.

Did we skate?

We did,

I saw you...

Glide and slide to the bottom of nowhere

But trek on up again

To the ol’ buttermilk sky

Til the notes were all shivery relish and sweet nectar

And your words were

of fancy

of fun

of mischief and the curious dark light...

but still light

Nevertheless

And a blade turned to four wheels

Rolling the rink to that chink

Of a summertime morning

And then I loved you

Even more

For trying.

Xx

The Huddle

Then let us huddle

In our muddle

Near to nexus,

Shape a loop

And the group be

Mindedness.

Bring;

Bring yourself, bring belief, a story, your strains and stitches, an instrument, traditions, renditions of new thought and...

Food...

Invite the woman who finds gratitude

In plaited loaves,

The Rabbi and

Bat Mitzvah in

Communion with a

Host

And

Toast

With wine

Divine or pagan

But shared

And bared

Bare the contrariety

And yet

Belonging in

Togetherness

Too.

And in belonging

If there’s longing

For too much,

Fix a wheel of eight spokes

Starboard and centre

For understanding

For wisdom

Broad as the sea

For harmony

Without obstructions

And reductions

Of greed.

Some will search

For a three jewelled

Treasure,

The Measure

Enlightenment,

Placing a lotus

On the table

Or fables

From true or makeshift parables

Debated in good fun.

Bring the timeless dreaming from the dust and a red earth

 water spirits, bush ceremony

And feathers and  totems as guardians

And the conservation and preservation of taonga

Gifting mother earth life’s right.

And open spices and scents of the Indus River

Learning openness in the way of a Hindu flexibility.

Or stability in the five pillars of Islam,

Teaching generosity in charity

And the clarity of giving

As a must.

May a Sunni bring the father in law

May the Shia bring the  son in law

For dancing

And a cuddle in the muddle in the huddle...

Let the raucous begin

Or subside

Unarmed,

 always

unarmed

To break, then remake

In a punked up disagreement

But reform

Again too

The circle,

Solidarity in peace

And the I I I I

Forms a square

 in the circle with Jah

and many more ,

and more

Let us huddle

In our muddle

In our cuddle

Neath the rubble

Warm

AGAIN

XX (X INFINITY) ,

Heart of the Sea

And may the spin-drift

Lap and wrap

Lick and lace

Our ankles to fashion

True shoes.

And wade now, paddle and dive and stroke and dip and swim,

Past the promontory

And bladed outcrop of qualm.

Do not battle the breakers and plunders

Of merciful white crests and foamy zest and rhythmic to and fro.

Let them wash over your backbone while afloat and equable.

Elude snags and the roar of sunless storms set only as a voice

But not yours.

Bites, the howling wind

Of the wolf,

In a sharp clawed, saw-tooth

Upsurge of spite.

Do not feed that war within,

 and neither the pitchy black of a bottomless floor,

The darkness did not feed you, love,

Or anything to treasure in truth.

Find middle

The pulse

Fire and life

Find this love

My Love,

If you wish

Find the heart

The heart of the sea

Slow

Slow

Like the heart of the

Sea

xx

Time (The Fourth Dimension)

n3 and One

is

Time

And

The rhyme

We live in living

As those before and after

Form riddles

And

Sometimes

Shouldn’t....

Time

Heals, steals and flies...

Makes, brakes and bakes

More time...

In time

He, she, they

The makers of ideality

Of reality

Sentinels of memory,

Have seen;

A circus, a gypsy, a trap, a wreck, a playground carousel, a tempest, a shallow stream or a fathomless river, an equal share, a miser’s stare, toss of the coin or a currency in fixed parameters ...

Time the teacher

 and the school

and a golden needle

threading through impressions left of unparalleled

beauty

to re-craft new cloth.

And for me,

We

For then

And now

And after

Time is ours

And

Ours is

Time

And we belong to the past and the future and

Now

A new story

Awaits

Don’t be late

For time

Oh love xx,

If (Revisited)
My Wish to you 

I time was wish
I would make time your answer too

If beginning meant take off
I would canvas your ocean with a million astral glints
of rosy endurance.

If LOVE was liquid I would pour an eternal river of color into your every

Day

AND

your darkest eventide.

If Because was Always
Always would be my reason to
Rise with the tides
And because is because
You are a rare symphony
And the pyre
Of flaming heart
To ignite wishes
Again........

Marjory

(Is the female given name derived from Margaret which means Pearl)

Sterling Pearl,

Mother myriad,

True heart...

Augusts’ flower

We are glad

Yet pierced with

Remembrance 

In our farewell.

Ah, for us

Two small hands

One beating heart,

And yet,

As the durable reddish lumber

To a river red

Spreads her branches

Our stabilizing guardian

We too sheltered

Neath your arbor

Shaded from judgements

And finicky ways

In the pure

Light

Of day.

