Evocation #17 Blue - Last Year

We spent last year quietly celebrating
a year of change and novelty.
Family fireworks lit the sky,
brightening our living room
for a few moments,
Like pills,
giving temporary colour
to postpone coming darkness.
Nighttime was our friend then - sun the enemy...
Side effects meant stay inside or cover up.
New fashion statements
of flaps and scarves,
Six-packs of sunscreen,
plantations of fresh aloe,
homemade conconctions
 of turmeric, sea vegetables, cherry and honey...
a veritable rainbow of hope blitzed
into topical applications of goodness and relief.
Organic life continuously arrived, bursting boxes,
tamed into pieces by generous friendship,
cold-pressed into service, satisfying thirst.
Creation still shares fruits...
 at least for a time,
But for how long?
We planned a cruise.

Festival delights welcomed our new year,
funny, creative, poignant, touching... a poet, a cabaret,
a choir of young - proud - women - celebrating their Land...
Walking and riding, commitment to move,
Remembering to eat, despite loss of appetite.
Words lost and communications gathered by “punkywayshone”.
Conversations became guessing competitions.
My middle name became thesaurus.
We travelled to the apple isle - friends accessible
while you could still negotiate stairs.

You started to withdraw from others,
preferring online
where your singlehanded typing was befriended
by predictive text.
I booked long leave.

Confusion, lostness, disorientation.
“Do I know this place? These people?”
I made a list of haven-cafes, at shops and work,
and gave baristas my card.
I kissed you and left you almond flat whites,
“Wear your Ironman button.
Your superhuman power is to summon me!”

When sentence-searching scared us,
I read your book to you, continuing the edits
of cherished companions.
Vignettes unfolded and we needed to research...

Symptoms declare no further treatment.
Old music confronts us once again.
Preparing for ending freezes time.
But pause for a moment or a month...
Compassionate request and gift
allows a window to open.
No more side effects - take off your hat!
Enjoy the light a little longer.
We gain extra memories...and oh, what delights!

“1950

“Tyalgum was a backwater village in a backwater region of northern NSW. The lush countryside ideally suited the many dairy farms scattered throughout the Tweed Valley. Much of the sub-tropical rainforest had been cleared fifty years ago, but there were still lush pockets, especially around Mt. Warning. The recent, steady, frequent downpours made many of the rough, country roads a challenge to even the best drivers. (C) Terry Butler, 2019

The opening words of your therapy
drives us to circle the ancient volcano,
her beauty and story solidifying love like cooling lava.
Those weeks made us strong
and and ministered to us from rainforest and running river.
The earth cared for us, fed us,
gave us an anniversary we could never have expected.
Art Deco images wove together memories
of Barcelona and Murwillumbah.

Visits to friends and relatives gentled the soul,
Reminding us of values and reasons to celebrate life.
Generous donors provided a house at Hawks Nest...
A week of editing and visiting grandchildren.
Romantic dining in a French restaurant
reminded us of pilgrimage past.
A few days remained to explore wonder...
painted glory and ancient scrolls
were seen from wheelchair throne -
Thank you Canberra,
haven of art and knowledge!

Home saw caring visits by supporters, friends and relatives,
freeing me to work and respite in Mexico and Cuba,
in fine company.
We both saw how deep friendship composes herself
in undramatic encouragements.

Two and a half weeks can be so short and so long,
for how do we measure time?
How long does it take to learn a new word
or lose a vocabulary?
How many hugs and caresses does it take
to know security?
Too short - too long.

You still came regularly to campus with me,
But shorter visits... to observe rather than engage.
“I’m ready to go home now”...
But whose home?
Were you beginning to redefine the definition?
Home for you used to be with me.
Home for me used to be with you.

Determination and optimism -
An awe-inspiring combination.
You made a date to have lunch -
reunion with beloved colleagues.
A taxi voucher one way,
your insisted train ride to return.
Your distress call, our response...
Drama, screams, desperation, drugs...

Seven hospital visits and seven catheters, in as many weeks.
In between, moments of achievement and delight.
Take that, Fear, your last name should be “Not”...
An angel told me so!

The new normal became so much more personal...
Your last vignette was all about “Alf”:

“Alf’s father was a barber, back-in-the-day. His dad, now in his late-eighties, would occasionally come into the shop in Murwillumbah Street, just to check up on him. Alf had tried a few other things, but he was drawn to being a barber. It seemed now as if he had been a barber since forever. The interactions and the treasuring of people’s secrets was, for him, a kind of sacred trust. He looked after people. He didn’t stop with tending faces and heads. He also looked after their stories. It was easy to chat to Alf.”

 (C) Terry Butler, 2019

You instructed me carefully
how your father taught you to shave.
I became a full service barber!
Sometimes at the vanity,
sometimes (when you had no energy to look)
beneath the shower head.
Down, up and across... Long strokes.
with stories of army life and sergeant orders.

