About Soulsongs of Sharonlee

I am the conductor of my dreams …I designate the roles compose the themes… I chart the course the chapters I write and navigate the direction as my eyes close at night… I create the fantasies pave the trail and harmonize the refrains for nightmares are not invited on my midnight train…

Portal of Zenosyne

Portal of Zenosyne

Hesitating, as if… if she entered she may choose to never return ….
so she stood in the dense silent haze, watching, thinking;

Every 55 minutes the portal appeared between the giant trees
a wavering, viridescent whirlpool when open
… a vague woodsy mist when closed… it would simply be as innocent as walking between any two trees… except… she felt the residual energy others might not feel…

Surreal Forest Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Three times she ventured between the tree Guardians
when the Way was closed… three times she wandered back
to stand and watch, listening to the forest rustlings
and her own beating heart…

Life is short. And life is long. But not in that order, and sometimes
it appears to stand still as if caught in a timeloop of timelessness.

Surreal Forest Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

This was one of those timeless times, for how long she stood
she didn’t know – suddenly suspended in liquid skies, stars glowed and faded…
a day flowed by in silent green shadows as she stood in this woods alone.

Guarding the Guardians… nay, observing the space between, as
night closed in again, in muted greens, she realised the Portal
appeared to be sleeping, she watched as moon rose high overhead
and when the viridescent whirlpool did not reopen, she lay in leaf-fall, sleeping as well;

Surreal Forest Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Dawningtime, birdsong swelled only trailing to silence when
the Portal of Zenosyne glowed into be-ing…
Hesitating, as if… as if she entered she may choose to never return
how well she knows that Life is short. And life is long.
And not necessarily in that order…
She breathed in the forest air
And took a step into the viridescent glow, finally ready for whatever
lay beyond…

Surreal Forest Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Poetry and Art Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Zenosyne: The Sense That Time Keeps Going Faster
(From the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)

Happy Anniversary

I won’t tell you that the world matters nothing, or the world’s voice, or the voice of society. They matter a good deal. They matter far too much. But there are moments when one has to choose between living one’s own life, fully, entirely, completely—or dragging out some false, shallow, degrading existence that the world in its hypocrisy demands. You have that moment now. Choose!
Oscar Wilde

The Day that ‘We’ Were Born

The Day that ‘We’ Were Born

We were born into the wind
in days when the sun was young
we found our voice and learned to sing
into the mystic of time begun…

We talked all through the night until first light
an ocean of words slept before the dawn
nothing was left untouched or unsaid
on the day we were reborn…

On the day that we were born, the dynamics of life changed
some things ceased forever, others rearranged
the you and me and destiny
reached out beneath an endless sea of stars
in those days when the sun was young
when we found our voice and learned to sing
into the mystic wind.

SharonleeGoodhand Imageweaver
Inspired by Van Morrison

Image Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver

Seeped in Magic

There is an old deep magic in this forest
which has seeped into my bones
becoming one with roots
that reach to
embrace this Earth with tenderness…
… a deep old magic which resonates
through my blood and recognises
the kindred sacredness
in the beating of my heart;

The energy is pure and palpable
embracing growing trees and rich earth soaking
in moisture which nurtures
the lines of my blood, making me weep
with gratitude for all that holds sway
in the stillness of deep old places …
… the shadows echo and whisper
echoes whisper of wisdom and nature
which resonates through my blood
and recognises the kindred sacredness in my soul

As we transcend the unconscious
and as we transcend the ego
and as we transcend the chaos
to a place of deep inner understanding
We will find a place in our hearts
where we will know the truth of our own heartbeat
And we know we are home
in the deep old magic of the forest.
Poetry and Art Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver 2021

where the llama sleeps

Frog Whispers and a Chorus of Crickets

Hear that?

Silence… such profound silence I hold my breath

lest I break the spell…

First coffee, on the sunstruck veranda

dappled light as cascading sun trickled through tangled vines…

… below me, on overgrown slopes, chickens ranged far and wide

a pure white peacock drifted gracefully by followed closely

by two fat brown hens…

… a white llama grazed on juicy grass, eyeing me

in a friendly way as he passed

in the treetops  crow and kookaburra cackled and laughed

at jokes only they knew…

Watching as the sun slid behind olive-green tree-tops

sky a still pale backdrop behind the verdant canopy

roosters strutted, raising their voices to the vault of heaven

– and I stood in awed silence before a shrine to Mother Earth….

