My Greatest Fear

My greatest fear
is not failure
pain
or even death.

My greatest fear
is another
failing to think
and doing
what they think
I bid. 

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2012 I undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

The New Keeper (short story)

Freshwater eels are born in the salt water of the ocean, after a journey of months, a journey of which almost nothing is known for many species. 

She could see a swirl of movement, of dust and swept leaves ... obviously a gust of wind - but it was a windless day, and she was under a dense canopy of trees which was not moving. She knew of willy-willys, the small dust devils or tornadoes of the open, flat, hot outback - her car had once been partially lifted and dragged from one side of the road to the other by one - but not this swirl of wind in uneven space dense with trucks and boulders to prevent movement and shaded from the driving power of the Sun.

Cautiously, she moved towards the area.

Nothing. Just leaves, twigs, debris - typical forest floor litter, although something nagged at her.

She straightened, saw a couple of other areas of movement, and then covered her face as the movement started where she was.

What was going on?!

She listened as the swirl moved away, and noticed that all three swirls were moving in straight lines, lines that would converge at a sandbank in the river.

This is not possible. 

Insulated from her fear by her scepticism, she remembered a path that would take her to a vantage spot above that sandbank where the paths would converge. She turned sideways, and bolted along well known paths until, a minute or so later, she could gently move a branch, and see -

... a mound of leaves, brown, writhing, moving as a single swirling mass that looked like a car sized beetle. The mound positioned itself on the river, and then a stony - literally made of stone, the sceptical part of her mind noted to itself - pair of arms appeared over the side of the stationary mound of wriggling leaves and rested on them, clasping hands, as if leaning on a shelf, followed by a head which tapered into broad shoulders at the top of the arms.

The hands unclasped, and one patted the mound, as if patting a faithful dog on the head, and then she heard a voice - well, she called it a voice, but it was really the grinding sound of rocks dragging over each other, and yet ... and yet, she could hear the words in it.

"Now, kids, you've done very well, and I'm proud of you. We've lost of couple of you, but I think they'll be with us soon, so, stay together for this next bit."

And then the head tilted towards her. It had eyes! She could see what looked like eyes, maybe they were really just shapes gouged or worn in the rock, but they were sure like eyes.

And then one of the eye shapes CHANGED IT'S SHAPE, for all the world looking as if it had winked at her, and there was a swirl of wind on the sandbank just ten metres away, across a shallow channel with a uneven, rocky bottom that she knew she could safely walk across, forcing her to close her eyes, and when she opened them, the sandbank was free of the car's worth of leaves, and it's stony sentinel - not even a footprint or mark left behind.

And then she realised what had nagged at her mind, back in the forest of eucalyptus: the floor litter she had been looking at was from a deciduous forest. She gave up to the fear and shock then, her body sagging sideways against a convenient rock as her mind fled screaming to hide in inner haunts and sob like a scared child until it could regain its courage and subside the screams into little hiccoughs of doubt.

She stayed like that a while, until she had recovered enough to start trying to rationalise, and then she saw the leaf. It was an oak leaf, on a branch an arm's length away, stuck on a branch, one corner moving back and forth for all the world like someone trying to wave in a friendly, reassuring fashion - a stranger saying "See? I know your ways - I am not a threat." This time, her body also fled, until she out of the forest, and she could hide in the long grass in a cleared area nearer to town.

She stayed there for an hour, as the sun passed its zenith, and the day heated. She'd often hidden, as a child, in similar grass, hidden from the horrors of life in an orphanage. She'd tried to do the same one day she had become separated from the other kids on a school excursion ... but she'd only done that after she had tried, politely, to get the attention of some adults to help her. She'd even tried to wave to some of them. It was then she saw the leaf ...

An oak leaf, brown, the way they are when they fall in autumn - not the way they are at the end of summer. She looked at it, and made a decision. She could remember where the other leaf was, and carefully picked this one up. It quivered a little, like a kitten settling in to a comfortable hand, and she quivered in return, but not like a kitten, and turned back to the forest, the mysterious forest where she had been drawn for so many years, and felt, in her innermost mind, that place her consciousness had fled to, a grinding of rocks that, for all the world, sounded like "thank you". 



Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

[Content Warning] Undone

Trapped.
Doomed.
Shut in, and off.
My goals undone,
my life a waste,
decisions and desires
of mine
o'erlooked
or undone.
I could give
so much
- much more
but I am out
of step
and time.

At work
they want
the big pic
the profitable win
and no-one
- not client,
nor peers,
cares to fix
the basic wrongs 
- they must think
all grunts the same,
all graduates
good enough,
and experience
counts for naught,
and all are the same,
and I cannot
even
flee.

A prophet,
'tis said,
is not listened to,
in her life,
so I must be
a prophet
- either that,
or mad.

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

[Content Warning] A Mourning of Friends

They're all gone now,
a change of scene,
a new partner,
and I am alone
- no bulwarks left,
no support

against the
crises of life,
and that which
is coming.


Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

[Content Warning] The Banes of Easy Street

Money
- bane of the living;
Naiveté
- bane of leaders
everywhere;
Stupidity
- bane of workers;
Economics
- bane of society;
Rhyme
- bane of amateur poets. 

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

[Content Warning] Sleepless in spring

 The cats are hovering
- anxious, nurturing.
showing me their ...
well, if not love,
devotion.
The dog's tail
thumps the floor
in noisy pleasure
- another happy
to see me,
as would be,
no doubt, my love
- were she awake,
as I am
this muggy four
in the morning.
Tossing in bed
worked not
- nor did getting up
and reading.
Mayhap this poem
will lay to rest
the pounding dread
the ceaseless worry
that kills all joy
and life of heart. 

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

The Grip (short story)

"It's new", she said, as if that explained everything.

"But it's exactly the same!", he replied, bewildered.

Bewildered was a good explanation of how he felt almost all of the time, of late, in this strange new world he had found himself in one morning. He'd gone to sleep in his apartment in London, and woke with a thump, several bruises and a headache falling to her kitchen floor. She'd been about to drink some coffee with a friend, and the minor burns from their spilled cups hadn't helped. Still, she'd adapted remarkably well, and now, a few weeks later, he was about to go to work for the first time.

"It's the same as the other portfolio", he continued.

"Oh rubbish - it's nothing like the other!"

"But ... how can it be different? They're the same size, the same ... function. Same .. everything."

She looked at him pityingly. He was like a child. Well, she better explain it to him, then.

"I see. Well, it's the corners. Look, the portfolio has rounded corners - so last season, but the grip has square corners. It's totally different, totally new, and ex-ci-ting!" she almost sang.

"You had to come up with a different name for that ... that small of a difference?"

She bristled. "Well, of course, says the man who says there's more than one type of fork."

He shook his head. "Well, where I come from, there are."

She stopped him. "Don't. I've heard it all before."

She glanced at the floor, and, curious, asked "What's this creation you've been working on all night? And what's it for?"

He grinned, and replied "I'll show you."

With that, he put one arm through a strap, hefted it to his back, and fiddle until his other arm went through the strap, watching her eyes get bigger as he did so.

"It's called a backpack."

"Huh - terrible name. But ... why do you want to wear that?"

He sighed. "I'll put my lunch, and notes and anything else I want for work in it. The weight goes across the shoulders, and it's easy to carry, leaves your hands free, and can't be snatched easily by thieves."

Her eyes opened wider as the concept got through. "Ohhh ..."

She frowned. "It's different - really different, I'll grant you that, but ... do many people in your world have them?"

"Yes, they're quite popular in some areas. The load is even across both shoulders, unlike"-he put up a hand to forestall her-"the multiple, individually named variations of satchels that you have."

She sniffed. "Hm. Ah well, I doubt something like that would catch on here. It's too ... different."

"But", he replied, bewildered again "it's so functional."

She smiled, "Well, so you claim, but we've got a long history of developing things like that, and I think if we had needed it, or it would be that much use to us, our people would have come up with the idea by now."

He thought they'd been so focused on small variations that they'd missed the bigger picture, but kept his peace as they went their different ways to work.

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

Near Melville Caves (photos)

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

Collision (short story)

Two of them lived opposite each other, though they knew it not.