Bamboo sheets dry quicker...
an important learning when changes are required
 every few hours
Skin changes, sleep increases,
board games become the welcome relief
to distress at not being able to converse.
I begin to time the periods of conversation.
How long have we got?

You poured out wisdom about life and marriage
intended for moments of advocacy still
as you raged at exclusion and vilification
- Always the defender and ally.
You scorned public discourse and complained
you no longer had the words
to confront people
with simple love.

Houseguest friends and family
come closer, come familiar, come more often.
Practicalities take over...
So many forms - so many bills -
So many packets - so much equipment.
So much to fill my mind and drive out anxiety.
I made boxes for meds and catheter supplies.
The pharmacist rang me for updates.

In Ward 5c you held court...
Patients, Carers, families, doctors, nurses, orderlies...
you held hands, prayed for others...
You told me who was in a bad way.
“There are lots of people worse off than me” you claimed.
I was angry with you.
In your obsession with the wellbeing of others,
you left your own concern to me.
Like the bird with no concern for tomorrow,
 you lived each moment to the full...
So I died a little every day.

With hopes of maybe six more weeks,
we cancelled the planned cruise.
It was a possibility.
Dining and fitness packages were refunded
but the investment of dreaming remained spent.
Only later would the ovation escaped become evident.
Had we gone, your final days would have been
ministering to others
in the witnessing of violent death
and horror at nature’s anger...
We prayed for our would have been fellow passengers
and victims of White Island.

“I’m ready to go home!”
Home...
So where were you ready to go?
Eleven days were a lifetime at home.
Providence of angels inhabiting
every nook and cranny,
busy with loving.
I spoke to a friend while under the shower... the only solo time I had.
Who would have thought dying would be so busy?
Like a progressive dinner,
 a cycle of love
 seemed to revolve around us.

I understand the Synoptics better now:
summary stories give way to moment by moment details.
So much engraved into my soul...
what about yours?
How much were you aware of?
The Christmas dinner?
The delirium?
The dismantling of our bed to make way for a wondrous appliance!
A force of assistance quietly moved in and rearranged the furniture,
bringing homemade cookies and soup.
Other hands massaged your feet and held your hand.

Ready?
Ready or not!
You tricked us all
with death rattles leading into
regained composure and mouthed verses of Hark the Herald!
“No one does that” the nurse said.

You decided to offer one last gift of hospitality...
You let St Peter go get a coffee,
while you gentled people through the gates...
Only a smoko turned into a three day weekend.
The Rock thought he was out of a job...
So much for ready!

Ready to go home?
I am learning to become deeply jealous of the inhabitants of Heaven.
They have stolen my homeland and will not let me in.
How did you get a ticket when I cannot get an entry permit?
I am become a refugee - homeless among clutter.

So commences a new year...
A year to become a stranger.
A year to remember lasts and commence firsts.
A year to be reminded to breathe.

(C) A A Koh-Butler, 2019

Evocation #16 breathe

Did you hold me or did I hold you?
The breath pauses and gasps again.
I hold the fluttering of your heart,
 my hand firm as listening intensifies.
Will I hear your spirit escape this realm for another?
Make a home for us there, I whisper.
There are many rooms - paint one of them blue.

One lung - or one and a bit...
Breath that once shouted at players and refs.
Two laps for that. Walk away.
Pass the ball.
Breath used for forming teams and communities.
Moments and eternities pass between breaths.
Snooze and you lose!
Sleepy train rides merging postcard views with wonder and dreams.
Breathing in time to flamenco guitar.
Friends cherishing and easing your breaths,
Turning you, massaging, touch of love and healing.
Not the kind of healing that pulls you back,
rather, the gifts of going...
pieces to place in your backpack
until you float as a feather on the breath of God.

What is God’s breath like?
Does it appear as the wind from the south?
Don’t they call that the widow maker?
Does it fan flames and leave destruction?
Does it make the sky turn black and the sun to blush to vermillion...
 like the fire trucks it watches with indifference?

Breathe
The triple breath and pause. Repeat.
Is almost instructional in its rhythm.
This is how you do it.
You make an instructional video,
 burning it into my memory, so,
 when sobs and gasps violently shove me into that pattern -
I remember.
Just.
Breathe.

