his fist clenched
his mind benched
her eyes black
her jaw slack
and bleeding

her blood red
him out of his head
the child hiding,
crying....inside dying

violence never asks
never is the answer
for the victims
it is slow death
for society a cancer

I stand relaxed
on the headland
as the wind rustles
the branches of
the totem pines

looking out to
the horizon
smelling the mix
of salt  and pine sap

I breathe in the day
crisp morning air
bright golden light
the sound of waves
gently slapping sand

for the moment
the world is
good and whole
and complete

and I wish.....
I could hold my
breath....all day...

but alas...
all I am doing is
turning blue...

I have lost my muse
in the hustle and hustle
of my days
I have put her aside
and now she is gone
from me..

and my writers place
is lonely and bereft
of her joy and life
a soulless room
dusty and...
well,  just .... beige and bland.


so if you see her,
my muse....
ink-stained and laden
down with words unwritten
please....let her know
I miss her terribly
and would like her
to come home....

I promise to take
better care of her
this time....I promise.

need to write
something
to soothe
my soul...

write now of
skies, the perfect blue
of the smell of salt
tantalising on the zephyr breeze

write to ease
a heart so tired
so mired
in daily crud
so stuck in this viscose mud

need a day
far away
from the
maddening

a day in the green
and verdant places
see no other faces
hear the stream
make it's way
from source
to sea

need a day
to follow path
to pond's
to be tickled
and embraced
by young palm fronds
to watch nature thrive
need this badly
to survive

need a day
to recover me.

in the wake of
the Baltimore riots
I saw a picture of
a young boy
offering bottled water
to the line of shielded police
right there...is the hope
for humanity....
I commend both the boy
and his parents for their actions
there is goodness everywhere
should you want to look

it's all I have,
not much, to you, but all
and with my heart torn asunder
I watch my life, my labour,
resting here, for you to plunder...

ravage the fields,
torch the meadows
**** the bees
and watch the clover
wither...

count not the cost
of your rapacious greed,
see only your hearts selfish need
to be the sum the total, the all.

not knowing, in your victory
you become...the pall,
that settles in the room
and stops the conversation,
like smog and a locust infestation.

this is my life, my family
and we do, what we do
to remain free of heartache
and negativity.

we need not your benediction,
or blessing of our grace.
so...you look to yours and
shut your face....


**********
napowrimo2015
promp­t : write a parody or satirical
poem...utalizing a famous poem you know


"It's all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell"
**Emily Dickenson.

in cold crisp air,
with steaming breath
and hearts open and laid bare.

we stand and remember.

the bugle sounds,
carry across the river
to meet the rising sun.
then it is quiet again.

we stand and remember

in tearful, grateful silence,
we stand and give honour
to, too many young men
who went a soldiering,
never to come home again.

we stand and remember

and in the rows before us,
old men they soldier on,
standing to attention
remembering wars long gone
and mates and foes and battlfields
and letters come from home.


faces resolute, set to the sun
as the bugle calls.. the last post,
remembering remembering
the wars that are long gone...

we stand and remember.

poppies, lie in drifts of red
in the air the scent
of pine trees and rosemary....
wreaths of hard fought grace,
lay placed with grateful thanks
below the names enscribed
upon the cenotaph's granite plane.

we stand and remember

the sun comes up,
with gentle, golden face
upon this special, sacred place.
we stand shrouded by memory
of those who fought and fell
and lie in a far distant place.

we stand and remember.
we will remember them....
lest we forget....

oh woe is me!!!
have pity, cruel and
heartless world.
the sky now fallen.
my sadness,
unfurled.
i sail, upon a ship
of abject misery.
i sit at the helm
and weep and cry 
and moan and mewl
til, my eyes have
run out of 
wet, n' salted fuel.

now, those who know me,
are wondering why,
me, who writes happiness.
is having a hysterical cry.
if i can but,
bring myself,
to tell you why, 
you must be generous,
of heart, and not say fie.
my big, catastrophe,
bigger than you know.
is a death, in the family...

they have lingered long
and been, a dear friend.
but this morning i went to see them and they were gone!!
and oh dear me!
what an embarassing end...
it is,sad,
beyond,sad.
i cannot tell a lie.

