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Meriki Parkinson

of

Broulee, NSW, Australia

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A Spiritual Onslaught

by

Meriki Parkinson


[ a note: 'scrubber's' refers to cleaners ]

Our Janet was a fine lady,
though many would debate.
Catholic by mere impunity,
and governed by what she ate.

Janet formed the 'Hags bowls',
a delectable social success.
Local 'scrubbers' turned sports hero's,
in all varieties of dress.

It's members were a daggy lot,
dim and dull to say the least.
Cross eyed, slack-jawed as they got,
one, Janet named 'the beast'.

Under Janet's guiding wing,
the hags would be in amour.
Why she taught all, many things,
like etiquette and table manners.

Janet liked to sample foods,
and insisted that each hag baked.
If not to her liking she'd say "oo",
and spit it back on the plate.

A pillar of her community,
with perfect attire and diction.
Impression on her society,
Janet left many inflictions.

She'd often curse that local priest,
with language less than civil.
And all the while the cream feast,
from out her mouth would drizzle.

Janet tried to teach her hags,
to style & accessorize.
Sure she owned as many bags,
as the purse would authorize.

One day at a hag convention,
'the beast' came late as usual.
Janet made no prevention,
deep down she was evil.

Beast exclaimed; "what is this junk",
to the hag dressed in Muslim.
[That's Sparkie, the weirder one
she always changed religion].

Janet saw an opportune,
to stir her pot of followers.
"She's converted-less than soon".
"you atheists shall acknowledge her!"

Janet devoured her hedgehog slice,
and sat back with a grin.
Watching hags, claw and bite,
was her favorite thing.

"Oh what fun!", with chocolate teeth,
the queen of hags then thought.
"Religious scrum, to the death",
"a spirit-ual onslaught!"

The scuffle was on Angie's porch,
hags fought 'till 12 o'clock.
So Janet held up a torch,
and cheered the whole pack on.

Next day as the sun rose,
Janet woke and rubbed her eyes.
One by one, the morn' exposed,
dead hags everywhere in piles.

"Oh my god, my de-ar friends,
whatever have I done?
"Twas just a joke; mistook, then,
you've killed what I've begun!"

"The 'Hags Bowls' stands for many things,
looked up to by society.
I know you care what people think,
I taught you all priority!"

"But this won't do you selfish hags,
you are all dead and still.
I had takes on your handbags,
and next week we were doing wills!"

"Just look at that sweet silky bag,
it suits my fair English complexion.
I guess I could frisk all my hags;
they won't be making much objection!"


Womb Temple 2700BC

by

Meriki Parkinson



note: 'Hagar Qim' is pronounced "Haajar eem"

Before Mohammad's name was said,
before Buddha walked the land.
Jesus had not healed the sick,
worship of man yet to stick.

Destructive tool of iron not known,
a force to render overthrown.
The late stone age people of Malta,
worshiped woman at their alter.

Hagar Qim, her standing stones,
Saracen goddess, mother and home.
Her place of love, trust and strength,
caringly carved by obsidian pen.

Voluptuous full, woman in skirt,
her story firm, vessel of earth.
Whispers of mothers, daughters past,
flow on the breezes, stones and grass.

Temple of womb, of fertile birth,
androcratic rule, now darkens mirth.
Goddess of earth now guarded by gun,
man with purpose, control the woman.

The mem-ories of Hagar Qim,
mother of birth, flow within.
As from the womb you are born,
emerge from HER, re-adorned.

Cry You to Life

by

Meriki Parkinson



I pray to goddess gods and devils
they refuse me any deal
I sing songs and I cry and I stumble
but still you don't become real
if you'd just come to life
when I held your clothes
I'd sink in your eyes
play games with your toes
I'd savor your every scent
inhale you with greedy breath
make up for every moment spent
that we will never spend

Face Value

by

Meriki Parkinson



I trust the dark long slenderness
Mysterious but a sense of
Fear as this loved woman scares
and stares on slated wooden chair

Of knots called there by
Slouch a lot
A trap held there 'til you have what_
Itíll be okay I hear the dark woman say
Silently with eyes that lie

You tie me there against my will
Iím screaming though I trust you still
Itís just a game Iíll play tomorrow
Sleeping falls Iíve wishing to borrow

The grasses clump along old south
A maze of paths to figure out
The tar thing chases me away
Itíll be okay I hear the dark woman say
Silently with eyes that lie

Grey wood walls and ashen floors
Arms stretch out to reach the door
Smokey smell a familiar house
Linger on me tied I canít walk out

Slouch a lot the laughing slave
Ponders on the plans he made
SHE claws at me I bleed with pain
Itíll be okay then I hear her say
Silently with eyes that lie

Why do you like him better than me
Heís not human canít you see
Itís golden to you but dark to me
A life of forgetting my own memory

Why do you speak with eyes that lie
Am I not precious your sister your child
Brand me as ugliness man will despise
Itíll be okay I hear the dark woman say
And I believe the eyes that lie.

