Even the lion has to defend himself against flies.


The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 1 December 1928

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The Fire of Life: Stay and Defend

The time has now come for all of us to choose – wherever we are, wherever ‘home’ is for us, whatever our fears, whatever our tasks. We are each asked to be responsible. The fire is upon us. Nay – we are already ablaze. Will we choose to flee? Will we choose to stay, unprepared, a burden to others? Or will we stay and actively defend, becoming fire, and putting ourselves in service of that which needs to be done in world evolution?


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“If you run out of ideas follow the road; you’ll get there” ― Edgar Allan Poe

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[three fragments]


yesterday in a different voice
discussing emptiness
you flooded with sunlight


with the water flowing
out of your body
you understand you lost direction


you lift your head
and the sky rushes in to your mouth

Graham Nunn


Motherhood dragging a doll by the foot. Alan Beck


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Emma Jones

The Doll Who Died

A Fairytale

It had been forgotten in a world of fantastic moons.
That doll I saw, nub of a head with its life peeling off
like a caul or a bandage, lay between rivers that dirtied and danced. The legs beside it were like cloudbank, and the doll
didn’t dangle like a marionette would but slid like a mermaid
stunned by a rudder down a red rock that cried on Sundays.

It wasn’t an original doll. I had seen a similar one, years before,
floating in the China Sea. Face-up and plastic, it blew among the coral as our boat made wings under water. Both dolls were hairless and eyeless with no knowledge of numbers.
The doll that died came from a land whose signpost said “here is the beginning of bones”. The other swam to the Bay of Bengal.

No, those are two lies. There were no destinations. When I was a kid
I liked to sit on the landings of staircases. No top, no bottom,
just movement and steps like the rickety ladders in stockings.
I preferred things that way. Beginnings and ends unnerve me. Getting up,
and the blank wait for sleep. I think of Alpha and Omega, two untwisted yings and yangs torn from their womb, like the doll who died.

Two petulant children hatching strings and secrets between them!
Ladies walk on that tightrope with their wombs full of calendars.
Who puts those two to bed and wipes their faces? Not history, who is dirty
and tired like a man in a raincoat, and forgets things, and likes
the movies. The doll who died lived in a secret room papered
with pink tumuli, overblown roses and organs that swelled and waned

like the moon, or chords that rise from cathedral pipes. History put it there and forgot it. But it cleaved like a glove
and never forgot itself, because it had never remembered itself,
because it never knew itself. It had its own little brackish red sea for paddling, and in the end I fancied it small and biblical,
because one day those seas would part and it could cross.

Could it happen? A date was found and written somewhere.
The doll, although it never knew it, kept arranging itself.
In its small sea-garden it had grown a heart. They measured
its morse code with delicate instruments and made calculations.
I wished a mermaid would adopt it, or that it could live off dithyrambs. As it was, the doll who died, like its big Bengalese

cousin, had no fingers to feel the Braille of its skin’s calligraphy.
It had no liver, so left off the wine at its last supper.
The absent latch to its eyelids meant that it couldn’t see its stem
frail as a jonquils’ in thawed soil, or the blue balloon
on a viscous string that nourished its maritime
sleep. When the world flew out, the doll who died

folded its birthday and its death-day into the one pill-box of its heartbeat and followed its metronome steps out of the building.
It left a gap. It had no grave to haunt or horrors to
Instead it sat square in the slat of afternoon sun
that slid around the cab, and wasn’t there, and was, and said
“I am small as your thumb” and “I saw you do that”.


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If men could see us as we really are, they would be a little amazed; but the cleverest, the acutest men are often under an illusion about women: they do not read them in a true light: they misapprehend them, both for good and evil: their good woman is a queer thing, half doll, half angel; their bad woman almost always a fiend.

Charlotte Brontë, Shirley

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The trapeze man, slim and beautiful and like a fish in the air Swung great curves through the upper space, and came down like a star And the people applauded, with hollow, frightened applause.

Cacho Dante:

Thirty years ago, the tango wasn’t a trapeze act. It didn’t have choreographies, and the woman was not just a follower, she was to whom the tango was dedicated… The guys at that time had already surpassed the stage of steps. They had already passed through the filter: When they didn’t really know how to dance, they did 20 steps; when the knew a bit more, they did 10; and when they really knew what they were doing, they danced five… but with real quality.


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When virtue and modesty enlighten her charms,
the lustre of a beautiful woman is brighter than the stars of heaven,
and the influence of her power it is in vain to resist.
   -Akhenaton (c. B.C. 1375)

We met some champion people As we travelled – lifelong friends, Our days of cherished companionship I thought would never end. Carole McGuffog



Frankston & Somerville Standard (Vic. : 1921 – 1939), Wednesday 13 December 1922

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The bicycle is just as good company as most husbands
and, when it gets old and shabby, a woman can dispose of it
and get a new one without shocking the entire community.
   -Ann Strong, _Minneapolis_Tribune_, 1895

Tihe old snake.charmer, once he played Soft music for the serpe ‘s ear, But now his cunning hand is stayed.

 The Kiama Independent, and Shoalhaven Advertiser

Dr Hake. 1876.

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Little tube of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire;
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently braced;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
With my little stopper pressed,
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from they balmy kisses.
Happy thrice and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men.

Who when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns;
When again the cricket’s gay
(Little cricket, full of play),
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed;
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice again
Happiest he of happy men.

-Isaac Hawkins Browne (1736)

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Nishu Mathur, India
The Snake Charmer

The old wizened wrinkled snake charmer, with a red turban on his head,
A khaki  bag across his shoulders, a dhoti wrapped around his legs.

He traces his ancestors path, makes his way through dusty lanes,
Calling out through his flute, hoping to cast his spell again.

A coiled cobra wrapped in a basket… his livelihood he carries around,
No doubts, no fear, with his snake the snake charmer walks the town.

Curious chatter, a fascinated child yearns to see the snake rise,
Dancing to the charmer’s tune, a cobra or a viper mesmerized.

With the basket a distance away, the charmer sits crossed leg, his tune to play,
The snake slowly uncoils serpentine, moving to the flute,  it starts to sway.

A crowd gathers and like the snake, it stands entranced with widened eyes,
The cobra dancing to the flute …with it’s movement, hypnotized.

The snake raises it’s head and lunges forward with a menacing hiss,
The snake charmer unperturbed plays his flute, and gives death a miss.

Coins, notes, come the charmer’s way…sighs, cheer, clear and loud,
A prayer in humble gratitude, the snake charmed, so the crowd.

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I am going insane. Yes. That is what´s happening. Good. Insane. Suzanne Finnamore

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You had control of my body now, and if I didn’t choose you,
you made me feel so sick to where I was helpless not knowing what to do.

By now I started doing the things I swore I would never do,
lying and stealing off the people who didn’t mean a thing to you.

You had me convinced that throughout my life you were determined to stay, that I did not have that option of turning and walking away.

Source: Addicted To Heroin Poem, Dear Heroin http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/dear-heroin-addicted-to-heroin#ixzz2syT8xCKQ
Family Friend Poems