Over another Hump

Trawool hills

2011-08-26T22:33:00.000-07:00

Another poem from the collection. Can't find the painting but I think it works alone?

This area was a busy place in Australia during the Second World War. My Grandparents ran the railway station and we were always busy. American and Australian uniforms blended with our young childhood. It is still an area we call home.

Trawool Hills in November.

This range protects
a huddle of houses
sprinkled along the road,
above the river flats.

Their green gentleness,
now turning golden ,
as summer brings its
own enticements

to children who explore
the heights and slide
down granite rocks
spilled eons ago.

These hills fostered
exploration, love
for nature and freedom.
Independence grew.

Here, childhood days
were sunny, warm
filled with companionship
and - always adventure.

Old tracks scar the foothills,
station house long gone;
history flotsam where
lost laughter echoes.

But those benign hills,
remain. Benevolent,
silent sentinels,
they remember.

#

The Deep

2011-08-12T18:18:00.000-07:00

This week I just finished an anthology of ekphrastic poetry based mainly on my sister's paintings. It was for her birthday and, I'm pleased to say, for once it got there on time. I'm not the most organized when it comes to posting parcels.

This is the inspired by the cover painting.

The Deep

Blue draws me, lifts me on a warm sea,
to float away on gathering waves.

The blue of summer seas, or winter skies
unclouded, shining on pristine snow;

Impartial blue, a deepening mystic,
infinity calling. Levels and depths beckon

but tight borders and sharp angles
corral, restrain wandering dreams.

Soul refreshed, mind cleansed,
I return to house-wife realities.

Thank God, and the artist for
the calming balm of blue.

Ink's Blot.

2011-07-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

He reclines on the table,
seeking sunlight
on a frosty morning.
Black as midnight
until the sun's rays burnish
his body, turn him
into a bronzed hologram.

Father of three, his confidence
assures him welcome as
he makes his mark in lives
of his servants.

Neutered now, but
he still thinks he's got “It.”
Creates mayhem
tumbling through
our home and hearts.
Mere humans, we swear,
then laugh at his audacity.

His only foe, his big mumma,
Queen Victoria of cats, snarls
her displeasure,
until a truce is made
and they share
the warmest bed to
sleep the day away.

Recharging

2011-07-23T23:12:00.000-07:00

Recharging.

I've been planning to make my shopping list for a fortnight and here it is the day before we go to town and it's not started. Life seems to be taken over by trivialities; necessary, irritating routines that suck up free time. I haven't even checked my cupboards. I sigh, collect my note pad and move out to catch some winter sun. After the unusual long 'wet' the water table has risen and the ground is damp and cold beneath my feet, despite the frequent frosts we've had. I realize how I need that warmth, now I'm sitting still.

Well, sort of sitting still. Three kittens join me, investigate this invader in their territory. Crumble, the one with the crumpled ear, claims my pen only to be pushed aside by jealous Tutt, the bull-arab mastiff.

My son's dog, she thinks she's still a pup but weighs more than I do and tries to oust the kitten, scattering the other two as she makes her move. She loves her grandmother and is jealous of others who are getting my attention.

Overhead in the African Mahogany, blue-faced honey eaters vie with black and white butcher birds for food scraps tossed out by our caged ring-necked parrots. A skink scuttles up the trunk, followed by curious kittens. They scatter the birds momentarily, dispersing rivalry.

I smile and think what an equalizer nature is. The handsome honeyeaters, biggest in the world) have harsh calls while the more utilitarian butcher bird has a call so pure and sweet, and their true notes vary from region to region, even in Charters Towers, where we shop tomorrow. Their song is a show stopper and never ceases to enthrall me, as it does now.

I forget my list as I watch the theatre above me, luxuriate in the brilliant sky scape, happy just to be. Country sounds of cattle, geese and goats mingle with the rattle of rail cars and road trains moving through the town. My pets frisk around me and I feel renewed.

This is why we live here, I thought as my husband braved the cool morning and joined me. I began my mental trip through the house and began writing down supplies for another fortnight.

Writers Block

2010-05-23T22:06:00.001-07:00

It's one of those days

when inspiration won't come.

The cat needs a cuddle -

from who else but her mum?

It rained hard all night

now it's cold out of doors,

PO hates going out

to get mud on her paws.

I've a deadline to meet

but she doesn't care,

I cannot refuse her,

she knows that, I swear.

I'll be patient and wait,

for lunch time is near.

When Frank gets his sandwich

she'll leave me, I fear.

Frances Mackay (c) 24-05-10

Evolution

2010-03-27T20:31:00.000-07:00

Evolution?
(c) Frances Mackay, 17-03-10

Pothole was a young ringer
working his way out west
eradicating the prickly pear,
an imported cacti pest.

The cactoblastis grubs,
introduced to eat the pear,
became a bigger problem -
sugar cane its favourite fare.

To stop the devestation
of important cash crop earners
the cane toad was suggested
by scientific slow learners.

Cane toads over-run our state
from coast to western border,
ugly poisonous interloper
defying our natural order.

The cactoblastis has now gone,
prickly pear's an exotic fruit,
soon Pothole's prodigy will supply
the toads to China in exchange for loot.

Hidden Treasure

2010-03-27T18:01:00.000-07:00

Have you seen a mud wasp's nest?
It's a natural work of art;
ignor the fact the wasp's a pest
with painful hidden dart.

Forget the mess this builder makes
in hidden awkward places,
the time and energy it takes
to remove and not leave traces.

I'd put mywinter clothes away
but now it's getting colder
I need to air them out today -
moist air makes them molder.

Each wollen garment I removed
from my storage closet
bore hardened mud that proved
my enemy did construct it.

These perfect shapes of coloured clay,
as a potter I bregrudge,
now sit here in proud display;
hidden treasure - you be the judge.

Our House

2009-12-05T19:08:00.000-08:00

Jerry Built. - fictional/non fiction.

Jerry arrived in Australia on the First Fleet. He left the convict ship, 'Supply', shackled to the notorious criminal and lifer, Joseph Tuso. An archetect in the old world, Jerry had lost an eye and one arm in the troubles in Ireland. On his arrival in Australia he was emancipated but never raised enough money to enable him to return home.

He'd heard of a colony opening up north so, with a string of brumbies, he made his way to a small settlement on the edge of a wide sandy creek. He'd lost his way a few times and had been guided by friendly tribes over the ranges, learning quite a bit of bush lore on the way.

His horses became a byword in the area and people vied for his trained stock, but it was his buildings that made Jerry famous.

We bought our house sight unseen. At that time we lived in Victoria where homes marched down orderly streets . We found our new home entirely different, complete with resident ghost of the original owner/builder, Jerry.

He built the house in stages, one room first, for shelter against the harsh elements but he spent most of his time outside training his horses or building houses for other settlers. Jerry used everything he could lay his hands on as building supplies were scarce in those early days. Soon he developed a reputation for getting the job done - regardless.

As he became more affluent he extended his home to accomodate his partner and growing family: another room, a verandah, a kitchen, cement and finally, a solid outhouse and bathroom built of galvanised iron scavanged from the rural properties he'd worked. When building our builder often robbed Peter to pay Paul, utilising something he thought the other owner didn't need.

Jerry's style is distinctive: no right angles, windows with interesting slants and shapes. Floors tend to follow the contour of the ground. Consequently I start my ironing in one corner of the room, only to end up diagonally opposite at the end of the job.

Despite idiosyncracies, the house has out-lasted others of the era built on site. All others have been demolished by termites or blown down by cyclones. Termites visited but left without damaging the structure. Probably fell over themselves as they left, laughing at the final result of the 'architect's' style.

We've visited many of Jerry's homes and the owners are amazed that we recognise his work.

"How do you know?" they wonder.

"Because our house is jerry-built too," we reply.

The World IS Their Oyster.

2009-10-19T20:31:00.000-07:00

Every so often we are lucky enough to meet someone new who inspires us. I was lucky to meet this family during their break here.

The World IS Their Oyster.
Argentinian couple Candelaria and Herman Zapp, together with their four children spent Sunday night in Torrens Creek Caravan park.
So what, you ask? Well, this family is something to write home about. Nine years ago they decided to travel. The target was to see the Americas and reach the northern most tip of Alaska. They left their home, family and dog in Buenos Aires and began their travels. They are living their dream, a dream that began when they were 14. You may have already read about them?
The first thing that catches your attention is their car, a 1928 Graham Paige. This vehicle has taken them through the three Americas, been their home since day one and has helped them write the ultimate travel book.
Along the way, almost incidently it seems, their 4 children were born: Pampa, now 7, was born in the USA, Tehue, 4, in Argentina, Paloma , 2, in Canada and Wallaby, 7 months, in Australia. Interestingly, all the countries but Australia granted the children citizenship. These children, so natural and unassuming, make me rethink modern values.
The family interaction and organization is amazing. Paloma is in First Grade and Candelaria teaches him by Correspondence from Argentina, via the web; cooking is managed with little fuss and packing and unpacking is honed to a fine art. Everything has a place.
As Hermanadvises, “Start your dream, the rest is easy. You only have to plan to get to the next town/village.” This couple, with their po istive attitude call 'difficulties' 'challenges' and as such have been invited to share over 800 families' hospitality in their travels, the latest being an overnight stay at Denna Station at Torrens Creek.
To help the couple along with their dream the Exchange Hotel offered the family free accomodation and fuel.
The Zapps are not wealthy and have earned their way creatively. Candelaria Zapp started painting watercolours for sale and together they wrote a book, “Spark Your Dream”, which has received nothing but wonderful reviews on Amazon.com. where it can be purchased. A perpetual birthday calendar is also available from their website www.argentinaalaska.com. where you can follow this dream and communicate with the family.
Their next book, which they write as they travel sedately along at 50 kilometers, will include Torrens Creek and should be released in the next two years.
Herman and Candelaria say that although they've seen amazing places their main memories will be the people whom they have met, and their faces that will remain fresh.

Nature Walk

2009-09-21T18:51:00.000-07:00

It's cooler now and tourists are travelling through seeking warmer climes.

I'm looking after my son's two dogs while he is property sitting further south. I haven't had them alone before and I'm not sure how they are in traffic so decide to walk down a newly graded back road near the billabong.

I scoot down the dusty path, dwarfed by four dogs on makeshift leads. They pull in all directions, each wants to claim the new territory, or follow a different scent. They plait the leads into unmanagable braids then proceed to leg rope meek-mannered Face.

Face, a mistreated refugee, sees the buck kangaroo first. It stands in a clump of gums, watches us and scratches his belly. A willy-wagtail flaps around his face, no doubt after mosquitoes. It seems to be a symbiotic relationship because I've seen this partnership before.

