Rosemary Nissen-Wade #29.2: A Gift of Roses

A Gift of Roses

Unusual pale apricot –

roses from my friend,

in a black pot

where they stayed,

moving with me to all

the rented houses.

Every year

they flowered twice:

in Spring and Autumn.

Until they stopped. 

No blooms, not a bud,

now my friend is dead. 

For Quadrille #12 at dVerse: Rose

Rosemary Nissen-Wade #21.2 Intense Rain

Intense Rain

Pounding rain, cold rain, flooding rain – it arrives with plenty of warning, with a feeling of inevitability, of doom. It tells us, ‘Yes, here is Winter.’ It travels all down the long east coast of Australia, even to my dear little birth island, so tiny it is sometimes left off the map. I am glad to be far north of there now, removed from that paralysing, deep-frost cold I once knew well. My body still remembers. I remember, too, through all these decades, the aftermath of rain in rural Tasmania: the particular pervasiveness of water dripping from leaves long after the deluge ceased. In this present downpour, everywhere floods – the whole coast, even that island. Here, in the warmer sub-tropics, in the small town where I live now, only the section near the river goes under. Up on my hill, just out of town, I barricade myself inside my cosy house and wait it out.

after the rain

one slow, constant drip –
heavy footsteps

Written for Haibun Monday: 50 Shades of Rain, at dVerse

Rosemary Nissen-Wade #15: After the Kill

After the Kill

Tears spill

from the eyes 

of the kind,

even those

not personally 

involved.

All over

the world

they spill

for all

that is over –

life –

stopped 

by the blind

hater.

I 

don't  cry – 

find

no tears 

left 

to spill.

I freeze,

still

hating  guns.

Prompted by Quadrille 11 at dVerse.
Responding to the shootings in Orlando.

Rosemary Nissen-Wade #11: Every Morning

Every Morning

My new cat is unusually polite: she waits for me to wake up. When I do, she runs to the kitchen. If I don't follow fast enough, she runs back to get me. 'I'm so happy,' she says in body language; 'Now we have breakfast!' After she has eaten, she plays with one of her soft toys, batting and chasing it all over the house. I sit down with my coffee and cereal, and pick up my magic stone. It is one of the special stones I collect, with remarkable colours or markings or shapes, that I find on roadside or seashore. This one, I have inscribed with a sigil. I hold the stone high in my right hand and intone the mantra I created to empower my writing, the mantra which the sigil represents. I am telling the universe my desire for my poetry: that it be healing, that it be read. I eat my cereal fast. I sip my coffee slow. 

on the path 

I kick up a stone

heart-shaped

Written for Haibun  #15 at dVerse: All Things Quotidian. We were asked to write a short haibun (one prose stanza, one haiku) about the everyday. What is everyday for me might not be so for all others!

Rosemary Nissen-Wade #1: Mother's Voice

Mother’s Voice

The breeze blows chill.

I sneeze, as mother taught me:

‘It’s cold. You’ll catch a cold!’

obedient still, against

both will and reason.

Well, I’m in my eighth decade.

Suddenly I let it go. All right, Mum,

old voice in my head, be there.

Hello, people, and thanks to Kit for inviting me to be a guest during June.  

This poem is exactly 44 words excluding title, which is what the folks at dVerse Poets Pub, whom I sometimes play with, are calling a quadrille. (Dancing is not obligatory.)