Praise for the light in a new born baby’s eyes.
Praise for the song of a blackbird at dawn.
Praise for the thrum of Tibetan throat singing.
(Buddhist monks in their maroon robes, prayer flags fluttering in the wind)

Twenty years ago they came to a beach near here
scattering the sand from their mandala into the sea.
At their feet a little blue eyed boy,
living in the moment,
gathered the sand into his bucket.

The Rinpoche laughed
a deep full bellied rolling sound
and the sea washed around both the boy
and the monk.

Praise for the moment
the memory
Praise for the song of the blackbird at dawn.
Praise for the light.


Samhain or Beltane?

I have nearly finished the work I’m doing away from this blog so I decided to take a break from that and respond to an Earthweal challenge –

Deep in my DNA
in my white folk celtic roots
All Hallows Eve lives.
The ghosts of the past walk.

Shadow land Australia –
Black folk on TV
tell the true history.
Remember, they say,
you stole our land,
you took our children,
you killed our warriors.

November dawning.
Southern summer skies,
light, bright and clear.
Magpies warble –
black and white on the breeze.

Is it Samhain
or is it Beltane?
Maybe it’s both.
Or none.

Here in this ancient land
the rainbow serpent writhes,
Bunjil the eagle screeches
while Mother Mary weeps.

Global warming, climate change,
it’s one world now.
The old Gods stir.
The Goddesses awake.

Kali, Pele, Eris and Freya,
the Seven Sisters in the heavens,
all speak with one voice.
Work to heal the Earth –
the deep, dark wounds,
psychic and physical –
or cower now in fear.
This is the time the ancients foretold.
Karmic retribution begins.

Video by Soothing Soundscapes found on Youtube

– The Rainbow Serpent is the aboriginal creator being in central Australia. Bunjil the Eagle is the creator being for the part of Australia I live in. He sometimes takes the form of an eagle. The Seven Sisters Aboriginal Dreaming Story is connected to the Pleiades star cluster

Waking up from waking up

I wrote this wacky poem last year but never posted it. It dates from the time
when conspiracy theorists were going on about waking up. The haiku was written some years – it came from an experience of waking up (this time literally – from a night’s sleep) and hearing a voice in my head saying ‘on a quantum level everything is energy’.

Waking up from waking up
I discover there is no fixed point
to hold onto and say
hey yeah – this is it,
I am finally enlightened,
I am fully awake now for sure.
Instead, or so it seems to me,
it’s all evolving consciousness.
Even, so they say, the cosmos
itself is expanding/evolving.

So waking up from waking up
seeing where I was before –
that place I thought was so awake
is just another pitstop on the way
and there’s always somewhere higher,
somewhere clearer
somewhere lighter
to be.

linked to

Also – just letting you all know I’m taking a blogging break to catch up with some other work.
I’ll be back when I’ve caught up with stuff.

In the rainforest

During the week I visited a temperate rainforest in the Otway Ranges – the very steep and rugged hills that line the Great Ocean Road in south west Victoria.

beneath trees
between the earth and the sky
– wordless beingness

deep in the forest,
that ancient heart of the world


at the waterfall
everything flows as one,

sparkling with light

In the green world time moves differently
Meanings coalesce.

Spider webs glitter with dew.
Portals open.

The future and the deep, deep past
collide in effervescent nowness.
Anything is possible at this cusp of the ages.

Some new and old haiku, some phone photos I took this week and
the reworking of a poem I wrote earlier this year:-

linked to:

Writer’s Block

I have been working on the second draft/structural rewrite/major edit of a novel. It’s exhausting. My brain turns to sludge and I look up synonyms for the simplest words. ‘What’s another word for boredom?’ I ask google.

Progress slows to snail’s pace but still I plough on determined to finish the thing by the June solstice… the equinox… now… years end… arbitrary dates I pluck out of the ether.

Reading through the manuscript I realize the writing goes flat wherever I push and struggle. I can barely be bothered reading to the end of the tortured sentences I’ve written.