The dogs halt and, true to their different personalities, respond. Bandit, my other refugee from the pound, wants to be friends, Bella is bossy, wants him away from her territory, Tut just stands her ground and stares him down. Face wants to go home.

Red soil fades to dirty gray. The dust is softer here and tracks record some interesting travellers. I stop and examine a particular set of prints; long tail marks and dainty, birdlike feet attest to where a goanna or very large lizard had sunned. Nearby a large snake track, the width of my hand, weaves accross the road. Probably a diamond headed python or a king brown.

The grass is shoulder high so I pull the dogs in closer, they all want to follow the track and are annoyed that I won't allow it. Apart from the snake there is evidence of feral pigs around and that is definately something I don't want to confront, though Tut and Bella would love a chase.

Overhead the sun is warming the day and corellas claim the raintrees from the apostle birds. They croon as they harvest the dried seeds from big silver beans. It is a wonderful, soothing sound. So different from their usual harsh screech. I sit and enjoy them, ignoring the impatient dogs for a moment.

Then shake myself back to the moment, “Okay, guys. Time to head home.”

Moving on.

2009-09-11T18:36:00.000-07:00

I can't believe that it is so long since I visited this site. Katie is still missed, she was such a part of our live, but when we went to collect her cage from the vet there were 3 little kittens looking for a home. We took them all. Our son took one and we kept the others.

Sadly Ken's kitten was poisoned, along with his other cats, but ours continue to thrive and give both our dogs, and us, continual joy. The incident below happened at the beginning of the week.

Under the Fiddlewood Tree. (c) F. Mackay 09-09-09.

Leaves litter dry earth under the fiddlewood tree

crisp challenges to any fussy feline.

My cats prance and pussyfoot through

neat piles, freshly raked,

chasing not so imaginary snakes.

In drifts,delaying, playing pretend slaying .

I sit and watch. Rake them from danger

until the heavies join the game.

Released from back yard confines

two black and white dogs of different size and nature

nose their friends and

the chase is on.

Around and round the fiddlewood

snake forgotten, my neat piles scatter,

my mornings work blown by four furry furies.

Resigned, I rest and enjoy the play.

Four friends and me

under my fiddlewood tree.

Damned if I can get a poem printed successfully on this blog!!!

For Katie

2009-04-13T22:12:00.000-07:00

Our rural queen

controlled her realm

with no nonsense looks -

used a teacher's glare to

deter brazen subjects.

Proud mother,

she delegated her litter

to a peke who

shepherded his flock

while her majesty

prowled perameters

Scourge of snakes,

mouser extrodinair,

she maintained boundaries

taught newcomers

royalty's rules.

Who will watch over

me now, while I garden,

pretending to sleep

under the bush I prune,

or play tug with the hose

to demonstrate (or hone?)

snake killing techniques?

How I miss your flashing eyes

your sense of fun

and dignity,

your lording it over the dogs,

wrap lesser beings around

perfect claws

as you inform me

the day shift has arrived

and claim the bed.

Spring

2008-10-17T17:26:00.001-07:00

Since last posting the weather has turned suddenly. After a wonderful, replenishing rain Spring has arrived and it is absolutely beautiful. I wish I could post the smell as well as these pics.

My jackaranda (sp) is now tall enough to be visible all over town, the purple flowers are falling and mingling with the mahogany leaves and it really looks like a painting.

The raintrees are obscene, the blooms are so prolific. And the perfume in the early morning and evening is supurb. And now I discover my frangipani is flowering.

I wrote this poem last year, this season tops last years, so far.

Oh I love this time of year. Taking the dog for a walk (he still misses his mate, as we do) is an absolute pleasure - the town is covered in blossoms. Great time for a honeymoon.

And the birds, can't forget them. Hawks follow us and swoop and climb on the thermals in the early morning breezes. There are so many this year. And emus too apparently. We have a resident bower bird that keeps us entertained with his repetoir as he tries to pinch a bright blue bead that is part of my wind chime. And the honey eaters... And of course, can't forget the cockatoos and parrots that are enjoying the bounty.

My Garden in Spring (Tra-la).

Satin bright leaves cover the yard
like dots in an impressionist painting.
Lighter ones, arranged by benevolent breezes,
float like confetti to mingle with
crimson and white bougainvillea
and butterflies.

Raintree blossoms scent the air
and carpet red soil with fluffy green pom-poms.
Tiny finches and honeyeaters form
entrancing mobiles from the branches,
peeping enjoyment.

A Neem tree brushes my window,
my favourite curtain
laden with lacy white flowers
and honey to entice the bush bees before sunrise.
Monet magic.

Frances Mackay (c) 2007

Looking for Ali-cat

2008-10-04T18:07:00.000-07:00

The Cat killer is still on the loose. His score is 17 now. He destroyed our newest acquisition after watching us play together as I raked the leaves. Half an hour later he'd vanished and, next day, the blackboard had another cat's head up. Then the hero left town for 3 weeks. Here is a photo of our dog and his mate. I didn't think an animal would remember for this long...

Searching for Ali-cat.

Bandit's at the back door

trying to come in,

grabbing my attention

with his silly grin.

He's searching for his playmate,

his partner in crime,

knows he should be here -

this dog can tell the time.

But Ali-cat has vanished,

he's just another score

upon a killer's blackboard

and oh, our hearts are sore

to see our hopeful Bandit

searching for his mate,

prowling 'round the garden,

peering through the gate.

Three weeks ago it happened

and still he's looking for

the company of Ali-cat

who's not here anymore.

How to tell this loyal dog

his little friend is dead,

killed by a sick human

who'se not right in the head?

Memories

2008-09-14T18:35:00.000-07:00

It is a bit of a shock to remember that I was born in the first half of the 20th century. Someone told me I was a living dinosaur, I guess they are right. It got me thinking about way back then and this spouted.

Hero.

It was in the 1950s

they shearers held a strike

complaining of some small thing

they said they didn't like.

It was the best wool season

we had seen for years

when the **@B@#** mongrels

downed their power shears.

Farmers were astounded

at what the men had done.

Sheep were penned already

brought in from the run.

No shearer would dare gainsay,

not break the union law,

wouldn't cross the picket line

regardless what they saw.

One brave lad from Queensland,

passing through the town,

didn't like what they'd done

and muttered with a frown,

"I'll take the buggers on,

I'll earn my pay and keep,

I ain't a gun shearer

but I can handle sheep."

His handsome bronze complexion

made our southern men seem pale,

our strapping football players

looked seedy, not so hale.

He stayed and finished the job,

dossed down in a pen,

ignored the union reps who called,

the threats from other men.

A farmer's daughter remembers

she met a man that year

who stood against a surly mob

and fought for what seemed fair.

Walking Bandit.

2008-08-01T23:26:00.000-07:00

A haibun.

At three pm Bandit yips to remind me it's walk time. We careen the first block, I free wheel on my gopher, using one dog power. We slow to a canter past squatter pigeons settled like smooth stones on the grass. Geese hiss as we pass, geeking their necks and flapping wings. In the long grass near the water tanks a gray kangaroo stretches and scratches his belly in the sun, limpid eyes watching us as we turn towards home through a flock of fearless Happy Jacks.

Deep shadows lengthen,
warm winter sun sinks lower.

Brisk breezes herald night.

Another Weekend

2008-07-18T23:50:00.000-07:00

After one hectic week. I don't know where it went, but it sure has gone. I started my newsletter again and this week I put the second edition out. The town has been pretty ansti lately and I decided better communication was again needed.
This second edition was certainly talked about - people were asking for it before I'd finished it. I guess that is a sign that they find it interesting. Naturally there were negative comments, but you can't please everyone. I certainly can't anyway.
The cat killer has taken another cat. I do miss her, she was such a friendly cat, loved everyone - unfortunately. There is no way we can keep cats caged here. Houses are too open, and husbands too forgetful ;-)
Bandit, our dog misses her too, as she used to pep up the pace on our walks.

We and Them.

A small township's divided,
We aren't speaking again!
They feel they are God's chosen -
what's that say for Them?

We stir pots in the kitchen
huddle in a gossip's conclave,
dream of a life without Them,
isolation makes people brave.

Burdens are layered upon Them,
slandered by whispered word
so, ignorant of misdemeanour,
no disclaimer is heard.

Festering grudges and hatred
it's how all wars begin.
Fueding fuels fragile egos -
there's no way We or Them win.
Frances Mackay (c) 19-7-08

Another Monday Morning

2008-05-11T16:53:00.000-07:00

An amazing morning. Coolish when we first got up, but we started shedding clothes early. All my wash is done and I plan a day's writing. Autumn is the best season here and the birds all tell us so. I haven't felt so energetic for months.

Yesterday was Mother's Day. A lovely day of relaxing. I watched my favourite shows and gardened for awhile, as my husband Frank, watched the car racing. I'm not a fan, a bit noisy for my blood.

The photo is a new hibiscus that has just flowered. They grow well here and my son, Ken, gave me another hibiscus for Mum's Day. That's eight I have now. They flower all year around so will keep a bit of colour in the garden.

Last night I listened to bats fighting in the mango trees and was worried that they were going to settle here the way they did a few years ago. Then there were thousands. So bad was the smell and noise from them that we were ready to vacate the place. They were here for months and only left when the first good rain came for the summer. Fortunately, no more have arrived so I gather they were disturbed when the new next door neighbours began cleaning up their yard. Guess we'll get a few unwanted guests in the next few weeks as resident snakes and rats are routed.

Haven't done much writing lately. Too many other things demanding my attention (or am I procrastinating?). I get great ideas around four am. but am too lazy to write them down. Naturally, I forget them by the time I settle down to commit them to paper. All those bits of lost treasure ;o)

Lost Gold.

At night
ideas come
darting like tiny bats
through my dreams,
elusive, tantalizing.

Or wake me
with wonderous words
buzzing like mosquitoes
seeking tender flesh.
They elude me at daybreak
when virtual memory overloads
and cyclonic lows
minimize creativity.

Frances Mackay. 2007

I must be ill but it is a great way to start my day.

2008-05-04T16:38:00.000-07:00

It's starting to get cold now. We dress in layers this time of the year, then by ten we begin to disgard the top layer and by three we are back to summer gear. This morning I have a jumper with, what French women used to call 'agony covers' (because they hide all bulges, and rough clothes), over the top to keep out the breezes. I feel like a duck as I waddle around. I even have socks on, as well as slippers. I am usually bare foot.

Dressed thusly I took Bandit, our dog, for a run. I use my Gopher (an electric cart) for this so he can stretch his legs properly. Usually I stick to the bitumen but I thought I'd try one of the back streets to give him some fun. Ashley our returned cat decided to come too. That WAS fun! It was like taking two trainee kamikazee trainees out. Both gravitate towards my front wheel.

