Haiku

 Prawns hide under rock
Pelican carries a full crop
A flash in the pan
∞

(A Field of Wheat)
Rich, a full harvest
Hot wind drying the kernels
Fire waits in the wings
∞

Dinner time at home
Hiding under the table
Legs with loud voices
∞

There's rain a cumin'
Dust quivers in anticipation,
Clouds grumble gently
∞

Dishonest honey
Tug on a man's heart strings
Sickly sweet smile
∞

The cold creeps closer,
stalking the warmth of the fire.
Melt my heart, you thug.
∞

(Shaming)
Preaching from on high
He shames us into silence,
tight lipped smiles, we stare.
∞

(Pride)
Stable door opens
revealing a squeaky hinge.
Vulnerability sucks.

∞

The builders Mistake
When cornice becomes cornish
Revert to context
∞

Birds on a wire
The catwalk benches are full
Bobbing grey heads chat

MgM 🕉️

The Twilight Zone

That's a good Jack', says Pete, there's a mat at her feet
and they've all gathered around on the green.
With hands on her hips and grimacing lips she sighs.
'No, left! ', 'No, right!", '....and a little bit more', and 'that's perfect', they all decide. 
Everyone nods and up comes number one, and the skip looks on from the side. 

'Nice line', he says and scratches his head as Ruby come up off one knee. 

We all stretch our necks and shout 'curl, curl, curl', as the guys hope it lands in the furrow. 

Now it's you, number two, with a delicate shuffle Gill checks her wood for the bias. 

A collective sigh as her hand leaves her thigh, 'it's good! Keep it up, we've got this! '

Laurie is up as Peter looks down and shows him just how wide. 

'A good one, it's close', as the exhausted wood, slows down and lies on its side. 

Who will win, we cannot say 'cause Daugie has yet to bowl. 

We bite our lips, 'it hasn't got legs'

but Pete says, 'we'll have to measure'. 

See

 The sea is green and the clouds are blue,
the sea birds are eating muffins,
and the children are sniffing glue.

Waves washed up papers from across the bay.
Remember the bluebottles of yesterday?

There's still a beauty all things aside,
The wind is still free and see, so is the tide.

Julia's Wisdom

Your words lingered around my ears

long after they left you.

In a dark and tossing slumber those spontaneous syllables

became fireflies gently hovering around my ears

looking for a way in, long enough to wake me gently,

eager to illuminate.

On the Catwalk

Strung like pearls on a waxed thread,

we sit in order of attendance,

soaking up the sun.

Come and dive at Daugie's spot,

the favorite high-tide rock

and Louise will always be there.

Net-swimmers don gear for speed -

we watch the daily ritual.

Spit on goggles, rubber caps slap,

not scared of big white's trap.

Quiz and question testing tension,

wisdom comes with age.

Gather 'round the elders sound,

this is where it happens.

On the catwalk.

Thank you Cancer

Only when my body is stripped of me do I realise that
I don't need my hair to define me.
My breasts don't make me MORE of a woman
Aching for the loss of my drum between my knees
my heart now beats loudly in its place

Scabs of my old identity fall away
as I break through the old skin
Emerging raw and newly liberated

There are revelations that only live in the darkness of a cave. 
Go in, the gems are in the far end, they shine there in the darkest place.

After

I think it’s safe to say I’ll never be the same again
You can’t call me your bosom buddy now
When you hug me, I’ll be closer than ever before.

I can truly say, “I laughed my tits off”
but would I be able to go topless on the beach?

When there’s nothing to see, people look all the harder
to find what should be there.

I could say I’m transitioning but I’d hate to insult those who are,
and the truth is evident in my soft round bum and dimpled thighs
– my pink nail polish.

Franki says that after 50 the wheels start falling off
- I just lost my headlights - nothing is guaranteed.

I don’t feel diminished which is a surprise.
Liberation comes only after oppression.

No man will look at my cleavage and proposition me again
but when dealing with a lovely guy, I still get a glint in my eye.

Not fitting into one of the boxes could be an interesting space to explore
when transitioning, some things say goodbye...

The butterfly spirit animal is one of the most symbolic animals that's associated with personal transformation

Magnolias symbolized dignity and nobility. In ancient China, magnolias were thought to be the perfect symbols of womanly beauty and gentleness.

Mandala is a spiritual and ritual symbol in Hinduism and Buddhism, representing the universe. The circular designs symbolizes the idea that life is never ending and everything is connected. The mandala also represents spiritual journey within the individual viewer.

A hummingbird flying reminds us to enjoy life and simple pleasures. Like the tiny bird seeking the flowers' nectar, we should be looking at what's good in life. ... This is why the hummingbird symbol is associated with endurance and perseverance.

MgM (c)

Ready, Steady, Go

 

A supportive slumber with my daughter’s warm body in my bed, quietly aware.
When the alarm sounds, I am relieved.
Last zip and shoes, a studious checking of taps and plugs.
Where to find my will – I left it on top – just in case.

A quiet drive to the nuclear lab, for a jab, on the slab.
This nurse will be the last one to ever hold my nipple between her fingers – I tell her so.
She smiles and lifts the blue syringe. Next stop, the chop-shop.
My passwords – write them down – just in case.

