it is just past
the witching hour
yet still i sit
stitching my id
into the gossamer
warp and weft
of the world wide web
a signature cosseted
in anonymity...
a virtual
i was here.... i live
and write to tell the
tale of my living...
stitch by lettered
stitch i leave a quilt
to cover my world....

it is you....
i love,
not because
of your looks,
tho many a head they turn

it is you ....
i love
not because
of the beauty of your blue green eyes,
tho many a time they have
raked my body
and left me,
naked and wanting.

it is you....
i love
not because of your hands
so gentle and strong
they,
that make works of art.

it is you i love
not because of your
generous heart
that gives with no thought
of cost or recall.

it is you....
i love
because you...
first saw me
and came through
the labarynthine traps 
and minefields...
to my frightened heart

you came...
took me by the hand,
and led me
to my
betterdays
it is you....it is you

old.... still,
kind,  
strength steps in,  
new paradigms to be created
all in long, past passion

yet still able,
yet ever will able,
to grow wisdom,


they...out there beyond
find new a rythmn
and  purpose
is it to be....

on all varigated,
arangements..... a new twist
perhaps....
some order, to the paradox
of the aboves.

what our...
never-ever-never world
should be,
we are a realm of
be all, end all, have all.

elephant's, we are to faded parchment memories.
the  mouse within,
loves a quiet,
realm of the wise....  
and careful, considered...
thought

but you...you....
fall beneath the thunder
of my steps...
in vain attempts,
to gain insight into
the hyperbole of my elephant's spinning dance

and the back scratching monkey's  never silent thought's
initiating as they be,
into the colour spectrum
of the latest...
popular...populace, fearful fancy.

be quiet as needs be,
says the mouse
the world will...
awake to wisdom,

spend fruitful time...
awaiting the calm to break

never is it above strength
allowed
the roles, the gifts,
we are given.

be  in on the  elephant's  new rythmn
and far above the monkeys purile, speculation

need, need, needs,rememeber awlays... quiet, desperate passion,  
and to fall gently
beneath the winds of change

be, find, do,
the extra-ordinary
see the kindness in the eyes
of all you encounter
and unfailingly,
return
the hopeful glace

burn, burn the oldest order
set the worlds,
infinite whorls......aright

and then
sing the stars
to sleep...
in the purple,
winkled, wrinkled hours
of the calm and pristine
shadowed span of the night.

i awake
an inexplixable sadness
welling from my sleep
laden eyes.

with cup of tea
warm in hands
i sit watching
the night give
up it's children
to the brimming
dawn.

and sigh
sadness
from the
innermost
secrets
of myself.

as tears
fall
unchecked
from my
eyes.

the momentum
of this thing......
is beyond us now.

it has it's own life,
feckless and free.
always rushing foward,
without thought...
to cost or methodology.

is is madness, uncontained
an unbridled and ferocious thing,
racing, raging  across the plains of inner sanity,
howling at reality.
running in circles
and raising,
a dust storm,
of desire
and deniability.

this thing,
wants not moss
or memory it wants....
passion and creativity.
the pouring out,
of the still waters,
that come from the
stagnant ponds and lakes,
of  unloved corners,
in  distant hearts.

this momentous
and puissant, calamity,
desires only,
to live and die briefly,
ever so brightly....
in a conglomeration
of magnificent,
twinkling junctures......
like fireworks set,
on and against
the indigo night skies..
all heat and glory
all colour and bang
all inspiration and reaction.

and then, when
the momentum,
slows and dwindles....
is finally spent.
it will, as always, lie down
and quietly cease to be....
leaving as an aftertaste,
both sweet and acrid bitter...
just a vague feeling
of nostalgic irrationality.

was going to write,
about rain....
falling in torrents,
outside my door.

but i feel if i write,
another rain poem.
i may just drown...
in the wet wistfulness,
of it all.

then i thought to write,
about my family
and my home...
how we, while not perfect,
seem to muddle on through.

but on reflection,
that might be,
as boring to you
as it is to me...
it's been done,
to with an inch
of it's happy, humdrum
life.

i could write of past angst.
pour out my damaged soul,
like a child with a macbre
show and tell.
or i could write,
how i fought,
so very hard,
to recover my self

i could write about items,
of sentimental import,
on the **** mantle shelf.

