Wonder x 8 .
Sit in awe and wonder of Sir Spider as he creates an extraordinary lace, at a flying pace, with an endless thread and no instruction book in hand x 8. No education. No hand-me-down skills x 8. No voice to ask for directions.
Wonder….how does he know where to begin? How does he create such perfect symmetry with no tools of measure? How does he know when to snip the last thread to complete his masterpiece? And does he have any real idea why he does what he does? Does he feel a zone of frustration in a tiny vein, knowing tomorrow he’ll have to start all over again?
Or is he blissfully happy in his delightfully thoughtless spin? Makes you wonder ….
(Find in ‘Clunk & Jam’ book.)
Skip To Me .
When I was a little girl I wore black pantyhose on my head. Flicked back ponytail legs. Wobbled on stiletto sticks. Tripped and tumbled. And all fell down. Plaits now fall on shoulders of mine. Following and pretending packed away. I skip along paths dodging footprint holes and dress up boxes. Never again to cover my tracks. I skip like a stone forever on a path of my own.
Footnote: This ink came to me about from feeling a sense of being grown up. Not in the conventional sense. Just feeling ‘integrated’ with the little girl. Found this quote, “Happy ever afters are stories not finished yet” . A line Angelique Jollie dishes up to Brad in the movie Mr and Mrs Smith. And yes, I did wear pantyhose on my head as a kid – and painted false finger nails made out of sticky tape.
Find her in Rock The Boat book.
Bush Telegraph .
Something is coming… This time, not giant fingers of flame. Or swirling clouds carrying fire not rain. It is the Kookaburra laughing in the face of times so tough. The Roo springing back through broken bushes with pouches full of seeds to sew . Koalas feasting on dripping leaves, hugging branches now long cooled. Galahs that squawk and grumble lining new-found homes with feathers soft for a brand new life to hatch. The Eagle that soars close steering fear filled eyes to a sky now not of flame – but hope. And a time once held so terrible still is moved by the rumbling march of close and distant friends. Spring invites the tears to flow into blackened soils that grow a new beginning.
Footnote: Written in response to the Victoria bush fires in February 2009.
(Clunk & Jam book)
Away With The Cows .
I’m off….to a place free of billboards. Buses wrapped in something to sell. Drive-throughs. Being stalked by bargain hunters circling for your spot. Pushed and shoved by commuters thick who’ve left their manners at home. Blasted for taking your time. Fingered for errors along the way.
No. I want to stand in hot, steaming cow poo in sloppy boots that scuff along gravel tracks. Sniff the coats of horses. Toss fans of grain to bossy chooks. Squirt full cream milk from an udder warm to touch – save some for the snow white cat. Poach an egg of bright, bright orange plucked straight from a nesting hen (which seems a touch cruel for a city slicking, supermarket savy sort). Doesn’t pay to think to long, so on and on I’ll go…
Bottle feed the orphan lambs yet to lose their tails. Stick grubby fingers into mouths of calves to fee the suckle of a spiky tongue. Dodge the hungry pegs of pigs in mud and mosh and slush. Say ‘hello’ to sweat and dirt – say ‘goodbye’ to clean. Wake to cock-a-doodle-do and moo.
And I’ll come back home feeling pleasantly stripped of all things urban and clean. With a John Wayne walk from long forest rides. Feeling oh, so pleasantly sozzled from lazy long days free of clocks and diaries oh so full. And no internet connection – eeeh haaa!
(Clunk & Jam book, 2019).
Hibiscus Strip .
Little Boy Black stripped Butterfly Sweet of her powder sprinkled wing. So she waved him good-bye with her B-side and spun the lad dizzy in silk. Butterfly Sweet? Oh, she lived happily ever after her little flutter. Now how’s that for a twist of the the fairytale tongue?
Little Black Duck .
Mary doesn’t go around anymore, preferring the swamp to the lake. Where one is not laced in ribbons and bows, or stood up like pretty maids all in a row. And ducks are not ugly because they wear black. Jacks can be Jills – Jills can be Jacks.
When Mary accepted she was different – she could get away with being herself … and even if she didn’t fit it – she still had a place.
(Clunk & Jam book, 2019)
