183. Sunday Drive

The air in the car is stale and too warm.
the spiderwebs break and cling to my skin
as I sit in the passenger's seat.

Should we go back? you ask,
pumping your arm to roll down the window.

But I shake my head,
hot,
stiff,
and inspired to spend Sunday afternoon
driving through a neighborhood
with illogical layouts
and no destination in mind.

182. A Happy Moment

After all this time,
seeing the pelicans fly
still makes me happy.

181. Watching the Fields

In the soft glow just after dawn,
I spot a kangaroo, streaking across the field
stopping behind the wiry imitation of a bush.

I pause on the dirt path, waiting, watching
to see if it emerges again,
if I'll catch another glimpse of it,

but after a minute or two without moving,
I realize I never actually saw a kangaroo
but rather a swipe of motion that should be one.

180. Zen and Ants

They aren't leaving the desktop,
I explain after careful scrutiny
of the ants, running a thick swarm
around the bottles, books, and pens.

I turn away, satisfied that they hold no secrets,
no invisible footpath to a forgotten sweet.
Instead, they traverse in the hot day
to the promise of a condensation ring
snug against the metal water bottle.

They don't yet know I swept up the water,
but they'll leave once all of them understand
there's nothing to find on the field of laminate.

Later, the desktop is dry and the ants are gone,
traveled outside through the opening I cannot find.

179. Noise

The wind whips around my ears
offering ceaseless whispers,
but I can still hear the conversation
until someone turns on the music.
The music slowly grows louder
to be heard over the voices
that also battle to be heard
in a never ending race of nothing
but noise.

178. Ringing the Lunch Bell

We gather around the tables,
linger
for the meeting after lunch,
waiting for the others,
chatting idly about holidays
and fishing hauls
and bits of work information
spilling into the brief respite.

We sit in the shade
and cling to our chairs,
so few they are,
and sip from our cans of Coke,
made with sugar.

Overhead, the butcherbird
sits on the corner of the roof
like a plastic owl,
the only sign of life-- his head
swiveling back and forth
as he takes in the scene below.

177. Footsteps

The cadence of rubber boots or flip-flops
echoes off the sidewalk in a rhythm
so precise it seems planned, conducted.
The type of shoes does not matter,
I still know these footsteps without needing
to look.

176. Signs of Spring

The AC's hum again,
a drone for the hot weather:
time to mellow some.

175. A Tactile Postcard

The wind stalls early in the morning,
gentling down to a breeze so soft
nothing ruffles or flutters in the currents.
The sun paints over my skin, my hair
with a careful touch barely noticeable
under the air dancing around my face.
The moment feels idyllic, like a postcard
of a tactile scene rather than the visual,
but I know the sun will continue to heat
the air so this perfect weather cannot last
another hour.

174. Limitations

My wrist lies limited and confined
against my leg
or the desk
or held close to my stomach
within the brace that keeps it immobile
and heavier than it should be.

Every action requires concentration
as the low grade pain
maintains its residence in my system
and I daydream of the time
when I can go back to drawing,
to knitting and typing easily
to my favorite childhood past time
of hand writing my words
on pages and pages of spiral notebooks
without even considering
that it could hurt.

173. The Sand Artist

The woman on the stage makes images
in the sand on the light box; she creates
negative space and adds thick lines.
She pauses for a second, finished with an image
before dusting sand over the white space
and beginning a new creation on top,
so the images begin piling over one another
until we see parts of four drawings at once.
Then she clears the light box completely
the scenes completely erased with a sweep
and she begins anew with a clean board.

172. First Light

I still awaken to a dark room

when the alarm rings again,

and I prepare for the day ahead

just the same as I used to do,

but now when I step outside

the fuchsia sun is already over

the uneven edge of the horizon,

climbing steadily higher in the sky

and casting a soft light on the land

after six months of starting a day

when the air is heavy with darkness,

shrouded in stars,

and almost ready to begin.

171. Waiting Room

I try to stay patient in the hard plastic chair
as the air conditioner blows too strongly
and I finish the articles I brought along.

The people flow into the waiting room
like they only want to watch the cartoon
and read through the piles of magazines
that promote beauty products, home advice,
and the easiest way to fix all life's problems.

Then they leave.

And the grandfather clock in my head
keeps ticking and chiming every 15 minutes
that the doctor doesn't appear like a mirage
full of promises that cannot be real.

