Today, I attended a poetry workshop facilitated by community poet, Padraig O’Tuama. The workshop was to develop skills in writing stories of sorrow and sadness, inspired by the words of others, particularly in the community sector.

We were asked at the beginning to share a line from a poem or poet that took us somewhere. I responded with the notion that everything inspires me: I am an observer of life and the world around me. And that is what inspires my words.

After five hours sitting in space, being provided with space, words inspired thought and thought created words.

Today, I understood the true power of words to take you somewhere.

Words are so much more than a jumble of letters.

With Padraig’s permission, I took the basis of the workshop and crafted the words of others with those of my own, scrawled with pen on paper over the course of the afternoon and those spinning round in my head after an extra long walk home due to being so lost in words, I missed my tram stop.

As I write, I will inspire thought. And thought will create words.

Held in their collided form, words have power.

No one likes a collision.

But they make you stop.

COLLISION

Where have words taken you?
The recesses of a dark alley
Where no light shines?
Centre stage?
Is painful paradox
What is needed
To make us change?
Sanitised death or the
Unsanitised experience
Of a life fully lived
Through love and pain
Experience and shame
Fear of letting go
Let go.
Like a balloon floating to the sky
I say thank you
And goodbye.
Knowing that I will not hold you again
Thank you
And goodbye.
Words inspire thought and
Thought creates words.
Blank pages left for the
Unsayable
Unspeakable
Undeniable.
Wordless.
Space.
Speaks.
Loud.
I hope your grips are firm.
Not all slopes are slippery
They are simply steep.
Keep going. Up.
So that a path may be revealed before you
And glad that there are gladder days beyond these days
Because you were born
And you will learn most from situations
You
Did not choose
Have you been telling secrets that
You
Should not have been told?
Do you want to hear the truth?
Don’t tell anyone.
I can’t tell anyone.
I want to listen to you.
I am trying to listen to you.
I still am listening to you.
I really want to listen to you.
I.
You.
I listen.
Do you hear?
What if she was your daughter?
I don’t want you to listen.
I want you to hear.
Sssh…
It’s nothing.
Lost in the abyss of first world problems
And old world dreams.
The smack sellers
sleep in the park
Their pain perhaps
Not quite fully understood
By the family dwellers
Next door
Will their mothers keep inviting them back
Again and again and again
Maybe not.
Do they even know they’re there?
Do they even care.
Why do we feel the need
To resolve a human story
Can it not be simply lived?
A story does not express
The finality of a story.
It is the instrument you choose
In the morning
Which shifts the story.
Sadness and darkness
Bundled in a box of glory
Thank you for your gifts.
Joy. Elation. Silence.
Shape shifter.
These are the instruments I choose.
Where there is space
There is thought.
And where there is need
Don’t just do something,
Stand there.
Give voice to the voices
Silenced by the lies and secrets
Of untold paths
Injustice
Untruth
Lies.
And words not told.
How do I know you are who you say you are
When you lie only to yourself.
If you can survive, survive it well
The facts of life
And stories of locked out lovers
Lamenting lost keys.
Where there is no program or title
The privilege of space
Has provided your key.
Vulnerability.
I too
Cry in the bathroom
With a black coat hiding
The colour underneath.
Coraggio!
When words take you somewhere
Do they really take?
Or do they give?
Where do words take you?
Somewhere
Anywhere
Just let them take you,
Thank you
And goodbye.

Today, instead of being an observer of life, I became an observer of words. 
Inspired by Padraig, other participants of the course, space and the words that cut through the air and my own thoughts, this poem is witness to the untold stories of sorrow, lost love, conflict, allowing oneself to let go and the experience of being human.

The collision of words resulted in one accidental poem.

3.30 am – you will never look the same.

you bloody ripper!

Today, my feeds were filled with condolences, reflections and great sadness on the death of Jim Stynes.

If you haven’t heard of him, google will fill you in. The press releases, websites, and obituaries will be filled with a journey from talented Irish Gaelic footballer to Australian AFL champion, Victorian of the Year, Medal of the Order of Australia recipient, community campaigner, change maker, friend, much loved family man, cancer battler and inspiration who believed there was greatness in everyone.