As well, the back street is deep in bulldust. I almost got bogged a couple of times and finally drove along the grass. That's pretty rough as the gopher has no springs. It was interesting, though, seeing all the different tracks in the dust. Birds, big and small, little paw brints and what looked like a goanna's prints. Lots of snake tracks from the junk yard at the edge of town. Glad it's as cool as it is, I don't fancy fronting a snake with those two. No-one was around at that time. Guess the cold weather has kept them in bed.

Frank used to walk the animals but over the years it was easier to take the car. I wrote this when he still walked them.

Going for the Mail.

Frank has a certain job to do
that really has a tale.
Every morning, before 9 am
he goes to get the mail.

He takes the dogs on this daily walk –
two killer dogs on leads –
escorted by our three home cats,
cavorting through the weeds.

There’s Molly, who began this jaunt,
followed by Kate, her mother.
(She knows where all the dangers lurk,
so keeps them out of bother.)

Now Max, our newest acquisition,
not to be out done,
insists in taking part
in this diurnal fun.

He sticks quite close to father’s feet,
hiding in his shade
and halts him so politely
if their energy begins to fade.

The performance is pathetic,
if one is left behind,
"He’s been and gone without me!
Did he think I wouldn’t mind?"

The locals now are used to
this menagerie setting forth
but tourists and out-of-towners
seem overcome with mirth.

Seeing Frank and his escort,
led by Molly and Kate the clown.
Just another bit of local colour -
a part of this little town.

Today Started Well

2008-04-28T17:48:00.000-07:00

Today we were going to take the big 'frige into Hughenden. It had been waiting for over 2 years to have the gas renewed. The guys got it up on the trailer after a long discussion about should it be on its back or kept upright. It was ready to be secured when theydiscovered that the tie ropes had disintergrated. Well, the orange ones anyway. The black ones were still okay.

That doesn't surprise me, light clothes don't last half as long in this sun as the darker clothes. That's why my undies are black - not 'cos I think they're sexy ;-) Anyway it was impossible even to think of taking it in until we had proper ties. The Jardine Valley stretch of road would probably demolish car and trailer.

The Road to Good Intent.

Between Hughenden and Prairie.

This road is now a legend

and all the travellers tell

how the track to Hughenden

is like the road to Hell.

Just like that other road,

it’s paved with good intention,

but when Funds get handed out

this doesn’t get a mention.

A yearly grade along the sides

clears the road-toll smell

–cosmetic council cleaning -

they’ve spent their money well.

A narrow strip of tarmac

where we bounce and sway,

avoiding other transport

that’s coming either way.

There’s barely room for passing,

the sides are cut away,

but “it’s to be upgraded,”

so our politicians say.

‘till then put up a warning,

“Take a Pit Stop here -

cast iron gut required,

especially after beer”.

While the men sorted their mens' stuff I changed into more respectable gear for town. Then I changed out of it again. Now I'm doing woman's work (which is never done). Probably because I'm playing around here?

I'm not too upset about not getting into town as it is my day for watering and I want to get into the garden now that the weather is cooler. I might have a neat spring garden - maybe.

Besides Fari comes tomorrow.

Back Again

2008-04-25T20:32:00.000-07:00

Sorry to my friends who must be wondering what has happened. This last year is one I'd rather forget as a whole. I started thinking about writing here a month ago but was interrupted by an urgent call that stopped me in my tracks. I was told my cancer had returned and I had to return to the cost for immediate treatment.

For the three days before the appointment I worked out my priorities (I thought) and actually felt relieved that at least I knew what was making me so tired. I wondered if I was going into a depression, or something.

At the doctor's I was informed that the diagnosis had been incorrect. It was rather funny as the young doctor and I were talking at cross purposes. He was literally scratching his head (he couldn't understand where I was coming from and I was getting pretty irate with the breakdown of the system because he didn't seem to have the new biopsy results). Finally the doctor, who did the biopsy and had called me, came in to clarify the situation. They'd taken the reading of my first biopsy. I was still clear. I have never been so pleased to hear, "I'm so sorry."

The weather has cooled considerably. I'm not as tired and I've forgotten what my priorities were. Guess you could say I'm back to normal.

I've even finished a new collection of my poems in time for the tourists who flock through this area (if the petrol prices allow them). I've called this anthology "Here There Be Dragons" because:

The average urbanite has
little idea how rural people survive.
"What’s to do out there?" they ask.
Many have no conception of life without
shops, taxis and take-aways.
To them the country is as uncharted
as those ancient maps when men believed
the world was flat and, if they sailed too far they would fall over the edge.

I've also been trying my hand at different styles of writing, Ekphrastic Poetry, Flash stories and even some Bush poetry. Mind you, I do get side tracked pretty easily into solving my Sudoku.

Here is one of my Ekphrastic pieces. They are great to do when inspiration fails. I've given the link that has the painting.

http://www.artregister.com/seavest_collection/katz_amanda.html

Amanda

Woman/child, hair impeccable under halo hat,

with guileless eyes set in a flawless face

as uncharted as new land.

Those eyes transfix me,

entomologist pins to a moth.

Wide, unblinking,

above firm, straight nose

and a mouth full of secrets.

Her dress is buttoned tight,

but not her mouth, nor eyes.

An arcanum background,

the unopened journal

to record her progression.

With or without uniform conformity

Amanda’s an enigma.

After a Time of Wondering

2007-11-26T16:59:00.000-08:00

Sharing a last photo of our prima donna. Sadly missed. (There is a strange resemblance to someone I know - never noticed it before.)

Life is full of unexpected turns and twists. This year has been rife with the unexpected. By now I should know to be prepared. Me I just jump from one crisis to another. Nothin new. I haven't written here for yonks. Have been feeling pretty unmotivated after numerous trips to the coast. Inspiration has been flagging along with my energy. Now the summer is knocking at our door, hopefully I will get back into a more creative mood.

The following poem is inspired by an article in Townsville Bulletin on 11th August. (Nothing to do with the prima donna, except that I guess there were a few on the plane ;-). How paranoid are we?

Failing Communication 101.

Half way across The States – that’s USA, you know –

A hostie offered me a snack. I should have told her “No”.

My queasy stomach dissed the chips and nuts

so I said I ‘d give pretzels a go.

Grimly she informed me there were none on board.

“Fair dinkum?” is all that I replied - on that I give my word!

Soon I was surrounded by a flight crew up in arms,

my passport was demanded, no use my Aussie charms.

My details all were taken, for a heinous crime.

For ‘fair dinkuming’ the hostess, it seemed I could do time.

Three of The Bureau’s finest nabbed me when I disembarked,

said I’d broken federal rules with my chance remark.

They accused me of swearing, with words they didn’t know,

then detained me for hours. I was an International Foe!

Finally I was released - with investigation pending,

Sky West and FBI farewelled me - none smiling, all unbending.

How Ironic is This.

2007-05-27T17:36:00.000-07:00

Sunday is always the day for doing my own thing. That usually means playing around with writing and using the internet. Recently our satellite has been experiencing problems and the internet becomes inaccessible. Generally when I want to use it. Those are the days when I feel most isolated.

Yesterday it happened again.

An ASP in Our Eden?

Praise be for the Internet,

a boon this modern age,

just click where ere we want -

upon the right web page.

Saves time when entertaining;

free recipes - all there,

advice on room arranging,

even tells us what to wear.

And if you’ve lost instructions

for your favourite card games,

play around with Google

where you’ll find alternate names.

Yesterday I browsed the net

to find the perfect meal,

got tempted by a writer’s site

who’s work had great appeal.

I don’t know where my day went –

6 p.m. and friends were due.

No time to test my cooking skills,

we’ll have a barbecue.

The Drought Breaker - View from My Front Door.

2007-05-12T18:58:00.000-07:00

It is Mothers' Day again and most untypical Torrens Creek weather. It has felt like rain for the last few days, we have actually had several spots and I am hoping we will get more.

The Golf Club has a tournament here this weekend and they have finally convinced people that it makes more sense to start early to beat the heat and get them all home earlier to beat the kamakazi kangaroos, etc. Wouldn't you know it would turn cool? Even the kangaroos are sluggish.

I am enjoying my Mothers' Day. My husband has spoilt me. He has vacuumed the house for me. I didn't object, gave me more time in the garden.

We have our son home after 15 years. He arrived home from Toronto, Canada last August and has settled here. He bought a house (ex railway station) a few blocks away. It is wonderful having him so close. The town population is now 22 - major explosion. And there are more people moving in. I guess it has to do with the all mining which is going on in the area.

The following is my solution to the current dry spell we are having. Enjoy!

The Drought Breaker.

There’s rain coming,
the prophet peered at the sky.
My cat’s washed behind her ears
and listen to the bull-frogs cry.

Notice the traffic sounds nearer,
birds all flocking so low?
The mock orange has flowered –
there’ll be rain in a day or so.

My arthritis is creaking in earnest,
black ants are working hard,
but the surest sign I’ve ever seen
is standing out in the yard
.
Yes, the best drought breaker
I’ve seen - by far,
is the rain-dance performed
as my husband washes the car.

The Man that Kills Cats.

2007-04-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

Tally board for cats killed - mainly neutered pets.

Are Ferals Too Dangerous for this Man(?)

I think I have had better months. March ended rather disasterously after hitting a kangaroo, puncturing three - yes three - tyres, breaking a headlight and spending all our 'mad money' on car repairs. This all happened in the one day, on our trip to Townsville.

April began similarly. Our cat ( Em, the one I wrote about a couple of entries ago) vanished on April Fools Day. In true Em fashion, he ran away during a noisy engagement party at the pub. The music scared him, so close to home.

Then our old dog died on Tuesday night. Happily Minnie's death was as it should have been, peacefully on my lap after 13 years of love and bossiness. We buried her under the olive tree, beside her mate Zack.

Yesterday it was confirmed that our local unofficial cat culler killed our cat (great April Fools Day joke!). I wrote this when I heard.

The Man(?) that Kills Cats.

He keeps a tally outside his door,
near the ad for
"woman wanted
preferably with own chooks.
Apply within"

His score is cats - fourteen
ladies - nil.

He took our golden boy this week.

At Christmas time kids call him "Santa".
He hates that too.

I couldn't let these victims be forgotten. All three went in two weeks. The two black and whites were abandoned by our neighbour, one had just given birth. The ginger was our pride and joy. The kittens survived and have good homes.

Finally!

2007-03-26T18:59:00.000-07:00

Okay, tried to get this below the second para but the program has a mind of it's own. This is our favourite home away from home when we stay in Townsville. The reflection in the window shows you why. Now, I wonder what I did with that t-shirt...

