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.


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.

Song got Stuck

I sang Sing with
many others.
My voice hovered overhead
and joined my sisters and brothers.
When a choir sings love is expressed.
Love for singing and music
and understanding. 

Our voices express the love we feel.
for the freedom of song and
our friendships that form when we sing.

That thought was so beautiful
my song got stuck on my face
and my cheeks got wet.

Dance like noone is watching

It is 10.45 pm. The bar attendants have turned the lights on not so subtly to let us know it is time to go. One of the waiters tell us they are closing the restaurant at 11 pm.

None of us want to go. The after affects of singing in a concert is being felt.  The desire to stay together just a bit longer united by music.

So we find somewhere else. We go past Young and Jackson where music is escaping out onto the street  Loud, smoky, mesmerising, thrumming.

We go in. We dance like we have not danced before. We dance to be caught up in the music once again. We dance for ourselves. Dancing in a circle of friends.  Connected. Smiling and singing known songs. Clapping. Swaying. Stomping. Not to maybe have a one night encounter.  Dancing for love of music.  Dancing for love of self.

Dancing like nobody is watching.

I hope I can sing tomorrow.