Breath… yes, it was a big life condensed into a short timeframe.

The death of Jim Styne’s will make the news for quite some time. As will his incredible life. His AFL prowess will be recognised in lifetime honours, his children will grow up knowing he was a remarkable father and his dedication to changing the lives of young people will continue with the wonderful work of REACH. There is no question Jim deserves every accolade heralded as a result of his leadership, courage and inspiration.

Jim got me thinking….

We weren’t all born with the genetics of a great sports hero, artist, world leader, philanthropist or recipient of medals, honours and commendations. Our deaths may not make international news with a national outpouring of rest in peace and thanks.

Does that mean we should not want our lives remembered by the people whose lives we touched? For the small differences we make?

We certainly need to create a better planet for our children, but I think Jim’s death got me thinking about the need to shift the focus. The planet has been around for millions of years and has proven it can look after itself. We on the other hand, won’t be. What if we were to shift our focus to our children, inspiring them to become great leaders (from world to family), develop courage, foster initiative, thrive in community and commit to a cause and purpose. What if we stopped simply liking everything and used that force to create some real change – for ourselves and the future.

Jim had 45 years on this planet and certainly helped mould better children.

What if we could mould a generation of leaders, change-makers and individuals who lived with purpose, passion and commitment to the planet, its people and inter-generational equity.

Jim, you were right. We are all filled with greatness.

We don’t need a better planet for our children. We need better children for our planet.

you bloody ripper!

You may not see them every day.

Likely you won’t see them every year.

They may not live in the same city as you.

They may not even be in the same country.

They always make you laugh.

You feel connected, despite the distance.

You deeply wish they were here.

They are never far from your thoughts.

you bloody ripper!

The funny thing about a day at Flemington, was that I didn’t know when I organised it, it was someone’s lifetime dream.

And that someone just happened to be my Dad.

It might seem a little strange that I didn’t know this prior to our first grandstand fist in the air and jump up and down as we screamed for the first place winner. Me with my $1 bet and all.

I don’t like the races. I’ve been three times in my life. But when my Dad decided to make a short notice visit to Melbourne for the recent long weekend, I wanted to give him a surprise treat for his birthday. Member’s tickets.

Besides. It had been 1968 the last time he visited Melbourne. Military service. Vietnam War conscription. Life never the same.

I didn’t grow up with my Dad. But he is my Dad. And I wanted him to have a bloody ripper time in a place that has only held bad memories from the beginning of a lifelong journey of veteran trauma. You can read the Remembrance post if you want to know my real thoughts on war. Eh.

My Dad and I have always been like one of those 10 000 piece jigsaw puzzles. The big city ones. You know the ones I’m talking about. It’s difficult to pull the pieces together. You think you’re getting there but the truth is, you’re so far from the mark you end up getting totally confused, frustrated and packing it all away into a box for a couple of years before dusting it off and starting again.

Because you need to. You never give up.

So we’re in the grandstand, both of us feeling a little out of place in the members’. Me: remember, I don’t like the races. Dad: he had to wear tailored pants, a collared shirt, dress shoes and a tie. (This is a man who lives in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Stubbies, flannies and thongs are the standard attire.) Pants were five sizes too big. Tie didn’t match. And then there was the hat.

I know. I look like a dork.

I’m grinning writing. I was grinning there. Who cares if you look like a dork when you’re living the dream.

You see, I learned that March long weekend, my Dad used to train and own race horses. I learned he trained winners. Being at Flemington was his lifelong dream. I also learned he’d had plenty an article written about him and his horses. And his representative football.

As we sat in seafood cafes and sports bars, devoured gelati at Southgate, encouraged and appreciated the Yarra buskers, journeyed on trams, wandered around the Scoresby Steam Festival (Dad got it right; ýou must be as bored as me:) and meandered through the laneways of the Dandenongs, I learned of his wins. His losses. His pain. His joys. His grievances. His regrets. His sadness. His rogue ways. I learned more about him.

I also learned that he destroyed most of the evidence of his life in a severe bout of depression that resulted in hospitalisation. He didn’t want anyone sorting out his life. He shared his memories. For they were all he had.