The bed, the blue gown, little tv and little cupboard.
As my daughter unzips the bag, a ripple of panic crashes over my head.
I’ll walk out of here very fast, then run until I’m far away.
So hold onto to me while I cry.
Tell the boys I love them – just in case.

We lie side by side on the bed watching a silent screen.
A tall dark and broadly smiling porter steps around the curtain to fetch me.
It must be black Tuesday he says, 2 for the price of 1.
A smooth ride on trolley wheels. The surgeon smiles and draws on me with a blue koki.
We look into each other’s eyes and we nod, tears streaming,
Stay close by, I say – just in case.

Post op                                                                                                           

I wake under a warm thick blanket.
I remember before, so this, must be “after” -
My daughter Danny says, Hi Mom.
I pour my relief into her eyes.
There is no pain.
I feel strangely liberated, expansive and everything looks so clear!
Maybe that’s why they call it “high”?
I sit up and swing my legs off the bed.
As my feet touch the floor there’s a tug on my ribs.
Two soft pink orbs just larger than eggs drop between my thighs.
I look down and smile at the irony of it all
With a grin, I turned to my daughter, I start giggling
‘Will you hold my balls while I pee?”.
My Firstborn William says
I shouldn’t share these under the belt jokes with my surgeon.
Ok, I say with a wild grin.
'Dr. Dr., What did the one boob say to the other?
Yeah you’re right – nothing!'
I think it’s funny. He wasn’t so sure, bless him.
I went through a very tight and dark tunnel
and burst out the other side,
into the bright side of life where it seems you don’t need them.
My son Joseph says, that’s how life works sometimes.

Reality Check

The reality stalks me in the middle of the night.
I’m sick to my stomach with a sense of loss.
I sit on the edge of my bed, doubled over.

I’m on a cliff, looking down into a blackened ravine,
rocking there for a while.
I lift my face to the large grey moon and howl.

From deep within I howl.
Deep and long the cries express my fearful heart.
Deep and long I howl.

It’s nearly time, and how will “after” be?

Let’s get it over with.
To amputate these much loved bits of me.

MgM ©

The last Weekend

On this the last weekend with my breasts,
I think I’ll take them for a walk.

Feeling how they move with every step.
I’ll take them for a last swim in the tidal pool,
nipples gasping in the cold water.

Breasts float when you lie on your back in the bath,
and they fill to fit in a lovers’ hand.

The last weekend with my breasts
will be a sad one, a saying goodbye one.

Once proud and ripe they fed my babies.
I’ve enjoyed my breasts, these life-giving miracles.
Orbs of warmth and glory, Soft and nurturing.

They know their power to entice or to disarm.
Where will that power go? when I lose them.

MgM ©

Breast Burial

Where will my breasts go

when they are severed?

Is there a tit pile?

or a small cemetery

where breast angels,

mismatched toxic throwaways,

pair up and dance?

My two warm breasts

in a cold kidney dish,

already in breast heaven.

They probably bin them.

Human waste.

How long can I grieve?

 

MgM©

Mammogram

 I take off the gown

and watch her eyes

flit across my chest.

I have my answer already.

She has seen it all before.

A little widening of the lids,

a deep breath

and as her lips pucker to speak

I put her out of her misery

and say, It’s ok, I think I know.

I probably should have come sooner?

but, I had not the courage then.

Please don’t judge me.

I am here now.

 

MgM ©

Toxic Breast

My boob has turned against me
and split on the team.
There’s mutiny on the mothership
And now it holds me ransom.

Do I cut it loose
Lest it poison the host?

Or can I live symbiotically
With a toxic part of me?

A backstabbing potential traitor,
a sponge of stored up regret
and heartache.

Have I infected myself?

MgM©

Middernag Vraag

Somige dae praat ek kak

Dan gaan sit ek dit nog op facebook
Dit gaan gewoonlik oor twee dinge

Een is
Dat ek nie iemand het wat my lief het nie,

en die ander
is dat ek dalk dit gevind het….
Iemand wat my kan lief he
…en toe is dit nie so nie

Dan gaan vra ek die spieel
vir ‘n antwoordt
met ‘n sker in my hand
en kap aan my hare

The Heart of the Moon

A supreme queen, this grand matriarch of the sky
casts her net of luminous love over her spherical charge.
Trillions of webbed filaments held by her rapt attention,
commanding the vibrant water spirits as they strain and leap ahead,
she draws them back patiently time and again,
disciplining the tides.

When we see her in her fullness, we gasp at her beauty –
She holds nothing back, unconditional, she encourages us to do the same.
Her face beams down at us through our brittle panes, vigilant, as we sleep.
Precious maidens, initiated to new status, hale her and join hands in a circular dance
celebrating fertility, ripe as summer fruit -
Virile men howl with upturned faces an unexplained emotion.

As a waning shadow passes across her face
she blushes and hints a playful peek-a-boo while waltzing with grandfather sun.
There’s a hard edge to it – turning her attention to the other side.
The cusp stays sharp, but soon we see the smile,
which reminds us that she’ll be back
- and then she’s gone – and taken our night light!

These new, dark nights, invoke introspection.
Opening our mouths we take deep gulping breaths of cold hard clarity.
In her generous wisdom our teacher leaves us with a blank canvas.
Appreciating the chance to start again, we throw our sins into a dark tied back sea.
We scrub and clean and count our blessings
until she waxes in the night sky, as dependable as a mother’s promise.

MgM ©