Before I Say Goodbye

by

Meriki Parkinson



Slowly tears patter
onto your sweet face
memorize as blood stained
fingers longingly trace
an etching of you
amateur engraving
desperate attempt at saving
delicately dabbing at your sores
evidence of traveling through
your own little war..for nothing
you are too still
as I dress you
you'd wriggle-escape
from nappy time soon
and your hands
crafted for guitar
to play in the band
with your brother
fingers soft as tiny petals
on the most feathery flower
and I have to leave you soon
I don,t even have 1 hour

Voice or your Eyes

by

Meriki Parkinson



if you look at me that way again
penetrating my length
softly taking me in
devouring me with strength
imagining me your sin

I shall crumble & give you my soul
as together we find it all
softly taking us through
a life without the cold
hearts warm as we consume

if you speak to me that way again
placing dreams in my head
promise what won't begin
elevate love with your breath
tease to nurture your whim

you shall be adhered to my heart
so to keep it falling apart
placing your song in my eyes
brightened by your vital spark
living beneath your skies

so don't speak to me with your voice or your eyes

The Day Mum Lost The Ute {a true tale}

by

Meriki Parkinson



out west of The Great Divide
where the summers dry & hot
where the Wiradjurie did reside
& where my dear mother's from

the Cudgegong River soothes it's way
as old Mount Frome looks on
he shakes a shiver they say for the day
he watched this story unfold

for true witness is old Frome
to all local hardship & fray
he's seen the squatters come & go
their tell tale dust from miles away

near a place known as 'where the heck's Lue'
Enid & Percival Ladmore sat
in their cottage with no electricity
near Mudgee in breedy Burrundulla Flats

for hours their daughter to visit was driving
in the old E.H Holden ute
she had her two boys 4 & 2 beside her
the third lay in wait engrossing her womb

& Trixie was there, that was mum's little dog
she'd come along for to visit
Enid & Percy on the River Cudgegong
where the mountains stand guard exquisite

mum knew quite well of a shortcut
to skirt there,save 15 miles
Greg had just had his tonsils out
the heat of the west took it's toll on the drive

so mum turned east before Mudgee
& old Mt Frome saw them take that road
aware of the river in flood.. he
could only be witness, he could only hope

as they drove over the 'Sheepwash Crossing'
'tis named Rocky Water Holes
the water was brown,churning & tossing
the old ute stalled then the torrent took hold

& to think, mother swam there aloft
as a teenager in those holes
just down river of that 'sheepwash'
where the water bumps & bowls

there though, now, she was begged by the same
as the lives of her children flashed through her
old friend demanding let me be thy grave
pulling & pleading to sleep in thy water

moments.. less, who can say
fear forced the car door open
desperate grabbed 4,2, in age
by the scruff of their clothes they were stolen

the Cudgegong River shoved & pushed
mum tightly held on to those clothes
the violent pounding, still it stood
in the heart of mighty Mt Frome

as witness there the old man took
to my mum save her sons
a woman with child, not even 5ft
overcoming the wrath of the Cudgegong

why, then, they didn't all drown
is a miracle worth wondering
the water took the old ute down
my dad found it months later diving

but the river couldn't fight my mum
old Frome saw it try in vain
out of that angry muck she swum
determined, to halt it's greedy claim

she threw on its' banks a child, then another
& struggled up the mud
to see a man, a local farmer
running to help if he could

the farmer then to the Ladmores'
they arrived shaken wet but safe
little Trixie went down in the roar
& mum's never been the same

'twas October when the flood claimed the ute
& the baby was due in March
but Jeffery was born months too soon
& he died,in his fathers arms

so old Frome saw the Cudgegong
try & take those lives that day
the river grasses sing a song
for Trixie the dog & Jeffery the Babe

since a girl of this tale I've known
& my mum still cries for Jeffery
as he did not live, I was born
to portray this ,& to journey

Enid & Percy are since passed on
we don't often visit Mudgee
but the waters of the Cudgegong
are a bloodline of our family

my mum & dad met there as kids
they're not together now
the ute they dragged up by a winch
on the tree that they then found

they say my dad was keen
to push the ute back in it's tomb
seeing Trixie & the scene
what could've been,too much to consume

Mum a tower like old Frome
she went about her day
never crosses water but she's strong
strong enough to push rivers away

this is the almighty power
that my tiny mum has
she hides it usually somehow
beneath her genuine stature

why Frome himself should watch his step
while my mum's on this earth
he's limestone rock but a mere speck
for my mum after childbirth!