Stacking disheslate at night.There was a word today, what was it?What notestill unresolved?
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Turmoils of the nightare shadows of a campfire.At daybreakonly lightin the still, clear valley below.
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The earth is flooded,Spring comes;a rainbow rises out of the oceanacross the black road.Remembranceandrenewal.
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Bookstumble off the shelves,(catch one, quick!)remake themselves;imagination flowering.
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Handsso expertly turnthe steering wheel.Speeding finesse.Watch that pothole!What a mess.
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The moon. 5am.Spring bulb in my window.What is it?What news?What will grow today?
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Sometimesall that is givenis the next step;the next wordinside.
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Off my necksilk scarf sweepsup high in a tree; purple streak waving.The wind tosses the world.Wake up! Wake up!
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Hug my daughterhome from schoolwithout second thought.Think later:for a child todayin Nauru Detention Centre no hug would ever bethis second thought.
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Counting angelsdancing on a pinhead?How about,making countthe strangerwho stands right in front of me.
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Love lies hidden.Quick!Look under the moss,hear the stone sing.
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Friend, we drank tea togetheryesterday; now you are a galaxy away.Please say helloto Sister Moon.May Brother Sundrink tea with you today.
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Mother Earth is groaning
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Dislocation. Disconnection. Displacement.Only you, only you, only youcan take us home.
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Spooks and ghosts haunt.The clear eye sees the illusion,knows the painof the wounded self.
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Open the gate.This one!The unresolved and painful;it will offerfresh revelation.
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Buoyed away on high seas,creative ideas racing;the mind seeks its anchor:the breath, the body.
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Friday afternoon.Long, slow, city line of cars ahead.Rest the mindin silence,in You.
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Forget the question:Does God exist.Simplyawakenyour eyes.
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Capricious Spring.Trickster season.Heavy, black, unending cloudscrack apart;flawless sunlight streams.
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Undefendedthe heart is easily wounded,but knows life.Behind a fortresslies only illusion.
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End of church service.In the narthex,hearts and minds transitionfrom the Eucharistto the trait of each human face.
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Oceans of booksor, only one book,no matter — paths home.
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Grim business, this life. Remember thougha bird's feather,abandoned joy,floating.
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In the carstraight down the freeway;but the mind wandersthrough hidden creeks,over distant mountains.
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The Spiritelusive, wandering breathasks of us, though,to be sharp, fire-boned listening.
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DrinkingHot Koko Black with a friend.We talk God, poetry,our respective cats.What possible else?
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Tailspinning mindthrough space;thankful,for the steadying voiceof a friend.
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Mid-November.This season of Revelation,wars and floods and earthquakes;despite it all,the blossoming lavender remembersits perfume for late Spring bees.
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A line of musicmurmurs in the mind:this day's soundtrack.
Carol O'Connor is a Melbourne writer and poet. Carol manages St Peters Bookroom and keeps a blog on its website.