A winter day

A photo a day.

Cold, wind, sleet, sun, rain, wood chopping, fire, magpie release, novel reading, photo learning, koala watching, glass and nail collecting, vegmite roll, tea, miso, water, Coca Cola, salad roll, apple, banana, writing, poetry, improving news, art, music and a photo a day.

Birdlife

20200811_pho_Miepoll 04

Birds sit in the top of the trees

Planning attacks on insects and bees

They sit on their branches

Scanning insect sky dances

With shelter from leaves as their eaves

 

Birds on the end of a bough

Twitter loudly just to show how

They can talk to each other

Every sister and brother

In a way that says Hey, we know how!

 

Birds that forage on the ground

A set who are basically unsound

They defy law and order

Like lambs to the slaughter

Because predators are always around

 

Birds that drink from a dish

Do so in order to wish

For more handouts of bread

To keep them well fed

As their tails twitch and go swish

 

Birds that peck at a window

Are very much likely to forgo

Food on their plate

Appetite they may sate

Fighting themselves as a foe

 

Birds that fly in the sky

Look down and say my oh my

All the people down there

At whom we can stare

Choose to be grounded why oh why

 

Birds that float on the water

Think it’s the place where they oughta

Because the land is not safe

From trouble and strife

The water is a more secure quarter

 

Birds who love to eat worms

Queue to take it in turns

At freshly tossed compost

Of breaking down humus

Knowing a worm never learns

After I climbed the mountain

When I climbed the mountain

to stand at its summit

and declare

my love to the world

 

I had no idea

you were preparing

to leave

down there on the flat.

To turn away from my

rugged individualism

my heroics

my boyish raffishness

 

I had no

idea it was coming,

your going.

No insight you might even

have entertained

the idea or could be

thinking that way.

I didn’t know I was that way,

in your way

 

You never told me

what it was that got

your goat.

How was I to know I had to

change to keep you

or is that?

how was I to know I could

never keep you,

no matter how

much I tried or thought

I needed too

 

When I came home

from my victory

and declaration to

the world below. I was

still walking on air.

On the cloud of

the conquering and

the anticipation of you

 

You said there was

no evidence that

was the way

I felt

and there was never

likely to be.

That I was the only

one who knew

what was going on

in my head.

You said I was

my own best company,

that I should go

back to the mountain.

Where I belonged

The Way

The way a beloved dog rests a lazy head upon your knee

The way a wooing look invites you toward mutual intimacy

The way a cup of tea slows time and calms an over active mind

The way a good book immerses you in new realities that bind

The way a word becomes a story, a poem comes of rhyme

The way a voice becomes emotion, movement becomes a mime

The way a favourite song transports you back to that special place

The way a touch can speak of love as it brushes across your face

The way a first wildflower discovered announces coming spring

The way a view from a mountain can make your heart leap and sing

The way a beautiful landscape incites gratefulness, awe and joy

The way a true love will not  waste time with you by being coy

The way a walk in the forest restores hope, balance and well being

The way a look deep into the stars can change your way of seeing

The way a composted garden grows better in space and over time

The way a perception can be a knowing, a knowing can be a sign

The way a naked body is a beautiful body as long as there is beauty inside

The way a grievous loss becomes warm memory after someone special has died

The way a child’s innocence equates with unqualified trust

The way our lives play out

Live best you can

After it’s just

Dust

Their hands

Their hands when they touch

Flow from rolling of wrists

Each touch is a signal

Each touch is a kiss

 

Their fingers are folding

On whispers and secrets

Cupped hands are holding

All ahead that will be

 

Their fingers trace circles

On their palms telling futures

Tender are the touches

Of their hands as their tutors

 

Their hands rest together

One on top of the other

Their hands mark their measure

Their harmonious hands

 

Their hands spread out

Open and true

Telling each story

Each soul on view

 

Hands hold each heart

Supporting each core

Their hands do the learning

Of what more to adore

 

The extension of hands

The parallel lines

Pads of sensitive fingers

Their dreaming defines

 

There are fists and shaking

There are dips and rise

There are quivering fingers

Before flickering eyes

 

When hands arc with arms

To gracious embrace

The lovers say nothing

As hands touch each face

 

Delicate lines are drawn

Across soft skinned cheeks

Then with touches to lips

Mouths start to seek

 

Two seeing hands

guide the blind

Sensuous and caressing they massage

Four hands synchronise

to breathe in kind

Entwined

in waves of love

My aubade

My aubade for thee

Played lovingly

Under window thine

On morning fine

Post sleepless night

Love’s tortured plight

I sing to confess

Hand on breast

 

As my music plays

I see our days

Together ahead

In love’s soft bed

Rich with the melody

Of my love for thee

 

Listen my love

At rest above

Unto me call

To climb thy wall

Open thy window

Into which I’ll go

To lie with thee

In love’s company

Love’s gauntlet

Here once on this path love’s torment

Found me quietly pleading in fear

Then twice by this way love’s sonnet

Helped me to see my way clear

As I thrice put my case love’s comet

Struck me, rendered me seer

Four times in the midst of love’s torrent

My heart stricken by love beyond peer

A fifth run to the end of love’s gauntlet

Win or lose shapes my life on from here

Where Have I been?