here its is....  in all it's badness:
MY JEANS DONE DIED
(pause now for a sobbing, dramatic.....sigh!!!)
now you have finished laughing
at me i will explain why,
this is, not a matter for disdain.....
i have/had this pair, of favourite, faded, blue,white jeans.
had them long enough,
that they had done,
the complete circle
and come back into fashion....
had them longer than,
my child, my husband, my car,
my present job. 

they knew me, so well and
so comfortable too.
i went to wear them,
this morning,
as a pick me up treat....
(cause to be honest,
been feelin kinda beat)
and lo and behold,
they fell apart, at my feet

the crotch, had frayed away
and if i had worn them,
my smalls and privates,
would be saying a cheeky, g'day....
so i am sad 
and an old friend has departed. 
but at least it happened in private  and not at work, when i farted....

i tonight, will give them, a burial, tried and true in the duster bin... and then drink to them,
with tonic and gin.
fare thee well,
my faithful, denim friend.
and consider this to be...
your heartfelt eulogy

i open the door to the
crisp autumn air
the smell of eucalypt
and salt...

first frost has fallen,
a light fairy dusting
of sparkling crystals
shimmer beguilingly
on the green lawn.

dissected by trail of cat prints
leading to a mess
of blue and black feathers.
this was one early bird,
who should have stayed in bed?

and on the rocks,
near the koi pond,
framed by the early sun.
the black and white cat
from down the road,
washes it's face....
with long clawed paws.

inside the house,
my less ferocious two
settle for chicken biscuits
and the warmth
of recently vacated beds.

I sigh and mourn the loss
of yet another wren....
before cleaning the evidence away.

the black and white cat watches,
with golden, gleaming and wholly unrepent eyes.
before slinking off, behind the lilacs.

so now, peace is restored....
and the water burbles gently across the rocks.
while the frost melts away
and the sun gains strength
to face another...
glorious autumnal day.

the metaphors,
I  read today prove
to be depressing
my fault,
... not the writers

as I sat searching
the grey blue sky,
early this morning,
it's despondent nature
slipped quietly into my soul

and now I am mooching about,
waiting for the inevitable cloudburst.
as my mother was wont to say,
girl,there will be tears
before bedtime.

life is not forced...
.. .a distillation of sorrow
and yet
.....life was the greatest joy
it's own realm ...encased
but not breached....
the joy ...had it's own integrity
not touched by tragedy.

that joy, the measure
and source...spring.
....I remember sitting in rain
and blustering wind...
abiding.... and yoked... to life
this comic tradegy...within.

betwixt me and myself
but not I
thoughts are
muddled, befuddled
and often obtuse

but I is,
concise and acutely aware
of the confabulation
within the world
of weirdly wild will-fulness
contained within the brain-pan
I shares with me and myself

I wishes it were different
but knows it cannot be
for they are co-dependant
the id of the three

these things I know to be true...

behind the clouds,
the sky is blue.

if the grass is greener over there;
on the other side of the fence...
then someone is wasting water
in this drought.

if everyone is keeping up with
the jones's .
why are they so unhappy?

two wrongs don't make a right,
but four lefts make a square.

the sun will come out tomorrow,
but so may the clouds...

life is full of schmucks,
but if you're in luck.
the  schmuck you marry
may have some bucks.

there is, true love
there is, higher ground
there is forgivness.
you can find useful things
in the lost and found.
chocolate can be good for you.
you have to feed your soul.
and yes all that glitters
is definitely not gold.

there is no true way,
to grow old gracefully.
so make the best of it.
count each and every day
as a bonus....
                   for that is what it is!!!

hurry, hurry, hurry
hush hush hush
must be quick
must be quite
but we must rush

stay in the shadows
run through the dark
don't give the game away
as we flit through the dark

keep on going til the sun rise
quiet as mice, fast as hares
away from the fighting
away from despair

to a new life, with new cares
where it is not about belief
where all are treated fair...

carry the message,
deep within your heart
we are all human
we all are the same
no matter the religion
no matter the creed
freedom a desire
love a basic need.
hurry, hurry, hurry
hush, hush,hush.

