Tuesday 31 July 2012

Moving Day

Flurries of activity: vacuums roaring,
blankets dragged across carpet floors,
suitcases wobbling on the uneven path
to the vans and trucks in the lot
as people move out of their rooms
to better, more scenic places to explore
or just to single rooms freshly vacated
and full of history and silent promises.

Monday 30 July 2012

The Unnamed Cat

We resist the urge to name the black cat
after we found the small, charcoal one
bloated and deformed from days in water,
but she becomes familiar to us anyway.
She curls under our feet when we sit
in the plastic lawn furniture at night.
She comes out to mewl at lunch, seeking
food and attention, but she's too skittish
to come closer. It becomes an triumph
to see if we can draw her close enough
to touch her tail, or better, her curved back
before she flees into the shadows to hide.
She inches back to us a few minutes later.

But then, she doesn't come back anymore,
and we keep setting out bowls of water
and plastic containers of dried kitty food,
hoping that she'll come back to see us
unless she's found somewhere better,
somewhere more interesting than here,
where she can run wild in the outback
or continue to calm around nice people
or find another cat to keep her company.

Still, no one's surprised on the morning
someone finds the still unnamed cat,
swollen, rigid, and floating in a pond.

Sunday 29 July 2012

A Crowded Evening

A crowd has gathered, sitting comfortably
around the long table and on the old couch
to watch the Olympics on the television,
to watch a man blow out the small flame
burning down a blue polka-dotted candle
on a homemade cake, and to give wishes
to a second man, who is moving out
and heading back home tomorrow evening.

Saturday 28 July 2012

Remembering Sunsets

When the sun dipped behind the hill today
throwing orange lines across the clouds,
I remember one year ago, riding in a Prado
on the bumpy dirt road as we careened
toward the site and I noticed that here
you can actually watch the sun set
because it slid behind the hill so quickly.
The driver said he'd never noticed that.

Friday 27 July 2012

The Dancing Birds

The birds returned, the small sparrow-like fliers
that arrive with the bitter wind on cold days,
dancing with the updrafts and diving back down
with an intentionally chaotic choreography.
They spend hours chasing circles, exploring
the sky, and riding the winds wherever it leads
in a silent show that ensnares my attention
and leaves me wanting for the rest of the day.

Thursday 26 July 2012

Broken Clothespins

The wind picks up, snapping the shirts
in tight and tidy rows on the clotheslines
and threatening to pull socks loose
for a short, loping dance in the breeze.
Below, the brightly colored plastic
pieces of clothespins long broken
litter the dirt and sparse grass blades,
forgotten, unneeded, able to work
in the gales that tug at wet towels
but cannot lift plastic nibs in the air.

Wednesday's Poem: Roebourne Mornings

We walked down the sidewalk of the main road
in the town of Roebourne on a warm Sunday
before the sun could rise too high and burn us.
The buildings bore the names of the businesses
painted on the sides, like a small town diner
or a hotel straight from the movies set in the 1950s,
but this town is current, full of people and flowers
that grow along the fences and stretch to the street.
The street looked fake, like something was hiding
behind the bright, thick paint and the iron fences,
but as I crossed another side street without cars,
I thought maybe the lack of change explains enough.

Tuesday's Poem: Outage

Note: After two days without Internet, I'm back up and ready to post the poems for the last two days as well as today's poem.



Without Internet,
we gather in the kitchen,
seeking company.

Monday 23 July 2012

The Lights in the Palm Tree

I sit on the linoleum floor of the donga
with the door open to the night winds
as I unpack my laden grocery bags.
As I stand, scattered orange lights
in the palm tree catch my eye
from above the next row of rooms.
The lights seem to flicker on and off
when I move, as though someone
strung a set of Christmas lights
high in the tree top, just for fun.
I follow the sidewalk to the end
of the building for a better view,
but the light doesn't glow in the fronds
the same way from the sides.
Only two feet of space in my room
shows the brand new flood light
at the perfect angle and height
to see the palm fronds glow each night.

Sunday 22 July 2012

Festival in an Abandoned Town

We take the turn down the long and straight road
toward the abandoned town hosting an art show;
a car passes going the other way, then two cars,
then a pack of seven cars, and we begin to wonder
if this art opening is a bigger deal than we thought.

The paved road stretches on but we can see cars
on either side, parked in the red dirt and bushes,
still far outside of town, and then we find the line
of people hoping to find a dirt patch large enough
to hold their car as they look through 300 paintings.

The music reaches us as soon as we exit the car,
and we head for the food carts, too few in number
for a town with no real restaurant or other eatery.

Hundreds of people press in close, calm and civil,
but we know we made a gross miscalculation
when we thought this was just an art opening.