Since this site has changed I have had trouble posting anything. Funnily enough whatever was wrong has cleared itself. (Touch Wood!)

This year I have decided to concentrate on my memoirs. The time is flowing by so quickly that I don't know when I will ever get everything done. Can but try ;-)

I wrote the following poem a year ago. I must have had a premonition of things to come. Shortly after this I was called in to the hospital to have a cancer removed from my breast. Fortunately it was small and things are now all clear.

After a Trip to Town.

Sleepless in bed
images clicked behind my lids:
five white cockatoos
perched on silvered remains of a gum,
like magnets on a fridge;
a cyclist, helmet intact,
sweaty sinuous legs automated;
egrets directing traffic
at pony club;
a rubble of cattle piled at a gate,
the sign above my bed -
‘No solids after 4 pm.’

Black cockatoos perched on the dead gum
when I travelled home.

This is Disgusting.

2007-01-19T21:30:00.000-08:00

This will only appeal to those who love animals. I talk to mine regularly. W-e-e-l-l, some people talk to plants. They don't answer back, either.

This is Disgusting.

I wheel the chair into the bedroom in preparation for a clothes folding and putting away session, not my favourite occupation. Immediately a large ginger cat appears from under my bed.

"Emmy, there you are, you lovely boy. Mummy thought you'd gone."

Our golden boy jumps on the bed. "Meow." He whispers in his broken voice.

"You want me to give you a 'wove', do you, darling?"

Golden head pushes against my hand and he summersaults in the middle of the quilt. Purrs rumble as he shows his soft side. "Did the big bad dog fwiten you, then?"

I baby talk and scratch the offered rounded anatomy. "Poor Em, kicked from pillar to post, never a moment to relax, is there? Poor old thing, all skin and bones."

Hairy toes curl and I get a quick lick on the hand. Another head nudge, this time to the hand that is unoccupied. Just a polite reminder. Minutes pass as I smooth the wuss' ruffled fur and scratch a proffered ear. I'm careful to keep both hands busy. Quality time is important.

"We've been busy, hey boy? No wonder you're flighty. Big ol' Nelson was the final straw, eh? After the boys were here too, disturbing your peace, and all."

"M-e-o-w." is the heartfelt reply. He grabs my arm with four sheathed paws and gently bites my wrist.

"Oo wouldn't hurt Mummy, would oo, sweetie?"

Paws flex a little harder and he flips upright. Gives me a 'come on' look and leads me to the food bowl. Round orange eyes manage to look pathetic as Em sucks in his belly in a "I never get anything nice" imitation of an orphan.

"Guess you'd better have these now," I shake fresh food into the bowl. "That big bad Ken'll soon be home again. Can't have you scat before you're fed."

A steely glance, a flip of the tail and Em vanishes as a heavy step is heard at the front door.

Portrait

2007-01-02T21:04:00.000-08:00

The Portrait
Sisters posing side by side in satin dresses
childish faces aglow with confidence.
Their reality is here and now,
future still a far away dream
unformed as background shadows.

Blond hair darkens, glow diminishes,
life paints new lines on human canvases,
love's boundaries stretch with time and distance
but siblings remain united
as in that portrait on the wall.
by Frances Mackay 2007.
painted by Kylie Wilkinson 2006

Spam Scam - Thank You Ma-am

2006-09-18T22:52:00.000-07:00

The same old spam is circulating again so I thought it might be timely to post this experience I had. Hope it saves some one ;o) Frances.

Spam Scam. 2004

The message on the computer blinked at me, "Award Notification".
Normally I would have deleted it but I had entered a writing competition so I clicked to read the message, which read, "Congratulations you have won one million US dollars." The official looking letter went on to say how I had won third prize in a lottery that was run every three years by Microsoft and, because of some numbers mix up, I must keep my information to myself until the claim form had been filed.

I stared at the computer screen, reading the message again. I closed my eyes tightly then opened them. The words were still the same.

"Yeh, right," I thought, reading it through. " Contact blah, blah, blah, by the 22nd of next month or the money will revert to the Nederland's Internal Revenue." I deleted the message and left the computer, feeling pissed with who-ever sent the spam, and went to prepare dinner.

Throughout the next few days the message niggled at me. What if it was for real? I'd look a right fool, wouldn't I, if I did nothing and it proved to be legitimate. "Nah!" I muttered, "Who believes in fairies in this day and age? It's just a scam to find if this is really an address, or someone is going to ask for my banking particulars and then rip me off. I've heard of that!"

The little "but?" still followed me around as I did my chores. I day- dreamed of what I could do with even half that kind of money. What I could do for the kids, this really would be a great start for them both.

Frank and I could finally take that trip around the country we were forever dreaming about with no need to worry about time. A new car, a Granny Flat for visitors, lipo-suction, face-lift. I chortled as the ideas became more and more fanciful.

Four days after the message arrived I took out the copy I'd had printed before deleting and carefully read it through for the umpteenth time. Then I sent a reply.

That day I received my first instructions. I was to confirm my batch number and lottery number. Interestingly the references in the heading did not correlate to the text of the letter so I queried it, by phone as the e-mail address was returning my mail.

This was a difficult conversation because of his Asian/Dutch accent and my Australian accent. I was a little confused at the timing of the call and surprised that someone would be conscientious enough to be working at midnight, as I judged the time in Holland to be. No problem, he said, just quote the ones in the text. I was to remain in contact with a Mr Lee throughout the confirmation process.

On confirmation of the batch number and lottery number I had a phone call from Mr Lee. This time it was midnight, my time. Must be payback, I thought. He gave me further instructions and e-mailed me a form to complete for "endorsement in the high court of justice Den-haag here in the netherlands." By this time I had noticed quite a few typos but put it down to the translator in the Netherlands Office.

I confirmed the website address and, though it wasn't particularly impressive for a company that was used to handling millions of dollars, I remained cautiously optimistic.

A series of late night calls followed, with Mr Lee keeping me on target. Two days before deadline he informed me that they needed me in Amsterdam to collect the money at the presentation ceremony.

I had been in touch with both the Dutch and Australian Embassies so was primed in what to expect.

"Oh Mr Lee, that won't be necessary," I cooed. "My son works in the Australian Embassy in The Hague. He is very willing to meet with you. He will bring his solicitor with him. Just give me the directions…"

The voice at the other end squeaked "Ah mudder, I must go, I am very busy, you know…."

"Oh, Mr Lee, before you go. I must thank you for your help and kindness, your mother must be proud of what you do. I just hope my son can do the same for your mother some day…"

Although this was quite an amusing experience for me, according to the contacts at both embassies these scams work. The official wording and the follow-ups are business-like enough to trap the unwary and raise hopes for quick money.

The crunch comes when they start charging for solicitors and expenses incurred in the effort to get 'your winnings' released. Sadly, many have been caught, usually unfortunates who can least afford it.

As I was writing this I received an e-mail from UK headed Bonanza. "We are pleased to inform you of the results … This time it was for second place and worth Two Million Euro.

I think I'll wait for the big one.

Mid Winter.

2006-07-31T18:10:00.000-07:00

Sorry my blog has been static for so long. I have been having treatment which necessitated 6 weeks at the base hospital. Everything is well now. It was an interesting and often amusing experience in all. And I met some fascinating people, including writers. I had no access to computers - that was my only bug- bear really. I couldn't believe there weren't any Computer Cafes handy. What do tourists do, I wonder.

I must be really anxious for spring as I discovered I had ripped of August as well as July from our calendar. Bummer - now my dearly beloved won't remember my birthday - or our anniversary! Maybe I should just leave daily bulletins for him to discover. Wonder if that will work?

It has been lovely weather since I returned from my 6 weeks stint at the coast. We had friends over to meet our new neighbours on Saturday and dined under the milky way. It was a lovely night. Even the various dogs got on well.

While I was away a friend (I use the word advisedly) introduced me to a new puzzle - Suduku - which has taken Australia by storm. Damn it - I'm hooked. I think I must be a compulsive personality after all. Can't start the day until I have solved one.

I didn't do much writing while I was away, despite all the time I had without interruptions. I alway have worked better under pressure. I just finished this one. It is a response to a challenge my writing group has. Have no idea what the tree is that I am writing about. I hope you enjoy it.

July Poem - Desperate Measures.

On the coast the trees capture an audience.
Tourists stop to photograph
the bright mauve canopies and carpets
dotted through the city streets.

I travelled home through hills alight
with captured sunlight
from winter wattle, Bloodwood trees
burgeoned with blossom and
flamboyant grevilleas of cream, red and orange.
In my mind's eye I pictured my own piece of beauty
planted years ago after a coastal trip
and placed carefully to defeat winter's drab.

For five years this tree has grown,
cosseted, protected from frost and blight.
Strong healthy leaves reward me
but no flowers.
Our garden guru tells us
to wack the reluctant tree
as one would a recalcitrant wife.
I'm preparing my weapon
for a sundown assault.

So Much Going On.

2006-06-10T16:00:00.000-07:00

Here I am at my work(?) station. (That's me with the baby.) This is my vantage point for the monthly poetry challenge I am writing at the moment. The idea is to show how the seasons change and our response to them. I guess I will have to rely on memory for July as I am off to the big smoke for some time.
I will imagine my husband fighting with the bougainvillia while I am away. I hate to think what he will do with it while I am not there. Generally I have to chain myself to the trunk to protect it. ;-) That can be pretty rough as these plants have huge thorns. This one is so beautiful, but very messy and keeps us busy sweeping up the fallen leaves and flowers.
I have been having trouble with the garden lately. The following poem explains it all. It is my June response to the challenge.

June Gloom.

My garden's not so peaceful now
our neighbour's done a bunk.
Her hens free range in my yard,
spread sticky fleas and junk.

They scatter my neat laid compost,
cause me strife and ire.
If I only had a sling-shot -
was quick enough to fire.

Our open doors invite them
their feet clack on my floor,
they gobble up our pets' food
then cackle loud for more.

I know free range is healthy -
keep them if she must -
I didn't know they'd scale the fence
and turn my yard to dust.

So you see there sometimes is a crack in the walls of Paradise.

In the next month, while I am in Townsville, we are expecting our son home after 15 years of living in Canada. You can imagine how excited I feel. He hasn't seen our home so he will get something of an education. Below is something I wrote some time ago. The sweet smell of cow dung is wafting through the rooms again now.

Autumn Muster. Frances Mackay

The autumn muster begins
with the April moon.
Horses first alert us,
neighing and kicking in their trailers,
travelling from station to station.
Townships empty as ringers
move out to work the cattle.

