Stone Soup

Today I recall the years when, as destitute students, we occasionally gathered together from all over the inner city to share a meal. The host would fill a large pot with water, drop a large stone into it, and place it on a hot stove. Each guest would then bring their offering obtained from food cooperatives and communal gardens to add to the pot. Offerings of onions (both red and brown), carrots, celery, potatoes, leeks, pumpkin, parsnip, spinach, capsicum and so on joined seasonings and herb garnishes to gather the many into one.

When it was ready we would break bread and consume the feast.

dewfall —
the ripples en route
from a single word


may day —
a distress of leaves
labours on
prayer flags
the wind takes up
while words falter
red leaves
now just the dark wine
of peace
offered up
quiet as a comet
her breath cloud
a child racing
the moon
the moon tonight —
light's  reiteration
of the incomplete
spring rain
sound plip plopping
from the eaves
between stars
loneliness takes on
darker tones
tone poem —
autumn rattles
into a mosaic
look at this!
the one I am
in sleep
roadside diner
bluebottles flash
briefly blue
skimming stone . . .
identity theft
in the air
mother's day —
forest mist stretches
beyond the smog
mist-mired moon
another haiku
backspaced over
deep autumn:
clear water wells up
through darkness
dawn coolness . . .
first words air-brushing
the breath of god
leaf-loud breeze
in the otherness
of light
autumn funk
I don't want his damn'd mower
grandfather clock!
what on earth
keeps it ticking?