perhaps,
i just string together,
some,
mismatched words
and call it experimental.

run some syllables,
five, seven, five, together.
claim it's a hiaku.

write a detailed description
of you,
as you sit reading
the paper,
hair unkempt,
more salt than pepper,
brow slightly furrowed,
glasses a'perch,
your battered nose

and the crisp rustling
of the paper,
the ink smudging, your fingertips and cheekbones

but all these...
words and phrases,
descriptive and thoughtful.

are really just,
redundant drivel
my mind sneezing,
syllabalitic snot....

is this repetitive...
guff and garbage.
the best i've got...
geez louise i hope not...

be still,
           be the small silent
                                        calm

be quiet,
       be the small watching
                                        mouse

be pliant,
               be the seed
                         spinning on
                     the wind

be memory
                  be the glint in
                             the wise old
                elephant's eye

be wisdom,
                 be the paradox of
                             the monkeys
                      three

be kind,
            for kindness needs,
                               to never be
             lost or neglected

be strong,
                 be passionate,
                for the world needs
                                strength
              and compassion
in order to grow.
                

but above all,
                      be love.....
            and allow love to be...

in all it's ....
        wonderful,
          guises and capacity's

and these my son,
                are just some
    of the steps

       in being a better man.....

incandesence...
                     muted...
by the ravages of time.

sitting oh, so, carefully,
                               darned,
                      designer clothes.

still hauntingly beautiful,
                                          but...
more haunted,
                     by beauty lost....

elegenty arrayed,
                      trying to hide,
sun blemished,            
                   wrinkled, skin...
                                        away..
behind a mask,
            ..of make up
                         and geneality,
                      expertly applied

conversely,
doing more to display,
                              than deny,
the decades of living,
that had sailed....
                        blithely on by.

mutton....
            dressed as lamb
and mutton...
                 led to the slaughter
as she awaits,
             the loving embrace,
of her exquisitely beautiful...          
                                   daughter.

and while she does not...
                                 begrude
her daughter beauty....

she despises herself
              and the world she
                                   inhabits...
the world in which
                             beauty
is the beginning,
                         the middle
                              and the end.

so...
this is it!!!
we have reached,
the epoch!
and now busy,
ourselves,
buying souvenirs
and taking selfies.

what next...
if this is the age of,
best "whatever" ever!!!
where do we go from here?
after ever ... is done,
(remember the reality is,
ever is never really done!)

well i suppose we
'mose well pack ourselves,
into the best pine boxes,
ever made and return,
into the soupy oblivion
from whence we came.

with less than a whimper,
more of an apathetic sigh.
as we watch the best ever
epoch slide on by...

i sit on the edge
of your bed.
stroking your fine golden
hair,
as you murmur and mumble
in your sleep.

you had once again,
thrown off your covers
and lay with arms and
legs oustretched.

you are outgrowing
these pyjamas,
with the curious george
print.
you are out growing
this narrow bed,
made...
as your first,
big boy bunk

and sadly you are
outgrowing the toddler's
need,
to be within sight of
the mother.

i am glad you are defining
youself,
as independant.
i am glad you are going
through,
this season
of seperateness.

as it gives us,
comfort to know,
the examples we have set,
allow you to be,
a happy, carefree child
who can,
enjoy his own company
or,
can play within a group
quite happily.

but i do miss,
your squishy little hand
in mine...
i do miss,
those clinging cuddles
and the nestling
of your little body,
fitting, squirmily,
into the side of mine....

i must ask Da to design
a bigger bed for you....
perhaps now,
you can help him build it.

you have now  settled
back into deep sleep,
my golden boy
and yet,
i cannot  take
my leave of you....

i linger,stroking,
your sleeping head,
drinking in,
the last vestiges of my baby, my toddler...
my growing up, ever up,
faster than i thought...
little man..

looking down
at the grains of
sand
encrusted upon
my tide washed feet

i pause to ponder

how much older,
and far better traveled
these tiny chips of calcified
life and mountain grit must be...

now i have been to
many places....
L.A. Paris, London,
Dunedin, Melbourne
Hong Kong, Mooloolaba
to name but a few...