I also learned a quite remarkable story about a random and authentic act of giving. There are a few chapters to this story, and I hope to close the book on my birthday trip to Bali in June. A trip that has now become a mission because of a few more jigsaw pieces.

The city was coming to life.

Bringing out the puzzle after so many previous ill-fated attempts, allowed a few more streets to be laid. I could see the buildings. The lines were even. The picture became clearer.

I could finally see the image.

We were on the same page. We understood each other’s lives. We appreciated our differences. We valued the sharing. And we loved.

Our puzzle finally became clear. No more packing away required.

We were in the same city.

you bloody ripper!

A super big thank you to Glenda for last minute Member’s tickets. Dad may have thought he looked like a dork, but he felt like the owner of Black Caviar. His dream came true. As did mine. To see my Dad happy.

On 11 November, 1918, World War I officially ended. Since 1919, this day has become a day to remember servicemen and women who have been killed on duty since WWI – Remembrance Day.

As the daughter and grandaughter of serving soldiers, I appreciate the sentiments of this day, along with those of Anzac Day, held in Australia and New Zealand on 25 April each year to honour those who fought in Gallipoli.

This year, as I listened to The Last Post (once again commemorating those lost in war) in front of Flinders Street Station in Melbourne, Australia, the echo of the bugles playing throughout the city hit a chord that I had not experienced in previous years.

The consequences and impact of war have been compiled and recorded over the centuries. Our historical recording of destruction, death and suffering is heralded by Stalin:

A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.

This year, for the first time, I not only appreciated the real effects of war on an encompassing scale, but on an individual one.

As we bow our heads and remember those who have lost their lives, do we ever consider the little tragedies of which personal hells are made? Do we even understand them? Do we even know they exist?

My father’s absence.

His attempts at communicating over the years a distraction from his inner-struggle.

Years of pain.

Alone with his thoughts.

His drink.

His eternal anguish.

Missing links.

Love never realised.

Unneccessary suffering.

Forever pain.

Gifted calendars of war by partaking in a Veteran’s family study.

An unneccessary reminder.

This year, instead of remembering lives that were lost and appreciation for those who have fought, and continue to fight, for freedom, I recognise lives that have been lost through torment. I respect the strength to survive. I honour dysfunction. I salute the silent soldiers, who battle their demons each and every day. I pay tribute to the sacrifice of dreams, passion and opportunity. I respect the impact of a lifetime of buried shrapnel from silent guns: anguish, fears, trauma, broken families and loss of life, even by the living.

For some, the enormity of these consequences never go away.

Lest we not even know. Lest we not even understand. Lest we forget.

Purple and green should never be seen. That is unless you’re five, receive a full makeup kit for your birthday, and decide to hide away in your bedroom for half an hour before your impending date with party pies, cake, balloons and pass the parcel.

The pure innocence of childhood replaces grown-up rules and fashion etiquette. A half hour of reckless abandonment replaces the need for detailed perfection.

Living for the moment and being just who you want to be, one bright colour at a time.

you bloody ripper!

Travelling alone provides one with plenty of opportunity to reflect on those people who have touched our life.

On my last journey overseas,  I traversed the Cambodian countryside on buses, motodups, tuk tuks and taxis for a total of 19 hours over a three day period.

I still recall one morning when everyone else seemed to be nursing their Saturday hangover, so I sat alone enjoying my fruit salad and rice muesli. No one to chat to, but plenty of time for reflection.

Although I sat by myself, I felt I had not come alone, but was sharing this journey with two people who mean so very much to me. A small gift to me had helped finance my trip, so I thought it only fair that if I had to endure the potholes and broken suspension on all forms of transport, that they should also, albeit in my passport.

Frank and Mary Peek are my grandparents. I still recall the weekends of my youth spent baking date rolls, choko pies and fresh custard. My favourite part of any baking day was definitely licking the thick, warm custard off the wooden spoon. Although it may be a toss up with the just baked on goodness at the bottom of the saucepan. Then again that weekend roast lunch always did have me asking for seconds. After each meal there was the wander through the pumpkin and passionfruit vines in search of a tasty piece of sugarcane on which to chew.

