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Feb 2018 · 281
Daytime Rhythms
daytime rhythms
of coming and
going


a-swish
a-yawn
a-slam
a-trudge


out the door
in the car
to the place


there


twiddled thumbs
swivelled chairs
barked-up trees
and morning teas
and banter


hands
on knees
and eyes to
clock


and this meeting
here
and that duty
there
tick tock


a-flow through
time and space
and light
as the
sun turns over
in its sky
and rests its
head down on
the other side


then
out the door
in the car
to the place


for something quick
to have for dinner


then


home




© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
The march of nine-to-five sets the rhythm of the day, both soothing and begrudging. It causes flare-ups of activity at certain times and lulls at others.

Collective shufflings here and there make people cranky but keep them on track. And the sequence of sounds—predictable, as if orchestrated—makes music of the mundane.
Feb 2018 · 231
Love Nugget
love
aghast
at its own
separation


curds from
whey
drifting
up into
unshapely
neglected
kernels


drifting up to
a wide distance
in their broth
of once-
togetherness


weeping
energy
like a
milky
wound


expectations
of gushing
romance
seep out
and down


sunk to the
bottom


to never
feel
alone


to never
feel
lost


to never
feel
grown
or
responsible
for it all


sunk right down
to the
bottom


buoyancy
independent
rising up


I take care
of my
self


alone
purposeless
drifter
bulbous
love nugget




© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Real life love is not like fairy tale love. It does not absolve a person of their responsibilities, their cares, their troubles. It doesn't make it so that nothing bad ever happens. And it isn't often romantic.

Giddy-eyed passion inseparable is replaced by an ever-deepening friendship of two independent people. Love solves no problems. It only makes life richer and more complicated.
Feb 2018 · 245
A Loose End
I would rather
be a
wanderer
a belongerer
to no body
to no country
a loose end


than to bob
eagerly
at every tug
of the yarn's
end
whose
wound-up
mass
amasses me
a wriggled up
ball of
wriggles


I would rather
be alone
than
scooped up
in a basket
with others
of my
supposed
ilk
and held in
by the
over-under
wicker
edges
domed up
for containment


ominous
clicks and
scrapes
of my
destiny
clattering
and chattering
above


fraying
frizzled
frazzled bits
smoothing out
as my length
is tugged
up and up
like a long
slurpy
noodle


I would rather
be loose
and scrappy
and stumpy
and ragged
the one that
nobody loves
the discarded
refuse of a
more discerning
eye


than be made
surreptitiously
into somebody
else's
jumper




© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Sometimes it's better to be alone than to be in bad company. Sometimes it's better to be independent than to be dependent on the wrong thing.
Feb 2018 · 164
I Took Two Totems
I took two totems
and held them to
myself
one in my right pocket
and one in my left
for clenching
tight in reminder
while walking about
of what's really
important


a brass bull
keychain strung
to the keys
that opened my home
and made it mine


for prosperity
and material health
and weighing down
to the ground


and a little hunk
of lapis lazuli
speckled through
with golden
glitters


for keeping
bright blue and
buoyant
my spirit


the bull broke off
its chain and
left a dangling void
a superfluous
jangle
wiggling on old
keys turned in
to an old landlord


the stone
slipped out of my
jacket pocket
in a cab to the
airport to a plane
to the other side
of the world


now of my totems
but a short refrain
and a
memory's glitter
remain




© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
It is perhaps naive to believe in totems. To believe that one can will something into existence just by imbuing an object with its representation. If a brain, if a life do not want to hold those things yet, then the totems will simply slip out of one's pocket, forgotten.
Feb 2018 · 422
Napkin Full of Problems
a polkadotted
napkin
full of problems
tied to a stick
slung across
my shoulder

strutting
stubbornly
from one place
to another

never questioning
why I bother
meandering
all over

a runaway
to sunny beaches
gloomy cities
far off reaches
of far earth

with stars poured
in my eyes
and hard-earned
pennies in
my purse

hoping that
this time will
be different

it couldn't
be worse

?


©2018 Adelaide Heathfield
Ever the escapist. Seeing new places with rose-colored glasses. Believing that everything will be better "over there". But forgetting to deal with my problems before I leave.
Feb 2018 · 349
Cacao
sweet tree
raised from
tropical
earth

to grow upright
and out
to sprout
from trunk
a bunch of
pink and
pointed pods

or perhaps
crimson or
yellow
aubergine
tangerine
green

scythed clean
from host
and hacked
in two
for getting at
seeds a-pulp
in white
and slimed

and spreading
them out under
the sun
to get hot
in their own
juices

to ferment
wild

to bake
dry

poured tinkling
by the
thousands into
sacks of hessian
for sending
‘cross seas

to furnace-cracked
futures
winnied and
conched
sweetened
melted
and hardened
into shapes
of other things


© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Cacao trees are spectacularly beautiful. They love the humid, mountainous air near the equator, and the regular washings of rain.

Nestled in the understory of bigger forest trees, they sprout these colourful, magical pods out of their trunks and drape them over with big, shady leaves. It’s truly other-worldly.

Only fitting for the most magical food on earth!