Baking beauty in the warmth of

A minstrel's

Recollections,

You picked the brightest leaves

And handed us the past

With a cup of tea

And sweet cake.

And we loved you,

And if that love be sorrow’s tears now

Then give her tears to the

Barmah plains

And so she will reach her beginning and into the lungs of life

Once more....

In memory of Marjory Bruton 

Her Golden Dress and Aunty Violet

Last night I dreamt of my Grandmother, sometimes known to those who had learnt to love by loving her, as Madgie May. She loved to have her hair brushed. She loved to have her hair brushed, mainly by me. I loved to brush her hair because brushing Madgie May’s hair proved the magic wand to a virtual history book and I’ve always loved history. I’ve loved history because we are made by history, every new day is a building block, every year a wall, a home that grows in a constant state of renovation and as such, history is the greatest pedagogue. In other words it’s hip to be old, provided you are a nerd who loves learning that is. The stories were of family, of truth and of dancing and music of great loss and in loss of an even greater love. And I looked forward to that kind of knowing, from someone who had lived a different past, of much less or more depending on the story, depending on my own blooming point of view. My Grandmother loved two colours most:

1) Sunflower Yellow; bright, bold, energetic, hard to tame,     balanced, a merry melody

2) Gentle Violet; calm, unusual in nature, a wonder, infinite, mythical, empowering 

And Violet was my Grandmother’s Aunt. My blog title is literally for her, Aunty Violet, who we imagined together. I suppose remembering her mother, Mary May, directly, was a little more difficult. She did speak of the loss and always quite the same way;

“Tell me about Mary, Madgie May?”

“No child should lose a mother, eight years young, so young, so love your mother, love your mother for me.”

“I’ll....now let’s talk about Violet then...”

“She lives in the flowers, do you think?”

“Yes, I think, I think she must...”

And on we would go with the story. And in those moments I wanted a garden of my very own one day. And I love gardens. And I love what gardens represent. 

From Vita Sackville West to Martha Stuart, to George Harrison, Kim Wilde, to some spiced “Sting” in your backyard chili plant and so many more, the garden is an artist’s canvas.  From Australia’s Vasile's Garden to Costa Georgiadis to Don Burke to the sway of less known but equally legitimate growers, young folk and adults and adults who have been adults for an even more notable length of time, tying back your sleeves and getting down and dirty in a bed of organic matter, actually matters. It’s safe to say, that gardening is a pursuit encompassing all walks of life and all ages from your 100 year old grower: 

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2302409/Britains-oldest-gardener-tending-rose-bushes-growing-vegetables-age-104.html

..to the Hip Hop Horticultural Society 

http://www.cbpm.org/hhhsociety.html

...to the subversive environmental pro-activism of Guerrilla gardening in the vein of Ron Finley

http://www.ted.com/speakers/ron_finley

...and everyone is welcome and I happen to think it’s great. 

Gardening of all pursuits is one of the most meaningful quests we might partake in. John Steinbeck once wrote;

“Somewhere in the world there is defeat for everyone, some are destroyed by defeat and some made small and mean by victory. Greatness lives in one who triumphs equally over defeat and victory...”  The acts of King Arthur and his Noble Knights 

One of my more personal, more humble of victories is life itself, being connected to life through nature and regrowing grief or defeat into many new beginnings. 

It’s 2015 and the real magic of spring gradually builds in our modest Coburg born garden. We await the gradual crescive of colour to peak at its greatest intensity; bulbs reborn, oranges consummate and sweet, peach trees in diminutive floret blooms, olives picked and cured by Eva over the fence, Marigolds line the path, Primroses out on the window ledge say Hello and Jasmine all the years up the arbor she has climbed and now buds new again. Our spring vegetable patch has been dressed and groomed with mulch and a straw bedding... planting awaits. 

Because I love quotes and because I love artists and because I loved my grandmother here’s a couple more to add to the curation of ourselves and to all those who bring motivation and inspiration every day;

“The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks...” Tennessee Williams

“Do you think amethysts can be the eyes of good violets..?” L.M. Montgomery 

Last night I dreamt of my Grandmother in her favorite sunflower golden silk gown and the walls of her new home were a garden now, covered in flowers and words and everything good that she had been.

Wax Wings

Aeronautic Wax Winged

Shuttle

In beauty bound

By his downy heart

A pinion to love

Or else

How is the measure

Noted

So sweet

So sweet

So deep

So deep...

Icarus not

Coniferous flame

You’re,

Neither complacent

or adjacent to any

counterfeit light in lime,

Time rider

Sky slider

And right in the middle of center.

You’re

Of gold

And warm crimson

Spotted wax melt

And

Blushing fawn

Wax winged
Winsome

Song Bird
Be True.

The Time Travellers

We, the time travelers. We, the makers of history, we the lovers, the dreamers and the ventures, the wanderers and the pioneers. We the stories in the eaves of our own hearth, born to remember and baked from the womb of survival’s greatest masterpiece, us.