Children of the depression, nothing was thrown out at Frank and Mary´s house. Adorning the vj walls of their Queenslander were bird feathers, calendars reflecting a history of coronations, sporting heroes and photographs from 90+ years of life.

Frank and Mary passed away within six months of each other, having been married for 63 years.  Due to illness and the cruelty of alzheimers, they could not be together in the final year of their lives. However, I made sure they were together for eternity, joining in a local tradition of placing their names on a padlock and throwing away the key atop one of China´s holy mountains, Hua Shan.

At the time of writing this, I have tears.

When people leave our lives, we can always wish we had talked more, shared more, asked more, loved more, learned more. I do. But I can also ensure that the memories I have of them stay with me and I never forget what they gave me, nor the value they placed on their family and the little that they had.

When I helped clean up their house, I found a sealed envelope. On the front in my grandmother´s scrawl was written ¨to those left behind¨. I had not been in the country when Mary passed away, and with the deepest sadness did not attend her funeral. I felt that for some reason I was chosen to find the letter, hidden in the dark recesses of a wardrobe for over 20 years.

My hands trembled as I opened the letter. I could imagine Mary sitting at her old manual typewriter, keying in the names of all her children and grandchildren. On the attached page was a short message stating the love she had for her family and her wish for their happiness.

Frank and Mary – I love you. I am forever grateful for what you gave me. You may not have been perfect, but then again, who is? You were who you were, due to circumstance, experience, need and uncertainty. You may have known no better. You may simply have not known. I forgive. I forget. I remember. I appreciate.

I hope for all who read this, that you take some time out to thank those in your life who have provided you with opportunity, knowledge, purpose and memories.

Frank, you can finally be proud. Mary, you need not worry – I am happy.

you bloody ripper!

First I was afraid, I was petrified.

The shower fog slowly disperses to allow the morning’s rendition to begin.

Born to be W-I-L-D

Windows are up tight in the Hyundai Getz, bass as good as it gets and as I crawl through the morning’s peak hour traffic, I dream all the other drivers are merely showing their appreciation and gathering together enmasse to create my very own mosh pit.

Ain’t no mountain high enough.

Loungerooms have not merely been invented to simply lounge in. Dimmers have been designed to allow mood lighting, wooden coffee tables that double as storage boxes are only empty so that they are suitable as drums and the one seater stool elevates the performer above the crowd.

Woah woah We’re half way there. Woah Woah living on a prayer.

And if you’re feeling ready to take your music to the world, there’s only one thing to be done to showcase your talent: karaoke. Throw down a few bevvies and you are guaranteed to survive.

It’s the final countdown.

Be one with the stage. Be one with the audience. Be one with the song. Be one with your stardom.

I did it my way.

Sing: even when you can’t, you can!

you bloody ripper!

Going to children’s birthday parties is guaranteed to take one back to childhood.

Fresh white bread slathered with way too much butter.

Scattered hundreds and thousands.

Seated at a brown laminate kitchen table on grey vinyl chairs.

Surrounded by lime green kitchen benches.

Washing them down with orange cordial sipped out of hand painted vegemite glasses.

Tongue out – welcome to kaleidoscope land!

you bloody ripper!

My Dad just happens to have had seven children. Yes, it’s a lot, but what makes this story just a little more interesting is that it took until now to get us all together.

I’m not sure I can clearly articulate the emotions that reared their heads before, during and post the event. In fact, they are still surfacing. It’s kind of still a little surreal when I look at the picture and consider there are common genes dispersed amongst us all.

I’ve just started studying anatomy and physiology and have just hit the chapter on cells. It intrigues me how genes do not only define our hair and eye colour, but that even our personalities are almost predestined.

We don’t all have the same mothers (I’m sure my Dad won’t mind me ticking the raunchy box), I missed out on the height gene, there’s blondes, brunettes and redheads, lanky, thin and muscles and I’m certain that if one day we all sat down and had a lengthy discussion about our personalities, there would certainly be some similarities. I already know there are many differences.

We are brought together by a common thread and for that one night, it really was a time to appreciate that despite the differences, the distance, the time and the challenges – we are family.

Together for the first, and hopefully not the last, time.

you bloody ripper!