Darkness crept in, in slow moving increments

crows and kookaburras chortle sporadically

silence prevailing between echoes…

– eyes closed for a meditative moment

and I smiled…

such earthy treasures soothed my soul;

A faint blush softly crimsoned the underbellies

of streaky grey clouds, quickly fading to wispy shades of apricot

Venus greeted me as the sky paled blue to grey

shadows clinging deep and dark to the heavy treeline…

… such profound silence I forgot to  breathe

suddenly expelling air in a shuddering sigh

of quiet contentment;

The unruffled silence deepened –

frog whispers … chorus of crickets

and the homely popping of wood

as flames danced merrily in the fireplace…

I ate my supper there, sitting on the step

in front of the fireplace

homemade soup…

… I ate it straight from the saucepan

savoring every mouthful;

Hear that?

Silence… such profound silence I hold my breath

lest I break the spell…


First Night

I made a bed in front of the fire

so I could lose myself in the toasty warm  marmalade glow

wrapped in warmth eyes grew heavy

and I dozed…

Unfamiliar sounds filtered in from the darkness

beyond the windows… took me a sleepy moment

to realize, a horse, snorting noisily

stamping a hoof on the soft ground-

– and though I dragged myself from my fire-warm nest

to peer out into the inky blackness

I saw nothing;

how still it was… how dark

and so blessedly quiet

there were no cars

no late night train

no dogs barking in tandem echo

a few drowsy crickets and the sighing breeze

and me.

First Morning

Kookaburras and Roosters

A lone kookaburra greeted me at 6:45 am

when I ventured from the morning fire

to greet the day beyond the picture window…

pastel sunrise simmered softly

glowing through latticelike branches

a renegade breeze rained leaves

in billowing swirl

skimming across the scuffed wooden floor…

Winter chill swept across my face

as I bid the kookaburra good morning;

Whipbirds echoed

in the still morning

woodsmoke and bush essences mingling

with drifts of nag champa…

… Kooka is a constant companion

watching me as I spill thoughts onto the page

from time to time he swoops to the slanting ground

rummaging through long grass and weeds

iridescent smudges on each wing

bestows color to his many specks and flecks

of off-white and brown

a smattering of greys add charm

to his dapper appearance…

A kingfisher joins  Kooka and I-

– a little timid he sits at the far end of the veranda

watching us…

… he outshone Kooka in hues of vivid blue

fading to deep chromatic shades…

two roosters continued to sound-off

– each one crowing with crested pride

from opposite corners of the meadow

… occasionally brown-horse snuffs the ground

blowing nosily through his big soft nose

content to browse on lush nibbles

crowding the creek’s edge.

Kookaburra on the back veranda

rooster bragging at the door

crows calling from sunlit branches

not wanting to be ignored

winter blossoms bright in treetops

in shades of fuchsia flushed…

I feel my soul let go, surrendering

to Nature’s trust….


Midday Meditation


– wintersun a warm embrace

eyes close as thoughts hover

in soft and tender smiles…

… breasts rise and fall in a sigh

as tranquil ambience infuses the moment

twitter-chitter of unknown birds

soughing breeze, so gentle it brushes my face

in a hushed whisper…

Somewhere not too far away

a crow repeats his 3-ark refrain

ark ark ark… ark ark arrrk

I almost fell asleep-

– but ravenous clouds swallowed the sun whole

stealing my puddled warmth…

… is that what he is doing, that crow – calling in the rain?

