Introduction

Included below is a selection of poems written over many years. I have also added  some stand alone stories as separate pages.
I'd like to share them with you. 
I don't know what you will gain from them, but I'd like to think they affected you emotionally! 
Hopefully they gave you a sense of joy and hope.
I have written and taught "the Habit of Happiness" course, 
because sometimes we need guidance.
Contact me for further information.
You can write to me at sampsms at ozemail dot com dot au 
You can ring me on 61 2 42 2 8 5 7 7 4
No spam or ads please.
Kind regards, Megan

Summer (In Australia)

Summer, That fiery hothead,
wearing her halo of Humidity..
brandishes us with threats,
that she will leave us, (Oh , but NO.)
She revisits and scorches, long past the end of summer,

She comes to spit, heat and fire, even into autumn.
Scorching skin with fiery dragon breath.
till we dry up, like cicarda's,
Paper like, exposed to the coming winds,
cracking up, disintegrating,
into a thousand jigsaw pieces.

Begging for mercy, at Summers feet.
Summer and her sister, Devil Drought,
mercilessly extract every vestige of moisture,
cracking soul, into a thousand tessellated tiles,
hard as rock, unyielding, uncompromising.

Sandblasting the life-blood from all in their path,
burning and scorching.
Exposing lost towns beneath dead dams,
where chimneys stand defiantly, still pointing,
still worshiping,
the deity in the sky.

A farmer's creek drying and almost dying,
let Summer and her sister, Devil Drought,
Unwittingly, ACCIDENTALLY,
give us lost dinosaur bones,
beneath breaking, baking mud.

Summer's curt cousin was the resplendent RY...
who would effect his entrance, thundering across the sky.
Ry would light the spark to magically ignite,
he'd smoke the grasslands, turn day into night.

He'd light the flames of ribbon dancers with white light.
He'd create a corroboree, ever growing, light entrancing,
a firestorm of might.

Summer and her sister drought, squealed in delight,
at the firestorm dancers, and the cyclonic sight.

Until resplendent, Revengeful RY,
maelstrommed his mastery of the sky,
and established himself upon his throne as king.

To restore order, he commanded,
with a booming voice and courtly ring..
"Now let the rain begin."

When Regal Revengful Ry cried for rain.
It fell as hail and sleet and snow.
Rys thundering voice, rainstrommed the sky, overland to the sea.

Swallowing, swirling, cascading into every crevice,
letting nothing be.
So the seven rivers, once finger slithers,
palmed into one hand and shadowed the land,

Reshaping, re channelling, redirecting.
Ry buried towns, uprooted trees.
Royal Ry drove a stake into the heart of the dispossessed,
while summer and her sister drought
left their souls to die as offerings to a future sun baked sky."

M Sampson 2007 Notes for the poem Summer.
Written in April 2007 . 2nd and third stanza added over the weeks that followed.(Notes huge dinosaur bones were found in western Queensland by McKenzie family (our Scottish clan name) & announced two days ago. the dam at Jindabyne has exposed the towns which were flooded and the buildings still stand. ( the image suggested that they were DEFIANT and the fireplaces and chimneys still point to the DEITY in the sky.) 3rd stanza written after rain and on 22.6.07Then on June 8-9 massive storms and floods in the Newcastle Hunter region. 7 people died, Pacific highway undermined by torrential rain and cars and a family of 5 plunged to their deaths. ) A whole section of the pacific highway was eroded and 3rd stanza about the floods and the rain.
The seven rivers were at Lakes entrance in Victoria and the flood changed the actual shape of the landscape.

THE Pain of an ONLY SON
Suddenly, in the midst of the crowd, a hand pointed.
a painted woman pointed her finger
and walked the long walk toward me.
The patrons pointed their noses,
the poker machines panted.
The painted woman pouted and she kept pointing.
her toes pointed, her arm pointed
her eyes pointed me out as the main player in her play.
People pointed, patted others, and they pointed.
She walked her slow walk, past the long bar,
meandered through the tables, still pointing
Then she pointed at the man beside me.
She cried out, my son!, he is my son.!
she turned slowly, lowered that limb, and went away wistfully.
The man was unmoved. He ignored her.
pretended there was no pointing,
no pathetica,
no painted woman, pointing.
Suddenly, I caught the disease of pointing.
In the sickness of that long silence,
I pointed.
My tongue pointed,
my words lashed him.
The accused confessed
Yes, .. . Yes,
that whore is my mother.
© Megan Sampson Sept 1990

"I shine not burn" - the Mackenzie clan motto. new poem 5.12.08

I do not need to be told,
nor do I deserve it. .
I know that you loved me, that you always did.
I know that you love me now,
it is not hid.

I know that the past has lit a light
I know that what might have been
T'is smothered by fear or flight.

I also know that men are like to..
torment their ex-es with what might have been,
to send them into jealous rages
that last for ages.

I know you now reap what you said in jest,
and cannot see me lest,
She believe what she always thought,
so revengeful stage be set and wrongs be wrought.

I am not a candle to be hid,
in some dark, damp place, ashamed, not proudly won.
I am not one to hide when bid.

