Clutter
They throw things out they do — no clutter thereRooms bare like haikuWhat comes in the front door goes out the backVirtue for the household's not to hoardNo remnants kept of rack.
Let me have things about me not thrown out!Reminding things are made by hands, spent from the earth,You can't take any with you, that is sure,Nor likely leave behind.But when they ask, 'Do you have a widget, a grommet, a poem by ...?' yes, I have.These old signifiers, tools, curiosities, taking up spacePapers in piles, things for re-use, jars, books, ancient dolls.What do you worship? This clutter? Or a bare shelf?Oh, what a busy house, clutter of work, clutter of minds.The world with us, noise, phones, computers, people, cars day and night, problems, fights,
And within the cluttered home for the bodyA small space for the soulNothingbut light and a straw mat.
Valerie Yule
Recapitulation
In the endeverythingcomes home.
So homemust haveno wallsto limit the return,nor roofto blockthe upwardgaze of wonder.
Home mustbe as particularas the memoryof rainon a certainwindowon a certaindayin childhood.
Home mustbe as emptyas a monkwaitingfor a god.
Home mustbe as spaciousas a desert planefull to bursting.
Home mustbe the thoughtfulspacewherepieces falltogetherthough may notever fit;
belongingwithoutcontrivance;as tenderas the fall.
when the universeexpandsto its limit.
In the endeverythingcomes home.
Rob Donnelly
Something to celebrate!
We are not what we seemWe are made of memoriesNot flesh and boneWe are the special experiencesBoth rewarding and challengingWe are the quiet momentsNot just the big occasionsWe are the thoughtsThe conversations, the feelingsThat we celebrate and denyNo, we are not the surfaceThe appearance, the shieldFrom the worldWe are not that, never wereNever could be such a static thingWe are life in actionDeveloping, evolvingIn every momentSomething exceptionalSomething to celebrate!
B. W. Shearer
Zen retreat
I dive under a still surface,Pay homage there,Perhaps for days,To the door dogsSleep and Boredom.Then, maybe,A green translucent silence willEngulf me,Depth shield me,In a flow rich and thick with slow time.
Sounds can enter there.The wind is its waves.The clash of kitchen dishes,A sigh of the person sitting next to me,Are coloured fishTo watch as they pass steadily by.And mind knots, nudged,Nourished, by birdsong and passing thoughtsSlowly unravelInto free waving seaweed.
On and on it flows.And I knowThat even if the sun were to rise from the west,This sea is elemental,And cannot be disturbed.
Nola Firth
Valerie Yule is a psychologist and teacher, and a researcher in the areas of imagination and literacy.
Rob Donnelly is a Canberra based poet. He is currently working on a collection of