MoP 12: A haiku

antenna-tree birds
spatter confetti droppings
across a red roof
Poems, like stories, appear most when I’m looking elsewhere. This one arrived as we drove through Geelong on Sunday on our way home from a delightful day by the sea. A house, spied across the roof of the road-facing shops, had this amazing pattern of white spots across a very red roof, concentrated under the antenna. It was quite pretty … from a distance. 
And I don’t have to clean it. 

The Rajah Quilt – for the quilters

In a break from poetry transmission, here‘s a link to a cable tv quilting program featuring Australian quilter Lessa Siegele and her version of the Rajah quilt. Take a look  – but don’t wait too long, it’s only available for a couple of weeks.

Lessa is part of the Quilt Show ‘BOM’ for 2016. That means they are featuring her Rajah quilt pattern and Lessa will be running sessions showing quilters how to make it. That part is not free!

MoP 11: Untitled

Czech proverb, translated variously as:
As many languages you know, as many times you are a human being. 
For every language you speak, you live a new life.
For every face you see
You see a new world
For every voice you hear
You hear another way
For every food you taste
You taste a new place
For every scent you smell
You lay a new memory
For every path you walk
You feel your own steps stronger

MoP 10: After

So long the waters carry you
along follow-paths
and new-cut ones
You stay afloat
navigate where you can
when you can
when the waters finally stop
so suddenly
(as you knew they would)
you drift
somehow bereft
in the longed-for reprieve

A slightly delayed post today after a trip to the beach to spend time with youngest members of our family. There’s no pic of the 6 month laddie, he was koala-pouched with his mum. A lovely morning, followed by yum lunch at Flying Brick Cidery.


MoP 8: One. Caramel. Dance.

… I’ve borrowed a friend’s poetry challenge to use all three words (thanks Sally and Rebecca) 
One. Caramel. Dance.
The next day
the sky was less caramel
and more fairy floss
We set out again to picnic
Will carried the basket
Ali the rugs
Marni had one umbrella
and I the other
We tripped down the path that split the dunes
The ground melted beneath us
and when we moved
sand reclaimed our footsteps
like sugar tipping into tea.
My hair flew in the salt breeze
and our passage became more dance than march
as we spilled onto the beach.