I stay in the plastic chair, anxious for my name
and clinging to the thought that maybe,
he's running late because he had to save
someone without any notice or maybe he needed
more time to find the problem and ease their pain.

Maybe he can do that for me too.

170. Half-Baked Poetry

Some days, the little things stand out
in stark relief to the barren landscape,
the goanna in the grass, the new pool
just constructed on the back lawn,
the jazz singer who changes the words
of the song so he's singing just to me.

Some days, my fingers feel like they can't
move fast enough for my thoughts
and the browser won't open quick enough
and the images run over each other into a web
I must untangle and explore before I show it.

Other days, the blinking cursor taunts me
and the bed whispers my name like a promise
and I grow frustrated, because I know
I have ideas and images and beautiful things
swirling in my brain, half-baked, almost ready,
but they need a little more time to solidify
and sweeten before I can offer them up.

169. Intentionally Loud

My booted feet scuff through the dirt intentionally
as I head passed the parked truck and into the shed
where someone saw a venomous snake just two days prior.
My eyes scan back and forth, taking in the details,
the clear path while I make as much noise as I can
and I make sure to keep breathing evenly through my nose,
so I can hear more than the thump of my heartbeat.

I tense in panic and let out an undignified squeak
as the bird outside begins to whistle for the dawn;
then I shake it off like a surprise rain shower
and laugh at myself, with just a hint of hysteria
as I hurry to complete my task and get out of there
while the little bits of adrenaline are still running
the highway around my body, keeping me going

the movements still intentionally loud.

168. The Lure of Fiction

My e-reader sits on the desktop,
unused for the past week
except to read a few news articles.

It's not that I don't like to use it
or that I can't decide which book
should be the next one to absorb
my attention and hold me captive.

I know that I will fall into the story,
enthralled with the trials and woe,
overflowing with empathy and curiosity
as everything else falls away,
including the soft noise of the arrow button.

Instead, I work through a list of other tasks,
and goals, letting the present sweep me up
for a few more days before I willingly
fall into another novel without any guilt.

167. Fading Lights

As the night creeps through the air,
the stars slowly come into focus,
the galaxy stretching across the sky
like the slick slide of bleach
on the black fabric.

The birds fall silent,
the flies disappear like magic;
sometimes the wind stops too.

And the mosquitos appear
under the yellow temple
of the fluorescent lights.

The moon continues its journey,
the slow stretch of a circle,
watching us dance,
laugh,
share stories
and food
long into the night,
when the moon has flipped over
from a curve like a frown
to the crescent of a smile.

166. Lost for Words

For a moment, I think the poem
is locked in my aching fingers,
trapped behind my stiff wrists,
like a butterfly under a glass,
the beauty is there but I can't touch,
can't pull it close and put it into words.

My mind is an eddy of numbers,
equations,
processes,
swirling without an end
or even a beginning,

but I see the way the light plays
on an empty beer bottle,
how the birds in the ponds
look like the ants at my feet,
the way a smile grows slowly
and makes your face softer.

Like I tip the glass so carefully
the butterfly can climb on fingers
and I can touch something beautiful,
even if I can't put the day into words.

165. Collision Course

I remember the day

I first realized

everyone had a consciousness,

their own lives and activities

outside of their time with me.

I sat on the torn, brown seat

of the school bus,

my face pressed to the cool glass

of the window as a friend

rushed away from me,

toward her home,

and I thought she’ll still be doing

things, just like I will be

when I get to my home.

We’ll both eat dinner

and do our homework,

talk with our mothers,

play games in our yards.

The bus pulled away,

the little red stop sign folding

against the yellow metal side

as we moved closer my home.

I remember that day

as I lounge in my donga,

the door flung wide

to the sky turned muddy and dark,

encouraging the neighbors to stop,

say hello,

collide for an extra second.

164. Hellos and Goodbyes

Tuesday night at the tavern,

most glasses full of soda

the video jukebox singing

along as we reminisce

with the man about to leave,

sharing stories of outrage,

excitement, and most of all,

the oddities of the lifestyle

with our newest colleague

in the Australian outback.

Bonus: Photo

I received a few comments from people who liked the last line in poem 150: Capturing the Outback, so I thought I'd share one of my photos of the Outback.

