Busy Bee and Evocative

I receive heart-warming responses from some of you for my poetry, so here are a couple more. I may have posted ‘Evocative’ before; please forgive me if that’s so. It’s one of my favourite poems and one that I hope you will all enjoy. Please let me know if my images stir your memory.

If you’re not a ‘Busy Bee’ yourself (I’m certainly not one these days) I’m sure you will recognise a friend who is, in this poem. Please pass it on to them with love and appreciation; where would we be without them?

BUSY BEE

She buzzes about

ever so busy

my busy bee

darting from daisies

to dahlias and dianthus

dusting them all

with pernicketiness.

Collecting pollen

and flicking it in flowers,

where would my garden be

without her?

EVOCATIVE

Sweaty armpits, old gym shoes,

potatoes rotting in a cupboard,

dirty nappies, pig manure,

a drunk, lolling in his vomit.

Burning tyres, gutted homes,

flames roaring through the bush.

Fried onions, vanilla beans,

bacon and toast and percolating coffee.

Leather seats in a new car,

rain on parched earth,

a baby, fresh from the bath.

Eucalypt leaves on a wet day in London.

Yardley perfume that granny used,

sweet peas, picked from a garden.

Old spice after-shave,

the coat you always wore.

Cold Hands

White sheets white gowns white faces

walls a putty-coloured grey

dreary vinyl scrubbed thin.

Disinfectant pervades the air.

Lumps on beds, wrapped like mummies

body functions monitored,

minds in zones beyond our reach.

Around them hover guardians of gadgetry

in sterile masks

adjusting tubes

connecting life support machines

to almost lifeless bodies.

Cryptic messages scribbled and hung

on boards at every bed.

This one says she’s dying.

With shaking hands I reach for hers

clasp the claw-like fingers

and remember:

dresses for a teenage Cinderella

who turned into a pumpkin

despite your efforts to catch her a prince;

Sunday roasts and several thousand casseroles,

bottling fruit and making jam.

A gardener’s hands,

no time for manicures and painted nails.

Despite hospital scrubs

a patch of green remains

from the weeds you pulled last week.

Three generations of babies

your hands have cradled.

How many knees have they patched?

Brows stroked?

Tears wiped?

Can you feel my tears on your fingers?

Are you still here or have you already gone?

Mum, your hands are so cold.

Eucalypt Leaves

Eucalyptus tree in my garden

I was inspired to write this poem many years ago, when we lived part time in London. It was a damp, depressing November day. I had finished shopping for groceries and was feeling homesick for sunny Perth. As I walked out through the doors, wheeling my trolley and hoping to find a co-operative taxi driver, I was overwhelmed by the scent of gum leaves. The trolley was discarded as I raced towards that smell, so evocative of Australia.

Continue reading→

Evocative

Much is written about what we see. Today, everyone is a photographer. Sounds are recorded, enabling us to recall the trill of a bird, a crack of thunder, the voice of a loved one. The sense of smell, though, is the most powerful for that emotional pull, flinging us back to memories we thought we had forgotten. I hope my words evoke memories for you–good and bad. What is your gut reaction?

EVOCATIVE
Sweaty armpits, old gym shoes,
potatoes rotting in a cupboard,
dirty nappies, pig manure,Continue reading→