A Monster in my Tree

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holeAt the end of the garden there’s a hole in my tree,

One time I walked there, just courage and me.

It’s dark and it’s scary, I wonder what’s there,

A hundred spiders and bugs every where.

I scratched in the dirt and leaves on the ground,

And hardly believe what my toys and I found.

A well trodden path leads to the mouth of the cave,

I take a deep breath and try to be brave.

With hands on my knees and neck stretched out low,

I smell fungus and leaves, and damp things that grow.

There’s a horrible sound, it scares me a lot,

I look in my hands to see what I’ve got.

I throw Action Man in and Spiderman too,

Then pull down my pants and go to the loo.

I put my face to the hole and look in the tree,lookingin

My toys are gone, my hands are now free.

I push away cobwebs and long stems of grass,

Can’t wait to tell this to all of my class.

I know I will see something, ugly and bad,

Very angry and hairy, a bit like my Dad,

I let out my breath and pick up a stick,

I’m so frightened and shaking, it makes me feel sick.

I give the monster a poke, it lets out a cackle,

I get ready to grab it and give it a tackle.

I touch something smooth and a little bit soft,

I’m not sure but I think, I heard the thing cough.

A cackle, a crow, and a flurry of feathers,

It’s in there for sure, away from the weather.

The monster it’s gone, my grab gets thin air,

But I see something else, hiding in there.

Some leaves and some grass, all soft like a bed,

And nestled inside, a warm speckled egg.

nest in tree

Sometimes it’s hard to accept an Award, but it never fails to be flattering.

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Who doesn’t love awards? We all do because it means that in some way we have made an impression, someone has enjoyed reading what we write, or even just appreciated the comments we have written in admiration of their story, poems, photos or heart ache. Sometimes it’s empathy (I have a lot of that to give), sometimes it’s a connection that could be a suburb or half a world away. I love this blogging world, I have some friends here that I have been more candid with than perhaps my best friend face to face.

BUT, I am a bit lazy sometimes, or busy, or tired. I have been lazy with my blog lately (although I think I did just get back on track in some way). I was honored with an award several weeks ago by Daan Van den Berhg from fkknrokk.com; I have barely spoken to him since. That is so wrong! I love his blog, I am passionate about his words, his poetry and his humility (Ha!).

I have stopped looking at Daan’s blog. Do you know why? Because when he nominated me, I had just accepted the same award a few days before. Being awarded for the same thing twice is wonderful but I felt embarrassed to post two awards in a row when I hadn’t posted anything from myself in ages.

Now I feel bad because I have lost his connection, although he has been kind enough to come back and read my posts…I have been distant and out of touch.

Does this happen to other bloggers when they get an award sometimes? It’s such a lovely thing for anyone to get, but it’s a bit of work to properly accept ….but it is also so wonderful to be appreciated. I would never discount that.

So here I am, at 1.15am in Australia, without even starting to accept these lovely accolades. In the morning I have 4 little men to get out of bed, make lunches for, and take to school. BUT FUCK! It’s about time Daan isn’t it?

Daan is wonderful, sensitive, tortured in many ways (my interpretation and sorry if that is wrong), kind, perceptive and a great friend to have. Thank you Daan, for nominating me for the ‘Versatile Blogger’ Award.  In reading your blog, I know you to be supportive, kind, hilarious, poetic and sensitive to all of those you love to read. To be awarded this by you, is a lovely, lovely thing and I apologize for taking so long to officially accept.

Muchos Besos vfrom Jiltaroo  (if there was a thingy that showed blowing kisses off a hand, it would be at the end of this sentence!)

Just in case you didn’t already realize, you must go and visit http://www.ifkknrokk.com/about/ and meet the lovely, and versatile Daan.

Zombie Baby – A Halloween Special

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SHhhhh, stoke the fire,

pull up a place,

Gaze upon my baby’s face,

Grab a log and take a seat,

Let’s tell some stories,

let’s talk of freaks,

These are my boys,

Don’t be afraid,

Let’s take someone else,

Into the glade,

Keep minds open,

And keep them keen,

Between them and I,

We’ll rip out your spleen,

The baby that sits,

in the pram is not nice,

He put his mothers,

Heart upon ice,

But I loved him and held him,

And as God would have said,

A  mother’s child,

should always be fed,

One day we slept,

His head in my neck,

He watched

’til my breath,

Came close to death,

He tilted his hips,

and pushed up his ribs,

And put his lips on,

Where my pulse lives,

Baring his fangs and rolling his eyes,

He sunk his teeth in,

To my jugular line,

He ripped it apart,

and shredded my veins,

He gnawed and he thrashed,

like the insane.

The thing that was quiet,

That nobody knew,

His father was dead,

When mother was due,

Zombie baby,

had only one way,

And that was solely,

To take life away.

Now we connect,

like pieces of pie,

But I only wish,

That I could have died.

“Phoetry”

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On the edge of sleep, I see a picture, 

Then add another, to make it richer.

In the early hours of this morning I lay in bed thinking about this type of poetry. I’m going to call it “Phoetry”. In that moment before sleep, try to grasp and stay hold the image that comes into your mind. Whatever comes first. Then add another to it. What would come next? Don’t try to make sense of it; just try to remember for the next day. I found I could only retain two as I would then forget the details of the first one. You might be able to do more.

I’ve always wished I could photograph my dreams, or scenes from my dreams. Perhaps this is the closest thing to it. When you search for your photos (I went into flikr, try not to get distracted from your initial “vision”.

I’d love to see your “Phoetry”. Good, bad, sad, beautiful or indifferent…just go with it.

BROTHERS – Tom

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In the neighbourhood that we spent most of our youth in, there was a definite shortage of girls my age. Fortunately for me, my brother, Tom, always made the time to teach me the important things in life according to his own experience. These consisted of, riding a bike, kicking a football and bowling over-arm in cricket. I will never forget how patient and skilful he was at passing these abilities onto me, and how flattered I felt that “he”, was prepared to gift his time to me so unconditionally.

For me, this meant I could be a useful member of the “Blackstreet” cricket and football games which were served daily after school. I loved the look of shock on the neighbourhood boys’ faces’ when I managed to knock those wickets down with a carefully aimed bowl (or hit the rubbish bin as the case was back then). These were carefree and innocent times, and when I reflect on these memories, I see a quiet street at the bottom a of a hill, brought to life by well the organised games we played together, and can almost feel the sweet summer breeze on my face and the happiness in my heart.

Tom did well in school. English and Literature were always his strengths as he had immense talent with words – both spoken and written. He had a confidence that I quietly envied and it was often highlighted by his affable banter and body language around his school mates. In High School, I was still welcomed to participate in his games with or without his mates.  Whether it was the backstreet sports we continued to play or the many games of “500” we occupied ourselves with until the early hours of weekend mornings. Jokes and pranks were high on our list of entertainment.

Tom studied literature, Japanese and Spanish at Monash University and later spent his “gap years” mostly in Japan honing his language skills whilst working as a golf caddy and inhaling the beauty of those perfectly tended golf Oasis’ ; all the while writing his beautiful poetry.

Tom has had an eclectic career and now works in dispute resolution. He pursues his true passion of writing poetry and has recently written his own memoirs. He expresses himself with a combination of the beautiful Haiku that he frequently pens and his obvious literary talent. His story reflects the time he spent in Japan; which is delicately interspersed with Haiku, love, humour and his sensitive reflections on our family.

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