musing on pondering,

cogitating on ruminating,

postulating on speculating,

considering multiple theories,

deeming the discrepancies deniable

positing the petty presumptions,

theorizing multiple condsiderations,

apraising the mediations,

digesting the deliberations,

allowing for freefall meditation,

envisioning the expectations,

presuming the pontifications,

anticipating the asumptions,

comprehending the conclusion,

accrediting the rationalizations,

concluding the comprehesion,

spinning synaptic wheels,

hypothesizing the conjecture,

recollecting of the reminiscence,

adumbrating the prognostigcation,

concocting of the subliminate,

masticating on the cereberal machinations,

of the ocillations, in the agitatation,
apparent,
in an insomniac's maniacal brain,

reckoning not,
on the simple summation,
of the night's wayward,
mental arbitratration,


there is... just too much time,
to think....

and far too little time to write....

goodnight .... old girl,
goodnight, to you,
you quiet house,
you blessed home.

are you glad to see
another day done?
within yourself,
your hidden recessed places
are you sighing in relief
as we settle safe in our beds.

your present loves,
all accounted for,
sleeping within your teak
and nail embrace.
or do you prefer,
the drumming of our feet,
the hum of activity,
of when we are awake,
and bustling and bumping,
about your frame?

or is it best when we leave you,
silent and alone to contemplate,
in the sun and wind on a work day? my lord, the secrets you must keep, the lifes, that you have held close behind these old walls.

you must groan and cry,
with the weight of some memories, yet, others cause you to smile and sigh in near-miss relief.
you have stood strong and sturdy,
for almost one hundred years,
in one form or another,
your girth has expanded,
with the growth of family,
from farmers cottage, to three bed,
with study
and nannexe out the back.

you have been
all but knocked down,
rebuilt, reworked and restored,
to former glory.
you have withstood,
the element's rage
and time's insipid attempts,
to shift you, from your place
upon the cliffshead.

you have, and do,
do well, to hold us
all within.
and now,
just before i sleep,
i want to thank you old girl,
for the way, you keep us all safe.

banana driven
to drive one bananas
backseat driver
lodged on one's back
insipid thief
taking bite sized pieces
of one's soul
leaving you feeling less
than whole..
confused about one's role
grinding, prancing,
either way can't stop dancing
riddle-raddled fiddle-faddled
muddle minded ....
listening,
to it's whispering....
takes a terrible toll.

the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.

sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.

it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.

and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****.
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.

that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.

i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.



.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.

black mussels de-bearded, shine
water, yeast-beer, hops
combine enticingly with
ginger, chilli, lime
and much garlic.
simmer, then....
gorge!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

zeitgeist
yuppiedoms

xanthic
whatsits

vibrate
unabashedly

toot­hsome
salutations

requiring
qualifications

pernickety
officiald­om

nagging
malestroms

leaving
kindness

jaundiced
imoliated

**­rrendous
gargoyles

feign
empathy

disastrous
calamity

boodles
a­tonement

imagine if you will...
as you sit and drink a brew
of leaf and water,
perhaps a sugar or two.

a book passed down,
from mother to daughter
much loved, much read
thoughts from inside
a poetic head...
of lover's crossed by stars.

and as you sit and drink and look,
imagine if you can,
the texture of the paper
the make a heavy gauge,
the ink so fine and black,
meandering in scripted lines
across the page.

and as you drink and look and read
of young love's joy and greed
and gentle lust and greenest jealousy
that gives cause to create trickery
only  to have true hearts  bleed
and lovers to pay the final cost
and pay the cost of love's mortality

and as you look and read and believe
the urgency, of the young lover's creed
your tears may fall and blend
with those that believed before
and if a tear you did not shed
then perhaps as others have
you will add a ring of tea.
as did they as they  partook
of a momentary escape
from the daily excess
of grind and toil and
travelled deep into the poets mind

and as you read and believe and dream
the pathways open and
the scenes are set
and you may find
the beginnings of book
to write, to beget,
or mayhap, just a fancy,
fledged and ready to take flight.
either way,
much was gained
from a cup of tea, brewed
and an old romantic book,
albeit tea-stained.

imagine if you will
a piece of handmade paper
heavy but fine grained

and upon the piece
of ivory coloured paper
delicate hues of green,
and blue,
placed in an abstract way
using water colour paints

the paper having been wet
no longer lays flat on the table
but undulates, with small hills
and valleys

and upon that piece of paper
artfully decorated
imagine some words, written
in a round and beautiful cursive
formed by an old fountain pen
the ink used, a deep purple
that has been softened by years
the words, are those of young love,

yet to be tested by time
yet to be tested by seperation
yet to be tested by loss


the paper is old now, set with
four creases from where it had
been folded and left within a book
of wordsworth...


on the front fold, the following
To Mary with much love Jack. 1915

and upon that piece of paper
handmade, delicately decorated
inscribed with love and hope,
the beginnings of a family rested.

I send my poems off
like warriors to war

I send my poems off
like the adventurers of old

I send my poems off
to woo and ******,
to dance and entertain.

I send my poems off
to shine light into dark corners

I wish them luck,
as I wave them goodbye

All bravado and
bolstered confidence

Out into a world of
of readers and writers
and now....
when they, my words
are out in space
halfway between here
and wherever there ends up being

You want me to reel them in
to recant...to put a spear to them....

Palinode, be ******!!!

These words...
have paid their dues,
they have flown the coop
I'm not blowing
them out of the sky now.

if poetry were more like money
would it be greater
if there was no desperation
to experience or see
would poetry not be
just like blancmange or porridge
sustaining but oh so bland
if there where no joy
no love, anger, jealousy
bland, bland, bland.
poetry is a currency
or the open heart and mind
so lets us spend, and write
the spice of life....

cold air sifts through
the window, to climb
my unprotected spine

last night's storm
still drips erractically
from gutters and leaves

I turn to you seeking
warmth and passion
only to find empty sheets
and a lingering scent
of sandalwood.

rising to dance
on a cold wooden floor
I seek you out...

finding you, pyjamified
in the garden, checking
your babies.....
for storm damage.

I put the kettle on
and await your report...

Autumn has arrived.

if only
lonely elephants
could
just write postcards
seeking love
then their memories
would be kind
and no longer
would they roam
they if they found
love could set up homes
and live life of sedentary pleasure
would it no be interesting to see
elephants learning the art of
smoking bee's
this could happen, could become truth
only if  we educate minds
to think in abstract lines
and learn to think as
lonely elephants do.

only then and only if...

words fall
like hapless fledglings
tossed from a cliff edged nest

with much screeching, squawking,
countless feathers lost

and then an awful thump
or hopeful, glorious flight

first love is tachycardiac love
all adrenaline, sweating palms
and stutter-stumbling sqeakings,
ungainly gropings,
when not with you, mopings
unrealistic hopings
for happy ever after endings,
breakings, bendings,
awkward mendings,
repeated leavings,
repented lovings.
heartfelt givings,
of broken hearted rendings.
lendings,
of time stolen from life
tearing, teasing,
tantalising teamings
crying, begging,
pleading strife
and then,
the metaphorical knife
cutting, slashing,
wordblow bashing,
screaming, reaming,
end to loves life.

til eventually, words fall,
like old birds leavings
to settle, unremarked upon
at the base of the tree of life.

first love's loss, is slow dying.
arrhythmia to flatline
in a multitude of laboured breaths
and long lingering sighs.
a loss of warmth,
from breast and thighs
and water copious,
falling from red rimed eyes.
sobbing, murmuring,
don't know whys?
from lips turned
toward,
bleakset skies.
as one settles firmly,
into black dog muck
no longer able to give a f▼ck.
tucked in tight to sadness,
lost all sight of former gladness,
caught up and shackled tight,
to the badness
around and around,
the carousel goes.

then,
at last,
the blessed silence,
as you die
one of many of....
                    life's little deaths

Easter Saturday morn, turned out to be wet and forlorn
no matter the weather we're  cosy n' warm, together
Two sleeping felines intertwined twitching
                                                       ­                tails n' noses
One Nan, with knee rug, knitting bag full
                                                                ­        of wool n'lollies

One Mama baking up treats, whilst,
                                                            sing­ing bad operettas.

Then there's me and my Da,
                                                  creating a blanket castle
A mighty fort of fabric n' cushions, chairs n' tables

No other place I'd rather be this soggy, rainy day.
I am a forteener.... and a forteener I will stay.

when the world was flat
and we were few,
we looked at stars
and made them gods

to help explain the difficult truths,
to give us some measure of understanding to those concepts
to large to be held within our hands.
to find beauty in desperate times
to watch over us...

now the world is round
and we are many
most can no longer see the stars
we look to the internet to explain truth
and concepts seem to be shrinking,
to the size of a tablet screen.
times are becoming more desperate
and we watch each other...

yet the stars are there still.
behind the smog,
beyond the city lights
they hold their sentinels gaze
their beauty is undiminished.

they,for the most part are
still enigmatic, a mystery,
to be unfolded.
and we,
for all our advancement
and trappings
are still looking up....
seeking but not truly finding.

violets nod dainty heads
dancing to the zephyr breeze

watched over by gum
and swaying willow trees.

verdant leaves all shades of green
have returned if but for a short season

and on the rocks the lizards bask
and the ants continue working.

it is the time in between
the last of the summers sun
and the first leaf fall.

it is the most gentlest time of all

what it is not...
forgiving or kind,
patient with time.
gentleness to the weary soul.

whilst it does allow smiles,
they are mostly,
of the wry
or pitying kind.

again,
whilst it gives,
much time for contemplation, rumination and wistful
and regretful dreaming
but in doing so
it often, so often, takes,
more than it gives.

it is not a gentle kitten.
more of a savage jungle beast,
ravaging not just you,
but your village too...

it does not respect,
station or situation...

yet sometimes,
it gives you an almighty fright.
taking hold and shaking
your ragdoll life.
only to let you go...
scarred,
but not defeated.

at other times...
it stalks you
through the years.

it is not necessarily
a death sentence,
but often so.

what it is,
is a puzzle to unravel
what it is,
is, in need of the best
minds in order to
bring about solutions

what it is,
is, small and large donations
required to change
the future of us all

what it is
is... cancer....
and given time
it can be cured.

I guess...
it is too late,
to become a gymnast.
too late to get up
before the sparrows rise,
take myself to the gym
and hurl my slim, svelte, sleek
gymnast's body about on apparatus

too late to tape my ankles and feet.
too late to slip into shiny unitards.
too late to covet trophies and medals.

I know...
it is too late....
my knees tell me so...
every morning!

I guess...
it is too late,
to become an astronaut,
to encapsulte myself
in a small rocket.
shoot myself into
the stratosphere
and look down in awe
upon the blue planet.

too late to deal with training.
too late to get myself fitted
for the baggy astro suit.
too late to be given the bubble mask.
too late to feel the awkward gracefulness of no gravity.

I know....
it is too late...
my knees tell me so
each and every morning...


thank goodness...
it is not too late,
to be able to dream.
to forget arthritic knees,
in delirious early morning dreams.

to believe these things are beautiful.
to know hope and glory, even if only
in the moments when you are yet to
awake to this days humble grind.
to live other lives..... if only..... momentarily.


I guess....
and I hope....
there will always be...
time space for that.

I know there will
my knees tell me so.....

i find
old friend
of mine
that
you have left
your footprints
in my mind
from
the days
when you tromped
down the bracken
of my narrow and
parochial upbringing
then
planted the paper daisies
and  bright poppies
of free and radical thinking...

another coffee,
another time.
****!!
we were the it girls,
we were sublime.

all perfect legs
and matching hair
telling all,
what was just and fair

we ruled with an iron fist,
you were **** if...
you didn't make our list.


and now we meet again today.
our high school empire,
long ago and far away.

now two mothers,
standing on the side-line,
wrapped up in chunky clothes
just to stay warm.
so very distant,
far away from, looking fine

but we are happy now.
you with your third
and me with mine,
in chatting we discover
we have both redefined sublime.

and so,
we make time for coffee.
time to share,
the path that led us,
from there to here.

did you know?
did you hear?
what's the go?

chinese whispers,
cost us dear.

at the water cooler,
in the dark,
murmuring inanities
in the park.

gossip, gossip,
word of the day.

such and such's,
significant other
has run away.