(C) A A Koh-Butler, 2019

Evocation #15 Blue (part 3)

Charisma deceives,
Tricking into assumptions of simplicity of presentation.
Force of presence obliterates multilayered complexities.
peeling your history - a pass-the-parcel,
with every layer delivering an unexpected prize.
Vignettes surfacing on holidays
or around trivia tables.
My constant request...
“Darling, how do I do this?”
You had a tool for everything,
 knowing its name and history of development.
Limits of formal education,
never holding back a well formed opinion,
based on breadth of reading and discourse.
You held your own with politicians and religious leaders,
 trade unionists, sport stars, media personalities,
 professors, homeless, and children....
Elements of Peter Pan and Pied Piper,
a magnet!
People buzzed around you,
like bees seeking the nectar of vitality
for you were unstinting in sharing life.
I sit here surprised that all life didn’t just stop that day,
But here we are, noting your absence.
True - the sun is red these days
and we are beginning to forget
what a blue sky looks like.

(C) A A Koh-Butler, 2019


Terry Butler work history...
(Let me know if I have missed something)

First job as a banker.
Journo in Bourke at The Western Herald.
Roustabout, cotton-farmhand at Jack Buster’s Darling Farms
Called up for National Servie, trained as an officer at Scheyville,
Graduated as a 2nd Lieutenant
Travelled the coastline as a surfie
Triple certificate nurse - general, psych and midwife,
Working at royal north shore, Gladesville and back to north shore
Retail included menswear and managing a hardware store
Worked as a builder’s labourer for his brother-in-law, Rod,
before going into business with Russell as a trade painter.
Together they worked up special finishes.
An acquired allergy to paint led to taxi driving and hire cars.
Then, studies at UNSW in Theatre and Film,
completing three years of a five-year BA/BEd
And volunteer teaching drama at Chatswood High school.
Beginning to write...
Church Administrator at Chatswood-Willoughby Uniting Church
(Secretary to Ian Robinson, Fee Morrison, Dong Gyu Lee)
A cardiac arrest saw retraining at NatureCare College with Diplomas in Remedial Therapies and Remedial Massage.
Massage Therapist at Beverley Hills Chiropractic (with Bruce Stevenson and Michelle Henderson)
Novelist

Evocation #14 Blue (part 2)

Child’s art adorns the wall,
just beyond where you laid your head.
The standup hair a splash of colour,
reminding me of tongues of fire
Dancing always in you...
The breath of life
exuding from your interactions.

The daily trek to coffee shop
was more than liquid currency -
Regularity led to familiarity,
Familiarity led to friendship,
Friendship led to love -
the trek was oftentimes the path
of flowers, dogs and neighbourly chats.
For a time, the cafe was merely
a rest and recovery Stop,
more for the sake of your stick!
How many times did you coach yourself?
Your code name was determination.

Your only complaint was
the need to look down
to check both feet were behaving.
Disappointment turned to discovery
as you came to adopt cracks, crevices,
plants squeezing through the path.
Pups, newborns and old folk
learnt to expect
the kind word of encouragement -
 a blessing for their day or week.
Post office, pharmacy and bank staff
would vie to companion you in business.
Shopping, I learnt to bask in your glory!

The blue served as an invitation:
Welcome. I am a relief from your brown-grey world.
Most effective in waiting rooms,
the non-anxious presence...
you settled staff, family, carers,
asking questions loudly enough
so everyone in the room could
eavesdrop the answers
they longed to receive.
Sometimes, if another squinted,
you’d ask for repeat,
no one missed out with you holding court.

You would start by saying ‘nice nails’ or ‘nice handbag’,
Causing the victim to thank and look at you,
trying to find something reciprocal to approve...
You bought the comments about your coiff
by praying on courtesy.
It worked.
“I do it for Beyond Blue...”
Four or five times in a day
I could listen to you comfort people
in the distress of loss or grief.
You worked at mending so many broken or bruised hearts.

And you broke mine.

(C) A A Koh-Butler, 2019

Evocation #13 Blue (part 1)

So mentally tough for so long!
As each challenge presented itself,
you plumbed wells of deeper knowing.

You always led the way with surprises.

Your long locks and ponytail
were a feature of our courting.
It was a lovely mane,
tamed in its gathered state,
liberated on special occasions.

My fortieth birthday present
 was those locks
presented in a paperbag.
You shaved and oiled that solar panel,
letting it gleam,
necessitating millinery purchases.
Those were days of your more distinguished presentation.
Suits and silk shirts worn on adult dates.
We seemed to dance at countless weddings,
celebrating the lives of others in our own bliss.

Your ink was detailed -
two sessions of dragon delight.
Feasting and fasting,
we explored and played with place and time.
The collection of football tributes
grew with every trip (to that store in Bangkok...)
wearable statement of loyal fan and ranting critic.

Details pool in a muddy mess
 of cannulas and waiting rooms...

The Mohawk arrived with the scans,
but salt and pepper was unacceptable
in a world of sky and ocean delight.
Blue highlighted your tender eyes,
Glancing and gazing, encouraging
truth in companionship,
staring fear down.

