Seashore

In a dull cloudy haze
the bleak rocky coast
lies silent after its midnight
roaring grinding juddering
shaking falling rising.
A broad band of dead
black algae coats pale grey
rocks, broken by clumps of
limp seaweed drooping reaching
down to seawater far below.

The deep chasm stretching
out to sea from the little
coastal town lies eerie, empty
of its whales and playful
dolphins now retreated far
out to sea. Trapped by rocks
thrust upwards lie boats that
used to follow them, now
stranded in the newly molded
pond around the wharf.

A vast landslide inters
rocks where fur seals used
to bask, breed, fight, sleep.

Over rocks heaved high above
their former ocean home lie
crayfish corpses past their
last gasp, while abalone bake
in the sun, far from the newly
created high tide line.

Previously posted December 2016

Venetian Glasses

Six Venetian wine glasses
standing in the china cabinet
while life flows around them.
Too precious to use, to perhaps
be broken like other wine
glasses at gatherings of
twenty and thirty somethings.

An aura of Venetian shops
full of rainbow coloured
glassware, glass etched with
gold and silver suffuses these
six wine glasses, an aura of
gentle lighting reflecting a
myriad of softly frosted
droplets of shop lighting.

They recall shimmering sunny
days with twenty something
friends on our big OE,
roaming Venetian canals and
bridges, eating Mediterranean
food outdoors on leafy pizzas.

Six Venetian wine glasses
gold rimmed, delicately etched
patterns in tiny squares now
dulled, still delighting with the
memories they carry, of times
when youth’s chances were
lived to their fullest.

Previously posted December 2016.

 

Landscapes

At a high northern latitude
the tide’s flowing waters
stream past the grassy
verges on which I stand
bracing myself against the
gusty raucous gales blasting
these Orkney hummocks
huddling down close to
the sea avoiding the
eroding of air.
Hummocks sheltering near
each other channelling the
tide into narrow streams.

So strange to stand
taller then the surrounding
grassy landscape devoid of
trees which can only grow
in the shelter of human
habitations and structure.

So foreign to one who
was born to sandy beaches
under tall forests, steep
farmlands, tall mountains
of tussock, rocky scree all
rising as tectonic plates
grind against each other
far below a living landscape.

Previously posted December 2016

Plan X

This is a classic post for all the bloggers with autistic children. The constant tiny incidents that fill up the day.

A Dad trying to cope with the loss of his Partner and becoming a single parent.

The sun sets on another school week.

The school week almost ended prematurely this morning. To a child with Aspergers routine is the key. Outside the house at precisely 805am. Recheck the school bag contents. Go through the class timetable for the day. Reconfirm the after school plan. At 810am start listening for the bus to arrive. As soon as the bus is heard move towards the gate. As the bus passes confirm with our son where he plans to sit. As the bus does a u-turn son sets off for the bus stop.

This routine works well … most days.

Today as we left the house at 8.05. On plan. Bus is already at the bus stop. Oh s**t.

Suddenly we have a meltdown. The plan is out of the window. Poor kid doesn’t know what to do. After a couple of minutes he is frozen to the spot…

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Birthday Book

To Amy … from Grandma … 1895

When Amy turned seven in 1895
Grandma gave her a birthday book
for her beautiful copperplate writing.
Earnestly Amy inscribed birth dates
of her parents, grandparents, siblings,
in the approved handwriting style.
In time the writing became slimmer,
smaller, as a busy housewife and mother
scrawled hastily across the pages.

Now dates of marriages were
entered, births of children, deaths
of parents, of her own generation
flowing across the pages.

But not her grief at the loss of
beloved sisters, her sadness at the
second marriage of her divorced
youngest brother whom she was
not allowed to mention though he
was awarded a military cross
after the Battle of Paschendaele.

She did not record the death of
the husband who only wanted a
housekeeper while she yearned for
a lively family home. Nor his second
funeral pyre on which she burned
all the photos from his expensive
cameras, from his own dark room.

She recorded her removal
with her daughter to a
newer smaller home.

Previously posted November 2016.

