Eat It

noteworthy, photography, rhymes and rhythm

Know the back of your fridge like the back of your mind

Keep in touch with the contents of cupboard

For it seems many people are widely resigned

To food wastage lately discovered

It’s not just a pack of fresh bread gone to waste

Though a small simple thing it may seem

Like poison in water may not have a taste

It still finds its way down the stream

There’s a bigger incredulous picture at stake

And if lucky you might sense your role

In the power you wield by being awake

And aware of waste’s energy toll

Now the sugar has travelled from China to Seoul

Then was packaged in Delhi to boot

And the butter flew in from New Zealand and earnt

Several thousand more air miles en route

And the flour was trucked across desert plains

To land in your crumpets and pie

Where you promptly forgot that Small Purchase you got

And it sat in the kitchen to die

And with each little waste that no one did taste

a part of me shrivels inside

this distortion of food versus need does allude

to a glutton of comfort prescribed

It seems so distorted to hear news reported

Of famine and people deprived

When finding that tupperware fare has been thwarted

And growth of black mold has arrived

It is not that I judge, I don’t aim to offend

Though it’s hard to let go every time

All habits can change with the will to amend

And avoid what I see as a crime

Oh harsh! You might say; Helen with your assumption

But how does change come lest with action?

Consumption without simple care finds resumption

And all blame is placed on distraction

I call out to those who have all that they need

To remember first food you possess

And if finding a great deal of wastage may need

To address the neglect of excess



Dumpster delicacies

Dumpster delicacies


Let’s Hear a Story

living, loving, noteworthy, photography, travel




As promised, I went to the arid and dry.

Only, something had changed in the landscape of late.

Great plains, always salty, cracked and creeping on for miles sat below a liquid surface.

Here upon the plains a quiet; something stirred in ghostly waters.

Badger Bates, respected elder, told of slaughter on the flood plains; how the killing of native people echoed on and on for years.

It was then we heard the students who’d been present here before us often came to tears; unsettled in this place of darkened desert.

It was not until the elder smoked the students through a fire, and he spoke to spirits settled in this place of violent past. And what followed was a calm; a lifting light, a subtle sigh. The feeling of the landscape changed, no more they felt the morbid weight and felt no need to break the camp.

For my part, there I stood and felt with heart the toiling on the soil. My science told me “silly!” but my instinct knew much more. Who am I to judge from outside that the spirits were not haunting? There indeed existed much more than my sweeping visit told.


peace x












Oxford Street Muddle

living, loving, rhymes and rhythm



Damned be the bouffant that rests on her head

in a way that conveys what is thought but not said

And long live the doorman who whistles with pride

to the sound of the cars and the traffic outside

There’s a puddle you know, at the fall of the rain

where you’ll see them with faces betraying a strain

like an upturn of nose that defies Newton’s laws

off to Newtown they whisk themselves meeting more bores

It’s my city, my home, where this bubble exists

Barely touching the life all around that persists

In a way it’s the richness of beggars that seems

to put in sharp relief pockets lined to the seams

We’re no more the better if we’re bitter in wont

Take heed in your footsteps that fall, mes enfants

Walk in knowledge of them that invest in façade

to acknowledge those who you hold high in regard







Meddlers mess muddled puddles on Oxford Street



Last dance of the Limeñon

living, loving, rhymes and rhythm


I fear not all detritus for the soul´s a speedy runner

and it races for the betterment of sanctity in time

Nightly knowing dreams of haunting charm ring bells within the tunnel

Satisfies the hastened voyage to the staircase you must climb

Now I know you´re thinking nought defies the chaos in the corner

There indeed resides a mortar grinding pestle in the dark

Tis not easy stopping runaways from fleeing to the former

humbled author with a message in the form of matriarch

But she waivers with a startle and the crispy air´s upon her –

neath the curtain lifts a shadowed hand that shallowed course of flame

With an odour fresh the leafy créche is dawning on her honour;

when waivered will of the greatest ilk attracts a cause for blame.


and peace x


Helen´s head in the clouds




Lima´s limitless laughs

living, loving, photography, rhymes and rhythm, travel

Crazed hoards flock to cabins where horoscopes hold hope – home to kin of a people superstitously stocked. And see sugar, oh, the sugar.

