womb wise


The womb ;

container of life

and all the mysteries

receives communication direct from the source.

The womb is the dreamer

the basket that sustains life.

it is sustainability

it is permaculture .



The womb is sterile and empty

full and complete.

The womb knows all that was

and all that can be.

the womb  communicates deep knowing.



The womb does not analyse or dissect,

disseminate prevaricate or arbitrate.


in a world of rationality and logic

a world of the dogma of academia and titles

the womb has been given no place.

it is not considered, honoured or heard,

it is relegated to a functional part of the female anatomy

and one that we can certainly do without they say.


the womb is solely for procreation

its menses controlled , its ova owned

and is removed when it reaches its use by date.

it is associated with irrationality, hysteria ,madness and disease

a problem identified by the monthly flow

a place of inept engineering

and the incubator in the laboratory is taking over.


and yet,

this place of power, this source of creation

cannot be lived without,

cannot be exchanged

and will not be silent.


The womb will be heard,

hears all

and grows weary of the endless march through boy’s town.

Some female carriers march the corridors of waste and stupidity

in an attempt to communicate and change the world.

Study hard at the boys institutions

get a title after your name they were told

learn the male language of analysis logic and no heart

then and only then  you may sit in the offices of corruption

and talk the talk while your heels do the walk.


The womb is over this play

and slicing  thru the fog of slavery

it  reclaims the wombmindheartspirit.

It calls  time to sing and dance the tapestry of knowing

emanating enfolding and embracing all.

this can be felt but cannot be languaged.


Some of the  boys grow up and become men

take off their strait jacket strangled tie of compliance

their shoes and socks

and leave the corridors of hypocrisy.

They return unto themselves

locate their children the mother the tribe the planet the cosmos

and give thanks,

for  finally they hear the song of creation

that is quietly but sturdily sung thru out all of life.


The womb wise song weaves a web of deep love and connection

dancing the feminine and masculine

as two divine complementary energies

sharing their wisdom

to uphold the sanctity of life on earth

for the benefit of all beings.

But I will keep voting for the rivers


It is election time on this fair land and the campaign trail marches into our kitchen before the sun.

Only a month to the winter solstice and the sun is taking its sweet time to rise above the tree line and bring its light into the kitchen.

And when it finally does turn up we know our time with it is very short.

Hence me taking full advantage this morning on the east verandah basking in the warmth listening to the chorus of aahhs rising and falling from a mob of ravens.

Autumn does as it likes to do introduces cold winds and shorter days while still flirting with summer.

The day before yesterday I swam in the ocean at Bermi -deliciously warm deliciously salty and marveled that in mid may the sea could be so warm.

But like the recent debate between our potential leaders let us ignore any talk about the climate.


The politicians vie with each other in untruths making promises and avoiding anything resembling common sense and humanity.

Of course acting like the toady nation we appear to resemble we also hear way too much about the campaign trail in the US where trump stirs the cauldron of hatred and divisiveness.

Beside me the eastern spinebill and the lewins honeyeaters plunge into the tank washing themselves -flying back up to a branch flicking and fluffing up their feathers  and singing in the sunlight.

scrub wrens and superb blue wrens hop about my feet and alight on the table picking up crumbs.

Well I am in excellent company because they do not vote either.

It is true , I do not vote. I cannot defend this position and nor do I need another lecture. what I will do is offer you a story instead that led me to this point many years ago.
Once upon a time there was a great Being that sacrificed all for the beings that She held in her lap. Over and beyond forever and a day She gave and gave and gave. During a particularly violent and destructive never ending season it became clear that everything was in a spot of bother and still She kept on giving.

Water and Air were running out, Elephant and Polar Bear were suffering and already many many beings had left.

Only glimpses remained.

Meetings were held and discussions were had by humans that believed they were top of the chain having supreme rights to everything. They had systems in place and the power to fix anything or so they thought.

If you vote for me I will make it better.

no me… no me… no me… no ME….

but really they all acted the same , serving their own interests and filling their pockets with things they could not eat.

The forests declined, the creatures declined.

The quality of life for all declined and so it was that we arrived at the man made 21st century and all was not as well as it could be.


What if we abandoned this system of trumpism and nominations and blather about democracy and bad guys and weapons and poisons and bad guys and money and jobs and progress and bad guys and what IF..,

Well generally I am not much of a fan of the  ‘what if ‘ story so I entered upon my own solution which is hardly original but gave me somewhere to begin – a focus that  along the way has brought me closer and closer to nature…

run for the hills and live in a beautiful place surrounded by the gentle creatures of the forest

pay attention to their songs.

pay attention to the passing of clouds and the angles of the sun upon the solar panels and is there enough power to turn on the computer?

pay attention to the rain and is there enough water for a bath?

pay attention to the trees that bend and sway and hold the nests so very very far above the ground.

build a toilet out of doors and allow the human waste to compost until one  day you open the hatch at the back and dig out humus and sprinkle it around the garden.

It has been a journey and it continues on …

but what else can I do

what else can I Be  that serves this great Being that gives all and asks for so little in return?

I can sing to her I can dance for her I can cry for her.

I can nourish her hopes and respect her fears.

She is me after all.

In all honesty when I came right into the nitty gritty of earth and star and scrub wren I couldn’t I won’t I cannot …vote for a politician – a self serving dishonourable totally out of touch with heart and spirit and loving kindness.  more importantly I refuse to vote for a self serving dishonourable totally out of touch with heart and spirit system.