Busy traffic gathers labour -
early risers stoked on coffee
and excitement of the chase.
Through dust and scrub
horse and rider rout elusive cleanskins.

A helicopter, technology's answer
to rough terrain, dominates the air,
buffeting the ground with
turbulence, noise and more dust.

Cooler night air carries mournful
cries of separated calves and cows.
Lowing continues for days,
persistent reminders of bush loneliness.

Giant transports, highway's kings,
haul cattle to sale yards
or ships bound for far countries,
dwarfing distances effortlessly.

Ringers return, towns revitalise,
road trains yield to tourist caravans,
horses dream in home paddocks
until, again, the rally to muster comes.

2006-05-13T16:57:00.000-07:00

It's Mother' Day again. I hope mothers everywhere have a wonderful day.

Painting is "Waratah" by Sandra Wilson.

Recently a friend posed a question. "How will my children remember me?" I have been thinking about this ever since. To be honest, I think I was a better teacher than mother. Don't get me wrong. I love my children dearly and am very proud of them. The problem is that I was too busy trying to 'do the right thing' and I don't think I knew what the 'right thing' was for my kids. There really should be some training for parents, especially now that the extended family is vanishing and there are so many single parents. It is such an important job. Many, like me, have nothing to do with babies until their own arrive. Scary. I guess all we can do is our best with the circumstances delt us.

My relationship with my own mother was fraught. Mum worked hard to make us independant. She succeeded but that didn't make our relationship easier. Quite the opposite. The funny thing is that, despite our conflicts, her influence still lingers although she has been dead for many years. I wonder if my influence will be as strong?

A Visit from Mother. by Frances M. Mackay.

Mother dropped in on Monday.
It was washing day.
She arrived at about ten thirty
and the clothes weren't on the line.
I was in the lounge
reading a book.

She came again on baking day,
Wednesday. It was cold.
I opened a packet of anzacs
and shared them with my friends.
My tins were empty -I'm no great cook.

Thursday she was nowhere around,
I was mending some shirts.
Neatly stitching up holes,
repairing seams, sewing on buttons,
turning frayed cuffs.
Domestic detritus.

Friday she joined me in the garden.
We sat together on the stool,
idly pulling weeds,
picking daisies and smelling roses.
We've planted the same roses
on her grave.

Writer's Block

2006-04-22T21:04:00.000-07:00

What an exhausting couple of weeks! I am still chasing to and from the coast and haven't done a thing of note in all this time.
The council has just been and trimmed all our nature strips and generally tidied up the town for the expected tourist influx. They are late with their tidy town bit, usually they are here before Easter, which is the start of the tourist flow.
I am busy printing off copies my chapbook in preparation for the visitors. Naturally, I should have had them done months ago but I tell myself that I work better under pressure.
The cooler weather has brought with it a lot of new birds. The storm bird has gone home, hopefully next November he will be more reliable. The rain didn't come until he'd flow away. Now the mornings are filled with the sounds of quail, pee wees, butcher birds and small parrots. Later in the day the crows, sulphur crested cockatoos and happy jacks become dominant.
This photo is taken by my talented sister-in-law Doris Campbell-Smith. It is a Canberra sulphur cocky - I am sure ours are bigger. I think the space we have here works for them the same way goldfish grow when they are in bigger pools. That's my theory anyway.
We don't feed our wild birds here, there are too many fights. Besides, if we run out of food or forget to feed them they either come inside and demand food or swoop us as we go about our chores. A bit cheeky, I think.

This Week
I've really done nothing important,
taken each day as it comes,
waited for ideas to grab me -
mentally twiddled my thumbs.

I watched birds playing in water,
measured our wonderful rain,
laughed at husband's expression -
now he must mow again.

I've played cards on computer,
washed clothes and put them away;
now home, exhausted from shopping,
I still have nothing to say.

I'll read some works to inspire,
admire their turns of phrase.
I wonder why mud's in my memory
and hope it's a passing phase.

Frances Mackay 13-04-06

Changes

2006-03-17T15:38:00.000-08:00

A friend sent me this awesome shot (photographer unknown) and it fits well with the my life's path at the moment. Medical problems reared their ugly head in January and resulted in constant trips to the coast over the last two months. Townsville is a beautiful city but I am always so glad to get home again.
This time we trailed over on the tail end of Cyclone Larry. We were worried about what devastation we would find but, apart from a couple of fast flowing rivers, there was little damage around that area. The beaches were all closed because of stingers being washed inwith the storm. That's the first time I have seen it happen.
Poor Innisfail is suffering badly. They have done so much to make it a town to be proud of and it was shattered in just moments. We were so lucky no one was killed, the force must have been something really terrifying. Amazingly, they already have power back on. They expected it to take two months.
We had hoped that we would get some fallout rain from Larry, but arrived back to a sad dry town. The good news is that they think these cyclones may be the end of El Nino and lead into El Nina (spelling?)

Autumn at Last.
Harsh blue sky softens to
smudged blue and gray
of a child's finger painting.

Tiny fiddle-wood flowers
imitate last night's rain,
tapping the tin roof
as perfect blossoms
shower down.

Their perfume mingles
with jasmine, frangipani
and warm damp soil.

Dragonflies ripple over
tomato soup puddles
as our calico cat grumps
from the shelter of the door.

Frances Mackay 2006.

March Meanders In.

2006-03-04T19:25:00.000-08:00

Torrens Creek works hard to stay green.

February left us with little rain and plenty of dust. Willi-willies blow down our dirt road and carry dust through the house. It is a constant battle. This is how I find a way to enjoy an unending job.

Music to Dust To.

A nice steady waltz
with duster round chair,
or a jaunty gavotte,
whisking cloth here and there.

Fly high with Denver
for cobwebs and such,
and polish the pictures
to The Seekers sure touch.

Elvis shakes skirtings
then rattles The Doors,
'till Englebert's velvet
gives momentary pause.

A final wipe down
with Willie's a must;
cruise corners with Como
for the last of the dust.

Now quickly enjoy
your tidy abode,
as wind, to Vivaldi,
blows more dirt from the road.

Frances Mackay March 2006

The Year of The Dog

2006-01-28T19:42:00.000-08:00

And our dog, an aged Peke knows it. This morning she put on such a performance that her slave had to take her around the block in the car. She even woke him up early - and she has not done that since she was a young dog. Have dogs got an underground network?

Australia Day (January 26th) was celebrated with a wonderful downpour. There was water everywhere and our tank is overflowing. Now I wish we'd got a larger one.
As well, an unknown source of water has appeared. I thought maybe God had rewarded us for our patience over the ongoing water problem with the council and given us our own spring, but he-of-little-faith turned off the main. Now the water has vanished. If I was God I'd punish a Doubting Thomas too.
Looks like a plumbing job this week, just to keep us on our toes. Life is never boring.
Weather Diary.

In November the storm bird
flew in from New Guinea
to sing its promise of relief
from long months of drought.

By December
his promise became jaded,
overworked, faded -
barely audible over ribald remarks
directing him home.

January silenced him
with sullen heat.
No morning calls spur hope
until Australia Day dawns
on a dripping, washed world
and a surprised stormbird shrills,
"See - I was right after all!"
Frances Mackay January 2006.

Cnr. Swanston and Collins Streets.

2006-01-19T15:56:00.000-08:00

This painting, by my sister Sandra Wilson, rather haunts me. Spring time in Melbourne is/was a lovely time. Here, the crowd of unisex lemmings doesn't even notice it is spring. The invisible strings that pull these people must be strong - but what is it?

At the corner of Swanston and Collins Street.

They stand, mutely
waiting at corner crossings,
uniformly unisex
in dark attire.

Important people,
with places to go,
impervious to
spring's fresh touch.

With impassive faces
and veiled eyes
focused forward
in city conditioning

these modern lemmings
move as one,
impelled by
unnatural instincts.
Frances Mackay 2006

On a Lighter Note.

2006-01-17T14:56:00.000-08:00

Had a fun writing exercise this week so I thought I'd share my attempt. We had to treat a piece of fiction as a factual report. First time I've felt the creative juices flow for ages. Frances.

Major Company Involved in Terrorism.

Police revealed today that chemical manufacturer, ACME, has been involved in a longstanding campaign against native Road Runners.

Wiley Coyote, a front man for the company, confessed he had been hired to test the effectiveness of their product against the - quote Coyote - 'vermin'.

Detective Tracey, police spokesman, said they have reels of graphic evidence on tape; positive proof of wrong doing.

Charges, including wilful damage to personal and public property, intending to inflict grievous bodily harm and personal harassment, have been laid against ACME and Mr. W. Coyote.

Residents in the remote area said they had heard explosions and felt tremours but had assumed it was the movements of the San Andreas Fault. "We are relieved there is no longer a problem," Mr E. Phudd commented.

When asked to comment on the arrests, Road Runner's only comment was, “Beep, beep.”

Third World Conditions in a Modern Country.

2006-01-15T16:04:00.000-08:00

I usually like to post something positive about where I live. The place is usually a lovely place to live, especially if you enjoy peace and wild life. This is not a positive post and the problem will not vanish.
Some of you have read my letter to the council regarding our water problems (see December 4th entry). I have had a response from the Shire saying they will discuss the problem further in February's meeting. The problems began in mid 2005. The main pump has been out of commission since September and (according to a recent telephone conversation with the water department) the council has no idea when the pump will be fixed. The following is an update.
I now go to hang out my washing. Mud and all.

Times They are a-Changing

2005-12-26T18:46:00.000-08:00

My beautiful grandchildren celebrating a birthday. Hope you all had a relaxing and enjoyable Christmas. Frances.

Times keep a-Changing.

Special days in childhood
took forever to arrive.
Birthdays, holidays and Christmas,
their countdowns multiplied.

Our mother kept us busy
with a trillion things to do,
sluggish days were ticked away
before we our nightly prayers.

Years on time's become distorted,
the clock's accellerated pace,
new resolutions are due again
with last year's incomplete.

No time for all I had proposed -
who knows where it's gone.
How come, now I control my life,
so much is left undone?

'Tis the Season.

2005-12-10T15:40:00.000-08:00

I have now had over 1000 visitors to my site, some are regulars. I am pretty excited about that. Now that all you Northerners are preparing to celebrate your white Christmas we are gearing down for a very hot one here. It regularly hits 35C before mid morning. The following is an exercise I did recently. It sort of tells you what we are experiencing. Our spring was the hottest ever recorded here.

