BEING KAREN

One day, after the countless retellings under the turn of the stars and the unfathomable winds of time and space, beneath the venerable oaks, (because the tale is always being told) the Lady will rise from the lake, and wield the sword herself, high above her head, arm stretched and strong, and she will say - no, this I do not give. Never again. Countless times you have come to me and I have gifted you this which is priceless. (oh the making of it, I still feel that in my bon

She sleeps high in the tree, frail and slight, finely built, a small bird. Wrapped around a branch tightly, although she can fly, a little. Awkward flight. Always arms outstretched to grasp the nearest sturdy perch. She never learned to fly. She just woke up one day, in the trees, flying. … To fly was surprising. And tiring. She can’t rely on it. She must rely on the trees, and shun the ground until she knows why. To land feet back on the earth may be through falling. Not-fly

The Arrow I slip a hand into my witches bag, and to my surprise, draw out an arrow. What to do with this? I have no bow. I do not hunt. A single arrow could point me in a direction, but would it be the right one? Can I be my own compass? Targets abound. I have no bow. I do not hunt. “Do you shoot?” “Yes. Very well, as it happens:” A woman wiser than most wrote of the arrow, through the voice of her brilliant archer, “one of my vanities, you see. It’s handsome to watch, and s

The only angels here The only angels here are draggling, Flightless, Barefooted. Each lovely Renaissance arch – dirty. Sunburned. Hung-over, oh the rich cocktail of our air. A child’s fascination for the slickly shiny. Harbouring secret longings, Hopeful, For the ghetto fabulous bling wing. Why are they here? I only ask because these faces that appear in corners, like sad day-after-the-party balloons, look unsure. If the angels are unsure… So why are they here? “It’s a job,”

Second hand is a cold term, these books have been loved and now are moving on to new lovers. ‘You are the only person I know who reads poetry’. A phone call from a friend who is helping another friend pack up the home of her parents; both of whom had been life long academics at Melbourne University. The house looks like an opium dream I might have, every room crammed with books and the daughter begging me to take as many I want to. I am open mouthed and shocked that she can’t

I made a home with a man I made him sons We grew it, a family home And then it was not The waves that crashed through were made of time and betrayal Sons do not stay at home forever And neither do some men I opened my home to another man I ran here, ran there, gathering, to welcome him, This home a gateway, new life, new country The wave that took him, he caught it like a bus. Picking up small things he left behind, seaweed on a sorrowful beach, learning how not to be a thin

not all realisations are bliss some are brutal gut punched, breath out others a measureless instant when lonely transmutes to peace where emptiness becomes spacious where questions fade and nothing replaces them a peace of my own making a space that is expansive in every direction I could desire from my cushion, the horizons are infinite and nothing is small 25/4/22 Photo taken at Dratang monastery, Tibet

For His Holiness I used to wonder about the karma of it all. Why this strong connection and this belief that yes you are the Buddha, blessing us by placing your feet on this earth. Complete belief. Utter trust. From a far away place, just a small person, why would I feel this? This thinking western mind would take it on, but turn it over often, like a piece from a puzzle. I saw you many times, me a face in the crowd, you above, golden and shining. I showed up every time wonde

I wrote this in 2019, it appeared in my Facebook memories this morning, strangely prophetic now ... It’s all widdershins. Don’t speak to me of retrogrades, a moment, a passing by in the sky of the malign and mischievous. No. The world is turning the wrong way. And everything that was solid is now made of glass. Brittle, shiny and treacherous. Dazzling mirrors of danger, and stage left when you are holding everything in your right. The little gods are quiet, burrowing deep, th

When you break glass, it’s over in a flash, the spiteful pieces scatter as far as they can. The noise is as sharp as the outcome. Any brief mourning moment for the object transmutes in seconds into fear. Fear of harm. Fear of the hidden pieces that lurk beyond the broom and brush, to bite you at a future time. Pottery, it hits the ground with a heavy sound, like a body falling. The shards lie close and you can pick them up without fear. Weighing each one in your hand as you l

I open the door and smell the good rain. Smell the happiness of the receiving earth. Look at my tiny garden, each leaf out-stretched and shinning. I know someone is complaining right now, no more rain! It makes me laugh. One of the things we need for actual life, falls from the sky like magic, for free. Somewhere else a young man is holding a gun he did not ask for. A mother is in a shelter making a shelter, with her body, her heart, and her prayers. And here, the good rain f

Why, Lady? I have to ask. So many why’s. Why not choose differently? Why not give us a Queen of Ithaca? Choose a young lusty lover, choose three, throw them away, husks of corn, choose again. What could the old father do? The old dog. While your husband lies with the witch queen, while all the time Nausicaa is there. (That is a fear. To fall in love is dangerous.) Why did you not storm the temple of wise Athena, she so solicitous of your man always, and demand better? The loo

Things done in private. Stare at the crone in the mirror, wonder how that wild white hair multiplies so, no idea. Eat toast for dinner, chocolate for breakfast. Dance. Try on lipsticks I no longer wear. Ignore the phone and watch the same movie over and over. Paint. Build piles of books around my home, oases. Yes oases. Sob, weep and wail, attempt to put my heart back together, the gold won’t stick. Kintsugi is a lie. Write, delete, write again. Laugh at m

I miss the wind. The clear skies. There is no blue like an Amdo sky. And the deeply dark, silent temples, with towering deities, who don’t even notice me. Shy smiles and wide stares. Elders. Malas always moving. A constancy of chanting, soft drone of mani bees, breathing the mantra in and out, turning the world as if it were a giant prayer wheel. It is. Butter tea, hot, salty, fill my cup, please. I miss throwing a handful of lungta high on a mountain pass, the wind takes the

I woke up in a river. I went to to sleep and somehow in the night my dreaming boat, became a boat. We are drifting and gliding together If I open my eyes am I in Narnia? No. I am in this other place. I woke up in a river, coolness was all around and the birds and the trees are waking the world. Everything is silver, waiting for the alchemist sun And for these moments, drifting in a cool silvery world, hearing the birds and trees in their morning devotions, I was safe, in awed

A tiny bird. It’s bones are made of wind and ice. So frail, so ill equipped for what just happened. It is impossible at this moment to even wonder how it could heal. It lies in my hands, bloody hands, bloody hands because I took it out of my own chest, to see why it was hurting so much. 21/5/21

If you were born here, or came to live here, it's not a huge stretch to say you live in one of the best places to live on this planet of ours. Unless you were born here in the group of people who have lived here for 35,000 years or so. Give or take. What is wrong with us that we need to celebrate the wrong day. Come on, every bloody day is Australia day here, change the damn date! I wrote this 20 years ago, was a bit cross, still am. AUSTRALIA DAY 2001 I feel a little sick in

Last year I turned 60. That was expected. However 2020 was not the year any of us were expecting. Here in Australia we started the year in the grip of truly catastrophic bushfires. Our country was burning beneath our feet. Our Prime Minister was in Hawaii on holiday. It was a grotesque Circus, the worst nightmare. I painted water and prayed for rain. My palette was white, silver, grey, all the blues I had on hand. It rained the next day and I could not stop laughing. We thoug