Diary of a Retiree: Day 247

181 days since my last diary specific entry.

Where have I been?

I have had this question a few times. Maybe it is time to answer it. I have been in a headspace called preoccupied. A week or two ago, I had a realisation. I realised that I may have finally arrived somewhere else. Where? Well, I think I arrived at some sort of understanding or reconciliation with the fact that I no longer need to be preoccupied with the concept of working under the instruction of others. It has taken eight months.

Admittedly, particularly in the last five years or so, I enjoyed a significant degree of autonomy in my work – a very fortunate and often rewarding circumstance. On the other hand, I found plenty of reasons to be dissatisfied, especially when I felt outcomes could have been better. Instead of settling systems into place, I have seen widespread and rapid change with poorly considered impacts on work groups become the norm. The recurring, patronising platitudes and executive level incompetence I have seen offered up in approaches to radical change management have been gob smacking. I have felt stymied by management incumbents and structures that do little other than promote power plays, churn and corporate memory loss. I have seen stabilising, value adding loyalty between employees and employers evaporate.

I have worked with some brilliant people. I miss and take my hat off to so many of my ICU and HITH nursing colleagues for their enormous depth of experience, their vast reservoir of knowledge, their diverse skill sets, their advanced professionalism, their teamwork and individual initiative, their collegiality and their highly-developed sense of empathy and compassion. How blessed to work with such people! I have been Supervisor, ANUM and Educator working with some outstanding Nurse Unit Mangers and fellow Educators. Very sadly, after 36 years of working in healthcare I can’t make the same observations about the medical profession. I have worked with some good medicos, but as a generalisation, I would have to say self-serving and arrogant are still the words that come to mind. The medical culture is toxic to efficient and cooperative healthcare institutions.

So, where have I been? Coming to terms with the haunting of my working past. Lifting the weight of working to protect colleagues and patients from harm at the hands of my employers.

The frustration is fading. I am beginning to look ahead, toward the possibilities of the future. The new question is, where am I going? It feels like an optimistic one.

 

33 kinds of rain

The misting rain as light as being

The pitter patter rain of anticipation

The sun shower rain of joyfulness

The dawn lit rain of new awakenings

The driving rain of persistent harassment

The piercing rain of pain and hurt

The bleak rain of uncertainty

The saturating rain of grief

The pounding rain of anger

The cold rain of fear and loathing

The persistent rain of melancholy

The drought breaking rain of celebration

The tropical rain of surprise and relief

The tin roof rain of night time snuggles

The slanting rain of getting under your skin

The fat wet rain of things to come

The dull rain of misery

The easing rain of hope for a day

The sheeting rain of washing your sins away

The aerosol rain that never settles

The eddying rain of indefinite endings

The ominous rain of growing darkness

The thunder laden rain of shock and fear

The storm driven rain of nature’s authority

The drenching rain of no escape

The floating rain of disproportionate outcomes

The harrowing rain of oppression and spite

The lightning flash rain of vision burned

The unexpected rain of scrambling for shelter

The flooding rain of tears

The icy rain of an unknown future

The sleety rain of chilled to the bone

The sunlit rain of clarity of purpose

The dancing rain of swirling possibilities

The evening rain of contemplation

The elemental rain of fundamental outcomes

The cloaking rain of secrecy

The wispy rain of dissipation

The hard rain of death

The transparent rain of release

The soft rain of peace

Dark, black night, cold, white frost, warm, golden sunshine

The cold can bite you here. It is sharp and crisp and penetrating. In the dark of a cloudless, moonless, star bright landscape, in the nocturnal brilliance of  moonlit contrasts, in the shelter of a blackened room, it stabs through the bedclothes. It targets your knees or a hip, whichever joint is most elevated and least supplied with a warming blood supply. It ices your brain.

Then the morning comes. The frozen grass cracks under your feet. The birdbaths are glazed and crazed and the world is a wonderland of white light, of reflective crystals. It’s all worth it.

Then comes the sun. Gently rising over the tree lined eastern horizon, shafts start breaking through the cold barrier in scattered beams of raw illumination. Light sprays jump from each hoary crystal bed they touch. But just as quickly, just as they commence their flashy dance, they are replaced by translucent droplets, silvery and clear, mirroring the world around them in fresh formed globules like polished convex glass.

Then the rich, thermal bath of undiluted yellow sunshine begins. It bathes our world in a warming golden glow, washing from our memory the cold that was snapping at our heels such a short time ago. We revel in it. We revere it. We relish the transition from the sharp edged winter’s night to the slow, melting, immersive onset of another glorious North East Victorian winter’s day.