Tags: flowers, magpies, memories, petrified wood
Here are four more of my small stones, written as part of the writing our way home challenge.
I wake up to nature’s summer music;-
the magpies carol with enthusiasm,
encouraging those who hear
to join them in celebrating the day.
Well, that’s what it seems like –
even if they are just saying,
‘Keep out; this is my territory!’
22. Broken Promise
A tiny grey speckled bird’s egg lies in the garden bed.
But for a small hole at one end, the shell is whole.
When I pick up the delicate casing, a single ant emerges.
The empty shell is heavier than it should be, so I check.
A dessicated embryo is stuck to the inside wall,
And it weights the egg at its little end.
The egg’s promise of life is only fulfilled for the ants.
Red and yellow skin and soft white flesh.
A nectarine, ripened to perfection.
I hold the taste in my mouth for as long as I can.
Misty cloud descends on the rainforest;
its cool, ghost-like tendrils spread among the trees and ferns.
They settle on branches, leaves and fronds
and gradually coalesce to drops
that fall to water the earth.
© Linda Visman January 2012
Tags: flowers, kookaburra, mammogram, tidiness
I would like to share with you another four of my “small stones”. I am finding it a really helpful exercise to have a focus for daily writing.
I am cuddling a machine, while my soft and tender flesh is being compressed between two cold hard plates; first one side and then the other – twice each.
The brief pain each time is well worth it, to know that another intruder has not found its way in.
My Study – small stone 14
My study is my library, my picture gallery, my writing and scrapbook area, and my work room.
Its large window provides a view of grass and trees, through which I see a road, parts of houses and the sky.
Perhaps though, if I had an attic room with a blank wall at the window, I would get more writing done.
Kookaburra – small stone 15
Baby squawks and snatches desperately. Their large beaks tussle and clack. Chuckling insistently, Mother makes the young one break up the morsel before he swallows it.
Meanwhile, father looks on from a nearby branch, assuring himself that his offspring is well protected and the lesson well learned.
I don’t know what this flower is, but its vibrant red and beautiful shape stopped me in my tracks as I walked through the park.
It stood out against the lush green grass, and obviously likes this year’s cooler-than-normal summer and extra rain.
If you would like to join in this mindful daily writing exercise, check it out here.
The current project goes for the month of January, but if you wish, you can write every day for as long as you like. Some people have been doing this daily exercise for five years!
You can also check out my novel, Ben’s Challenge, in print or kindle format, here.
Tags: beauty, colour preferences, flowers, gender differentiation, nature, pink
Pink is simply the name for a colour composed of a mixture of red and white. There are so many shades of pink that one is exhausted repeating them all. Lots of them are named after flowers, which carry the greatest variety of shades in nature. Some of the latest colours are given more striking names – shocking pink is an example.
I have always disliked – nay, I have always hated pink. To me it has been a soppy colour, only meant for those primping females who thought more of their appearance than any character strengths. It was the colour for weak and sissy girls, and even though I was a girl, I was always determined that pink should never represent me. I wanted to be a boy, so pink was NEVER my colour.
Even now, in the days of gender equality, pink is for girls. When I go to a department store and pass by the girls’ clothing section, all I see is pink. They are, at least, bright pinks nowadays, not the pale, insipid pastels of my childhood and early adult years. The colour now has a bit of attitude and character. I still hate seeing all those pretty and not so pretty little girls dressed in it though – vying for the perfect pinkness perhaps.
The colour has even become the name of a popular singer. “Pink” took the girl world by storm a few years ago. I have no idea what she sings or how good she is but, with that name, she has probably become one of the mega-rich of the entertainment world. Unless she has spent it all unwisely – not at all unusual these days.
I remember the fad for pink in decoration – was it the 1950s or the 1960s? Anyway, everywhere you went, you came across pink living rooms, pink waiting rooms, even pink houses. Trouble was, the quality of the paints in those days was not the best, and those ‘lovely’ pinks soon turned into drab, flaking or powdery calamities.
No matter what I think of pink as a gender defining colour or as decoration for buildings, it is always a beautiful colour in nature. Who can deny the splendour of a pink crepe myrtle in bloom, or the softness and fragility of a pink rose? Tell me something more striking than a field of pink tulips or cherry blossom in full show. But I still didn’t like pink anywhere else.
Then, two years ago, I became personally involved with pink. My breast cancer brought me into contact with a movement that is represented by a pink ribbon. I even wore pink when I attended fund-raising events, and I now own three pink T-shirts. And I wear them at other times occasionally. It seems that my hatred of pink has undergone quite an about-face.