Nadine was a young mother in her mid 20s - three children, the older twins - both girls, and her boy, young Zeb, three years old and struggling with an infection, the first of his young life. He didn't know what pain was, and had been crying, and whimpering, and asking his Mummy to take it away, but all she could do was ease the discomfort, use the medicines the doctor had prescribed, and be there for him.

Of course, that was the rub: the being there for him. Her husband had tried to comfort Zeb, but Zeb had wanted Mum. So, good trooper that she was, she had been up most of the night, trying to doze when she could, and hoping Zeb would settle into a deeper sleep, so she could go and get a few hours decent rest before going in to the office. She had taken a couple of days off already, and her co-workers were sympathetic, but they were stretched without her - they all were, since their line of business had become so cut throat ("competitive", had said the new boss), and they had two deadlines approaching. They needed her job as well to cover the mortgage since interest rates had gone up, wanting to stay close to her husband's aged parents rather than living further out, where housing prices were lower.

But, anyway, Zeb was stretched out in a carelessly angelic pose, and she smiled - at the wonder, and at being able to sleep, equally,

And then she cursed - quietly. Some idiot on a motor bike was revving the thing, and Zeb was stirring and whimpering.Miserable, worried, exhausted, she bent to her young son.

Across the road, Angeline didn't curse the bike rider - she envied him. She'd had plenty of sleep - her charge, her elderly father, had gone to bed early. She was younger than Nadine, in her early 20s, but her father had chosen to have children somewhat late in life, and then ill health had set in earlier than usual. His wife, her mother, had passed in a car accident, and it had taken Dad's will to live. He was careless of himself, and it had come to her, the youngest daughter, the one without a family of her own 'yet', to put her life on hold, and move in to make sure he ate properly, did not become unkempt, and had some company in the evenings, when the long hours sapped even more of his vitality. She'd cut her Uni course back to part-time, but she'd lost interest in it anyway. When her father did pass, she would put her course on hold if she could, leave if she couldn't, and travel - anywhere, any way would do.

To Angeline the bike's weird rattle as it hit the rev limiter spoke of freedom, the capacity to move on and travel and, above all else, be free. She also stayed awake after the bike woke her, daydreaming of escape - and of getting up the noses of her older, supercilious siblings.

For his part, Don didn't know either the problems he had caused, nor the noise he had created when he missed the gear. Not quite profoundly deaf, he was exhausted. A close friend from the deaf community had been suicidal, and he had spent the night with her, being there, calm, supportive, until eventually she was out of danger. Then he had permitted himself to worry, as he rode home, about what he would say to his bosses the next day. Though he didn't need the job for the money, the pleasure of it was what got him through each day.

And so the three of them, lives colliding in a brief moment of noise, sailed with the planet beneath them into a new day.


Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

The Regret of Regrets

The times
I've allowed
other people
to "get away
with it"
- for peace or quiet
in family or
work or social,
are the times
I shall regret
most
for evermore ... 


Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

[Content Warning] Fear

Goddess be thanked
I'm passed those days
those desperate days
of trying to prove I'm
the same as society decrees.
They're not.
They're trying to prove
they're real men
- seem real stupid
and real obnoxious
to older me;
or
they're trying to prove
they're real women
- soft, stereotypical
loving and wanting kids
needing to have
the first base
of being
hooked up
- or hitched.

The years of soul searching
are yet to come;
the years of regret
for follies past
with prices then present,
yet to haunt.
And all for fear
of being different,
of maybe being
a loner - single, e'en;
or
child-free,
unambitious.
All for naught
naught but
the parlous price
that too too many
have to pay.

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2012 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication). I undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

Unwanted ... "Guest"

It's no fault of your own
that you're here
- no fault of yours
that those who should have cared
were too self centered
to do so.
No fault of yours
they did not walk you,
brush your coat,
or give you affection.
You've blossomed now
- happy, tail wagging,
exuberant
- if ill-disciplined
no, sit does not mean
lay down,
and lay down does not mean
go to your bed,
sigh
- loving but
at times a lump,
and
at other times
the bane of my life
when you do not let me
sleep through the night
undisturbed.

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

[Content Warning] The Circle of Life - City Style

Commute and work
Commute and work 
Commute and work
Commute and work
Commute and work
Housework
Gardening
Repeat
until  death
- that's the Circle of Life
... City Style.

