Posted in poetry, stream of consciousness

Marching to a different beat

Watching the royal funeral
that solemn march going on and on.
The unspoken tensions,
the deep histories that have divided
and united, chips falling where they may,
reminding of my mother’s funeral
where my sister ‘accidentally’ forgot
we were related and that I cared for her,
fifteen years my junior,
as my mother raved in the psych ward
while I was still in high school.

Water under the bridge now.
Swiftly the currents rage through my present.
I spin in the eddies, white water rafting.

The royal funeral march echoing in my ears
my inner drum beats wildly,
shamanic in its intent –
let go the past, move on, move on.

The swirling currents carry me forward.
To where I do not know.

prompt: For this week’s challenge, provide a map of history’s mysteries.  Sketch a landscape — it can be your personal history, or a place you inhabit now or did once…

Posted in art, poetry

Towards the Portal

image credit – Lee Madgwick

Drifting into the unknown,
the openness of containment
beyond the narrow portal of need.

cast adrift from my own past,
I can no longer tell,
if my boundaries are self imposed
or if the fates have decreed my course.

Beyond the shadows,
the dark lurking fears,
an empty space stretches.
What will I become, or,
is it that I can become what I choose?

The farther shore some distance off,
home becomes an abstract concept.
Trust is of the essence here.


Posted in poetry

Undermining control

The controls of the past two years
– eight lockdowns here in southern Oz –
undermined my

yet now, when I re-assess,
I find it all taught me
self reliance.

At least to some degree
I would have to say,
now that the dust has settled,

I found something there in those long grey days that merged one into the other,
something hard to put into words and not something anyone really talks about,
but the more the authorities sought to control my (and everyone’s) behaviour –
the more I found it undermined my belief in their authority and right to control me.

Struggling a bit still
to make sense of things
now we’re getting back to normal
or is this the new normal?
It seems quite odd to me,
not normal at all,
that people seek to exploit each other,
to throw bombs around,
whether of the Putin kind
or just unnecessary aggression
in personal interactions.

And then there’s the exploitation of the Earth,
the helter skelter race to have the newest, best
of everything
while ignoring the environmental implications.

It all undermines the stability we used to count on
but then maybe it’s all just signs the old system
was fraught with problems and really the control
we need to find comes from within the self.

prompt: The prompts are designed to be quick challenges that can be written in 10 to 15minutes

Posted in Climate Change, Fiction, Planetary renewal, poetry, The Journey


In the canyons of the mind
lightning bolts illume consciousness.
In the outer world,
the storms, the fires,
the wars and plagues rage.
Our excesses are exposed.
There’s nowhere left to hide.

The mind reels at the impact.
What’s left now?
The conditioned life is not enough.
Something new is called for.

Deep in the magical imagination
something stirs.
The elves and unicorns come forth.
Remember, they say in dreams,
the world of childhood innocence,
the beauty and the awe
of life in all its glory.

Now is the time to call that forth.
To imagine the world anew.
It begins in words.
The ecologist’s findings,
the intellectual’s musings,
the poems and stories woven in the dawning
then shared at midnight with wide eyed star gazers.

After the seeding comes the crafting.
Ideas shaped in the collective imagination
built, oh so carefully,
and with the purest of intentions,
into the world of form.

From my novel ‘The Journey’ (link in sidebar):-

‘Back in the early days of Jedahra people realised the first priority was to grow food. To do that we had to restore the environment to health,’ Red said.  ‘Since then we have come to understand that if we want to take from the Earth we must also give it.  Feeding the soil through composting, mulching and growing a diverse range of crops is the mainstay of our food production. Soil health has improved and the diverse plantings cut down on plant diseases and insect infestation.’ He gestured to a pumpkin patch where golden flowers nestled amongst large spreading leaves.  It was edged with a rambling bramble bush covered in ripening berries. Above them an old walnut spread its green branches out like protective arms. Here and there little round buildings topped with conical roofs covered in succulents punctuated the greenery. 

‘The buildings look like mushrooms,’ Raven giggled.