I will keep voting for the River and her wild leap over rocks and waves that lap on sandy shores.

I will vote for wombat that it might amble thru the dark of night stopping and pondering as it does.

I will vote for the wild creative joyous spirit of humanity to rise up and crack open the hearts of all politicians of all peoples.

And one day we might blink and look around and think wow there are no bad guys there are no walls we have to build

there are no missiles we have to fire

there are no mines we need to dig.

One day in this my utopian vision we might join with this great Being called Earth

and …….

I do not know the end to this story.

It is a story after all, but then that is the fabric of reality is it not?

we Dream and then it manifests.

So if I keep telling you and you keep telling me the stories

of the beauty and the mystery ,

the stories of feather and egg  and mist and frost and worm…

Who knows…

who knows what could possibly

BE .


P.S.       well I got that off my chest or where ever it was sitting some time ago  and moving on would like to mention that I am a bit of a  big fan of the greens as a group of people masquerading as a political party for their generally common decency and respect for the earth and all beings.






the innocent heart




there are those that rule that write the laws and administer them while others find themselves on a proscribed list.

asylum seekers are refugees fleeing persecution danger horror and terror. they come to our shores knocking asking pleading for assistance and find themselves banished to rot on other islands.

probably they were hanging out the washing one day and a rocket demolished their street so they picked up the kids and ran and ran and ran searching for a safe haven.


every day Kingston inquires into the world around him and so far this uncomfortable fact has not yet leached into his life.


Kingston sits in his car seat looking out the window watching the worlds appear in front of him.


there is plover nesting right beside the road again. why do they do that mummy he asks, will they be ok?

there is wallaby and kangaroo – the females heavy with pouch – a leg sticking out a head bending down to nibble. they stare at the car swivel their ears turn their head . sometimes they will with consummate grace bound away, other times they watch his small face pressed up against the glass. did you see that leap over the fence daddy? I wish I could do that.


there are the young bandit calves standing in the middle of the track holding the car up again – one with a white patch over its eye and one with clouds painted on its back.

the young recognize each other and they invite Kingston to a race and off they go – their legs kicking awkwardly up in the air, head bucking an bouncing , so gawky and having a ton of fun. Kingston laughs delightedly and waves them goodbye.


the wedge tail eagle slides into view drawing lazy circles in the sky – a pair of them gliding rising and falling.

in an instant the eagle spears to a paddock plucking a bunny up in mighty talons and sweeping it off its feet.

a gulp a heartfelt sigh for the bunny and awe for the majesty of the moment witnessed.


the child tries vainly to hold all things being equal and yet some must eat others – it is the nature of it and difficult to grasp in the innocent heart.


and there is fox -a golden red creature that races fleet footed like the wind across the countryside. three young kit foxes disturbed early one morning near a dam running for cover and in the weeks and months ahead gradually identities emerged and fearless was so named.

there he is dad there is fearless – tail flared out in the wind stopping and turning, alert eyes seeing past the window into the heart of a small boy.

the fox – interloper scavenger vermin killer of lambs and chickens is hunted baited trapped and flung aside by the great human army.


kingston doesn’t know any of this protected by his innocence and capacity to love all beings equally.



we humans have a righteousness which in turn creates the ‘other’. By proclaiming something other we in turn fear it and vilify it.

introduced species are front runners for proscription – once on the list they have to go and in liberal amounts poison is laid the gun is loaded the trap is set.


in the late light of day there is bunny bobtail racing across the grasses and tussocks, whiskers twitching, scampering across the road in front of the car,bobbing down a burrow running for its very life – hunted and persecuted by trap bait gun and virus it clings on to existence alongside us.


the thing about creating ‘other ‘ is how much more powerful it becomes, how much it is demonised and how much truth is bent out of shape.


the fox the rabbit the blackberry the willow did not seek to come to this land. they did not choose to be placed on the proscribed list. they were brought over in the pockets of the colonial barons who wished to make this land into what they had left behind.


there was no recognition of the indigenous way of living here- no acknowledgement of their agricultural practices, their villages their methods of conservation , food preparation medicines or cultural knowledge. no notice taken of the songs the dances the ceremonies- no notice at all of the effort they employed to maintain vitality of land river and tribe. they became ‘other’ and were systemically disempowered by the gun the church and the law. into the background of the white colonial fantasy they disappeared .


coming into the valley there are camels- the knobbly kneed beasts carrying their water supply come from a land of desert winds and sand dunes of hot sun and clear broad skies .their thick rubbery lips chewing – spittle flying and Kingston laughs to see this creature step out of the pages of ali baba and the 40 thieves .


sometimes on a late night and a little boy does not have many of them a wombat is sighted right at the time when the owl and tawny frogmouth are swooping silently thru the forest selecting their dinner. wombat is standing still pondering dreaming having a scratch a nibble of grass ambling about its busy ness.


back home spring has brought the skinks out to play and kingston breaks off a bit of biscuit and offers it to them -they have had a long sleep and are hungry he tells us.


Kingston lives in a world with so many Beings jostling for survival at a time when our very existence on the planet is looking decidedly shaky.


perhaps instead of our assumed colonial superiority we could learn humility.

perhaps we could advertise tolerance and sharing as a means of accommodating the biodiversity still tenuously hanging on.

perhaps we could look around and feel the beauty in all things.

And then we might ask – who are we without the eagle without the fox without the platypus?

who are we without love without family without community?

and what do we become when we persecute other?