Yesterday I decided to let the whole thing rest. I’ll finish it if the story comes alive for me again…

A morning sea fog
shrouding visibility
– a profound silence


A POSTSCRIPT; I wrote this post earlier then spent the day figuring out how to get out of this state of mind. I like to read ‘how to’ articles about writing on the internet. One thing I learned today is that a way through a stuck place in writing a novel is to give the problem to a character in said novel. It’s a great idea. Not only does it focus on the mind on the nature of the writer’s block it also creates a pathway out of the block. The novel writing continues…


Mt Warning on the far north coast of New South Wales is the first place on the Australian mainland to receive the morning sun. It is currently closed to visitors.

Lost and afraid,
wandering the bardos,
seeking out a name,
searching for an anchor.

Mt, Warning, Captain Cook declared,
when he beheld the dawn’s first light
on Wollumbin, the cloud catcher.
The kookaburras laughed mercilessly.

Do not climb the sacred mountain
the tribal elders cried.
The tourists paid no mind.
The ancient spirits thundered.
Storms raged.
Lightning struck the craggy peak
and the tree sentinels fell.
The tourist paths were closed.
The entrance gate locked.

Across the country the elders spoke.
You mob have take much;
our children, our stories,
our names, our dignity.
Go find your own salvation.
We cannot save you from yourselves.

What name now does the mountain have?
I no longer live beside that presence,
that anchor of the caldera,
yet I still feel its power.

Mt Warning/Wollumbin,
dreaming spirit,
crystal clear yet shrouded.
Mists obscuring the heights
the cloud catcher greets the dawn.

Here in the bardos
in this time of transition
when the known paths have closed
and names have lost their resonance,
the light on the peak
illuminates the darkness.


A seismic shift

On the day of the equinox we had an earthquake in south eastern Australia. Earthquakes are extremely rare in here. This one measured 5.9 magnitude and made my house shake even though I live 300k away from the epicentre.

The earthquake happened at 9.15 am. It took me a moment to work out what was happening but as soon as I did ran outside. We are lockdown here and no one else was about. I think the neighbours were all still asleep.

When I calmed down I came back inside and make a collage in my journal.

Equinox morning
the ground quakes beneath my feet
– reality shifting

Shifting my focus,
releasing old thought patterns,
I seek out balance

Deep in the forest
an ancient presence whispers
– open to the new


The way in is the way out

This week on Earthweal Ingrid asks us to consider ways in which we might find our way of the labyrinth of the Anthropocene.

The way in is the way out.
Change starts with thoughts.
Descartes and the Enlightenment –
all those great minds devising
the mind/body split,
the human/nature division.

The industrial revolution came soon after.
Profit driven mass production
birthing the capitalist mindset
whoopee and hey presto,
fast forward two hundred years
globalisation has enslaved our minds.
Consume, consume, consume,
exploit, extract, abuse.
Don’t think of the environment.
Humans are separate from nature.

The way in is the way out.
Change starts with thoughts.
If we change our way of thinking
our world view shifts.
With humans as part of nature
human/non-human interbeing
co-creates new outcomes for all.

Feeling the joy,
dancing in the green world.
Labyrinthine ways unfolding,
magical passages of dappled light.
New ways of thinking opening
new neural pathways.
The heart/mind connection
illuminates the way forward.

Slow Time

My grandfather was a man of slowness.
One golden summer evening,
the light gentle and caressing,
I saw him returning from the fields,
a scythe across his shoulder,
a Quaker stillness at his core.

My great grandmother slow stitched
the coverlet on my childhood bed.
I remember stroking the stitches,
so fine in their exactitude.
Outside the world was speeding up –
mid century modern in full swing.

A lifetime ago.
The modern is now post,
meanings have deconstructed,
and truth’s become relative.
– the world teeters on the brink.

Beyond my room, a restless wind
tossing through the treetops.
My ancestors, simple handspun folk,
lived through wars, the Spanish flu,
the Great Depression.
Their voices come to me on the wind,
– there is time, there is always time.

“slowness, this week’s challenge and the brake by which we must somehow absorb what’s happening and find some workable or functional vantage by which to escape the burning labyrinth we’ve created.”