Sitting on Porch – Let the Scene Write Itself

Sitting on porch, a concrete slab with tin roof for shade – I observe

Old woman wakes from afternoon sleep.  She arises and as hunger often arrives after sleep, she indulges in last night’s left overs of raw fish, greens and coconut cream

Puppies seek sanctuary underneath car to escape the relentless heat and humidity, whimpering and fretting for their mother who has found her own sanctuary somewhere else.

Rugged stray ginger cat, with ribs exposed from lack of nourishment roams property looking for morsels of food scraps thrown out the night before.

Dried coconuts stacked under breadfruit tree waiting to be husked and grated to make the next batch of coconut cream. Old coconut husks piled high next to them.

Today’s harvest of corn, yams, tomatoes, chives, pawpaw, limes and silver beet lay on formica kitchen table to be prepared into evening meal.

Rusted agitator washing machine struggles its way through washing cycle – power provided by cable passed through window to socket. Clothes line strung together between coconut trees, its linen day and floral sheets blow dry freely in the sea breeze.

Mismatched jandals line the porch to slide into for outside footwear.

Next door, old abandoned truck rusts quietly beside old house slowly decaying.

 

Sitting on porch – I listen

Muffled voices across the road – woman talking in native tongue.

Dishes being washed and dried in kitchen.

Constant thump of bass from neighbours sound system.

Car engine starts and car drives along sand and stone road.

Rooster crows continuously.

 

Sitting on porch

I slurp hot tea made from tea bag, water and powdered milk, watching ants invade the crusts of my white bread honey sandwich.

Still air, wind halted, gardenia fragrance potent – unlike yesterday when wind sneezed and coughed all day, followed by rain

Sleepy dog scratches, puppies now reunited with their mother grizzle at the disturbance

Birds sing.  Woman laughs.   Rooster crows.  Car passes by.  Sea breeze. The rustle of coconut frond.

So much beauty in simplicity

Dear heart

Heart in Sand

Dear heart ♥

I would like to thank you for giving me life even when you were struggling to survive.

The last 8 months have been full of despair, grief, anger and fear.

These emotions not directed at you but more at me for not sensing your pain.

We have gone through so much together heart.

Our experience of open heart surgery has made me realise just how magnificent you are and how much you will endure to give me life.

I hope the new valves implanted will make your job easier so we can spend more time on planet earth sharing and enjoying the wonders of life, from a new perspective.

Keep well heart and may we flourish  together ♥

 

 

Abundance

Abundance

Gifts from the land

A trip to Niue Island revealed the generosity of people who knew of me by family name only.  Gifts of paw paw, bananas, coconuts, tomatoes, vanilla and cucumber placed in coconut frond basket and lovingly gifted. During my stay, I was never short of fresh fish and locally grown fruits and vegetables.  And everyday there was a gift a the door.

Abundance of love       Abundance of food       Abundance of thanks

A to Z Challenge – Quandary

QUANDARY: State of perplexity, difficult situation, practical dilemma.

 

Some questions just can’t be answered.

A couple of years ago, I was in my local supermarket standing in the aisle where the water is housed.  I was after some water with gas – the fizzy type.

I was distracted by someone in my peripheral vision.

She was about 80 years young

Immaculately dressed

And small in stature.

She stood beside me and perused the shelves of water at her eye level, my chest level.

We acknowledged each other with a smile, eye contact with an understanding that maybe we had known each other in another time.  Like minded humans, very comfortable.

Standing together mesmerised at the incredible selection of water.

Spring water, natural spring water, well water, still water, natural water, sparkling water, water with vitamins, water and lime, rose-water, water for energy, organic water and on and on.  Water in plastic, water in glass, water in cans, water in boxes. 6 packs, 12 packs, single bottles.

Finally a choice made.  Reaching on tippy toes for a glass bottle, she clasped it firmly in both hands and read the label.

Looking up at me with a perplexed look on her face she asked a question

“How do they know that this 1000 year old pure spring water expires in May 2016?”

A to Z Challenge – Pen Friend

PEN FRIEND: col Pen Pal – friend with whom one corresponds without meeting.

 

Pen to paper – who writes anymore

I can’t remember when I learnt to read and write.  As a young child, reading and writing was something I did at school, and when the bell rang for the end of the school day, I played.  At home, reading or story writing was not something my parents encouraged me to do.