Still with that rhythmic 3-ark refrain…

The breeze graduated to Boisterous Wind

heady with bush scents, it scurried fallen leaves

across the veranda floor

settled momentarily

then raced through the tree-tops

all helter-skelter…

12:10 pm… the day grew dark

shadows clung to tree trunks and polished wood alike

the wind pushed open doors  closed

chasing itself

through tossing tree- canopy

– darker still for midday

birds fell to silence

except for a rogue rooster

crowing at his own echo…

… a smattering of rain fell, the darkness persisting…

… beclouded by layers of grey

the day still held a measure of tranquil beauty

–  varying leaves overlaid in a mantle of greenery

swirled in lively game with the wind…

…  from time to time a pipe wind-chime

gonged with tingling resonance

and still that cocky rooster chortled

at his echo, tossed back by the wind…


Second Morning

Whip-birds and mist tickle through the canopy of trees

morning overlaid in damp shades of grey

leafy treetops washed fresh by rain add a profusion

of green to the day…

Seems quieter, after the rainy night

kookaburra visits, in waterlogged flight

the farm animals hushed and not in a rush

to leave the cover of their night pen

even the crow a distant echo … ark ark ark…

… so quiet I hear each individual raindrop

dripping off sodden leaves…

The early morning dimmed… lit by a twilight rain-glow…

… and down it came, clattering on tin roof

splattering on a million leaves

puddle-ing on the drenched earth

rivulets form as water makes its merry way

downhill, through weeds and herbs… across dirt tracks

and into the creek…

nature speaks her gratitude;

The rain fell in a silken grey curtain

hazing the treeline and hills beyond…

… the sky a vast expanse of startling white

interspersed with layers of ashy grey

the land took on a deeper hue… bark stained dark

and leaves in breathless array of green to jade…

… thought inducing weather, reflection in each drop of rain-

– other rain-days, different but the same

– gumboots in puddles

-running hand in hand for cover

– kisses from wet lips that tasted of love and coffee…

Such memories tumble in freefall, and having no control

of this deluge of rain-induced reflection, I let

the memories fall

surrendering to the mood of day drenched in grey.

Of Rain and Roosters and Nature’s Song

It had been an indoors kind of day

sojourns on the veranda to watch the rain

a few hens ventured out to inspect the sodden ground

– mist and rain creating echoes of sound…

… I drifted through the hours, content to float in dreams

of yesterdays and tomorrows and might-have-beens

happy to listen to Nature’s song

knowing in my soul this is where I belong…

As darkness enveloped my world

I sat by the fireside, watching as the flames danced

rain fell and from time to time

I heard the snuffle of llama bedded down nearby…

… I almost cried

with contentedness and the thought of leaving

on the morrow…

It took an empty woodbox to send me to bed, but still

I could not sleep… thoughts tumbled in on top of each other

how could I make this a lifestyle, not just a fond memory?


Morning dawned to the melody of rain and roosters

the sun briefly shone through the rain,

adding a glorious rain-glow to the start of day…

… soon I would have to go away

retracing my steps to where I belong-

– but in truth, I belong here

or someplace just like it…

surrounded by rain and roosters and nature’s song;


As I was transported back to ‘reality’

I fancied that I heard

the wind chime say goodbye to me.


day 6.jpg

Whipbirds in Morning Mist

I feel it so keenly, now I am back from the silence of my rainforest retreat… that unseen pressure of suburban living spaces… pressing in on all four sides.

Horizon close and confining hovers just beyond rooftops and low mountains.

No concept of distance here, everything huddled close-at-hand… no open spaces that lure the soul’s eyes to linger in faraway gaze…

How blessed, at least, to dwell near those low mountains floating in winter mist beyond the rooftops… richly wooded in verdant layers of green… I hear the catbird call out in the still morning… the whipbirds bell-like echo clear and musical in the cold air.

A timid female bush turkey wanders across the lawn, looking for tidbits;

they have adapted to sharing space, roaming the neighborhood, wandering down to the creek… roosting in trees at night…

– they have adapted

why can’t I?

Somewhere a dog barks… a power drill grinds into wood…

Sun and mist and remnant rain cloud

play musical chairs with the morning

a magpie warbles in such honeyed tones I pause in my reflection

to listen to his sweet melody.


Yes, I feel that unseen pressure of suburban living spaces

pressing in on all four sides…

Still,  how blessed I am to share that space with catbirds and whipbirds

and mist on winter mornings.


But I will always remember the silence of that rainforest retreat

where the beauty of Nature is complete.





These thoughts and photographs were written and taken

of my stay at the Rainforest Organic Farmhouse

surrounded by stunning rainforest, bushland

and an abundance of wildlife;

My short stay there soothed my soul and fed my spirit

and I was very reluctant to leave.

Host and owner Janine is a lovely warm woman who has created a place of comfort and welcome, peace and tranquility.

This little book is in appreciation.


Sharon Lee Goodhand June 2015


A Dribble is Half a Drabble

A “Dribble” is half a “Drabble”… and a Drabble is 100 words… see Wikipedia for full explanation.

The “dribble” (also known as the “minisaga,” 50 words)

The “drabble” (also known as “microfiction,” 100 words)