but these little bits of
seadust,
have lived lives
and lost,
have travelled
to and fro....
becoming ever...
smaller as they went....

shedding of themselves
to the greater entity.
becoming
one speck among......
                              bazillions

taken beyond their lives
of solidity by swirling
currents

only to end up as sand
upon my toes.

add some sizzle
to that pan
me an my man
like it
hot and spicy

add some heat
to that beat
me an my man
like to samba

add some passion
to that kiss
my man knows me
i like it  long, **** and sultry

eyelids heavy
grey day
red inked fingers
shuffling papers
words at play
bell curve unhappy
coffee cup empty
temper short
brain yelling
abort! abort!

the old man that lives
in my head...
woke up today and said....

nuthin new under the sun.
at sometime son,
we all be...
fakers,
takers,
******, muck rakers.

if you think,
you above that.
then...
you must be livin,
in a window-less,
glasshouse,  son.

sitting  on,
stoneless ground
and smilin...
cause you just don't know,
how downright, dumb,
you be.....

take it from me...
we all born into sin
and we all sometimes,
still like to put
a toe tip in
and swirl it all around....

see what can be stirred
up
see what can be found...

it's what we do with that
slime
that makes a man, gentlefolk
or street-grime......

on the desk,
lies a mountain of words.
peaks and valleys
of thought,
tortured or crafted,
into a landscape.

sometimes rich
and sometimes barren

i and my trusty pen,
Red,
must find trails and pathways,
again and again....

with just coffee and biscuits,
on which to survive.
we must criss cross
these foothills and
mountain peaks.

we search for,
inspired thought
and new ground broken.

i am pilgrim...once again.

i found this little poem
sitting unattended,
alone,
on a bench at
the bus station.

when i said hello...
the relief and elation,
on this little poem's face,
made me feel protective
of this, orphan creation.

so i took this little poem
home...
no longer lost,
it thrived
from three lines to five
and before
we wished it
happy cinquain
it had doubled in size,
again.

full, rounded verse,
in cursive copperplate.
as it entered puberty
its moods swung,
between...
love, anger, hate
and then struggled gamely through
depression angst and fear..
all jots and tittles,
with future, unclear.

but eventually it matured
as we all do....
into a thoughtful expression
of beauty and love,
a strong and independant
statement of grace.

and then it was time,
to say goodbye....
the little found poem,
needed to leave
and find it's place,
in the wider world.
needed to find
and impress a girl.

it said it needed,
to make a splash...
grab some cash...
it promised not
to become, just a jingle...

and to write when
he could....

but til then.... anon...

should i take azoth
to cure my sloth

it may well make
my mind like quicksilver
send me messages from
the mouths of gods
at round about 80wpm
or will it just make my moods mecurial
and put little beads
of silver sweat acroos
my furrowed brow
with it's inherent toxicity

if i take a dose of azoth
or liquid cinnabar.
i may live fast,
but i won't live long...
my old friend paracelsus
tells me "the dose makes
the poison" and in this he
is right.

i might skip the azoth.....
and the cinnibar liquid too
go for coffee instead....
or could just succumb
to sloth and stay in bed.

i know
i am beautiful
i feel it in my heart
express it through my art
and catch that self same
knowledge
when i gaze into my lover's
eyes

thus i have no need for
mirror's and their petty lies.

i know i am original
a masterpiece of anatomy
the placement of my
***** ******* and thighs
won't ever be the same
as yours,or hers, or his,
but i love the way i am made
and in that acceptance
of the makers mark
i feel that i am wise

thus i have no need for mirrors and their petty lies

i am original
i am beautiful
i am wise
i am a women
not prepare to
compromise
her love for self
by listening to lies.

the length of the write....
varies with the vagaries
of the topic and  type.

the time taken,
is often time....
forsaken,
forgotten,
forgiven.
a pause,
a rest.
stolen,
from a busy life.

the inspiration,
the notion,
the intonation.
sometimes,
a slow burn....
sometimes
a conflaguration

for me,
there is no formula.
no ritua.
just a pen
and a scrap of paper.

for me,
it is a brain,
just letting go,
giving up....
word flow

flotsam and jetsam
driftin along,
caught in the framework
of  creative phenom....
and given to me,
as i wander along.