‘A lot of people say that,’ Red grinned.  ‘We build them like this to reduce the fire risk.  There were some savage fire storms in the early days of Jedahra.  Since then we’ve been very conscious of fire safety.  The mud walls of the buildings don’t catch fire and the succulents on the roof are fire resistant.’

Towards the end of the novel Terran, the main female character, returns to her home at the institute. There is she confronted by the crippling depression that keeps the inhabitants locked in inertia and fear. Inspired by all she has seen on her travels, she projects the digital images she has made onto a wall screen in her parent’s apartment:-

 With uncanny synchronicity a bright, energetic representation of Jedahra appeared on the screen.  Against a background diagram of a path spiralling through a housing cluster she’d placed sketches of the circular adobe houses alongside photos of people of all ages, races and social groups mingling together in the streets.  Decorative disks depicting the glass mandalas were dotted across it all and the words she had jotted down at the Seed Bank were scrawled across the bottom. ‘Dynamic processes /climate change mitigation/higher yet deeper/seeds regenerating,’  

‘Dynamic processes,’ Ralph boomed. ‘That’s what we need here.’  

The same idea flashed through Terran’s mind but rather than thinking on a societal level she plunged into her own interior realms for, ultimately, the change she was seeking began within the self. She recalled stumbling over tree roots behind Bliss on the Ways through the forest. Clumsy as she had been, she had felt enthusiastic and alive. The night before she’d felt deadened and defeated by the institute. The difference between the two states was palpable. She couldn’t simply stop travelling now and try to slot back into her old life. The walls in her mind had been breached by her travels. Now she wanted to tear them down completely and experience herself and the world in new and unfettered ways.

linked to:
For this week’s challenge, write of Beginnings — wherever they may be found.

Posted in photography, poetry, spirituality

A blink in time

A blink in time
yet part of the cosmological whole
we spin here on this sphere,
a speck of dust within the vastness.

We fight, we strive,
we love, we hate
and all the while
the cosmos turns.
Great yugas* of time
revealed in the scientist’s telescope.
A multitude of pasts and presents
existing simultaneously.

Here in this earthly now
we have our beingness.
Are we responsible for the whole
or are we here to play our part?
To do what we can where we can
before our day is done.

First image from James Webb telescope – (credit: Nasa)

*A yuga, in Hinduism, is generally used to indicate an age of time.[1][2]

In the Rigveda, a yuga refers to generations, a long period, a very brief period, or a yoke (joining of two things).[3] In the Mahabharata, the words yuga and kalpa (a day of Brahma) are used interchangeably to describe the cycle of creation and destruction.


Posted in Climate Change, poetry

Why don’t we stop?

What if we all just stopped again?

The scientists say the birds sung quieter in 2020.
These days here they scream, they screech, they shriek.
Sometimes a cry can be so loud I jump.
I guess they’re trying to make themselves heard
above the din.
The coastal construction.
The pleasure seekers driving here, there and everywhere.
The domestic noise,
the teenager drummer over the back fence
pounding the skins for hours every evening.
Letting off steam I guess, after another day of school.
My daughter works in a high school now.
She says the kids are out control.
They swear, they walk around the classroom any time,
They laugh at the teachers.
The worst kid, the one with major problems,
throws chairs around when he goes off.

But I digress,
it’s all just symptoms you see.
Stressed out kids. Freaked out birds.
Covid cases on the rise.
How about we all just stopped again?

But no, that’s not to be.
We have to save the economy.
Forget the fires burning out of control.
Ignore the droughts and flooding rains.
We must go on, it’s imperative.
If we stopped, we’d have to think.
We’d have to look at the mess we’ve made.


Posted in Australia, Climate Change, photography, poetry

Call of the Wild

On TV a man asks
is capitalism a parasitic culture?
Will we ever change our ways?

At the beach the gulls screech.
They wheel across the sky then,
out of the coastal scrub,
a white sea hawk flies.
Harried by the swooping gulls
it sounds one wild resonant cry.

Unconcerned and unmoving
a cormorant dries its wings
atop a pole of the old jetty.
Long disused the timbers stretch into the bay.
All that’s left of a bygone age
before the roads were built hereabouts
and all commerce went by ship.

