The Art of Procrastination

One of my mother's laments about me was that I was 'a procrastinator'. I'm not unique in that.

I'd be interested in hearing people's ways of putting things off.

I've discovered I'm almost a compulsive shopper. Again, nothing unique. But notice I said 'almost'. Is that more procrastination in another form, an indecisiveness? Oops, better do the washing now, or look for that other book, or sigh with relief when our son and grandson arrive...

Wanderings

It's going to be warm today, that pleasant high 20's centigrade warmth. A day to spend some time by the sea, around Seal Rock- now that the holiday makers have gone - with that meditative quiet sensing that comes over one every now and then, unbidden but so welcome.

Days

I guess every day is a gift though sometimes it's very hard to see that. Today's one of those perfect days- blue sky, some clouds, cooling sea breeze, a warming heat, loved ones close.

Flows

Rain! The mouth of the River Murray opens unaided. No more dredging (for the time being), that dull droning sound silent. I like to stand there, on the shore, the beginning of the Coorong, look across to those cream-coloured dunes rising high, be silent, watch, listen.

Samhain

Samhain

The day brighter than a grin
Door open the tree outside
Leaves still green. I put out food,

Bamboo shoots, wanton soup, wet
Noodles, all steaming hot. And
Of course, dried chilli flakes. Hot too!

All your favourites. On
A special table sponged and ringed with light -
The Asia of our beginnings, wild rice of youth

I'll listen, dwell awhile,then let dusk take us
Each to where we belong,
Here, there, in-between.

River Changes

Weather's getting warmer here. The Hindmarsh River will soon not get to reach the sea as drier, hotter weather and irrigation take their toll. In the last few weeks the mouth of the river has moved quite dramatically, first to the left, then to the right. Those serpentine curls I so love.The pelican's moved on. Nothing stays the same. Reminds me how much of my life I've lived in rigid ways, the should's, the critic's rarely silent voice (s), the 'doing being' rather than being.

The beginnings of a poem

She waves her turquoise hand
an inflection with the breeze.

Door Days

Creative Writing Ink - Writing Prompt: September 27th
The old door, half ajar, a darkened space you love
to photograph, have to! Number twenty seven, a few short steps
from the corner, the spidery cracked cement of the old town
you'd seen in a dream when you were younger
here right now so that you must stop shake your head
knock gentle on the door peer in
hesitate on the step the place in-between
excited uncertain push the door more
breathe in the smell of books, damp,  paper yellowing with age
tobacco smoke, look at the old man paintings
on walls that seem to seem to stoop
just as you raised your camera
That sudden flash, tears quicker than thought.