Lights Out.
I roll over, eyes shut, unwilling to recognise it is almost morning. The soft whirr of the fan has been a constant during the humid night. Now its blades barely move the air. The mosquito net tangles in the sheet as I turn, its roughness clings to my damp salty cheek.
Outside the bushbees buzz around the cactus flowers; strange how they favour them when the smell of the neem tree and mock orange is so intoxicatingly sweet on the pre dawn air.
An early truck coughs along the dusty road outside my window, the smell of diesel overpowers garden perfumes momentarily. I recognise the sound of Lofty's truck. The air tastes of fumes and dust, my louvres rattle from the heavy vibrations as it passes by.
Cockatoos begin the dawn chorus. Their first shrieks of the day drown the twittering of the smaller birds. I shudder at the raw sound, thankful that they will moderate as the day progresses.
A soft body snuggles under my arm. I know it is my red cat, his jump is more of a cushioned float than the other cats. I trail my fingers through his soft fur and murmer sweet nothings in his ear. He believes me and rolls onto his back to offer his perfect belly for my pleasure.
The other cats land on the bed seconds later, all paws blazing, as they voice their discontent at the lack of food in their bowls. I recognise the different meows, the pathetic 'mew' of Molly, the brash 'growl' of our adoptee (he seems to like our home better than his own) and the determined nail clicking of our dog, who will not be over looked.
I sigh, reluctantly open my eyes and prepare for the day. It's not yet 4.30 but what do they care?

Trials in Paradise.

2005-12-04T15:18:00.000-08:00

Now the summer has arrived our water problems have trebbled. This town has suffered years of erratic water supplies and I have finally blown my stack. The following is a letter I have just posted to our shire council. I probably won't get a reply but it eases my ire.

For presentation at Council Meeting.
Dear Sir,
Yesterday while in Hughenden I visited your public toilets. Let me congratulate you on the cleanliness of the facilities and the pristine porcelain.
Today I worked hard to catch up on my household chores. I folded washing and put aside a third of the wash to treat for the Torrens Creek Stigmata - that familiar red streaking that identifies our town's inhabitants. Past experience told me it was a useless exercise, but I live in hope. I scrubbed the bath and basin, removed the orange glaze which covered the once white surfaces, then hosed out the residue. Fresh red drops decorate the porcelain surfaces. The old toilet has defeated me - but, hey, the foul water keeps the frogs away.
Next I ran the wash-up water into the sink. I believed that cleanliness is next to godliness, shame that we can't live by that rule here. I don't relish washing my eating utensils in water the colour of strong tea, despite the assurances that it (the water) is fit to drink - sometimes.I won't drink it now, even though we have a filter, the water comes through opaque at best and smells if left in a container for a few hours.
I would like to thank the council for the care you show the citizens of Torrens Creek. You have unified our rather diverse community with this water problem and, at the same time, have stifled our over-zealous attempts to maintain our Good Housekeeping status. The erratic water supply, which we are charged for, leaves stains on all surfaces when wiped, walls, white goods, benches and clothes. Strange how the stain seeks the favourite clothes...This all causes us to pause each time the urge to clean occurs. You are helping us to slow our life style. Unfortunately, my blood pressure keeps rising.
Also, thanks to you, my modesty is intact. In earlier times nuns tought me to sprinkle talc in the bath to cloud the water. Torrens Creek water ensures that I'm safely invisible while bathing. I now use the talc for what it is intended, although the irritants in the water cause me to use twice as much.
I imagine you are all familiar with those television advertisements asking for contributions to help third world countries have access to pure water? Maybe the council should consider applying for a grant to help Torrens Creek obtain the same?
Now, at the end of the day, I am thinking longingly of a cool welcoming bath to relax in. Can you tell me where I can get one?
Yours truly
Frances Mackay

The Convict Bridge

2005-11-06T20:28:00.000-08:00

This bridge has always been important to our family. It was built just below our paternal grandparents home and we played around its arches, threw stones from its walls and generally claimed it as our special place. In the days when children had more freedom than they have now, my siblings, cousins, friends and I explored the creek and often had a picnic under its shade. I pity those children who never had this freedom, a childhood without water to play in seems sterile to me.

The Convict Bridge.

It has spanned this sandy creek

since colonial days.

We learned to swim beneath its arches,

in summer, sheltered in the shade.

Built from local stone,

welded with groans, blood

and curses of convicts

transported for displeasing the king,

or stealing a loaf of bread.

Each rock remembers those cries,

the chain clinks,

crack from whip - or worse,

and the tyranny which built

this monument to misery. Frances Mackay 2005

Letter to a Travelling Companion.

2005-11-06T13:54:00.000-08:00

Prizewinning Painting 'Almost Forgotten', painted by Sandra Wilson, 2005 and printed with her permission. I think it works well with this poem I wrote to farewell a favourite old car of my own. The only time this car refused to start was the day we took it to the tip. We had to tow it away.

Letter to my Travelling Companion.

Dear friend,
How often have we jolted over this busy road,

steel rails embedded in blue bitumen?

While morning mists engulf us,

and ghost trams rattle

we dice with erratic traffic.

Sleepy fruiterers, trucks laden with pumpkins,

cabbages and apples, cheerful horns busy,

dodge fish vendors’ freezer vans.

Fresh from markets they race to tempt

customers with the day’s specials.

Thursdays we waft past fragrant florist vans -

Interflora, secretive, enclosed, sterile:

others flaunt exotic palms, tubs of brilliant

flowers and share their perfumes with us.

In spring we carry boronia scent to work.

We pass factory workers at change of shift,

yawning, in uniform denim, chatty t-shirts under jackets,

stomping feet to beat dawn’s chill.

Grimy and puffing long-awaited cigarettes,

they hail the day shift who clock in.

You excel at traffic lights, your engine purrs,

we leave sedate silver models

standing in our smoke,

smoke that finally must part us -

so the condemning citation states.

Today is our last trip. Registration is due and,

though your body is sound,

you are a dinosaur, a guzzler of gas

impractical to convert, say those

who haven’t travelled with you daily.

Tomorrow we will tow you to the dump where

body snatchers, like vultures, wait to strip you.

No doubt I will pass your grafted parts along

the route we travelled, cream fender attached

to coloured body. I’ll salute you in passing,

a passenger where once a pilot.

Spring Racing Carnival

2005-11-04T17:50:00.000-08:00

The Melbourne Cup, the race that stops a nation, is over again for another year. I missed out on the festivities because I was waiting for the Telstra contractor to come and fix my internet connection. We don’t have that many social occasions here and I was a bit down because I had to miss the luncheon.I didn’t even watch the race on television because I had forgotten that the rest of the country was on daylight savings and that the race was an hour earlier than I expected. Another horse has become a legend. Three Melbourne Cup wins. Not even Phar Lap did that.However, I won third prize in the local sweep AND the dear contractor arrived to fix my satellite connection. I now can play around the world again. But I do miss Melbourne in spring. It was always a special place at that time. Unfortunately this poor little fellow never made it past this stage but he was too beautiful not to display, wasn't he?

Melbourne in Spring. © 2003

I miss Melbourne in spring time,
morning mists clinging
to branches of elm and plane trees,
luminescent leaves,
rivalling the office girls’
bright finery.

The distant distinctive rattle
as trams cross junctions,
the malty smell from the brewery
floating across the Yarra,
carried on frosty air,
exciting taste buds.

Dancing daffodils in buckets
direct from produce market,
street flower vendors
inciting frivolity after
dormant drudgery
of winter months.

I miss my spring.

First Rain.

2005-10-24T14:37:00.000-07:00

After almost four years without our summer rains clouds are gathering and we have already had over one inch of rain, delivered in the first real electrical storm for years. We have had rain but not the thrilling light shows we are used to. Sometimes we have watched lightening flash in awesome displays that have lasted all night. Our storms generally come at night.

Dark clouds crowd the sky,
wind swirls winter's detritus,
changes cloud shapes
to form Thor's anvil.

Bird songs cease, blossoms
release perfumed oils
to float on warm, waiting air
in eerie yellow light.

Low grumbles swirl closer,
sky lowers, darkens,
promises rain to
frogs' rasping chorus.

Wind bells, rudely rattled
by strengthened wind,
dance to fresh music
under sheltering eaves.

Lightning snaps its jaws,
cracks to earth
in the brooding still as
fat drops begin to fall.

The feeling of isolation comes after some of these storms. Roads are often cut for days where bridges are low-lying. Travellers are generally prepared for such eventualities and, in some areas good money is made by locals who pull unwary drivers out of a suddenly swollen creek. This little lake is fun for both kids and adults to paddle through.

Travelling Light.

2005-10-22T21:39:00.000-07:00

This past month we have only been able to access the internet briefly. Our server will finally come to improve our connection this week (I hope). Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere the internet is my sanity. So I guess you could say I have been slightly insane these past weeks.
Since I couldn't post any of my writings, give crits or get feed back we decided to take a short break and head north. We had planned to take this sentimental trip over ten years ago but there was alway something which stopped us.
They say that it isn't wise to retrace your footsteps, revisit the past, but I am glad we did. We visited some of the places were we had lived and played almost forty years ago. I no longer regret the moves that took us south.
Some of the places have developed into beautiful, functional towns, a credit to their councils, but others made me weep to see how their identities have been stolen by developers. I can not understand how they can take an unspoiled area and turn it into a place that could be any city, any where.

Progress.

Warm opal waters lapped
white glistening sand,
dark native bush ringed high tide mark,
mangroves meandered along
mysterious waterways;
sailboats dipped in gentle swell.

Running before the wind
beneath a sky spread with clouds,
like fleece on a skirting table,
two children and gambolling Great Dane
chased a red and yellow beach ball,
found buried sea treasures.

Today regimental rows of coconut palms
march above high water mark:
no dogs or camping beyond this point.
Red and yellow umbrellas
secure hotel patrons privileged positions
along raked sand.

Cruise boats and private yachts
dip, lazy as sea gulls,
in the cloud shadowed blue water.
Private walled estates sprout
where mangroves once meandered;
exotic blooms replace native drabs.

Rain coming.

2005-09-30T19:49:00.000-07:00

We are nearing the rainy season here. Already we have had some good showers. The weather is heating up rapidly and I would be surprised if we don't get some storms soon.

It's Heavy Weather.
“Nice bit of rain we've had Burt,” Joyce called accross to her neighbour. She pegged a sheet to the line and smiled at the dark clouds overhead. She didn't care that the clothes wuld have no chance to dry that day.
“We're doing our bit to keep it around,” she continued. “Done my washing and Ken washed the car yesterday. Never fails, that. Better than the old rain dance, eh? This should make the farmers smile, shouldn't it?”
“Don't know about that. This will upset the harvest, probably cause rust at this time of the year too. Doesn't help the natural grasses either, the growth season is over. Seeds will just sprout and burn off. Wasted.” Burt's lugubrious expression lightened a little at the prospect.
“Oh well, it's great for the garden, isn't it?” Joyce sniffed. “Don't you love the smell of the first rain?”
“Watch out for black spot on your roses. The weather is too warm still.”
“I bet the animals love it.” Joyce ploughed on valiantly. “The poor things plod around in all that dust with hardly any shelter. It must be a relief for them.” She picked up her basket and turned towards the house.
“They'll probably get foot rot.” Burt sniffed as he tossed his copy of “Farmer's Gazette” into the bin. 01-10-05

After the Ashes.