163. One Evening

Everything takes on a yellow tinge
under the fluorescent light on the porch.
Poker chips and glass bottles clink
amongst the laughter and good-natured
ribbing and the strong constant wind
that hopefully keeps the mosquitos
away for just one spring evening.

162. Goanna in the Grass

I hear the commotion swell outside
and creep to the doorway to look on
without intruding or risking a bad
surprise; there's been talk of snakes.

One says, There in the tall grass.
Do you see it?

But I don't see it through the people
gathered with their cameras out,
so I skirt wide around them to see
the goanna frozen in the grass.

It's been a while since we've seen one,
I think, but I only say, It's a small one.

Someone scoffs, probably thinking how could
a lizard with a body at least half a meter long
and as wide as a toilet paper tube be tiny?

But someone else agrees It must be a baby.

That's why we haven't seen them lately, I think,
and then--
When did I become an expert in goannas?

161. In the Air

The tangerine air brushes over
my face with a careful touch,
and I tilt my head to the side.
With my eyes almost shut,
I imagine I can smell the ocean,
taste the salt in the breeze.

160. The Rise of the Spiders

The daytime weather doesn't seem that much warmer
now that we've ventured onto the September grid,
but the nights don't lose as much warmth these days
without the hot barren sun beating down for hours.

The snakes have emerged, frightening, venomous,
spotted on the roads, in the rocks and low-lying bushes.
Paper clip-size spiders roam across the scenery,
my skin, all my things, almost clear webs trace
the paths of their eight delicate, irritating feet.

159. Satisfaction

My cheeks flush with the excess heat from the oven
and my mouth feels too dry after eating the dinner.
My thigh itches uncomfortably from a small patch
of razor burn damp with the humid kitchen air.
My heart seems to beat too fast, too loudly
as my eyes begin to droop shut with exhaustion
and the satisfaction of a stomach full of cheese.
When your fingers curl gently around my wrist,
we find pizza dough, dried in crumbling scales.

158. Taming the Butcherbird

The bird comes for lunch,
hopping close, always watching,
plucks bread from our hands.

157. Reading Poetry

After I blow the fifth take of the recitation and reading
with only three lines to go out of one hundred fifty-four,
I wail out a 'no' and bury my head in my hands, sadly.
I take a deep breathe before I look back into the dot
that conceals the camera, take a moment to lament,
before I stop the recording and start another session,
one filled with dyslexic stumbles and forgotten words,
but I press onward with each press of the 'Capture' button.

156. Why There Are No Pictures

Sometimes, my camera lays heavy in my bag as I watch the scene
begin, watch it unfurl like a flower that will only hold for a moment
before the scene shatters into a cacophony of items and people
that don't know where they're supposed to be at a given time.

Sometimes, I raise the camera and look at the large screen,
watching as the scene slowly focuses before it blurs again
or fades into the wrong aperture or cuts off in the shutter speed.

I try once, maybe twice, to fix the settings before I lose
the moment or I return my camera to my bag and I watch
the scene unfold without the screen relaying the moment.

155. Staircase to the Moon

We wait anxiously, restless among the broken
shells that make up a large swath of the beach,
ready to watch the full moon glow red-orange
and peak over the horizon of the water at low
tide. The light will reflect off the bay, broken
where the mudflats intercept the moonbeam.

To our left, the flare from the natural gas plant
burns brighter in the dark before the moon rises.
To our right lay the bright lights for the choir
and the sound systems that feeds a steady stream
of natural wave sounds as if we'd forget
that the waterline is too far out to hear it.
Behind us, headlights and flashlights streak
across the path, through our vision, and people
chatter restlessly for the natural scene to begin.

Once the moon does rise, a spry red presence
in the Eastern sky, the voices halt for a moment
before the flashes start going, failing to capture
the play of darkness and light across the bay.

154. Lexicon

Some days, in the grocery store, I stare at fruit

I cannot describe and struggle to match my list

of American food terminology to the Aussie reality

on the shelves: how tomato sauce is a ketchup;

use bolognese on pasta. Bicarb for the dough.

Sometimes, in conversations, the words flow out

of my mouth until I'm speaking a hybrid of native

tongue and cultural cues mixed up in a melting pot

until I don't even realize that I'm using words 

I had to relearn and practice until they felt natural.

Sometimes, though, I catch the newest words,

in my vocabulary, not tripping over the diction,

but watching them pass, pausing to admire them

and see if I still remember the American equivalent.