Blue.
You knew. I knew.
This would be our shared duet,
not to be embarked on solo.
In our blueness, we adopted the cause.
We never fought cancer.
We fought anxiety and depression.
Beyond Blue was logical, helpful,
a way of communicating a life value.

Blue.
The heavens declare the glory of God.
The tides come and go at divine bidding.
There are no heights nor depths beyond
the encompassing life force we call God.

Blue hair entwined itself in your identity,
So, of course, it would become mine.
We belonged and people knew.
So many people - strangers - would stop and offer
words of encouragement and appreciation.
It was like a cheer squad of angels
from nowhere and everywhere.
Passing children would walk
into poles, unable to look away.
“Mummy, mummy, he’s got blue hair!”
You learnt to turn those blue targets and respond,
“You could have blue hair too!”
Ever the evangelist!

Blue earrings proclaimed premiership victories
and told the world of mentoring and coaching,
valued by recipients
and woven into your very being.
So many young women saw you as a father figure.
Not the stereotype... ever!
But true and loving,
standing as the one who respected womanhood,
Even when you toppled....

Falling from your bike was the sign of change.
Two weeks and your shoulder and hand and leg
were gone - not gone - not working...
your steady decline into paraplegia,
not urgent but too late...
Second and third opinions defining a fate of fast farewell.
But godly play intervened.
Let’s tell a different story
and wonder at different possibilities?

The anxiety of humming machines
was as nothing
as you glared at my approach
with nail clippers.
Ok then... a manicure?
The world of Vietnamese shopfronts
in Australian shopping centres
opened their embrace to you.
Mani-pedi, in blue please!
And so we reframed expectations.

Rehab, proposed by fresh faced graduates,
set goals of accessing wet areas. Low score.
We sat in a car, both weeping,
Decided to create our own program.

Walking
Cold pressed juices
IV nutrients
More walking
Music therapy
Electronic games
Art therapy
Colouring in
More walking
Coffee everyday
Writing
Team digital gaming
The Trike
Travel
Pilgrimage
Adventures
Advocacy
Public discourse
Mentoring
More walking
Feeding doves
Hosting chats
Digital presence (when physical was too tough)

There were stumbles,
cross words, arguments born of frustration...
Such frustration!

We would go out
and I would learn ministry as I observed
and you taught me how to participate.

Blue.
Bold and public,
a bell on your wheelchair...
“Here I am. I don’t have time to wait for you,
For there is so much living yet to do.”
How many lifetimes did you pack in?
How many Tshirts told stories?
How many boys call you Coach still?
How many times did you voice “I love you.”

(C) A A Koh-Butler, 2019

Evocation #12 the Llama and the Rabbit

They lie together, taking up a corner of the bed,
Witnesses to life and death and everything in between.
The Llama is the bearer of patience and patients.
It drew together a community of life’s players,
diverse, particular, distant, together in the ether.
They imagine worlds into being
and simulate possibilities.
Llama’s team has character and values...
 their own version of the ten commandments!

Little fluffy llamas perch above the bed,
overlooking our restful scene.
Larger cousins now live further north,
present with not-so-little boys.

The one staring at me displays the blue and red earrings,
 signifying premiership wins and proud coaching achievements.
It was birthed in prayer and it’s middle names are comfort and love.
It has a button arsehole!
(See - you can laugh through the tears!)

It’s companion comes from a much older line -

The Velveteen Rabbit has been a constant nursing aide.
Radox baths, physio-tape strapping, arthroscopies, tonsils, chicken pox,
 aches and pains, shingles, pneumonia,
lung cancer, brain cancer, gall stones, kidney stones, bladder cancer...
What does it take to make a rabbit real?
How much loving and how much loss of stuffing?

The rabbit has travelled lightly,
hopping into carryons, backpacks
and stuffing itself into pockets of suitcases.
Lately, it always seemed to have one foot
in a packing cube that doubled as a Go bag...
Better than one foot in the dirt!

When the body wears out, and love remains,
Reality hits...
 I’m glad the rabbit and the llama have each other.

(C) A A Koh-Butler, 2019

Evocation #11 Collage

Hours invested in collaging images into some form of aide mémoire...
Every day - a little more loss -
Touch, smell, the sound of your voice...
Words reach out to guide through the characters you created.
The daily rant is missing.
Who now will critique the ills of the world and offer the logical alternatives?

I hold the master craftsman certificate in signs and symbols:
it hangs on my wall, positioned as a snuggle
between your Life Membership and your Accreditation -
Remedial Massage - healing through touch.
The terrible touch of a safety mask -
the kind that entraps and permits utter stillness.
As I stifle the desire to scream at it, I remember
your distraction - your story -
characters to comfort and instruct,
ongoing presence to guide and remind.
I am grateful for the gift,
somewhat daunted you thought ahead.