My sister and I were brought up in the days of that classic saying “children should be seen and not heard”. There was no encouragement from our elders to actively participate in conversation or debate, and critical thinking was definitely not on the radar. To interact with adults was considered rude. Our contribution to problem solving was never required, even if the problem was related to us.  Our opinions were considered unimportant as decision making was the responsibility of grown-ups.

So my sister delved into the world of books and in a simple turn of a page escaped into the worlds of fantasy and adventure and I discovered the world of writing.   As a youngster, reading was not something I enjoyed, but at the age of ten, I found and replied to an advertisement in a magazine for a pen pal.  This was the start of a long letter writing relationship with a girl from Malaysia who was exactly my age.

I grew up on a small Pacific island in the years when the sight of an aeroplane was a novelty. At school, we were allowed outside to watch the Calibration planes fly over and land on the airfield nearby, a truly exhilarating experience.  Now, the thought of corresponding with someone from the other side of the world was a bigger thrill especially when our letters could be in those planes flying overhead.  I was so excited receiving her letters addressed to me.  I would devour every word that spilled off the pages and imagine her life in Malaysia and hoped that she would be doing the same with my letters.  In my best handwriting,  I responded to every comment she made; celebrating her achievements and sympathising with her disappointments. Meticulously I wrote my news, and surprisingly I had so much to tell her. This was my way of overcoming the “seen but not heard” philosophy of my parent’s generation.  Someone was hearing me.  I felt liberated.  Several pages later, the letter was neatly folded, inserted into an envelope, addressed, stamp attached and posted.   The wait for her reply seemed forever, and that reply sometimes took weeks to arrive.  I was never disappointed.  For the first ten years our letter writing was fervent.  We were pen pals!

 

Short Story

Early for me, but not others

as I pedal my 30km circuit

watching the action unfolding for a new day

Sun just starting to warm the day, but cold air hits hard as head wind tests my stamina.

Sand rustled up by wind catches my breath and salt from wave spray stings my eyes.

Seagulls fight over dead fish washed up on beach, a gift from the ocean

People on the hunt for the best coffee house

Where coffee is the stimulus for conversation

Some absorb daily newspaper – mostly bad news

I am moving at supersonic speed, in my head

Realistically a slow pace hard up against that unforgiving head wind

I look forward to the turn round, where the wind becomes my ally and gifts me a quick return home.

 

 

Let the scene write itself

Mangaia

Draped in light caught through Ironwood trees

Branches hang limply, long needles entangled

and some fall to shield earth

A soft hue meanders over church of old

Monuments to the dead scatter surrounding edges

Looking further back to what remain

of traditions long gone

Rubble reminds me of past ceremonies

where descendants once gathered

A bone of an ancestor lies abandoned

caught between the then and now

Apprehension grabs my solar plexus

As I wonder who this bone was?

My writing space

My space to write

Is where I feel comfortable

Where inspiration and creativity explode into words

Where I can pluck the gift of wisdom, catch ideas, harness knowledge and life experience

And turn them into verse

I am a hunter and gatherer of thoughts, notions and ideas

Jotted on snippets of paper, used parking tickets, napkins and collected to remember the moment

Then gifted to any one who wants to read

My space to write is everywhere

Write a list

Today’s list for life

MeDitate

First cup of Tea

DriVe to work in Sleepy dawN light

laugh       GigGle        achiEve goals         FRiends

ShaRed lunch      STories        coMplete tAsks

satisFAction                   SUCcess

home in DarKNess

moOnLight

Cats   CooKing   Reflection

WRITElist, WRITE some more, DREAM

Why do I write

Day one of writing 101 and I have drawn a blank…

No words to write

No thoughts to ponder

A blank page, a soundless voice

Where are  the words that create the stories of life

I search

Nothing

Closed eyes look deeper into the abyss of creativity hoping to find misplaced inspiration.

Perhaps tomorrow

The Writer

Creative juices

are thin like a watery broth

lacking flavour, body and texture

The desire to write is strong

but the void stronger

Find a way out….

Walk into creative spaces

and form stories 

Choose the right ingredients

to pollinate the soul, heart and mind

then  WRITE!