Ocean

The steam rises languidly from the water, wafting and twisting and curling toward the cracked white painted roof. Tendrils of steam however make for the gap that breathes icily into the room, whispering secrets of what lies beyond. And beyond is where my eye travels. Captured by the long and generous vista that paints a vision of other in that plot where one only expects a skyline.

I think for a moment about the birds. The cockatoos white and proud in their yellow head pieces and more lately, the Gallahs (subtle, demure, impressive). They too look toward that ocean vista. Our senses are drawn there by the crashing, booming, swishing all of it gentle to the ears but dramatic to the eye. I wonder if they are impressed, as I am, but I suspect that in fact they are just content and knowing. The way we all get when live is right, comfortable and resting on us like a feathered cloak.

I wouldn’t know about this though as my life does not rest upon me like a gentle warming cloak and it never (rarely) has. Instead it wraps tightly and harshly like a tracksuit that has shrunk to fit and I heave against, struggling but thankful for its protection.

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I carried a sandcastle home in my heart

I went down to the Sea

To breathe in the edge of the earth

To let blue horizons wash over me.

I went down to the edge of the sea

To see where everything met nothing

To let sea breeze lift fire from my shoulders.

What did I find at the edge of the earth?

I found blue light that shot through my heart

And yellow ground that nonchalantly endured.

I breathed in my edge of the Sea

I absorbed the blue breezy nothingness

And carried its complex home in my heart.

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Home song

I am not leaving my home

never.

It has bewitched me with its polka dot brickwork

The foothills sing their siren song

like mermaids

and I am ensnared

the pirate.

Each little swaying tree branch

whispers to me of forever.

Im not leaving my home

never.

 

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Realisation: And I love you

Missing you is like an underground spring that never runs dry

I refuse to call this grief. So Mundane.

When you left I did not understand what you had taken with you

Now I look around for things buried underground

and I cry invisible tears that streak through my soul washing little pieces of hope away with them.

Missing you is like an underground network of caves in New Zealand.

I refuse to call this grief. Someone else’s word.

The hole you opened up when you died does not seal over

rather it leads somewhere else, endlessly burrowing further and deeper into new unexplored places

as I realise you are missing from my future and now also my past. Two places I need you the most.

Missing you is like an emptiness that no analogy can cover

call it what you like

I miss sitting on that red couch holding your hand and talking

you seem to have taken a piece of my mother with you and also the walls to my family

but I realise that there is nothing I can do to rebalance the unfairness of it all and I love you.

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Dinner with Oma

A family of food in memorandum

I step into the cold, grey box

water drips dow the walls, starting it’s journey in the roof but never quite making it to the floor

it freezes somewhere along the way

making icicle artwork that no one will enjoy.

“We have green, red or blue” he shouts from somewhere down the back

what do you want mijn lieve?

I want all three but I am shy and grateful and excited, too excited.

I stare at the grey concrete floor, eyes scrunched tightly closed

wishing for anything, hoping he will not take my shyness as rudeness

an icypole.

I step into the shadowy, patterned hallway

Sulfur crested cockatoo stares menacingly down at me from the wall

he cannot screech but his gaze holds meaning enough

The brocade patterned wall starts chiming

Dong, Dong, Dong, Dong, Dong, Dong, Dong,Dong,

revealing ornate timber cuckoo clock that was almost swallowed by the patterned wall

but has now made itself known with its call.

Dong.

welkom heten. Kiss kiss.

Mijn Oma begroet mijn mama en papa

Dong.

We step into another room

more patterned than the last.

red and black swirling carpet swallows our footsteps

velvet brown armchairs sit silently with brown patterned settee

Silently I stare at the table laden with cheese, roggebrood, pickle and steaming dumpling soup

but my eyes flicker longingly to the ornate glass jar hidden in the timber and glass depths of the sideboard

the lolly jar.

 

 

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working

working

my children miss me

and I miss myself

the floors are dirty

and I have other more important things to do.

The modern metro sensitively in touch one

is left unattended

and maybe he will be snaffled by lovers, or mermaids or exhaustion or flappy birds.

working

I have it all now

(although not all of it has me)

I intend to dote on it, devoted to it

working

it pays the bills and buys the pillows

and i love it

but i miss the quiet

of simple devotion to my family.

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Two Hands

A little girl stands tall and straight, reaching high to hold on tight.
Tall man stands both strong and proud, reaching down to hold her hand.
Smoothe and strong and tanned and long
his fingers weave through hers.
Small and white and pale and light
his hands they feel just right.

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