After The Horses Bolted

After the horses bolted
they dragged the street tram
higgledy piggledy over its rails
uphill from the town centre.

After the horses bolted
the accountant was thrown from
the tram breaking his femur in
several places. He remained
bedridden for the rest of his life.

After the horses bolted
his eldest son, a new graduate,
gave up his Rhodes scholarship
the next son left university.
Both worked to support the family.

After the horses bolted
his two older daughters cared
for their bedridden parents,
the youngest went out to work, then
all married solid businessmen soon
after their parents’ early deaths.

After the horses bolted
the accountant died a few years
later, then his wife. The youngest
son at sixteen was sent to live with
uncle in a faraway city, worked as
a warehouseman all his life.

After the horses bolted
after the parents died the older
sons  sailed far, one to Australia
one to India. The sisters stayed
scattered around town, firmly
contained in provident marriages.

After the horses bolted
the youngest brother lived out
his life in his new far off city.

Previously posted November 2016

Friday On Main Street

Vertical and horizontal signs
blaze Korean alphabet symbols
around shop fronts and mall
signboards on brightly lit shops
and three storey shopping
malls crossing the intersection
afire with many traffic lights.

Crowds flow along footpaths and
shopping aisles released after
a day at work and school.

Time to eat out; in a small
family restaurant or a food
court stall ? Or at Macdonalds ?

Sit cross legged on the floor
wielding chopsticks round potato
pancakes or a table of
many dishes and sauce bowls ?

Or sit on chairs at tables
at the Lotte Mart food court ?
Or in the Macdonald’s shop eating
burgers with Korean flavoured
sauces ? Followed by an
American ice cream shop sundae ?

A bright evening wherever I eat
surrounded by jaunty crowds.

Previously posted November 2016 

A Lone Child

A lone five year old in the
Korean English Kindergarten
slips away from noisy boys
rough housing, only goes to the
boys’ toilet when it is vacant.
He shrinks back from his
classmates’ loud voices,
covers his eyes when lights
switch on, on a dark day.

The creatures in the rock pools
which he visits with his father
on Saturdays fill his mind,
and the facts in the rock pool
books his father buys him.
he recalls them all for his
teacher on Monday mornings
in impressive detail.

As Mrs Jenny walked past the
family car at the traffic lights
he called out, talked to her
at length in excellent English
as his father parked the car
at the kerb while they talked.

At the library his mother met
Mrs Margaret borrowing English
books for the kindergarten.
“Something is wrong with him ?”
she asked. They both cried.
Mrs Margaret told her the
word that is not mentioned,
that parental love and
Saturdays at rock pools
will buoy this child
in their own world.

They both fear for him
at the big state school
next year.

Previously posted November 2016

Korean Typhoon

Down the side street
across the road shrieking
gale force winds bend
lashing trees horizontal
close to the round.
Huge gusts of rain
blast along the empty
street, cascade down
the window panes
like Niagara Falls.

The principal rings to say
the English kindergarten
will be closed this morning
as the buses are unable
to collect the children.

Oh dear ! Korean mothers
want full value for every
cent of the fees they pay
for their children’s tuition
at the private English
kindergarten.

There will have to be a
Saturday lesson to make
up for the missed hours.

Previously posted November 2016

These Moments That Matter

This sort of post needs to be shared as there are many more parents facing this as time goes on.

Ninja-Mam and Sons

My son is autistic.  I have an autistic son. There, I’ve said it. But it’s going to be ok… Isn’t it?

It’s not been formally diagnosed yet and we have many more hoops still to jump through to get it confirmed but it’s all making sense. After three years of struggling to find a therapist, in our very first session, the week before Christmas, he was amazed we’d not had an Autism screening done. To him, even though he said he couldn’t say one hundred percent, there were lots of very strong indicators. Oh, great – Happy Christmas to us!!

So since that day, me and ‘The Wife’ have been trying to get our heads around it, trying to get used to the idea and see how this now changes everything.

In my heart I knew. I felt it.. Things weren’t adding up. He had elements of different types of…

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