Saturday 21 July 2012

An Entire Day

I once saw on someone's bucket list
that one of her top forty goals
was to see the sunrise and the sunset
on the same day, and I thought,
'How plain and trivial for a top wish,
and how sad that she must plan
to see a single day begin and end
in a brilliant array of color and light.'

Friday 20 July 2012

The Green Turtle

From the truck, only the shell is visible,
a brown dome peaking out of the water,
but as they reach in to grasp the turtle,
I see the brown head and long flippers
hanging useless with no traction in the air
rather than struggling to swim or flee.
Once the turtle is settled in the truck bed,
I climb into the passenger's seat for a bumpy
ride on the dirt roads to the channel.
Back in the water, the turtle moves slowly,
its fins taking calm, measured strokes
as it moves with the tide, against the wind.
Long minutes pass and it hasn't reached
the first bend, but we've done enough,
we don't need to witness its struggles.

Thursday 19 July 2012

At the Grocery Store

Softly, we discuss pasta option
in front of the refrigerated display
until something crashes to the floor
and we look up to spot a man
in the milk department, his arms
twisted and taut at odd angles
as his body convulses roughly.
A woman starts frantically calling,
'Help, somebody, please help him'
and everyone freezes for the space
of one long conscious inhalation

before the quick burst into action.

Wednesday 18 July 2012

Laundry Day Exercises

One)
Perform one dead lift to carry the wet, heavy clothes to the clothesline.

Two)
Bend at the waist and raise your arms over your head.

Three)
Simultaneously, jog in place, hop around a little or do jumping jacks to minimize the ants ready to bite your vulnerable feet and legs while you are distracted and stuck in one location for too long. Your P.E. teacher told you jogging in place was a life skill.

Four)
Repeat Exercises Two and Three as long as need or as long as bearable. Remember, pain means the exercises are working.

Tuesday 17 July 2012

A Ceiling of Clouds

I startle when I step outside,
the sky has clouds today,
and not just the occasional
puffy white cotton ball
or the thin grayish whisps
at the edge of the hills.

Instead the clouds form
a ceiling of cotton batting
cut in a perfect rectangle
and hung over my head
to remind me just how high
the edge of the sky is.

Later, the clouds will trail
after the sun, stretching
to the horizon and slowly
turning a brilliant pink
as though dipped in a vat
of fuchsia dye and left.

But for now, they remain
a white and brilliant stripe
against the otherwise clear
blue sky.

Monday 16 July 2012

Sharing a Kitchen

When I start making the dough for dinner,
two people folding ravolis on the table.

As I finish the filling for my calzones,
two people enter, laden with grocery bags.

With my trays of food in the oven,
one person enters to reheat leftovers.

When I discover the gas has shut itself off,
another person has come in with wine.

As my food starts to cook for the first time,
two more people come in, having finished work.

Once the food is on the plate and ready to eat,
three people are plating two pasta dishes
and my original company has long since left.

Sunday 15 July 2012

Story Hour

We sit around the table on the patio,
nearly a dozen of us all together,
telling stories of wild animal encounters-
badgers half the size of grizzlies,
black bears in the neighbor's yard--
and googling photos of creatures
that don't translate as easily,
while we sit bask in the sunset,
drinking beers, watching the cat,
and laughing so hard it feels right.

Saturday 14 July 2012

The Spinifex Pigeons

After lunch, I return to my chair at the bench
and my laptop waiting to write long emails,
but movement just outside the window
catches my attention better than the screen.
A dozen Spinifex pigeons have gathered
on the dirt roadway to bob their spiked
heads at a minute food source in the ground,
their crests bouncing to a rhythmic melody
I cannot hope to hear through the witTndow.

Friday 13 July 2012

Ode to Curving Spines

I mentioned twice that I hadn't seen the gray cat
in three days, the small kitten with the fluff
on its head and terror in the pads of its paws,
the curve of its spine as it darted to the break
in the concrete and the cover of the building.
The black cat stayed in the open longer,
wary yellow eyes focusing on every sound,
including the golden birds with caution drawn
in the lines of their wings when they stopped
short of the bread crumbs for fear of claws.
But when the gray kitten didn't venture
out for food or even stretch out one lone paw
at a piece of chicken from under the building,
I knew the little one had been right to carry
the fear in its stride, caution in its eyes.

Thursday 12 July 2012

Wednesday 11 July 2012

Clouds at Sunrise

The sky's still dark when I step onto the damp pavement,
my neighbor's discolored tan boots on the edge of the sidewalk
provide the first hint of unseasonal rain in the early hours.
As time slips passed, the environment lightens, brightens,
but the ether remains heavy like blackberry preserves
until the sky begins to fade through the gradient of blues
over my head, but the horizon remains heavy and black.