I try to decide which images to share
and which to hold private and close,
which do we keep to ourselves?
We didn’t just love each other,
we loved life together!
I look at the world today,
much still to do and care about.
The difference is not here, for it goes on,
so they say.
I now see the world
through my jealousy of heaven.

(C) A A Koh-Butler, 2019

Évocation #10 The art of Painting smiles

Lift cheeks, soften lips,
Yoga nidras have prepared the way...
Find a memory of helping,
Present the visage.

It is not a lie, nor a mask.
The true desire to be friendly and kind remains.
It’s just that the numbness my friend speaks of
cannot be disturbed, save by sobs or screams.
Better not to scare people.

Much is written about grief,
observed patterns, expectations,
kindnesses required for respite,
guidelines for first responders,
volumes of platitudes.
I know, I confess my misuse.

I look into the vanity drawer
and a smirk hovers near my nose and mouth.
I spy the waterproof mascara.
How thoroughly exquisite
to realise my excellent commonsense,
having requested the acquisition before the death.
We prepared well.

I found you nightshirts, soft, comforting and blue.
You wrote me a twenty four chapter love letter.
You told me over and over how much you loved me.
I ordered waterproof mascara.

Overwhelming love comes at an overwhelming cost.
Generations of research and development cannot improve
on soggy teabags and cucumber slices to ease swollen eyes.
It may take decades to develop the unsmudgable product.
Will I still be weeping then?

My friend and I share stumbling messages of distant households,
Peppered with day-to-day vignettes
of the pair who, even now, party elsewhere.
Fickle? No. Just always a little ahead of us...
With their humour and delight...
And general naughtiness.
I hold my chest, wondering if the pieces will fall out?
I sigh at the task of life
and fish around for a Pink
to paint today’s smile.

(C) a.Koh-Butler, 2019

Evocation #9 Absent Joy

I have known joy.
She asked for my advice and became my friend.
She invited me to dinner and visited often.
I walked her dog and viewed her pictures.
I learnt to paint her home.

Joy blessed our life with conversation,
Family meals and Bike rides.
Joy took us to long days at test matches
and walks in garden and national parks.
Joy sang and played games,
poured wine, planted herbs,
rode in golf buggies, jumped onto train,
wandered markets, filled baskets,
cooked with friends, ate together
to redefine family... a family of joy.

Today, I can see the joy...
It appears in the company of many,
in the messages and Christmas presence.
Joy is remembered and promised.
It hides and plays peek-a-boo...
now you see me, now you don’t.
Joy is housed in Heaven and becomes incarnate
in the love surrounding.

I do not wish you a happy holiday,
(such a superficial and empty threat!)
Instead, I wish you deep joy -
the joy of love remembered and promised.
May you know the joy or a love so deep
your breath catches and your eyes leak at the memory.
This is the joy where life and death intersect.
May you be blest with a joy that carries you into eternity.

(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler

Evocation #8 Pungent Memory

Terry and Zeus - Newcastle Harbour

Angels and Saints tend my path,
Lest I dash my foot against a stone.
I scramble along a rocky shoreline,
following voices of grandson and grandpa,
Ever talking and laughing
and pointing to boats and crabs and pelicans.

Flowers, fotos, a book of blessings.
The postie is tender in his delivery.
Each package brings a sigh and a smile,
Then follows the tears and gasps for elusive air.
(I wasn’t the one with lung cancer!)

I lie, eyes closed, wide awake in bed,
Sifting through presenting images.
They dart and dance in my mind’s eye,
pirouetting in tease, as if to say
“try to catch us”.
They threaten to escape and leave me destitute.
The relentless bombardment of scenes exhausts.
Then follow the threat - they might not return.
Will they get lost and not find their way home,
These memories...
Don’t they think they belong with me? I enquire,
outraged at their infidelity.
They forget.
(Perhaps they have brain cancer?)

Memories push in, rude and brash,
Unbidden interlopers.
A probing needle becomes confused
with a prodding crochet hook.
A yellow container labeled ‘sharps’...
The intimacy of a wheelchair looking longingly at me,
As if we were waiting to go on another date,
But I am fickle.
When I go, I will leave you behind,
to get lost in time in the eternity of symphonic rush.
(They forget they are mere products of unforgiving anthropocene.)

I surface to face a room for living,
Christmas reminders and cards of compassion,
Scent of blossom and wisdom in words.
Albums of love catch my attention,
images sent across state boundaries, and
capturing both a moment and timelessness.
The age of the image, stuffed into shoeboxes
and jumbled into ziplock bags!

