My Mitochondria-a swim in the gene pool. Image by Lea Cameron

The “ Mrs” Clause.

The poor Southern Hemisphere Santa.
All sweaty and clammy under that
polyester beard
And suit.
Of course, ‘they’, (the Santa agency?) dry-clean those items,
As much as that would remove the smell of anxiety and
four quick bourbons at lunch.

But what of the fur topped boot?
They must reek and I can imagine
The newly recruited, junky eyed Santa,
Slipping his foot into a foul-smelling,
Pair of plastic Ugg boots- squish, squish
And thinking – Jesus Christ, has it come to this?

Santas now come with a ‘Mrs Clause’.
It’s a politically correct thing, presumably,
she’s there to keep him in line.
She can beckon the children and
even tempt them with sweeties –
The quick look that O.K.’s this
with the attending parent has become
an art form.
We can’t trust a Santa by himself, anymore,
Could we ever?
A man, alone, is under suspicion.
This facilitates more men being alone
A facility to nothing? No,
Women are the police of the world –
Always have been.

**

Amour    

Watch how you jump from the tynes,
festering Mafioso.
Heavy with two million eggs
All of you line up
To bleed us dry.

Tiny amour scatters through the forest
On the back – along the ridge.
Or a prison? No friends or loved ones,
Only inmates and half-brothers,
A slut mother and father, faceless.

A spittle sea and an ear cavern.
Some tried to settle where the
dog leg meets the shoulder – a road less traveled.
But still, your family was hunted down.

It seemed it was everyone for himself,
Or was your Ma standing on the rise, screaming,
‘Run! My babies, RUN!!’

**

The Sexton’s Triplet

The Sexton’s triplet.
Balloon headed but not as colourful.
Oh, egg white – once started can’t be stopped,
It will say when.

Patulous until
Iron walled will
Wills the alchemy,

Eyes looking up from the plate
Wait! It is blind and does not cry
But separates –
The this from that
Its’ me from them.
Never to be one again.

**

The Wrong Directions

I drew a heart from the pack
There’s only one in there
Three swords plunged through it
I didn’t do it

Wheels in motion through muddied puddles and I am
Cursed like all life’s daughters
Swimming through that ocean
I can’t
Hold my breath?

For much longer than we know, no
Let it go, just
To see it come around again
Be brave my friend

Were you up to it?
You never said just looked away
and smiled
Inscrutable unembracable you
Please take my energy
It will open your heart
Stop you
Staring into the middle distance
Love never comes from that direction
 It’s always too close

For comfort, perhaps
It may help you
Draw a better heart
One you will recognise
Next time, although
We are special
We are not unique
Freak!

**

We Fight.

We fight like blooded warriors –
there’s very little fear.
Going in swinging – seething
And arc it up from the beginning.
“Stop using that stupid expression” you say.

We spill each other’s guts
with all the most dramatic recriminations first,
I make rude Italian hand gestures at you
And you yell over the top of me in your
educated entitlement.
And mine is a conviction
that I’m so much
smarter than you,
when it comes to these matters.

Calmer now and expressed,
you go off to hang out the washing
while I, righteously gather our thoughts.
I steer us back to the point – pointedly.
No, it wasn’t the broccoli or the filthy bathroom,
It’s a battle that’s long been smouldering,
The Me-and-You versus Us, 15-year- War.

What more do you want?
You never ask because –
Laughter, music, hugs, kisses,
love and compliments – everyday.
Space? Got that. Sky? Got that, too.

We talk now, gentle with each other because
We are both wounded and flooded with adrenaline.
I want to see it all before it happens –
A vision from the War – Mother.
Resigned and comforted, we know
We are bound together – brother and sister in arms
You and me against the World, babe,
“Don’t call me babe.” you say,
“It makes me feel like a pig.”
And then we cook dinner.

 ——————————–

Lea Cameron grew up in and around Sydney and it’s suburbs at a time when car was king and it was possible that a city may need to ration it’s petrol, and she knew all the lyrics to Dianna Ross’s version of Love Child, by the time she was four years old. At five she was asking her eighteen year old sister what could Cat Stevens mean by singing ‘… but the soul of nobody knows how a flower grows, how does a flower grow? Lea was fairly sure that someone knew about flowers and seeds. Their grandparents grew orchids, they knew, and Lea got the feeling it was a serious business. It wouldn’t be left to chance. In this way Lea listened to lyrics. They weren’t difficult to memorize although sometimes it was impossible to make sense of how the words sounded across cultural and worldly experience sometimes even the adults had no idea.

Lea’s natural ear for rhythm and the scan of the lyrics made it an obvious progression to write her own lyrics which she has done for her own amusement and eventually, for the songs written with her bandmates. After a bit more than a year singing covers in a working band Lea formed and joined bands in the Indie Music scene in Sydney from the late 1980s and through the 1990s. Lea is a recorded and published song writer and a Writer in Full with APRA. She has always written prose and short stories alongside songs but she really fell into the arms of short form expression around the time she and her small family moved from Sydney to the Northern Rivers of NSW.

Lea with her husband Nick and their son Carlo eventually found themselves settled in Lismore, a small town with many facilities, forty minutes inland from the coastal Ballina, Lennox Head and Byron Bay. They have lived there going on almost twenty years, their son having left home a few years back for the rights of passage, inner city living and study. Lea spends her creative time between drawing, painting, and writing. Her habits around writing mean it is more likely to be there, fully formed, in situations of high emotion and when used in that way, in those circumstances, it is highly organic and cathartic.