2005-09-17T18:22:00.000-07:00

Well the cricket is over and we lost the Ashes. But what a great boost the series was for the game. It had me on the edge of my seat every night. Wasn’t even game to leave the room in case I missed something or caused the wind to blow the wrong way and make the ball fall short. (You never know what strange air currents occur.)
Next year we will try to reclaim the precious urn, I hope the games will be as close. For now I am grateful to be getting my full quota of sleep. And again have the energy to do my chores.
At least next year the games will be in our day light - chores will be put on hold but I will have my sleep.
We take our cricket seriously here. Below is a cutting from the local paper. The match played was a scene direct from a Russel Drysdale painting and was great fun.

We Won!
The Torrens Creek v Pentland Fire Brigades cricket match was held in ideal conditions. The unique ground, ant mounds and all was a scene of fierce competition as the two teams tried to win this inaugural game. Although the proceeds were to be divided between the two fire teams Pentland kindly donated their half back to Torrens Creek brigade to help the beginners build up their funds. Much appreciated, guys!Honours went to the Torrens Creek Tigers as they walked away with the impressive trophy donated by J. Hill of “Oakley”.The day was a fun family day, although competition was hot. The children of all ages enjoyed a Lolly Drop from the air and the “grown-ups” pitted their strength against each other in the tug-o-war. This was also won by Torrens Creek. It is proposed that this will be an annual event between the local fire brigades. Congratulations to all who made this day such an enjoyable one.

Another fun day is planned for this season but dates have not yet been decided. It all depends on the mustering ... We will try to advertise more widely so our tourists can join in the fun.

Country Living.

The pumps have failed,
no water here,
routine’s all thrown out.
Monday washing won’t get done,
nor dishes, I’ve no doubt.

No washed floors,nor lush green lawns –
my blooming garden’s dead –
I’ll settle for a long hot bath
before I go to bed.

Stoics, we overcome
complications
of this inland drought.
But our afternoon’s shot to hell –
the cricket’s been rained out.

Shopping in the Country.

2005-09-04T19:26:00.000-07:00

We can never complain of boredom here. Now the weather has shifted from close to frost to in the high 20s (actually the latest reading says 35degrees in the kitchen) over these last few days we are pulling all our warm weather clothes out of the cupboards.
Tomorrow we head into the nearest shopping area, 90ks away. Haircuts, library visit, and a top up on groceries are all necessary for us or our neighbours. It is important to let the town know when we go to save other's time and petrol. The heat makes it impossible to take our dog with us now and she will no doubt picket her territory with signs, 'Dogs have rights too!' in the hope that some gullible neighbour will take pity on her.

Minnie is a mistress at emotional blackmail. She rules this house with an iron mitt, will not allow her stupid suckers to deviate from her wishes. We both hate it when she sulks but will make it up to her on Wednesday when Fari comes to town. Then she holds court and gets to socialise with all the town who gather around his van.
Fari is our Purveyor of Fruit and Vegetables. No mere fruiterer, he is such an important person to our area he earns that title.

The Purveyor of Fresh Fruit.

He travels in the outback
filling small town needs,
an immigrant from Persia
when there was a Shah.

Persecuted in his homeland
for retaining the old faith,
he brought his family
away from intolerance.

Fourteen years he has
covered these lonely roads,
leaving home and family
to bring us crisp health.

Suspicious of his difference,
prejudice still follows him,
his cpmpetition frowned upon,
but his customers increase.

Spring has Sprung and here We Is ...

2005-09-02T01:39:00.000-07:00

Celebrating Spring.

Smells of cut grass and gasoline,
turned soil, warm moist compost
float on crisp cool breeze
stir brown thumbs to bud anew.

Self-important Babblers begin early,
"Can't talk, can't talk - Hello, Hello."
Their cries, like the breeze, still
when sun sucks the morning dew.

Doors and windows are welcome wide,
vacuums zoom from room to room,
seek dust with renewed vigour
and farewell winter hibernation.

Essance de vache trails from transports,
wafts through town that echoes
to voices of absentee owners
summoned by fair weather and council threats.

Filledwith bonhomie and free libation
we celebrate first day of spring with neighbours.
Under the stars we juggle plates and glasses -
listen as Happy Jacks squabble
in the African Mahogany.

A Family Moment.

2005-08-25T20:55:00.000-07:00

The painting, 'A Day on the Bay' by Sandra D. Wilson, sparked my memory and prompted me to write this poem. We were not often all together as a family in a moment of relaxation. This was a special day for me, I hope Craig and Sandra remember it. The perfection of the day, its colours, sounds and smells stayed with me as I drifted off to sleep that night.

Remember Peterborough,

that rare relaxation with our parents -
our picnic in that sunny cove?

Too cool to swim
we lazed on the white sand,
buried our feet in its warmth,
built sandcastles.
Smells of salt and seaweed
seasoned our sandwiches -
how ravenous we were.

Moving jewel blue colours of the sea,
capped by foam breakers
that crashed at our feet,
sucked away support.

Cotton clouds chased each other
accross spring sky.
Behind my closed lids
those scenes replay in Technicolour
and seagulls shriek in Hi Fidelity.

A Dragon's Visit -2003

2005-08-21T21:57:00.000-07:00

When we were children we lived in a remote farm in the Strathbogie Ranges of Victoria. Fire was always a hazard during the hot summer months. One year my father and uncle were called to fight a fire burning along the ridges near our property. At home we children waited with our mother, fearful and watching as the fire seemed to be gaining ground. This poem is a memory of that day. The painting, by my sister Sandra D. Wilson, arrived last night. I am proud of her talent and love the opportunity to display it. I intend to feature more as I progress with the intricacies of blogging.

A dragon came up to my door
his fiery breath was rank;
I trembled, awed by what I saw,
as on my knees I sank.

I saw his army claim the ridge,
devour the grassy land,
saw the wanton carnage
caused by that savage band.

A sullen sky gave no respite
to the wildlife fleeing past,
defeated by the monster's might
then killed with furnace blast.

The parched land had no chance
against this fearsome foe;
the dragon did a macabre dance -
manic darting to and fro.

When all hope had faded
Nature took a healing hand;
the hot north wind abated,
turned south and saved our land.

Now I have that off my chestless -

2005-08-16T18:54:00.000-07:00

A perspective from down under. We're all bats you know.
What can you expect from a country that began as a convict colony?

Everything Happens at Once in My Family.

2005-08-16T18:27:00.000-07:00

It is our 44th wedding anniversary. Yep, right after my birthday - which HE also forgot until it was flashed in his face on our emails. No emails this time but I have written a story for him. As a point of reference - we travelled to New Zealand for our honeymoon, and to start a new life. This isn't true, obviously - the story I mean. But second time around???

Smell the Roses?
Ann sat beside her mother and waited for her to wake from her nap. She noticed how thin her skin had become over these last months. Her hands, speckled with liver spots, looked transparent in the late afternoon sun.
Her mother turned her head and smiled at her, eyes still bleared from her sleep. "Hello dear, I've had such a nice dream. I was back in Rotorua with your father.
"It was a lovely morning, when we set out. The beginning of spring, but still very fresh, as it can be in New Zealand. Oh, it was so peaceful. And green! You haven't seen green grass until you visit the North Island. Australia has nothing to compare with it. We drove up from Auckland in our rented Mini Minor. Sheep were everywhere, and so white. No dust you see, to make them dirty like ours."
There was silence as her mother drew back into her memories, then she spoke again. "There wasn't much traffic, being a week day. Just a few farmers taking stock to market and a beer tanker. I remember the beer tankers because your father told me about the parties they had when one turned over." She smiled, mischievous as a girl.
"We had our windows down and were singing to the radio. Fifties stuff - sweet, silly and sentimental. Not like the stuff you listen to today." She sniffed and Ann smiled, she'd heard that before. "We could smell the town before we saw it. Rotten eggs, I thought. You know the smell naughty boys mix in chemistry class to disrupt a lesson. It was overpowering, like Dante's world, and became more so as we drove closer. Steam hung over the whole area, keeping the smell close to the ground. No tourists were there at such an early hour.
"Your father parked close to the walks and made me get out. He was angry that I was pregnant. Just when we were beginning to get ahead. It was hard to make ends meet in those days."Ann's mother sighed and moved to ease her bones.
"That's where I lost him. One minute he was on the wooden walkway with me, the next - only the bubbling hot mud. He'd wanted me to have a mud bath… Sulphur reminds me of him." She sighed and held Ann's hand as she drifted back into her dream world.
Ann sat and wondered.

Yesterday was my Birthday

2005-08-13T17:20:00.000-07:00

And what a present I got! Rain halted cricket for over five hours. It saved our bacon and we didn't have to play on. We aren't doing so well in this series, I'm afraid. Guess it is because I don't sit up and watch? I will watch tonight, though.
On another front, I went to a first birthday party for our youngest town member. There are only two children in this village - we call it the retirement village - both are under school age, which is just as well as the government closed the school a couple of years before we arrived. That was the death knell for the town.
Despite the normal scarcity of kids here, there was an amazing number at the party. Would you believe only one mishap the whole time we were there, and that was just a little cry because he got a wack on the head. Amazing! The guest of honour wasn't interested in the toys she was given. Just kept running to her favourite spot in the yard to play with her stones when she thought she wasn't being watched.
Most of the presents were bright plastic activity toys. It seems to me that the children get an overload of these and turn off because of the sameness. One can only do so much with primary colours and shapes. The rag bunny I made was a hit with the older ones so I guess I will make Renae one after all. I thought it might be a bit babyish for a three year old but it got dragged around all afternoon. I felt quite smug about that.
Today, for the first time in ages, I decided I was going to relax and read and do a bit of scribbling. I have a poem buzzing around my head so I want to work at it. Wouldn't you know - Frank has become motivated and is working on installing the exposed beams in the lounge room where I intended to relax. Now I am in here writing drivel as the house begins to dissolve around me.
When he goes to have his snooze I will creep back and watch John Wayne in "The Undefeated". It somehow eluded me when I was younger. Interesting how my opinion of Wayne has changed over the years. Sadly, he is no longer my hero.

I'm Out of it!

