Seasons of Love

Seasons of Love
is a song we know well.
But it describes the times
we share at each rehearsal.
A show comes and goes
in the blink of an eye.
Before it another concert goes by.
Strangely enough so have the years.
It was 4 years ago when the pied piper
of Melbourne did appear
promising he would teach us to sing
if only we would look at him.

Asking only that entries and cutoffs were his alone
he formed our community choir
and gave us a home.
A choir home which provided us
with the freedom to be us.
A secure space that was just ours.
We would get together on a weekly basis.
We would learn to know each ones vouces and faces.
Singing and joining our voice in a song
we formed a family where we all belong.

4 years ago we were the City of Casey Community Choir Project or CCC for short
learning opera with council financial support.
Over the years people have come
and people have moved on.
All enjoying the love of song.
4 years ago I stood up to thank
this marvellous man for his
guidance, patience and wisdom.
This poem was written for him
in gratitude for everything he has given,

Moth and Flame

Moth loved Flame.
Flame was a glowing torch.
The centre of everybody’s lives.
Other insect passerbys saw all the
moths surrounding Flame and
wondered what the fuss was about.
They did not have Flame in their lives
so they did not know the effect
Flame had on their lives.
Flame lit utheir lives.
Flame made each morh feel special.
It was as if each moth was the most special
moth in Flame’s life.
Moth was quite shg but Flame beamed
snd winked at Moth in such a charming way
Moth probiscus over wingrip for him.
Moth gathered up the courage to tell Flame.
Moth thought it would be easier to tell Flame
how she felt so she brushed her wings up and curled
her antennae and glided up to Flame.
Bur just as her wings touched the flame
she caught fire and burnt up.
It would have been better to admire
Flame from afar but oh what
a beautiful blue flame moth became,

Reaching for the Stars

Reaching for the Stars

It is a wonderful thing
to be given the highest notes to sing.
It is a gift to be given Fortissimo
with those notes.
For a first soprano it is sheer bliss.
No restraints,
So, if I feel like it, I could deafen
the tenor who just shushed me
who is sitting right in front of me.
No. My conductor tells me never
to sing louder than lovely.
To please my conductor I instead
focus on beautiful notes.
Pretending they are bubbles
I slowly blow them up and release them.
Invisible bubbles hit the ceiling and
break on the audience below in a
shower of notes. Plink, plonk.
I climb the notes like a monkey bar.
Grabbing and holding low notes
lead me to ones higher up.
Reaching F line i grab onto it
and pull myself through.
Looking down I see all the notes
I have sung to get up so high.
I look above my head and see
A, C, E and G.
The A and C I can reach.
Sitting up here above everything
I look up to the dazzling stars and think
how lucky am I to be a singer.

Believe

I want some things to happen.
I want things to turn out fine
so I look up to the stars.
The one on the far right is mine.

The stars are on display and
piled up one million stories high.
I wish upon my chosen star.
I wish everything will be alright.

Wishing upon a star
in movies may come true.
In real life things are not so simple.
It all depends on you.
So depend upon yourself
and hope for the best.
Worrying doesn’t help.
Fate will take care of the rest.

Believe things will work out
as things tend to do.
Believe in yourself.
Believe good things will happen to you.
You can fulfill your dreams,
use your strength to pull you through.
Just wait and see.
The future is up to you

Think like a Singer

I can’t help but think like a singer
I absorb all the advice and all the know how
of how to sing and now
this is coming through in how I live.
Is it weird that when talking house decorating
with my friend I think of discords and crunchy notes?
Notes running side by side and not blending.
She was discussing wallpaper and curtains clashing.
I was thinking of notes coming together and crashing.

At work when I was creating a pictorial diagram
of our Past Student’s pavers in the yard.
Bricks, blank, unpurchased, unnamed
it was not so very hard
to think of the importance of space between notes.
Notes spread out and distanced from each other
by rests, time to catch a breath, unnoted notes.

And bowling always makes me think of singing.
Aim for the note, then sing,
Aim for the goal, then let the ball knock down all the pins.
Sing straight on the note, don’t smear.
Keep your arm straight or the ball will disappear
down the gutter.

I wonder if it matters.
I wonder if it is ok,
if I can get through life
thinking like a singer.
Can’t really be helped.
I am one.
And I love it.

Note to self – don’t look at peas on a plate or birds on the wire too long.

Those Kids Should Go

Someone said,
who should know better
but does not know,
‘those children should take
their things and go.
They should not be in the
same classroom where
the other children learn.
They don’t know how to take turns.
They should not be allowed,
they should not be.
They are not the same as you and me’.
To this someone,
who should know better,
don’t you know that is what
those children want too?
They want to be the same
as the other children who
get along so well.
For those children
school is hell.
Teachers don’t help.
They don’t know what to do.
It is too late for my girl who
is one of those children.
Those children who don’t fit in.
To that someone with her
thoughtless remarks.
Just imagine how you would feel
if a loved one of yours
was segregated in a class.
Just because they thought different.
They don’t know how to fit in.
Teachers need to learn to help them.
They need support, they need confidence
instead of segregation in another class.

Small

Many of my poems I like.
But there are some I don’t.
I don’t know what they will
be like until they show their faces.
Sometimes I think I try too hard.
Strain too hard to get it right.
And then when it surfaces on the page
and the words hit the light
I see how coarse those words are,
not what I wanted at all.
Then I think
I am not good enough to be a poet.
And I feel very small.