Will the human parasites destroy their host?
Will the seabirds perch on ruined shopping malls?
Will we ever change our ways?


Posted in Australia, poetry, spirituality

Out of the Blue

The aboriginal creator being in this part of Australia is a spirit being named Bunjil. In a Dreamtime story he is said to have created a rainbow bridge for some of the Wauthurong aboriginal tribe to cross the wide bay (now called Port Phillip Bay) and come and live on this peninsula.

Dreaming for eons
the people lived beside the wide blue bay,
tending the land, tending the spirits.
Growing yams, wearing possum skin cloaks,
firestick farming the grasslands,
they sung up the spirit dreaming lines
from deep within the Earth.

Out of the blue,
some one hundred and fifty years ago,
white men sailed into the bay.
White sails billowing on tall ships
they bought white flour and white sugar.
Measles and smallpox too.
Fluffy white sheep soon followed.
Grazing, they destroyed the yams.
Disrupted, the dreaming lines fell silent.

Near where the rainbow bridge is said to have come to shore there is a plaque commemorating the white landing. Yesterday, atop a tall pole a pelican sat, silent and still. The bay stretched beyond it, blue and calm. Far off on the horizon the towers of the city of Melbourne hovered. Obscured by distance they appeared illusory, insubstantial.

Untethered and ungrounded
in these uncertain times
I hover somewhere
between the dreaming and the now.

In the wild stillness,
outside of linear time
yet bound by it
– the coastal development,
the rising cost of living –
I seek the rainbow bridge.

linked to:

Posted in photography, Planetary renewal, poetry

Crow Speaks

Between the lego like construction site
and the oversized coastal ‘living the dream’ houses
a slither of light appears.

Shining silver across the sea
in shimmering solarization
a portal opens to the old.
The eagle and crow clans meet on the shore.
Resting by the camp fire they speak still
the stories of their being.

The voices murmur,
the wind sings silver in the tree tops,
crows wheel across the sky

Spinning in the space time continuum
I feel an energetic shift.
My heart opens,
my solar plexus hums.
Centering in the Earth
spirit and matter are one.

Another future opens up.
A parallel reality gains momentum.
Changes in the outer world begin within.

Posted in art, Fiction, poetry, spirituality, The Journey

Wandering in the green world

The Enchanted Forest – s.w. Victoria, Australia

Wandering in the green world
the space between the thoughts
like the space between breaths
becomes the reality
the place to rest
away from the collapse
of old outworn structures.

Focusing on the heart,
listening to that deeper beat
– the pulse of life itself.

Beneath the tumult and the fear
a new way emerges where
science melds with older understandings.
Humans are part of nature.
The separation is in our heads.

from my eco novel The Journey

A grassy path snaked into the forest behind Saranath.  Trees arched overhead and the ground was spongy under foot. With each breath of the sweetly scented air and with every step on the soft ground Terran felt her heavy thoughts lifting. The play of light upon the leaves, the gentle breezes against her skin and the sounds of the forest all melded with an awareness of her body moving through the green world. Beside her Bliss gathered fallen leaves, flower petals and feathers she found along the way and bound them to a stick she’d picked up.

‘What are you making?’ Terran asked the gentle child.

‘It’s for the tellings,’ Bliss whispered. 

‘What are the tellings?’ Terran asked, mystified.

‘The tellings are part of the Wanderer Ways,’  Bella said because little Bliss seemed unable to find the words to explain her meaning to Terran.  ‘The Ways we walk are physical but there are the Ways of the mind and the heart too. The tellings connect us with these deeper Ways. Bliss collects things to remind her of our journey so that she can tell her experience to others.’ 

‘As we walk in the forest we perceive the world through our five senses,’ Worin said. ‘It is only when we stop and go within that we discover we have been interacting with the world on the inner planes too. When we meet together we tell each other of these perceptions. It is through sharing our deeper feelings, thoughts and intuitions that we come into a greater knowing of ourselves and of the world.’

The Journey is available as an ebook on Kindle and as a paperback on Amazon