Tuesday 10 July 2012

Impressions

In the dry red dirt,
old boot prints remain for weeks
with kangaroo tracks.

Monday 9 July 2012

One Last Night

The tight press of the mismatched chairs
highlights the heat still pouring out of the oven
despite the chill of the night air outside
the windows thrown wide and the open door.
Pans and plates line the plastic tablecloth,
sections scarred and melted from old hot pots,
as seven people becomes eight and then nine.

We have neighbors and coworkers and new
arrivals with old friends visiting for one night
before they drive away in the morning light,
their jeep rattling out of sight one last time.

For now, we'll share undercooked brownies,
oversweet wine, ice cream that melts too fast,
and hot lasagna in oppressively hot room,
and we'll weave stories and share memories
and forget how painful it is to say good-bye
to another set of friends with maps in their eyes.

Sunday 8 July 2012

The Spider in the Shower

I see the spider before I enter the shower
and drag my toes toward it to herd it
into the corner, behind the shampoo bottle
where it should stay dry and safe enough.

But a few minutes later, I see it begin
to drift toward the drain, its body inverted,
its legs sticking up in stiff angles and lines.

I use the cap to my razor as a life raft, a dam,
and a spatula, but I can tell its already too late
and the little jumping spider has drowned.

Saturday 7 July 2012

Friday 6 July 2012

The Black Shouldered Kite

I stop walking in the middle of the dirt road
and take a quick glance around for cars,
but the path is clear and I'll have time to move,
so I look up at the large bird in the bright sky,
its white body stark against the clear blue.
Its wings look like they've been dipped
in black ink that has diffused up the feathers
turning gray at the shoulders and highlighting
the powerful flaps the raptor takes to stay
in one place over my head, watching.

I continue to watch, the seconds ticking
away as the kite flies hard without moving
from its chosen spot in the windy air.
My hand slips into my bag, groping
aimlessly for my camera, though I know
it won't capture the absurdity and awe
of the moment, of the black and white
raptor with a scrunched up head
hovering against a bare blue sky.

My fingers close around the rubber case
and the kite catches a draft, curving
down and to the side before perching
in the crown of a nearby full tree.

I knew the camera couldn't catch it.

Thursday 5 July 2012

When the Squeaking Stops

The constant squeaking sounds small, strange,
like the little mouse with the round, fluffy body
has somehow gotten stuck in the fluorescent light
and hasn't stopped squeaking since I lit the room.
I walk under the light, searching for its hiding spot
because I know it must be in this area, distressed,
if the sounds are any indication, but it can't be
in the light casing; it couldn't have maneuvered
the pipes covering the wires to make the journey.

After fifteen minutes, I notice the hole in the plaster
above the light, providing a small den for a mouse.

After twenty minutes, the squeaking stops completely,
and I can only hope the mouse has settled down
or retraced the route that brought it to the hole,
because I don't want to think about the maximum
temperature of a pair of fluorescent lightbulbs.

Wednesday 4 July 2012

Fourth of July

I receive one email during the day,
wishing us a Happy Fourth of July
on this crisp, bitter but bright day
in the middle of Australia's winter.

At dinner, we swap memories
and stories of our annual traditions
of sparklers, fountains, hot dogs,
and overcrowded swimming pools
on a day crisp with sun and UV.

Here, we don't break from routines,
although the moon is a grand spectacle,
because the desert would burn easily
and the fourth is just another day.


Tuesday 3 July 2012

Small Red Lizard

Sometimes, in the bathroom,
the small red lizard will dart
out from the hole in the wall
chasing a moth to the ceiling.
Then it freezes in the light
or hurries behind the disinfectant
as if I can't see its long tail
or its translucent gray-pink torso
as long as it can't see me.

Monday 2 July 2012

Donga Life

My prescription comes with a warning,
a maximum storage temperature of 25 C;
the contact solution says thirty degrees,
and even the tube of cancer society approved
sunscreen rates a storage temperature
less than thirty, but I can't fix the heat.
The air conditioner leaves holes in the wall
so large people outside sound like they sit
next to me on the bed to hold conversations.
The bathroom window is merely a screen
set in the wall and the linoleum floor
breaks with a grate to work as a drain.
So I cannot control the temperature
unless the air conditioner rattles all day,
but even that won't help the minimums.

Sunday 1 July 2012

The Cats

They peak out from under the crib room,
one black head fluffed around the concrete,
one gray nose edging out with curiosity
but wariness for all of the people milling
around the patio, but the lure of food
is too promising and as the crowd thins,
they crawl out to investigate the edges.
They stay silent, slinking around in search
of an easy snack, but they keep watch
on those of us bigger than them, ready
to dart back to the safety under the building.
Each day, though, they stay out longer
and make a little more noise than yesterday.