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

Melville Caves (photos)

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

The Fork

I've been here
before
- how can that be?
I've travelled direct and true,
and yet
here I am,
facing this same
second path.

We were
not meant to be,
not back then,
and no,
I think not now.
But
if I say no
will you
pine
or
dare I say
even perish
- of heart or soul,
not body?

Can I ease your pain?
Gods and goddesses!
How can I presume
when her pain's
hers, not mine.
I suppose
it eases mine
if I care
of her and hers.

What brings us both
jointly,
to this
juncture,
her again?
Needs must I
be harder
more self aware
cognisant, or
caring?

It's not suppose
to be so;
our paths crossed,
we felt our need,
the circumstances
declined the chance.

There was
another way,
a choice less taken,
a way of sharing,
but that,
you said,
was not for you.

I've been here before;
a fork in the road,
a second chance
of a second way,
twice bid now,
and yet again
I must decline
... mayhap twill be
thrice makes
the charm ...


For "Cinzia" - may she find her love. 

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2012 (where this date is different to the year of publishing, it is because I did this some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

[Content Warning] The Death and Rebirth of Hope

Since Bonaparte's day
warnings have been
beware the ambitions
of small men.
And yet, neither
size nor sex
has been
an indicator
of good or bad
in my life
- only ambition
unbalanced
by love of
humanity.
I've watched,
and survived, 
as ignorant
ambitious
love-unleavened
fools
have set their sway
'pon events,
and people
and companies
-seeking their name in lights
for toughness
or profit,
seemingly
blind
to despair
and pain
and stress
- politics and war
where they should not be
in the world of
commerce
and business.
But all things turn
and comes a time
when even the
nastiest despot
grows weary
and seeks release
and ease
- fortunate the few
who recover their humanity
and find others' forgiveness
that leads to such.
Even circumstances
change with time
and now ...
now the scents of change
are coming
as maybe
this last sacking
these last knife twists
bring the despots
undone.

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

The Journey

The clouds are low as I leave
 - the planes disappear,
tubular smudges of greyed white
and slashes of dimmed colour
rumbling into grey
moments after leaving
the ground,
- as do we.
For most, ominous;
for me, a joy,
as is
the setting of 
later motel
'side grey turbid river,
passage of former travellers
now of pleasure makers, 
lined with verdant green,
under grey skies,
all living in a cold, crisp air
sharpened by tangs
of smoke
from occassional fires
- fires safe and snug
in hearths,
with people,
safe and snug about them,
as, I hope,
is the distant traveller
with whom
my thoughts and heart
reside.
May her journey be
I hope
as pleasant to her
as mine to me
- particularly
the next day,
as I wind through
tough little hills,
mounds of vivid green
giving rare glimpses
of white streaked, grey sea
all under
grey sky
and still surrounded
by crisp
refreshing
cold.
A winter's
tale,
- a story
I love,
a journey and journeyer,
I love.

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

[Content Warning] 4 A.M.

It's 4AM,
and I'm awake
- again.
Puzzling
pondering
the unseen
lightless pit
- an astronomer's
Black Hole
on Earth, as 'twere -
that my life
has become. 

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

A White-Knuckled Nonsense

I travelled two thousand k
at eight hundred an hour
- a fair ol' lick,
I thought,
but then ...
then I got in to
The Taxi ... 

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

[Content Warning] The buoy

As I struggle in the water,
the buoy,
the life-saving goal,
bobs away,
just out of reach
of questing, tiring fingers,
and then i awake,
and
as I struggle in the water,
the buoy,
the life-saving goal,
bobs away,
just out of reach
of questing, tiring fingers.
 
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

Hope?

What is this I sense,
quivering,
a bud shyly
shaking out 
through the snow ...

Is this
a crack,
a relief,
an temporary easing
in unrelenting
pressure?

Could this be
what they call ...
hope? 

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

and, by the way, it wasn't :)

[Content Warning] To sleep

To sleep
 - perchance to dream ...
gods!
sounds good to me. 

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

After the rain ...

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I undertake these writings and take these photographs – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)

In country Victoria - Part 1

Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)