2005-08-11T02:01:00.000-07:00

Forget me - I'm watching the Ashes.

Chap Book.

2005-08-06T21:51:00.000-07:00

My chap book, The Country Gate, has now been released to selected shops. This anthology has stories and poems inspired by Torrens Creek, Queensland, its wildlife and some social 'happenings' around the area. I compiled it to give our many tourists some idea of what makes people love living in the outback, despite the lack of town comforts and entertainments. Here we make our own entertainment.
The gate on the cover was entry into one of the remote properties here, it has since been changed to another farmers' enigma - the gap - and is even more difficult to open.
The poem, The Country Gate, is one of a series I have written about Australian icons. I chose to use it on as the cover piece because it seems to typify the contrary ruggedness of bush characters.
The book sells for A$10.00, plus postage and handling, and may be ordered directly from this site.

After a Trip to Townsville.

2005-07-09T23:19:00.000-07:00

We took a quick trip over to the coast last week. As luck would have it we chose Show Day to book in at the motel. My husband, Canadian by birth, booked us in. The clerk noticed his accent and said, "We have another American staying here at the moment.(Frank hates being mistaken for an American.) She has just bought a block of land where you live." Small world, eh? We slid a "welcome" with an invitation to join us for coffee when she arrived back for the night.
She arrived about 7.30, exhausted after a quick trip out to view her block with the land agent. She is a writer also. Maybe our town will become a cultural hub? Who knows...
Because the shops were shut for the show we spent the day finding where we had to go the next day. We passed the show grounds several times and saw the crowd appreciating the fine day after so much rain. Excited kids dragging parents towards the gates and exhausted parents dragging overtired kids away from the gates. Ah yes, I remember it well.
Strangely, the show grounds, are situated close to the State High School. I bet the teachers had fun keeping their students' attention the day before the show. Imagine all those teens watching the rides being erected! And the perceived romance of the carnival workers... the mind boggles. Glad I wasn't one of the teachers.
We had a bit of trouble finding the university but it was worth the hunt, the surrounding at James Cook Uni are absolutely beautiful. They made me wish I was a student again. Mind you, some of the staff leave a bit to be desired. I don't know about 'absent minded professors', but some are pretty rude. Our 'dinosaur' was only a bit of sandstone, which was about what we expected, but the rude man didn't even thank us for travelling the 300 ks to bring it to him. I don't know why we couldn't have posted it, and saved the trip. But there you are... time means nothing to a geologist, I guess.

Images. 9-7-05
Sleepless in bed
images clicked behind my lids:
five white cockatoos
perched on shattered gum - like magnets on a fridge;
a cyclist - in helmet despite heat,
sweaty sinuous legs automated;
egrets directing traffic
at a local pony club;
a rubble of cattle piled near a gate
to their new home.

Black cockatoos waited on the dead gum
when we travelled west.

Romance of a Stone

2005-07-03T20:59:00.000-07:00

Time in My Hands. (2.06.05)

The stone turned under my foot.
I kicked it away
then glnaced at it,
noted its shape and texture;
stratified, worn smooth.
I retrieved it to save a window,
placed it in a pot
then forgot it.

I found the stone again
after it skulked a year in that pot.
My curious fingers
turned it over
as I tried to remember
when I had found it,
why I had kept it.

Under a cleansing tap
an image emerged in the strata:
brow, mouth, nose,
jaw and eye socket
of a small dionsaur.
Not a stone,but aeons,
I held in my hands.

This week we go to Townsville to have the stone examined by experts. We live in a dinosaur rich area so I should not be so surprised that I kicked this one up in our back yard.

Winter Morning

2005-06-27T19:49:00.000-07:00

Winter Morning.
I live in the desert uplands of Queensland. Days are generally beautiful but it does get cold at night. I am a chicken, I admit, when it comes to getting up on these frosty winter mornings and pretend I am asleep until my husband gets up. I have this misguided idea that once the air has been circulated by him it will be warmer, something along the same idea that once a newspaper has been read it is no longer crisp. It doesn't work but I do get my coffee made for me.Today was particularly cold and I knew I had my least favourite job to do. I needed to organise the fridge before we went shopping. That meant that it had to be done while my husband was out of the kitchen. He does most of the cooking so I had to get him motivated and up earlier than usual. I arose first.In search of my slippers I made my way across the icy vinyl in stockinged feet. My extremities were already stinging from the frosty air and the floor was as slippery as a skating rink. Mollie, ever an opportunist, tangled her body around my walking sticks and head butted me in the direction of her empty bowl. Beneath soft damp fur her solid body belied the plaintive hunger cries as I opened the fridge door.My hand encountered sticky residue from a late night snack left on the milk carton, garlic chicken obviously, then fumbled for the tray of cat food. Yuck, there it was, the lid had been left off again. The jelly-like substance clung to my hand, chunky and offensive . I took both containers to the sink and wiped them down, relishing the warm water running over my fingers while the cat rubbed my ankles. Her purrs vibrated against my tingling, slightly blue calves as I spooned the sloppy muck into her bowl.When I turned I knocked the milk carton. It flew from the counter and milk splashed over my socks, cold and slightly oily, before spreading over the kitchen floor. A white disaster. The cat seized her moment and began lapping, her rough tongue doing its best to save the precious fluid at my feet. The floor-cloth, damp, rough and gritty, soaked up the residue while my bones creaked in complaint at the early morning work out. I crunched the waxed carton and forced it into the over full trash can then continued my search. The day must improve...

About Me

2005-06-10T19:31:00.000-07:00

I am a retired secondary school teacher now living in Central North
Queensland, Australia, in a small village with a population of 21.

The population has increased by 9 in the eight years we have lived here.

I began writing just before I retired as I knew I would have to have something which would involve me constantly or I would become a difficult old woman. I started writing articles and short stories then wrote and produced a newsletter for the area (500sq kilometres) but seem to have drifted to poetry and flash fiction in the last few years.

Lately my poetry tends to be more nature oriented but I am trying to open up my perspective. In between these activities I am writing my memoirs for my children and grandchildren. Probably the following piece will give you a better indication of what to expect.

Some people still say I am a difficult old woman. ;o)

Self Portrait.

I am a Leo,
I am small,
I was born the year of the Snake.
I had red hair
I think that tells it all.

Like the Snake,
I slough my skin
to fit each role life offers.
I like to be in charge -
I know that says it all.

I am independent -
pig-headed -
but at times I do concede
if there's a better idea.
I try not to say it all.

I'm a mother,
I'm a wife.
I've survived both roles
despite
being a Leo and
having red hair.

Day's Doings

2005-06-08T23:07:00.000-07:00

We drove to Charters Towers yesterday. We had to be there by nine so left just before 7am. Of course we had to take Minnie (our Peke dog) with us. We don't like leaving her for long now as she is getting very old. She knew it was shopping day and whined until she was in the car.
The sun was just over the horizon when we left. I'm glad Frank was driving. The visor was no good for me as I was much too low. That meant that I didn't really get to see the sights until we took the appropriate bends when the sun swung from the right to the left. On a predominately straight road it is amazing how many times the sun changes sides.
When I could see out the windscreen the view was mystical. Morning mists mixed with dust. No wonder the aborigines talk about dream time. This blanket of mist lay over the tree tops and deepened in the gullies. The sky above was clear, lemon on the horizon then lime green a little higher until it blended with the autumn blue. We have the best Autums here.
The drought isn't so bad to the east. I counted three dead kangaroos between here and Charters Towers. Going west last week we counted thirty dead kangaroos in a ninety kilometer stretch.
On the brighter side we saw a flock of over twenty brolgas in the same area. I haven't seen so many together, not even when we first lived in Mortlake, Victoria. I had been worried because I hadn't seen the couple that I saw regularly at Homestead two years. I hope this is a good sign.
We left our winging Minnie at the Vet's. They look after her while we shop, all gratis, as they don't like dogs being left in cars - and they know we are good customers. Minnie loves it there and they think she is funny because she is always so full of herself.
Fortunately we did not have to wait for Frank's teeth for long and by noon we were almost finished our chores. Frank could even eat proper food, so we had a lovely counter lunch, finished the last bits of shopping and picked up the dog. We were home by three - the first time for months.

Newbie at the desk

2005-06-06T23:06:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I have finally taken my courage in both hands and am attempting to set up this blog site. Until a couple of months ago I had never heard of blog. Now it seems exciting and a place to voice my opinions on how the world works. So far I haven't discovered how to post my photograph, but I'm sure I will eventually weave my way through the dos and don'ts of blog designing. Until then you will have to wait and wonder.

One of the reasons I have attempted this challenge is because I wanted the world to know how beautiful this area is where I now live. Over time I will tell you about this little village in outback Australia and how we discovered it. For now I will just leave you with one of the reasons why think this place is special. Oh I'd best warn you that the fauna around here fascinates me.

Outside My Window.
The relatively cooler weather has brought the Happy Jacks back. The first indication of their return was the plaintive 'meows' of Em, our ginger cat, asking for asylum on my bed. Em is noted for conspicuous cowardice in the field of battle and sees retreat as the better part of valour.

This morning there was a noisy group (there's usually around twelve) of these birds outside my window and I watched them fighting over some choice morsel. Several were perched on the fence, shouting advice to their mates on the ground. Occasionally one, overcome with excitement, ran over the backs of the others to find a better vantage-point. They ignored him and kept shouting advice or insults to their peers on the ground.

A cat appeared around the corner of the house and the birds took chase. The cat, running sideways to keep the birds in view, scooted into the house. The Happy Jacks ran around the back door, calling encouragement to each other. "Ha, d'ja see her scoot? We showed her wa'fo." "C'mon, wuss. 'ave another go - dare yu!"

These plain, almost ugly birds fear nothing. They sit on my clothesline as I hang out my wash and chatter away, enjoying the rotating line as I move it around and talk constantly to me or their mates while my cat sits under my stool to protect me. "Don't you dare poo on my clean clothes," I scold. I'm sure they understand because they never have.

Happy Jacks are clever. They have a highly organised clan system and their vocabulary is complex, with obvious 'conversation'. I watch them give instructions and gossip to each other, or insult and intimidate another group that dares to infringe on their patch.
Once we fed the birds but the Happy Jacks chased other birds away from the feeder, even had the nerve to come inside to tell us when the seed was gone. They gave my husband what-for when he went to re-plenish the supply too. We felt we were endangering their natural environment (and us) so stopped the supply.

I have spent hours watching one group kidnap another's young. They do this in a devious way. laying on the youngster's curiosity, kidnappers attract the youngsters attention and inveigle them away while the diversionary team picks a fight with the parents. Confusion reigns and kidnappers retreat with new blood lines.

And I go back to cleaning house...