And the intricate process of coaxing their bitter seeds into luxurious chocolate is a great marvel of modern industrialism. From harvesting, fermenting and drying the beans to roasting, conching, sweetening and tempering, chocolate has become a true labor of love.
Feb 2018 · 210
Father-Watching
father-watching
faraway
triggered sweet by
memory plucked
from twinge of
heart at
husband whiskers
sprinkled in
the sink


father
slow transforming
out of sight
whisker white
a-creep through
long-time
beard of boyish
blondish-brown


sprouting
scraggled out from
ear and nose
and knuckle
round


eyes a-cave
and sunken deep
in shaded-over
cavities


for inward looking
more than
out


with no more
footballs
flung
about


and no more
children yanking
on the waking hours'
daggy trousers


for weeping
over old-time
music secret
in the dark


up with the
birds
down with
the sun


midlife
rush at last
a-hush and
calm in its
surrender
done


bones exposed
of parenthood
held frail a-clung
by gristle grey of
simple habits


coffee thick
and silky
run with
milk


and crispest
crusty bread
torn up
for dipping into
hearty stock


with olives
cheese and
ham on top


a drop
of something
oaky sipped
and languished


a-crawl with
thoughts of
father own
disintegrating


boyhood memories
coddled close
and satiating


with daughter
unbeknownst
father-watching
faraway


© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
A man to whom one has looked up with reverence is especially treasured. His strength, his masculinity, his ability to protect those he loves. And as he ages his loved ones notice a softness creeping in, which only belies the softy they always knew he was inside.

But nevertheless it is poignant to watch—even from afar—as a great man begins to wither. Ever so slightly. But wither. In his body only, not his mind. But wither.
Feb 2018 · 230
Under the Sky
sometimes
you just need to
run into the
wild and
look at the
starshine and
look at the
moonbeams


and forget
who you are
for a while


forget where
you came from
and where you're
trying to go


forget who is
waiting for you
and what they said
and what they
might say


to melt back
into black
and pulse shiny
and magical


to be
simply a
body under
the sky


© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
No matter how big and bright and sparkling we make our lives, nature still calls to us. To be domed over by an indigo sky spangled with stars can calm even the most turbulent heart. Because nature connects us to the wordless part of ourselves. And no words = no worries.
blankets laid
like pastry
twirled and
crinkled
made to nestle
precious
heads
in bed of
curled and
covered comfort
buttered


wrapped up
little packages
alive and
breathing


heaving breaths
of depths
unknown to
waking worlds
through softened
lungs and throats
and mouths
and gooey
molten middles


with shield of
fragile sleep
held up
to barricade in
and barricade out


as steam floats
gentle warm
and wistful
blissful up
from tender
scalps


from dreams
in gold and
chocolate



© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
It's nice to lie awake in the early morning while everyone else is still sleeping. To bask heavy in the sound of bodies inflating and deflating. Languishing in the subconscious, unfettered by obligation or chore. And to wonder what sweet dreams they're dreaming.
Feb 2018 · 478
Let the Race Go On
let the race
go on and
be won and
be lost
inevitable
fast
without me


I will be
playing
on the side
of the road
with the daisies
and the crickets
and the wild-growing
fennel


a fleeting whoosh
to the rushing
passerby
and they a whoosh
to me


as clouds
hang humid
and yearn to
speckle their
summer mist
a-top puffs of
breeze and
rosy cheeks
and
saplings


I will be
spending my
sunshine day
with face
upturned and
hair a-mess
and
eyes not
looking where
they're going


© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
You can choose to race toward a predetermined end alongside a slew of equally eager competitors. And end up exactly where you decided to be, with a number fixed to your shirt and if you're lucky, a medal hung round your neck.

Or you can choose to wander off the track completely and see where it takes you. It might be dangerous. It might be lonely. It might be peculiar.

There are racers and there are gallumphers, I suppose.
Feb 2018 · 209
Bygone Beds
we slept all
bundled up in
beds too tiny
meant for
one


limbed and
twiny under
breathy blanket
quilted by
your mom


in pokey dorm rooms
loud and
clambersome


we slept all
upside down
in princess bed
of brass ornate
and painted
ceramic of
flowers pink
and dainty


pulled and
rubbled out
from rummage
sale in
somebody's
front yard


enclosed by walls
of wood
a-seep with
rugged deep
grotesque koala
gnarl


we slept all
pulled out long
on foamy
futon


slats a-stick
in ribs and
jutting out


to wailing
whooping
siren sounds
and tv screams
and chopper
chops
and others'
midnight
lovers' fights


a-pound and
hot and grimy


we slept all
lofted up
and alcoved
cozy
high in castle
attic


nunnery
monastic


circled round
by clouds
and crows and
osprey


wings a-soar
wings a-flap
dizzying up our
weathered dreams


with
cat a-curled and
purring at
our tender feet


and farback
memories
swirling sweet


of bygone nights


of bygone plights


of sleeps
slept other
places


© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
The bed on which you sleep is full of memories. The sounds that swirl around, the light that filters in, the lumpiness or firmness of its cradling round your body, and the scent of the person with whom you share it becomes inextricably linked to that bed itself.

A couple in love graduates from bed to bed as they progress through ever-changing life circumstances. And the memories of those beds contain the memories of all the happy, miserable, beautiful, and strugglesome times that befell them in between all those sleeps.

— The End —