These days they call

the Autumn of years,

are really no different

to those which would be


called a Summer or a

Spring, or even a Winter,

for, like the seasons, there

is the constant hold of our


being, and the changing

costumes, picked up each

day, dropped at night, found

again, and worn in different


ways. Through all the seasons,

earth, sky, tree remain as them

selves, but dressed in varying

ways, which give the feeling


that they are not the same, and

yet, of course they are, in essence

and form, the same as they have

always been. As are we ….

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Moving house

Packing up the pieces
of a life now gone, soon
to be repeated, in another
home, and yet in the

moving, some things
will not last; different
time and spaces, their
own taste will cast.

In the ever-changing,
flow, of life and place,
there will be a change in
who and what you are.

Sift through those
belongings, treasure and
release, know they hold
no value, in any sense

that’s real. People are
what matters, they’re
the only plus – all the
rest will be reduced…

simply things and stuff.

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We may not like what someone says but we must defend their right to say it!

So Margaret Court says tennis is full of lesbians and she has concerns over the welfare of younger players.
Let’s not kid ourselves, there are variations on human sexuality wherever it appears and just as there was a Rolf Harris and his ilk at work in the world more commonly, or there was when attitudes were different, so too there are those in the world of homosexuality and lesbianism who overstep the mark and who groom and recruit.
Although in this day and age, as was the case when Harris was doing what he did, social attitudes not so much support such behaviour as refuse to acknowledge it might exist.
Court may well have more reasons to be concerned than even she will admit in public. What exempts some sexual proclivities from excesses like paedophilia? Human beings are human beings and when it comes to sex, less rational on many counts, whatever their sexual tastes might be.
But, in general, yes she may be over-reacting but she is a fundamentalist Christian so it is hardly likely to be a surprising view.
And now some of those lesbian tennis players and their supporters, are calling for Margaret Court Arena to be renamed because she does not support same-sex marriage?
Of course she doesn’t. It runs counter to teaching in most religions. Same-sex couples can marry, in civil unions, but not in religious marriages and that won’t change. Why should it?
Was the Arena named because of her views, which have now changed, or because of her brilliance as a tennis player? Methinks the latter. What levels of idiocy do we reach when censorship like this is unleashed on the world?
What is dangerous is seeking to punish people for expressing a different view. Sure the view might be silly, ill-informed, prejudiced, bigoted, unenlightened, or it might not, but freedom of speech is a fragile right and needs to be protected.
To paraphrase the saying:
I defend to my death your right to say what you think even if I disagree with you entirely.
Such a freedom is easily lost and difficult to win back. We betray it at our peril.
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Run the music magically,
let the notes full shine,
sing the wonder deeply;
tease the stilted mind.

Hear the message flimsy,
know it is a truth,
soul does speak in silence;
trips up doubt as proof.

Three, the sacred number,
life’s trilogy bespoke,
trace the Goddess line;
Mother, Maiden, Crone.

Tire not of the work,
let time call you on,
be the servant dutiful;
honouring her song.

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Sharing the bed

I couldn’t bear to think of you,

at nights when sleep denies,

but sitting always at my side,

the smell of you resides.

The bed had shrunk to hide me,

no room for you to share.

and yet your presence filled it;

in sheets of damp despair.

I couldn’t bare to feel you,

at night when sleep won’t come,

but sitting always at my side,

your form, in silence, hums.

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Autumn leaves

Image result for autumn adelaide hills

Leaves linger in surrendered shrouds,
holding lightly to the last of Summer,
sodden in their fraying moments;
knowing that the hour draws closer

when they must fall and fall and fall
out of the place they called home,
finding new ways of being in the
dust of the chilly day; writing in

coloured prose, their message on
the ground, holding their arms up
to the inevitable rotting, which is
their destiny and always was the

place that they would find them
selves, in the ever-changing cycle
of life and death, written in the
heart of unforgiving seasons.

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Sign the moment quietly,
pull the tassel loud,
line the speakers solemnly;
tug on love’s pure shroud.

Tap the board of honesty,
drum the song of hope,
work to build the bouquet;
hum with every stroke.

Drape the orange blanket,
fold the yellow cloth,
pleat the fading curtains;
interpret nature’s wrath.

Tease beliefs enticingly,
poke at all you know,
stir the pot of questioning;
humbly shall you grow.

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