A letter of devotion to Miss Jane Marple

I know she probably would not approve of such outlandish sentiment, but I really do love Miss Marple. I am even a little bit devoted to her. Hercule Poirot certainly has a very lovely moustache, and very shiny shoes, but it is the little old lady whom I love the best.

Her clothes (even that silly long necklace they made her wear for one round of tele movies), her lack of sentiment, all her fabulous friends, darling. All those parties and country house visit’s. Her nonplussed attitude when people underestimate her. Her complete lack of fear when faced with grisly death or danger.

Her house. Oh how I wish I lived in her house. Quite, warm, comfortable, wallpaper, pattern layered upon floral motif layered upon pattern.

Maybe she would like me too?

Certainly she is often paired up with a nephew, or an old friend who seems quite the foil to her level headedness and straight forward ways……

So I now declare the Miss Marple Fan Club for-friends -who-may-have-been-friends, open.

Tell me I’m not alone?

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three friends

Three friends meet

new, wonderful, despicable

disjointed

life propelled forward

learning, loving, getting by

surviving

thriving

dividing.

Changes both miraculous, divine, sublime

divided.

Three friends became three women

fracture lines written on their faces

across their hands, hearts and hearths

propelling them by force

to find new lives, new friends

themselves.

Beauty and birth, business and venture 

acceptance and peace, ambition

reluctance.

But time,

eventually

drew life’s thread of three back together

this time trailing beautiful, bejewelled, gem laden lives

in their wake

so they might take three threads together and weave

life’s silken cocoon of treasure laden friendship

tightly around three friends

once more. 

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Mount Oberon

Sometimes I wonder

if we are all going to be okay

not me or you or him or her

but all of us who take.

 

But then I saw a stream

that ran brown and gold to the sea

where it did not ripple it lay like glass.

White basalt  sand it’s feet.

 

A boulder large and amber

stood sentinel with two giant friends

they had been here for forever

why would they ever absent.

 

Rocky green Mount Oberon

hung above their heads

Covered by giant Eucalypt’s

and ferns dangling their threads.

 

I stood there small and soft

ocean’s crashing filled my ear’s

the grey blue sky above me

dwarfed me with her years.

 

My head was lifted higher

to the endless sky above

never knowing some sky is smaller

or that land could speak of love.

 

With that small drop of water

and many grains of sand

the sky and endless ocean

surrounded by tree filled land.

 

I knew that life was alright

the beauty still is here

that grandeur, rock and mountain

knew little of our fear.

 

Where wave’s crash into mountains

and creek slides onto the land

age old tree’s call silently

to the sand within my hand.

 

I don’t know what she said to me

Grand Lady Oberon

but I listened with my bone’s not ears

here on Wilson’s Prom.

 

Image

 

 

 

 

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Time

Time

I can’t really be mad
at time
for leaving.
I mean
it wasn’t built to hand around.
I guess my one little quibble
if I had one
and I don’t mean to offend
dear time
(chose your enemies wisely they say).
But
do you have to take
so much with you?
I mean you have those fat little pink baby cheeks
and stubby, chubby hands
night-time cuddles
and sisterly huddles
the new baby haze
countless Summer days.
You even took my father’s gaze.
Maybe you would be so kind
as to, on occasion
fling something back from where it’s gone
for me to hold here in my palm?
a bittersweet parcel of time now gone?
Or maybe
that is called
a memory.

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Mirage

Sometimes we miss the obvious

I’m sorry.

The crackle and pop of everyday

distracts eye’s and hearts that easily wander

so I’m sorry.

The sweet silent story

stay’s under

torn asunder

and I’m sorry

it took me so long to notice

the miracle inside you.

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On fools and prophets and being 35

I miss my Dad
here at 35.
I wish he was here
to offer advice
that I didn’t need in my younger years.
I think that
I would listen more
to his advice and
dance differently
with the wisdom contained within.
Wisdom is precious
when you reach this age and find it lacking
abundantly
around.
I still wonder why
such a wise man is gone.
No rhyme or reason that I can read
although the mind logically seeks one out
when fools prosper
and prophets cease to breathe.

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On fools and prophets and being 35.

On fools and prophets and being 35.

I miss my Dad
here at 35.
I wish he was here
to offer advice
that I didn’t need in my younger years.
I think that
I would listen more
to his advice and
dance differently
with the wisdom contained within.
Wisdom is precious
when you reach this age and find it lacking
abundantly
around.
I still wonder why
such a wise man is gone.
No rhyme or reason that I can read
although the mind logically seeks one out
when fools prosper
and prophets cease to breathe.

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