I am a shining light to be adored, like the sun.
I must smile and walk in the honesty of the day.
© Megan Sampson Oct 2008


"Grandma said"
Inspired by Mum - She actually said part of this.

Grandma said,
The Witchities are playing Doggo,
and the Warrigals think it's spring.

At the base of the Lilly Pilly
there's a faery ring.

The Wattles are all budding
the tree fern shed it's spores,
the Flame is half coloured,
and the Corals' full of bores.

The Maggies were sky diving,
I almost had to run,
I nearly tripped ore Bluey
basking in the sun.

copyright © Megan Sampson 2007
explanation of Australian Terms.:
Witchities= witchety grubs – large edible whitish grubs,approx size of your little finger
Doggo= pretending to be asleep
Warrigals = is a native plant edible like small spinach.
Lilly-Pilly = a native shrub which produces small plum like fruit.
Faery ring= is a ring of small toadstools.
Wattles = wattle trees most varieties edible seeds. Used as a flour when crushed
Flame= Illawarra flame tree- often are half coloured vertically.One side red blooms, the other none
Coral= Tree often attacked by borers
Maggies= Bird. Magpie. Will attack people in their territory in spring by diving at their heads.
Bluey= A blue tongued lizard

The tramp
“He humped his swag from the back of Whoopwoop,
all the way to the Wollongong sea.
Then trod slowly on the Sassafras road,
For Anzacs and a feed from me.”

copyright M Sampson May 2007
written for Sassafras website and Anzac Biscuits.
You could substitute "a kiss n a hug " for anzacs
"anzacs are a biscuit. "


The Karadgi Man (aboriginal medicine man.)
His voice pleased me.
it was more than pleasant,
With tones lilting softly.
His voice was a cresendo of sweetness and joy.
When the Karadgi man spoke to me,
suddenly,
I was a young girl again,
and he was a young boy.
© Megan Sampson June. 1998.

When I grow old I'll wear animal print

An English poet, Jenny Joseph, wrote a poem called "Warning"  in 1961, published 1974. It was about rebelling in your old age, and became well known, because it was a symbol of change.
She wrote, "When I grow old , I shall wear purple and a red hat that doesn't suit."
If you were a teenager in 1961 you would understand the fashion constraints of the time, the inequality, the class consciousness and the oppression of "know your place/station" mentality". It was a time in Australia where some people thought they were more equal than others, especially  if their parents or grandparents had owned land, (even if they lost it) and this landowner attitude seeped into the snobbishness of class. You were judged by your clothes, matching hat and gloves, matching shoes and handbag, and where you lived, and your occupation. Not to mention your religion and heritage.
Needless to say, if there was a "touch of the tar"- a hint of aboriginal ancestry, you were never going to be accepted. You would never be invited to be a Deb... never  a Debutante.
I experienced this same oppression of class just  few years ago, when an older "friend" said I had no "right" to own a Mercedes. I should stick to my "station".(class) She reminded me that I was bought up in a working class family and I should know my place. I asked her how much her car cost, and she replied $26,000.00  I reminded her that my old Mercedes sedan only cost $5,000.00
Nevertheless I still had no right to own it!  I thought by going to university, teaching and running my own businesses would make me more equal, but it didn't, not in her eyes, but it did in mine.

Here is my own take on that idea of rebelling in your old age.

30.4.12

Camouflage

When I grow old, I won't wear purple,

or a hat of orange or red,

I will do more than

rock the establish-ment.

I won't wear twinsets in mauve or grey,

I will wear whatever I may.

I won't have blue or mauve rinse

in my white, white hair,

or wear muted hue,

or care if I'm fat, or try to please you.

When I grow old

I will wear animal print,

I'll wear leopard with tiger frill

and they'll all wonder

but won't see me, when I stand still.

I'll be known by my prints

of zebra, black and white,

and some days I'll wear

clashing rings in colours bright.

I'll buy a little sport's car,

and whizz down the street,

and nearly run over,

whoever I meet.

But I'll still be the same,

the same me within

just cloaked and crinkled,

hidden, in wrinkled old skin.

In the Garden

8. 
   
   
   
   re visited 8.4.12

Someone mentioned to me recently that maybe some of my poems could be used as lyrics.

So I thought I should copy the 100 or so and make them available to my songwriter friends. Copyright and all rights reserved, of course  So that's the intent. Whether my actions will actually meet the intent is another thing.  And the consequences? Who knows where they might end up. . You might like to view some of my other blogs.  http://Magicalandmysterious.blogspot.com is another, and I have others on vqarious subjects from permaculturevisions to green and goldenbell frog to climate change etc.

Here's another from the list of over 100 poems/prose.

Poem/prose

In the garden.

Wiley wasps stir and then swarm,

while a soldier bee on watch sees me as a bear,

so suddenly strikes.

The bee sacrifices himself for the sake of the colony,

stinging me on the nape of my neck.

Meanwhile birds beckon,

then swoop silently,

on a smorgasboard of insects,

while lizards sunbake

and sniff the air,

for a scent of prey.