One sits on an envelop...
A strong memory of earthiness... truffles,
the kind that turns the head of a pig or sets a dog barking,
Transforming an egg into yellow gold.
The truffle is a blessing from the earth.
It consumes you in sensation and produces laughter
to accompany wine and storytelling.
It is both rustic and refined,
switching company as easily as my Second Lieutenant.
Like a bell on a cat, serving to warn native birds
and betraying hiding holes -
If ever I need to find a memory,
I will need to find a truffle!

(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler

Evocation #7 Homeless

Fifteen places, nineteen moves.
Frequent removalist points!
(They knew how we took our takeaway coffee!)
(They commented on any recent acquisitions.)
How many rooms did we paint?
“You roll and I’ll cut in.”
I graduated to your favoured brushes,
Under your eye!
Working through the night to Saturday-night-country...
Blue for the bedroom, helped us to know which one was ours.
Painting helped us to claim spaces and make them our own - for a time.

For a time - I kept our kitchen in plastic boxes,
Ready for the next move.
We shared the missionary life, tent making,
repairing gardens wherever we went.
Once, we moved a rockery, complete with thirty-plants,
Walking it up the road in wheelbarrow loads,
friends subjected to hard-labour.

Herbs and veggies, walls of strawberries,
countless salads, fresh broad beans.
Traps for snails and nets for birds,
Mothballs scattered like marbles,
instructing cats to stay away,
Except for our Kat.

The dining table, ever extending,
Adopting family... Lighting candles, dunking in waves,
Feeding and laughing, storying together.
Constant washing of sheets as guests and friends come and go.
Keeping locksmiths in business!

Our first Christmas, all you wanted was a house
The four-inch miniature reminded us of dreams and promises.
We decided then our home was wherever we were together.

So, now I am homeless.

(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler

Evocation #6 Close

You taught me how to be close.

So close I could not look down with any hope of spying toes,
Better to keep eyes fixed across your shoulder, searching for heaven,
Moving in synch to Latin rhythms, secure in your arms,
Holding me like a fitted garment, tucked in all the right places!

Folded into crook of arm, I heard your heart.
Snuggled as you whispered tall tales of imaginitis.
Tender sharing, quiet bliss, a comfy squeeze, a gentle kiss.
Dawning coffee, shared in bed.
Discovery of world through dodgy internet.
Prayers for those we loved or never met.

Sitting close beside: at movies, church, in cars...
Long aeroplane pilgrimages to distant destinations,
Always within reach of a brush of hand or nudge,
Close enough for a peck or flutterby kiss,
A waft of your sandlewood soap, earthing us.

Closeness at distance, by phone or image,
We journeyed over countless airwaves.
Advice, comfort, giggles, exasperated tears...
devices witness contemporary marriage,
households always on the move.

“You should be able to read my mind”
Your regular decree - as if I lived in the gaps
where tumors had been removed.
You inhabited my thinking and my doing.
You still do.

(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler

Évocation #5 Selfish Compassion

Snatches of reflection or memory dance past consciousness.
I notice from a distant observation, wondering at my own lack of concern.
I watch the terrors of the night played out
as heatless flames and odorless smoke image themselves into my lounge-room.
The horror is real and my prayers are earnest,
yet I carry a guilt at my lack of emotion even
as I bear witness to the grief and anxiety of others.
The Voice speaks, telling me of compassion fatigue.
Asking how this could be,
I note the self-awareness of a grieving widow.

Selfish compassion?
Perhaps a new technical term?
I wonder where it is most useful to volunteer.
Then I remember how little use I can be - for a while at least.

I try to remember how to be whole,
searching for ingredients...
Like making a cake with no eggs, nor butter, nor sugar, nor flour...
People say it can be done,
but is it still cake
or do we find ourselves consuming
or consumed by
some different entity masquerading as wholeness?
Pavlova turned to Eton Mess?
Wholeness become Hole-ness?
Enterprising businesses sell donut holes,
a less substantial hint of what might have been -
less the guilty pleasure and more the consolation prize,
like the souvenir, a tangible reminder of an unrepeatable reality.
I look around, turning our bedroom into my own souvenir cave...
An act of selfish compassion.

I place my hand on my own heart, just as I placed it on his.
I listen for a heartbeat I will not hear.

In those last days, we listened for breaths that persisted beyond reason.
The gasps I hear now shock me out of slumber.
Where did that sob come from? How did it get in here?
Grief should not be revealing herself in new adornments!
We are such old and constant comrades.
We have been dating for a long time, pretty much going steady for half a decade.
It was such a long seduction, playful and full of guile and cunning.
She wooed and courted,
coming finally with a covenant of companionship - til death us do part.

I ready myself for the excursions of the day... work, worship, encounters...
As I open the cupboard,
fossicking past souvenirs,
I ponder how to dress for my new escort.
Does bright or dull serve the moment?
How will I introduce her to others?
She is not exactly socially adept.
I resent having to take her with me,
but she does not require me to push her chair.
She simply walks through the same doors
and pushes into spaces without invitation.
Her presence is welcomed by some and rebutted by others, which begs the question:
Are people welcoming or rejecting me or her?
She may seem distracted from time to time, but I have faith she will not desert me.
Selfish compassion places me in her care.