thats why
punctuation,
does not figure.
just workin,
the beauty of
the words.

stitchin rhymes with
non, appros, de rigueur.

making words dance
on sprained syllable ligaments.
******* with thoughtful
ligatures.
spread with inspirational
linaments.

not needing,
the lime light.
but wanting some
bright candle work,
for to illuminate,
the process of the precepts,
to the multitudinal few...
who see through...
the intricate footwork,
to the stumbling
fatigue underneath....

sometimes long
and wordy,
sometimes succinct
and brief

but always, always,
with purpose...

sometimes mine
but often left
up  to you...

the reader.

thats how i do.....

hollow pointed flowers
litter,
the war torn fields,
watered,
by the blood from human
carcass's

left,
after the battle.
now,
become mulch and food
to toxic soil's greed


the children
play
among the dry, white
bones
building clacking, castles
high
and scavenging the metal petals  and kahki cloth
for with which,
they haggle, for food to buy.

their world of
decrepit decay,
exsists.....
under a cloud of grey
and with only the
memory of parents,
they make their own way...

what once was green
is now brown
and what was was steel
is now rust, upon
the ground.

but not the hollow flowers,
somehow,
they retain their gleam
and they glitter,
like diamonds,
in the harsh daylight.

they, the children,
the keepers of this world,
know not how
to smile or cry.

they live to survive
to them simple things,
like joy and laughter
are myths.

they have no time
to ask why...

but they love,
the little flowers,
that sit upon the sands.
the hollow pointed flowers
that feel right, within small hands.

and the songs
they sing, are murky
as to the prayers
they say,
before bedtime....
just, undefined mantras.
taken from the before.
when the gods,
were advertisements
and everybody suceeded.

everybody was needed,
everybody was blind,
to creed and colour
and the world was
fine and dandy.


and mothers loved
their children,
fathers walked beside.


this, before the sundering
before the parents,
fought and fought
and died.

leaving just dusty bones
in toxic fields
and bullet blossomed
flowers
to mark the loss
of life...
to mark the loss
of living...
to mark the end of
fighting....
to mark the end of
destruction...

after the dying was done

be a poet,
if you must...
but know this,
from one who cares.

it is an addiction,
that will cause strife.

you will,
learn stuff,
you never really wanted
to know.

you will,
find pieces
of your soul,
best forgotten.

you will,
stay awake
late into the night,
trying to twist a phrase
til, it turns out just right.

there will be,
tears and much,
frustration.

at times you will,
neglect your, everyday
life.

oh there will be, angst
and fear
as you let your poems go
and see your words fly...
or plummet to the unforgiving ground.

and yes i cannot deny
there will be joy,
much euphoric joy,
as you discover
new words
with which, to toy.

so be a poet, if you must
if you have,
a liking for
garrets and starvation.
enough to offset your
word lust.

...just be original
don't be a parrot
write for you first
and then for others
strive for exquisite
excellence....
but now it is
a fragile dissapearing
thing....


it is your life
you get to choose
your own folly...

¤ i borrow a snippet of a thought from ezra pound
and repurpose it...
to make a mothers plea...

..is it not time for us,
to remember how....
"to be men.... not destroyers"

so that we can give
a world .....
somewhat intact,
to those in the  following generations

is it not time....again

i bit my cheek
and then the
blood,
salted
the caramel
i was chewing.

it is these
small things,
a poet notices....
and wishes,
to make memorable.

i am not whole
or complete.
tho as previously
noted,
i am serene
with that fact.
at least for the present
factor of time.

i am damaged.
in body and mind,
but then i rely on
the indisputable truth.
we are all in a state
of decline...

my life,
more full,
than empty.

i now walk with
a slight limp.

my mind,
more order,
than chaos.

my black dog
lies asleep.

i have learnt,
to be happy,
with the blessings,
that have blown my way.

and accept that perfection,
is a waste of precious time.

i am not whole
or complete.....
but mostly....
i am better than fine.

the drops of dew cling
like petulant children
to the rusty stars of
the barbed wire fence

while below the sodden
ground is scarred with
the long footed imprints
of rabbit tracks
tufts of their fur can be found on the sharp edged
sticks of the fern fronds
that have been broken
by their hurried passing.