Powdered ice, sauces smother, in hands of heavy women wanting takeaway wantons. Near the Big Red of Chinatown, buy Chaufa at Chifas then later feel cheated and crack up at jacked up costs – for you´re just a gringo.

But nightfall is different.

It´s lively, there´s laughter from little young chicos. They´re lining the streets wanting sweets (getting bought them) whilst locals are lining their pockets (and then some). There´s a definite instance of spoilt young children in Lima; where money´s made, parents will spend. And it flies in your face – sharp relief to the grief on the street in the cities more steeped in misfortune. Yet these children are spritely; they speak with you nightly and nought can null confidence innately possessed. Two young sisters approached in the Plaza, persistent the older had perfect white skin ¨just like mine¨. The distinction she drew between her and her sister was strange yet expected – here White is Divine.

If you walk around early you miss the absurdly late markets meandering all down the path – with plastic pigs barking, bird whistles for larking – while mascots for merchandise stores make you laugh. There are grown men in clown suits, getting beeped by the horn toots of limitless taxis who tax up your time. Very happy to charge but their knowledge ain´t large of the streets that comprise their own city and trade. Then your patience it quakes as they jump on the brakes and their head starts to shake, blaming ¨traffic today¨.

Yet for hassles surrounding, you founded your love on the trials and value of travel, compounded. Cloud clears from all sky, for tranquility´s eye keeps a close watch on what is obscured (but is nigh).

And you know that back home you´ll be missing the grown men in clown suits; instead, only clowns in their day suits. And the holes in the pavement you frequently trip on; replaced with monotonous concrete in-line. And the thrill of the street food that might give you gastro; you´ll find only over-priced Maccas and Fries. Yes, you can start complaining of danger and lamely avoid going out after dark around 9. And you might start to hate all the hours you spend here in transit on buses to get to That Place. And you might even tell me you´re tired of paying much more for things based on your skin and your race.

But I love all those travels – they´re part of the journey, and of much greater interest to me than your woes. Give me time, maps and courage for adventures to flourish and an acid-free notebook to record how it goes.



Hazy, lazy Lima

Hazy, lazy Lima

Here be musings

living, noteworthy, rhymes and rhythm, travel


Thoughts lying on a couch, in Argentina. My diary records me.


Spy those legs that weave around the table,

teaching me, as I forget

your name, it’s your name, and I forget it.

With new turns I do remember

Reading always means existing

long forgotten, never learned

But learning is recording, that is all

that is all.


My learning is a constant

and submits to massive failures

yet same constant is my freedom

it’s my burden and I’ll keep it

For the beauty on its table

under darkness, in the stable

left for loneliness the token

Fine-tuned journey, wisened teacher.

And the preacher near the doorway

tells me I have not yet spoken;

but I’m screaming

and I’m deeming him to be deceitful,


Then the silence in the slumber

of my waking world assaults me,

for there’s truth in what the preacher

prays to tell me for his part.

I have not yet known the netting

that protects me from my neighbours,

a perversely porous bubble

brewing trouble in my heart.

So I thank the man and take my toil

tangled in tomorrow,

to enjoy the jousting justified

by jaded faded means.

Meander in the mires but

remember mighty focus;

that we travel tasting all

the tainted tethers of latrines.





Iguacu the Mighty



Top 10 Powerful Places in New Zealand

living, loving, photography, travel


New Zealand is my favourite country on Earth. But before you discount my must-experience list given enthusiastic bias, rest assured it’s been a weighted and considered delegation. I backpacked there two months ago for a short three weeks, flying over from Sydney primarily for the scenery that would satiate my unabashed love of Lord of The Rings. I didn’t expect to become enamoured with its people, moved to tears by mountains and fall in love with the country. My must-sees are based on experiences that are distinctly Kiwi – a particular flavour of living that keeps on giving long after you leave.

Each place gave me a sense of empowerment, and I’ve mapped the degrees to which that occurred.