It was once said that;

“Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards..”
 Soren Lierkegaard

I happen to believe in reflection, a gift of what was in what could be new again. Today I found myself gardening and pondering and remembering too, kneeling and grounded to a luxuriant bed of fibrous soil, rich and dark, soft and potentially more. Yes, Melbourne in Winter and an atomizer sky of soft pixie-dust mist had me again flying backwards, hummingbird heart to a very first experience of film, well at least for me anyway. Peter Pan was screening at the local cinema and I was to attend and I was very, very excited. All the night before, I couldn’t sleep. All the morning through, I couldn’t eat and all the wonderous moments then of cinema, for the first time, were everything and more than I could have hoped for. I decided right then and shortly afterwards there must surely be a way... a way to fly. Mission impossible? ...Not for an almost five year old spirit, not at all, for where there’s a will, there’s a way and the way was to ....dance!

First it was me and music. Oh what a partner, so versatile, so many choices, so fully alive with those floating notes that sat on the peaks and troughs of an aerial ocean, wave upon wave of delight filled sound. What a time we had, free and funny, falling and flying from one wide sofa to the open arms of a soft, safe seat. Bunched round the ankles, puckered and twisted in all the wrong ways, I was forever in tights. They were not the right size, always with room for growing taller. And taller I became and I wanted to join a class and I did just that, especially after falling in love with Leeroy Johnson in tights  willing us all “to live forever” “to learn how to fly...high..” 

I loved to dance. I practiced. I learnt the routines. I wore the right uniform. I was dressed by someone else now. It was no longer my own dance. An instructor made divisions, presented as choices;

“Large girls there, right girls here. Your costumes will need to be different..”

That summer I vowed to be right, in all the wrong ways. I lost weight so fast and it felt just like winning, shedding flesh to bare bones, lighter, down, down, down and sinking. My body was shocked.

“What are you doing?”

Warning bells rang at the loss of a menstrual cycle for the time being. I stopped dancing and I also got better, as better as I could get, in time. 

I met a boy some years on. He wrote me a letter. He said..

“Why not stand on your own two feet..”

Politely I smiled on through and up to a clock perched high in the middle of love. But I did have an answer left undelivered and the answer was..

“I am”

And the answer was 

“But I would rather fly..”

And as it was once already said, so what of this? We can do both of course. Women, men, children, stand strong, fly high and teach each other how to jump on the winds back. Be a creator, do not forget, move forwards and ask questions. And so a question can have favorites, and my favorite is this..

“ Would you like an adventure now, or would you like to have tea first?

J.M. Barrie (Peter Pan)

Artemis Dryad and The Rational Irrational

Stocks and locks and mammon trees 

Towered powered auric tease 

If rational’s the social squeeze

Then may I sir have magic please?

Risks and tricks to market bear

Well isn’t rational to care?

And rationally we cannot bare

The smirch of poverty’s despair...

If magic seeds our wonder-lust then rationally it’s true

In every visions dream my dear irrationals the clue ...

Blake, remake the chariots,, the burning yearning bow for all ...

May windmills meet the floured air, as Dryad leads our forest sprawl...

Without sedition lead the dance,

We step them left for our advance...

For art is life and life is love

And love it fits us like a glove.

Unquantifiable reality

Universal humanity

Imagination

our

ultimate

Salvation..... xx

Marigold

Love is

All in all

In every

Aggregate

Of every

Added

Trice...

There is room for

Love

A home for heart

And yards

Upon yards

Of power in dreaming...

That love

To unfurl

The deepest bud

Of hope

And hope will be our

Victor

Even over any such experience

Lived in

Pitchy rayless vaguery

Or

Lucid visible bright

And so

We shall

Win

Darling dears

We shall be victorious

Marigold

Marigold

Marigold

October will

Reign

In the rains

Of your gentlest

Spring

And the

Autumn

Of a bold orange

Forest

And for this

You shall

Shine

In all that you give

And live

And live

And live...

Mother Cyan

Mother Mother, cyan sea,

Mother Mother heart of three,

Airy breath to husky ground your bounding main

The central vein...

Planet blue, it’s you, it’s you.....

Mis-recollecting this our all

Forsakes the mandate of her call...

Patron there of every life

What might, what might,

Oh liquid light.

Those curling arms

And haloed caps

To wrap and wrap

Aquatic maps

Of life...

What strife if we should lose her....

Were she gone

So to the rain

A million spheres of sacred pearl

Muted in the toxic swirl

Of an inconvenient truth

And proof

She is wounded.

Mother Mother cyan sea

Stabilizer

Ever wiser

Thermal valve

Revolve your

Merry cycle

Protect her spirit, bide her well

Magnificent swell

Wild wonder

Soothing love

Tidal beauty

Frothy fun

Mother cyan

Mother cyan

Let us

Be

One.