(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler

Évocation #4 Gratitude

Gifted a day for being blessed and blessing others,
Unsure and insecure, tentative, doubtful,
I shy away from curiosity, wishing to find solace
in any familiarity. No comfort there.

Nothing is in its right place.
Nothing invites approachability.
So, wary, I carefully lift my gaze to
the next task, the next drawer, the next person,
the next act of living in this new state.

A constant guiding voice talks me through each mundane activity:
drink more water, wash your hands, take time in the shower, waste less water, conserve energy,
open windows, close doors, seek fresh air, avoid smoke, limit air conditioning, filter,
eat greens, don’t skip meals, attend to health, chew mindfully,
make the effort to live as he insisted,
behave gratitude until you believe.
Trust friends, rely on memories,
talk incessantly, repeating stories, then repeat.
When you are done, repeat the process.

A colourful reminder arrives - “ten days”.
So long? So short? Feeling like forever or no time at all.
Didn’t time stop? 10 days? Really?
Count the days in photos.

A day in Rome, finding Jesus, muscular white marble, posing in a hidden nave.
A day of Limoncello, overlooking Pompeii from Capri.
A day in Armagh, Victoria, Margaret and Elizabeth, cooking BREAKFAST, as if a world war depended on it.
A day at the zoo, watching wondering eyes and climbing boys enliven creation.
A day of market discoveries, shared with friends and devoured in hospitality, glass in hand.
A day of puzzles, games and laughter, digger cakes and birthday candles.
A day of big fat trees of ancient heritage, moss and leaf litter’s pungent wafts.
A day of sandcastles, shells, cider and cheese, driving coastal winding routes.
A day of predawn queues, dark humour lists, maidens, wickets, Christmas cake.
A day of coloured clothes and painted signs, of drumming friends and rainbow hope.
A day of doors and brides and gentle loving, dancing, singing, joy bestowed.
A day of birth. A day of death. A day to hurry or not.

Too many photos for one day or ten.
Too many memories for one life or two.
Just as well there is a cloud of witnesses...
Something to be grateful for.


(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler

Évocation #3 leave me alone

Leave me alone

I reach for a memory
of matching steps, dancing shoes and guiding hands.
You led well.
The officer’s stance and football’s pride
blended in your waltz.
Christmas in Vienna suited you,
Despite your critique of temperature.
Your hand was purposeful,
the romance of your soft voice
drawing me forth.
You always made me look good,
on dance floor and on life’s stage.
Leave me alone.

Crowds of beautiful people,
passing through our doors...
Their quality is evident,
not in clothes or external things...
Their hearts exude a depth
of life and love and deep compassion.
I felt it and feel it still,
yet my heart cannot hold it.
You see, it’s leaking and I’m making a mess
and there are simply not enough handkerchiefs.
I want to do what came so naturally for us,
but it doesn’t work when your not here, so
Leave me alone.

O sky and sun, your daily invitation
to wake at dawn and snuggle close
until the inevitable desire for release...
the cuppa, cuddle, news and prayers,
the rituals of sharing - reclaiming bedclothes,
stolen between snores, kicked off
in confusions of thermostatic legs.
I accuse you Soleil! You cheating false host.
Your invitation is as nothing.
Colour yourself red with smoke and see if I care?
False prophet, promising much and stealing from children.
Do you offer any real promise to a day of burning and destruction?
Leave me alone.

The dross of day intrudes on selfish moments.
A call, a bill, an email.
It seems as if your credit card was cancelled,
so now your phone rings constantly,
beggars seeking the honouring of contracts.

I gently explain they were entered into by a dead man.
”It is not our policy, procedure, protocol... you will need to...”
Not really.
“Do you want to cancel the contract?”
It is already null - he’s dead - I’m just doing you the courtesy
 of preventing you from chasing ghosts.
(A part of my consciousness observed the voice might listen more carefully
if I start explaining in rhyming couplets.)
Leave me alone

Leave...
”We made a call... and it seems things changed recently...
You only get a week...”
(Whatever happened to Manse-makers?
Wisdom and Compassion walked once in twin sets.)
Oh. Ok. I’ll marry some trees and baptize some cars today.
The car wash bay at our units is closed for the sake of water restrictions.
Auto-baptism could be Missio-innovative?
Marrying trees could lead to groves.
I have work to do to save the planet...
Machines and flora seems safe today,
people might be at risk.
Leave me alone.

I go to work.
Perhaps it is better set up than home.
At least it has a plentiful supply of tissues.