Please note I spent most of my time in the North Island; undoubtedly there are endless other Edens in the South.



10. Rangitoto Island
Empowerment: ★★

Eager to hop across the harbour, this hilly hike was undertaken with far too much weight in my backpack. That said, I found the view that much more serene when I stopped panting and became still. Rain swept the hillside for ten minutes then gave way to warm sun – a microclimate made for the raincoat-ready.


Placid, perfect.



9. Devonport Beach, Auckland.
Empowerment:  ★★☆

A quiet and dandy shelled beach cloaked in a cove of calm waters. Dusk did wonders for deep thought; bay’s beauty caught. Before I knew the time had climbed past five and called for me to drive my legs towards the grass beyond; the photos capture peace I sought.


One man and two little monkeys



8. Kaikoura in snow

The bus refused to travel up the road in ice and snow. The beach was minus 2 degrees, my fingers had begun to freeze as I clicked the camera shutter, for a site I could not capture. There, upon the icy shore, the seagulls next to Helen War sought refuge from the frozen rain. My friends, in all my sweetest dreams there’s never been such dissonance ‘tween waves, the sky, the beach, the snow, and the sea in all its milky glow.


Roxane and rocks



7.) Muriwai Beach

With a friend I found a flock of Gannets nesting in the rock; the breeding birds are some of only few left in the world. The fuming ocean frothed a fury never seen before, and mist dismissed the clarity that one can see in calm. Burning glare upon the water, beautiful on blackened sand, bore a brightness that incited me to freeze the frame within my eye.


The iron-rich volcanic sand



6.) Sulphur Lake, Rotorua

I can’t stress enough the power of a geological masterpiece in unruly weather. Ignore those who seek to dissuade you from New Zealand in winter time – walking around in the candid company of birds, gargling thermal spots and extraordinary rainbows is enough. I recall saying aloud “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” with a clarity of honesty that solitude set free.


Sulphur Lake; Soulful Lake.



5.) Lake Taupo at sunset

As the bus skirted the great Lake Taupo, we called for a brief interlude to marvel at the sun, whose mighty grace humbled even the loudest of observers. This is one of the moments I call on in need; the warm light that faded, receding with speed.


The sunset that sent my tears streaming



4.) Redwood forest, Rotorua

The Redwood forest is unmissable – do not dismiss the magic of the massive mellow trees, their defiant stature giant over bird and bush and beast. Do take a walk and feel the stillness; quiet, silent, dark yet vibrant. Tracks that weave through weathered rock relieve your feet from concrete stock – then pad through shaded softened ground to sense the special place you’ve found.


Roaming the Rotorua Redwoods



3.) Underground Caves, Waitomo

The power of caving moves your mind to align with your body in blissful bind. There’s crystal that hums and water that drums through tunnels below in a turmoiled torrent, where the weak are at war with a force that will floor you. Calmly push through the cold and with clarity behold what is lying in wait down the caverns of old. Glowing worms in the dark, dotted stars in a dome – I adore the down-under, where you too can roam.


Caving in the cold for kicks and clarity



2.) Abel Tasman Track

With a friend that I’d met on my travels, we set out to wander the track by the sea. The detour called “inland” winds up through the light sand until you can look down with glee. A Kea was laughing on behalf of the birdlife that nested in branches and grass. As you grapple with backpack that weighs half a ton they are flying above you with class. Then you camp near the beach in a hut that will teach you to test out your torch ‘fore twilight. In the morning you bask in a darkness so vast and the pink in the sky far away. And the beach is your own if you need to atone – find forgiveness to falter the fray.



Mountains, snow, beach, sky. New Zealand blows my mind



1.) Winter Alpine Crossing, Mt Ruapehu

In the winter you might have the place to yourself, as you trek through the snow and the icy shelf. We were plodding along, 25 people strong, and surmounted the Staircase and ridge before long. Later laid on the ice in an intimate silence; priceless powerful moment, the world our alliance. There was nothingness, peace, not a whistle, or piece of pollution to pierce the placating location.



Pitstop on the pristine precipice