the sun light can only
be described as dappled
as it cascades in shifting
shafts of mote filled magnificence through
the slowly shifting leaves
of the gum tree canopy

and in the distance the bellbird peals
that clear sweet noted song
that brings a smile to my lips

in the underbrush a shuffling sound arises
an animal too wary of me
most probably a wombat
but perhaps something
more exotic, a bilby or
echinda, mayhap a goanna
i am destined not to know
as the sound recedes off
to the west....

and the kookaburras call
loud and raucous overhead

i walk on following the track
by the old fence...
so very aware, that,
here in the  aussie bush.
i am the indtruder....

in this moment
as the waves
erode the sand
beneath my feet

and the wind howls
across the white capped waves
i am serene

the future
while never stable
is ever hopeful
the past
dealt with as best
as one can

and the now
holds my hand
and watches our boy  
laughing,
as he chases sandcrabs

on the breakfast table
placed carelessly
with great love
in an old busted
coffee mug
a handpicked bunch
of  fresh peonies
still damp and dewy
pale pastel linensilk flowers
crumpled and beguiling
beside, a note
my love is but a garden
that blooms for you..
each and everyday.

gotta be like
aesop and his fable
slap a moral
on the table

talk about
old slow poke
tortiose on his hike
up against a speed freak
hare' barely all there
acceleration to spare
race don't seem fair

just a joke

but then the hare/rabbit
dagnabbit!!
takes a **** of
the green
juju.....whoohoo!!!
and when he awoke

the race was done
and the slow poke
helmut headed amphibian
had won...

hare standing  around
stunned
tortiose doin the happy,
i shined your ***!!!
shell shuffle

that enoughful......

yikes!!!

this is harder than
it seems
like interpereting
dreams

better,
start again...
find a new refrain
gotta make an
original stain
gotta use my incredible brainy, brain...

bring a new flavour
new story to savour
not some tired old jam
not for this poetry slam

so here goes
follow the flow
stay in the know

don't be a facsimile
a sad printed copy
take the high road
and write a new load
of out there, boxside
originality!!!

be one with totality
up at the mountains peak
where the angels speak
to those,
who have time
to listen.

one word, one world
glows and glistens
that word be, free
that word be LOVE
and love be liberty
to a soul broken

so the morale of
the day
freely give love away
as truth,
not a carnival token

the wise old woman
(yeah that be me)
now has spoken.

done now with
her word spin
done now

gotta go do
as she say
take some action

go give a nobody
a kind reaction
some hugular compaction

be a friend
to the friendless
the possiblities
endless
let charity
have a say

go on now
be one your way

i long for
             quiet
                     today,

a silence, so complete.

that,
i can not hear
my breath
whistling,
in and out
of my
genetically
imperfect lungs.

a silence, so serene

that,
i cannot
hear my
brain creaking,
as i think
thoughts,
far,
too heavy.

a silence, so magnificent

that,
i am  lost
in it's glory.

just for a heartbeat,
                                unheard.    
just for a synapse,
                               snapped.

silence

not, death, far too final.

silence

in all it's
              profound,
                             simplicity.

i come home
to
a mexican standdoff
of
sorts

on the inside
of
the window
the
little blucat
with
firebrush tail
and
arched back

facing off against

the big
busterfer jones
tom
from 3 doors
down

black
and white
persian
moggy
more than
twice
the size
of gus blucat


pressed
up
against
the outside
of the glass

normally
the
best of buds
but
there is
a
new girl
in town
and
she sings
a siren song

so it is
bared claw
at 3 paces

as i
put down
my keys
there is a
muted
thump,
thump.

they have
rushed
each other

forgeting
the magic
of glass

and now
as i
finish
r.o.l.f.ing

i see
they
have
retired
to their corners

with that
was'nt me
that did that
dumb thing
look

as they
wash their
paws
with backs
speaking volumes
and eyes still
crossed.

is it in learning,
the art
of contemplation,
that we become
poets ?

or is it,
because,
we have become
poets,
that we learn,
to contemplate
life....

in all it's varied hues.

i will need,
to think further
upon this....