(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler

Évocation #2 Smoke

Smoke gets in my eyes and names them irritable.
With all the sneezing and coughing,
streaks on cheeks are no giveaway
If you were to ask me how I knew
you and I would be one
my story tells of a boy who died
hopeless and tired, shuddering his last in your arms.
if ‘twere not for him, we might not have lunched that day
with a French emu vet and an old school friend.
‘How long has this been going on?’ she asked,
curious at our association.
‘How long has what been going on?’ I respond,
exposing my thickness and Social ineptitude.
‘We are just work colleagues.’
with which I dismiss my friend’s wisdom and insight.
The knowing and superior smile responds, ‘Oh yeah, sure!’
I wonder what on earth she means.
Her words echo in the empty chamber where my brains used to be,
So next evening, over noodles, I recount the exchange.
I wait.
He looks at me and smiles with those ridiculously blue eyes,
‘Oh, about four months for you and I.’
‘Four months?’ the stammer escapes
and he takes the opportunity to lay claim to the last basil curry puff.
Always a bit sneaky and calculating,
probably devouring all the salt and pepper squid
while I languish in confusion.
Eventually, I respond with a well thought out, ‘ok’.
And so the sparks caught hold
stoking an unquenchable furnace.
Back-burning simply gets out of control.
The flames consume all life
and ashes blow on zephyrs and whims.
Violent storms of hell purge and terrify around us.
What will be left - too soon to say.
Will every day be smoke-filled now?
Dante, eat your heart out!


(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler

Evocation: A blue Christmas #1

Cutting two pieces of Christmas cake
- it seems wrong to cut just one, a bit like cheating,
but then having to eat both and choking on the crumbs,
or was it the sob that caught my throat?

Deciding to hang a decoration on a door
To signify the seasons of Diwali and Hanukkah
might now give way to Christmas.
Adding black ribbon for the neighbours.

Of course, the local lights do not discriminate.
They flicker for all with windows reflecting smoke and mirroring vermillion sunsets.
The fog might be smoke or it might be grief, for who can tell?
Can you find your way? Are we lost...
Heaven and hell, both near and far.

Death has kissed us tenderly, mercifully,
while life continues relentlessly.

Play a game with grandchildren,
Caress a photo,
offer your handkerchief to a colleague
because you resent the industry of tissues and disposable boxes.
Watch the flowers disintegrate and count the passage of time,
Somehow less urgent... the measurement has changed.

Learn how to work the remote control.
Consolidate two sets of coffee cards.
Ditch any dresses with a zipper in the back.
Write to-do lists and talk to yourself.

Wear his shirt, not sure why.
Observe your own clumsiness and confusion.
Try to capture it, as if by offering some analysis,
there might be some charitable exit,
Discovering instead the sentence of health and purpose.
Concentration required to coax the remaining flowers into order,
Distracted by the noisy silent screams.

Listening to your own voice sounding unreasonably impatient or ridiculously calm.
Adjusting quantities and timings for cooking. Remembering, too late, the pot boiled dry.
Realizing he really did steal the bedclothes.




(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler

A New Parramatta Acknowledgement of Country

A Parramatta Acknowledgement of Country

For over 60,000 years, the area comprising present day Parramatta has been occupied by the Burramattagal people, a clan of the Darug, who first settled along the upper reaches of the Parramatta River. Burramattagal is thought to be derived from the Aboriginal word for 'place where the eels lie down' to breed (within the Parramatta River).

The Burramattagal have a close connection with the river, from which they caught fish, eels, and other food. Their stable, bark canoes often held a central small fire, built on a mound of soil, to cook up their fresh catch. 'Fire-stick farming', employed to burn vegetation to facilitate hunting and to change the composition of plant and animal species in the area, was also practiced by the Burramattagal people.

This acknowledgement is written for use in the Parramatta area.

We are a short walk away from a great river.
It is a river that holds the stories of our heritage.
At this river, where the eels lie down to spawn,
we are thankful for the gift of life.
We remember the Darug people
who have nurtured life in this place
from beyond our records of time.

Under the shared sky, where the Seven Sisters and the Southern Cross shine down upon us,
no matter where we have come from,
we pay our respects also to the many other indigenous peoples
whose stories are entwined with this region.

As Second Peoples and descendants of Second Peoples,
we express our sorrow at the ongoing pain experienced by First Peoples
and pray that we might play our part in peacemaking and reconciling.
Time and time again, our local Elders remind us that to walk on this land,
we must tread responsibly and carefully.

We pray especially for the leadership of elders and law-keepers,
and voice our respect to all First People in this Land.
We commit ourselves to standing with those of this Land’s kin and skin.
We commit to behave as those who joint with you
in the responsibility of caring and listening
to the signs of the sacred in this land.


(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler