‘Wisdoms of Rose’ was originally a handmade book, made to give to children and young people through community groups. The handmade books were later also made available through the Fremantle Art Centre. In 2018 she was printed and published as a pocket book. In 2019 she was included in Clunk & Jam book, second edition.
Where are all the good men, who see us. Hear us. Touch us with a gentle hand. Tie our bow. Kiss us dryly on the cheek. And love us in our strength.
Where are all the good men, who mind us in our fragile state. Cradle us as you would a broken bird. Not to satisfy a need within themselves. Nor to forever stroke our weakness. But to strengthen the flight they wish for us to take.
Where are all the good men, who can accept without threat, all we invite and excite over. Remain seated throughout the pleasure of each unbridled offering. And protect the innocence of the gift.
Where are all the good men, who safe keep precious pieces we discard. Hear our strange and distant song. Follow notes beyond the noise. And return knowingly without taking.
Where are all the good men, who keep light and air in windows high. Flowers on the stairs. Who hold a mirror quietly to the side, so we can recognise the newness and the goodness in ourselves. Comprehend the whole of who we are. And fear no more the stage.
Where are all the good men, who wait well outside our hiding place. Offer not hand but time. A refuge where within we tend neglected hurts. Slow to a halt from our exhaustive run. And bring to life our dreams.
Where is the good man, so sure and steady in stride, he invites us into our own. Where we unite in all our consciousness with the good man in ourselves.
Where we feel the fearlessness of taking our very first step. And release ourselves from an endless edge.
(Reposted from 2016. Written August, 2015. Pictured: Poem emerged from book read on Rottnest Island, 2015). )
A woman was gossiping with a friend about a man she hardly knew. (I know none of you have done this). That night she had a dream….a great hand appeared over her and pointed down at her. She was immediately seized by an overshelming sense of guilt. The next day she went to confession with the old parish priest, Father O’Rourke. She told him the whole thing. “Is gossiping a sin?” She asked the old man. “Was that the hand of God all mighty pointing the finger at me? Should I be asking for your absolution Father? Tell me, have I done something wrong?” “Yes you ignorant, badly brought up female. You’ve borne false witness against your neighbour. You played fast and loose with his reputation and you should be ashamed.” The woman said she was sorry and asked for forgiveness. “Not so fast”, said O’Rourke. “I want you to go home. Take a pillow up on your roof. Cut it open with a knife. And return here to me.
So the woman went home. Took a pillow off her bed. A knife from the drawer. Went up the fire escape to the roof and stabbed the pillow. Then she went back to the old parish priest as instructed. “Did you cut the pillow with a knife?” He said. “Yes Father.” “And what was the result?” “Feathers.” “Feathers.” He repeated. “Feathers everywhere Father.” Now I want you to go back and gather up every last feather that flew out on the wind.” “Well,” she said. “It can’t be done. I don’t know where they went. The wind took them all over.” “And that …..”, said Father O’Rourke, “….is gossip.”