in class
she hangs back
unsure of herself
a wallflower
yet to bloom
into beauty

she is delicate
and nervous
hugging the walls
watching, learning waiting

and then one day
she blooms
in artistic beauty
still delicate
but more assured
her voice, a whisper
we all lean forward
to hear.
body lithe
and so expressive
all are mesmerised

the wallflower,
now an exquisite rose

the mornings are now cold
and we stay in bed
as long as we can

rushing through breakfast
stampeding to the car
wrapped in many layers

and then the sun finds
it's warmth and we peel
ourselves like onions

the washing lines
are full of clothes
flapping the in the autumn breeze

and the leaves
are turning into artwork
the days are getting short
I hear the sound of axes
in the fields the birds are leaving
flying up to the north.

all the signs say autumn
all the signs are true
another year is flying by
winter's coming soon

in the blink of my eye
another thread frays
and breaks
the apron string one
thread smaller,
more fragile my hold
on your safe keeping

you run onto the field
oblivious to the loss.
reveling in the freedom
of running about with
an odd shaped ball.

I stand on the sideline
knowing you are small
but determined,
wishing for your blind
outrageous courage
yet knowing there will
be tears before bedtime.

the only question is,
will they be....mine
or yours?

I lay down
and let the green chlorophyll
envelope my soul

above, the blue eternity
of the clear Indian summer sky

at my left ear,
some small being,
scuttles about in the moist
hummus of the days decay.

at my right,
the silence of a rock,
quietly mourning
it's separation from the mountain

and underneath me,
grass continues to grow,
oblivious to the oppressive
weight I have laid upon it.
ever relentless ,in the search
for the  warm of the sun...

I smell the hope of the earth
as I lay upon it
and relax into the simply,complex world that lays beneath.
and it unquestioningly,
receives the stress,
that leaches from me...


and in the sky....a bird flies...
                                unencumbered.

the leaves are beginning to turn
the tips just edged with the glory
of colour

in the early morning air
that crisp nip
gnawing away at summer

and the birds are beginning to leave or forage for warm nesting

the little blucat, watches this
activity from the comfort
of the warm window ledges
in the sun room,
before dozing once more
head pressed to the warm glass

when the tongues of snakes
flicker in your words.

when the day is darker
in my mind,
than the greying of the clouds

when sighs sing, melancholy
refrains.

then from you I am gone....

into a world asunder
a city of  labyrinth alleyways
that lead all to a fountain
of water tainted,
by memories unkind.

it is there,
there you will find
the bare bones of me.
sitting, drinking
at the fountain head,
drinking rememberances
of days gone by,
days desperate, diluted
with desire of a better hope.

tis time
to let the words
tumble mumble forth

tis time
to let the laughter
gambol and play

tis time
to let the tears
slide down my cheeks

tis time
to sort the boxes
that contain your life

tis time
to dwell in memory
of many precious days

tis time, tis time.

putting words together
scarring paper
is just that
if there is no heart
surrendered to the art

we need not write in blood
but must stir the blood within
engage the soul,
release the paradigm.
nurture the word,
play with the rhyme

there,
lies the difference
between the poet
and the scribe.

a lit candle
sways in the evening breeze

soft jazz mellows the muse
as i sit and ponder...

the wonder of the indigo sky
lit with shimmering wonder

and framed in wood-smoke haze
tonight, i can  well, relate to vincent
as the shimmer,
whorls and blazes
in a late summer ****
of sensual delight...

i lay  quiescent to nature's glory
as day bleeds into night...

and on the wind of salted air
honeysuckle and jasmine mingle
i sip the crisp cold mango beer
and sink further into,
the quiet beauty.

fragile,
needing care,
impermanent,
not quite all there

standing
gently swaying
with wavering stare
hand held out
needing care

but garnering
indifference
and  misplaced disgust

what if that was
you or me,
or uncle alf
or sister beth

would you want
the world to walk by
deaf to the mumbled cry

these are people
just like us....
these are people...
give a f...

not just a ******* up
sweat stained buck
thrown at them
like they are muck
scraped off the bottom
of your shoe...

cause by god,
this might well
one day be you
seeking truth
and sanity
in the gutter...

fragile...so very fragile