Woke to see a red sun
sitting on the ocean
first honeymoon morning
in the half-light predawn
a pause in real time
you sat up and glanced
then pulled me back down to bed
saying I was more engaging
my body better to see
hotter than the sun
kissing with closed eyes
your red hair backlit
golden and glowing
tangled all up in you
over excited by it
I hurled the pillows
to the floor
kicking off sheets
laughing like a maniac
in a frenzy
I heard a plaintive cry outside the lounge room. It usually means the finches are in danger, that either a goanna or a snake threatened.
Looking outside, I couldn’t see either. Then, 8 finches flew up from the wheel-barrow. October has been incredibly warm, but there was a cold snap at end of September. Firewood is still stacked outside.
Next to the cut logs was a tiny Double-barred Finch. It’s wing looked broken, though I wasn’t sure. Completely motionless, the bird must have hit the glass door. Its family flock were encouraging it to fly.
Next to habitat destruction, window crashes account for more loss of birdlife than anything else. Around the house today, I’ve seen a Wedge-tailed Eagle, 4 Magpies, 2 Whistling Kites, an Australian Raven on a noisy fly-past and 2 Currawongs. All meat-eating birds, any of them would devour a finch out in the open, especially one in a motionless state of recovery where the body shuts down for a time. With moist, bright brown eyes, the life signs are good. …
A let down.
Seems like overwhelming disappointment.
I got so into the characters I would dream plotlines.
Then allow doubt to infiltrate all the premises of my novel.
Spending a decade writing something, only to save it in 4 places.
To let it sit, to rot and petrify in multiple folders and thumb drives.
Tried to give the draft a final editing push, but fall back again.
It seems like trash, hardly worth the effort to whip it into shape.
Who am I kidding, no traditional publisher would want this crap?
I’ve been neglecting the manuscript again, a bird with just 1 tweet.
The ‘not-good-enough’ ear-worm haunts me for the millionth time. …
Rainbow Bee-eaters are back from wintering in north Queensland or New Guinea. They’ve returned to our farm to breed and gobble bees. And the best place for bees is our orchard.
In the first week of spring, apricots trees blossomed and bees swarmed.
Blurry blue-eyed babes
the big milk guzzlers
with tubby tummies
Our wonderful neighbor Bob wanted puppies. He arranged for our purebred kelpie to meet his purebred kelpie. Thor and Meg got it on.
Two months later, nine blind sausages were born. I saw them on their fifth day. They were either suckling from mother Meg or crawling over one another to create a puppy pile.
I never realized dogs could count. But, over and over, we’d see Meg nervously counting the pups. …
Spiny-cheeked Honeyeaters have come to my home again. Unlike the world wide travel ban, they’ve been enjoying six months of warm weather in arid central Australia; now they’re back for breeding.
These birds have pink beaks with black tips and blue eye rings. Tufts of yellow feathers stick out like whiskers on their cheeks. They like to hang out upside down, or sideways, sipping the sweetness from new spring flowers.
The Spiny-cheeks get together at a Grevillea and sing like a choir. Their whistles mix whining, shrilling, gurgling and high trilling. Sometimes they sound mechanical. …
I fell on Tuesday, August 18.
Getting petrol at a service station, I tripped on broken concrete.
I’d put my hand out in front of me. The impact slammed my wrist backwards, twisted my ankle, skinned both knees and made me feel as if something died inside.
My head buzzed the way a phone does on vibrate.
The sun was setting, light was dim, I lay on the concrete, unable to move.
In a high traffic area by the bowsers, I inched my way up sideways. No sudden movements, everything throbbed. …
I can’t write.
Can’t type on my laptop as quickly as racing thoughts flower in my head.
Right-handed for 5 decades, every word is spelled wrong, every line askew. The 2 hairline fractures in my wrist ache as I sit at the laptop in my sling.
Thick, heavy plaster bumps the wrong keys constantly.
Each sentence takes a laborious 6 minutes to put down.
My forearm hurts, but the pain of not writing cuts deeper.
I’m mourning not being able to put words down with ease.
Frustrated more from not writing and responding,
than being unable to turn a door handle,
undo a jar, put on a bra or floss my teeth. …