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