Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all my friends, followers, readers, sneak peekers! More poetry to arrive in 2012. I am currently working on an e-book for you to read about my sojourn & writer's residency in Ireland (produced by ISSUU). The e-book will contain poetry, photography and art. Stay tuned!

Recently we found a stray kitten (only 5 weeks old) and the only group who would take it was the Cat Haven. I hope little Smokey is happy in her new home. You can donate here http://www.cathaven.com.au/donate/

Here are my two scallywags!

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Poem for the Day - My Tao Name

My Tao Name   

What do you think of my name, Joyous Lake, 

I asked my daughter over the phone, 

when I had finished deleting  

another sex site on my Twitter account. 

A loud burst of laughter followed. It 

descended down the line, over the waterfowl 

paddling the lilies and into the rivers beyond. 

Further still from the poems I had created with the 
Chinese I-Ching, an ancient Taoist symbol. The Lake 

regardless of change can achieve tranquility in 

disturbance, Chinese scholars say. Why can't 

"Bliss" and "Jude in the Mood" tell this apart 

from a whorehouse of sexual arousal. Nothing

surprises me in this virtual world, these ladies

imagining 'Joyous Lake' as a red light district. 

Might they compare the deeper soft petals of silk,

black-stringed corset to a lotus flower on a lake,

magpies in taught suspendered trees, caroling.

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Poem for the Day - Fireworks

 

Fireworks

They slumber in their corners,

In soft light, till the wind lifts

Till a first spark propels them away.

Into the new century or year

They rise half blown, exploding sombreros,

Wide-brimmed hats, ribbons of colour.

Fireworks, caught in the moment,

Pulled into voluminous splays

Of fire, handwriting the night.

Adorned by the moon, and the soft

Hands of stars their memory

Drifts onto children’s faces their small

Fingers languidly pointing

To the sky.

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Poem for the Day - Repainting the Scream

Repainting the Scream

How pretty fine it is to be born

under a blue sky. 

To watch garden roses unfolding 

their 'double delight'. The ones 

crimping out their pink skirts, 

giggling in the wind ─  

their cream undies showing. 

How terrible, then, an expression on a face, 

standing on a bridge, swirl of dark water beneath, 

a red sky full of pain. And so many 

steadfast hours going into the work 

of a silent, yet unsettling scream. 

Nothing about Edvard Munch’s scene 

will ever change. Yet, I want to repaint 

that unhappy face. Swirl his body around, 

zero in with just a tiddly-wink of smile. 

The bridge gone, water gone, blue sky 

now shouldering disheveled dobs of cloud. 

I want the man to see exquisite

lady beetles burrowing into double delights.  

I want his eyes looking out on this urban 

garden where rough beds thirst and the 

stocky butcherbird on the tippy

buoyancy of a branch, sings.

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