...and then,
get back to you.

my
fascination
is
today
with
the
not
quite
seen
those
flickerings
in
the
periphery
visual
line
the
ye­t
to
be
thought
half
formed
nebulous
inklings
mind
wrinklings
the
words
balancing
precariously
on
the
tip
of
the
to­ngue
the
song
of
joy
or
sorrow
yet
unsung
the
dance
step
stagnati­ng
in
the
toe-tap
the
poem
waiting
to
be
found
in
the
shadow
of
t­he
corner
of
almost
and
rhyme
these
are
the
things
that
fascinate­
that
whittle
and
while
away
at
my
precious
time

one small leaf
set adrift
from the tree

torn asunder
in wind rain
and thunder

battered
by
life's storm

now balances
pecariously
on table's edge

not yet ready
to become
detrius underfoot

waiting
daring,
demanding
to become
just another
fond,
frail memory

pale
green
perfection

unblemished
bar the untimely
amputation

each cell
delineated
in cellular beauty

taken
far too
young

sometimes
you gotta
hate

natural
selection's
descisions

sometimes
mother nature
is dumb...

crushed
but
not defeated

they
leaf brothers
and sisters
will but
carry on....

for they
are
young and hopeful

ignorant
but
strong

one death
can be absorbed
and lost in living on

the tree
will
stretch
ever upward

for that
is the
tree's

everlasting
song

seek
the sun

seek
the sun

and you
can never
go wrong.

roll up! roll up!!
you fine hearted boy.
time now to put down,
the store made toys.
time to make magic...
with the inside,
of your mind
roll up! roll up!!
to the dream circus
let's see what we find....


melamine monkeys
mimic monstrousity's
mangling, minor majorities
in musical mayhem
symphonies, sublime
playing  mozart in part on
a shiny yellow kazooo

meanwhile marshmallow
crocodiles smile with
mincing beguile
at ****** moo cows
meandering miles
in crooked zig-zag lines
making milkshakes
all the while...

mouses and mices
are avoiding becoming
itty bitty pieces of
rodent and crabapple pie
by milling mindlessly
around the mound
of milliners, by the by.

now to
meet and greet at the
zoo
mrs hippopotomus
has ginger biscuits and
mango milk ready for you
while you watch the fleet of zebras  and their plataypi  crew,
sail in the xebec regatta
twice around the isle of goo.
before saying
huzzah and hooroo
they won the championship
whoohoo!!!!
it's all a happenin,
at the bing **** bingle zoo


but for all these
amazing thing to occur
my lad
you have to pay your dues
so close your eyes,
and sleep .....
and you  will see
a wonderful dream or two....

oh' where did those days go
those enid blyton days
when my greatest wish
was to be jo, from the famous five....

those long and glorious
summerdays....
of sunshine and youth.

when bikes and fresh air
whipping past your face,
was way more....
important,
than winning the ratrace.

when the local creek
was the multiplex,
with so many different worlds on show ....
at each
new bend of the
winding, water slow.

when life was a beach
and living was carefree..

those days of watermelon
slices and orange icee's
backyard cricket....
belt it over the fence
for a six and out!!!

bbq'd sausages,
smothered in onions
and tomato sauce....
slapped on a slice,
of good white bread,
sufficed as dinner.

with a salad of course,
(if quick the salad could
be served surreptisiouly to
the local wildlife with a slip
and tilt of the paper plate)
if lucky, strawberries and
icecream to follow.

oh' those were the days,
simpler than most...
when the biggest
difficulty
was in ,cadging
one more hour,
before sleeping at night.
one more chapter,
(perhaps, even two)
of adventuring
with the famous five,
before sleeping....
under the security
of  youth...

the salt of the sea
calls to me...
it is time,

it is time,
for re-immersion
it is time,
to revitalize
your winter, wearied soul

come little being.....
be swaddled in my watery folds

be bold,
my little one....
tho the water, may be cold

my friend....
the sun shall
warm your skin
and in my depths
you know you will find,
joys untold.

i take my towel and heed,
the whispers of the waves.

for me....
my summer's soul
to brave, the tang  
and crisp, cool clarity,
to redeem my sanity.

i walk, run, and
dolphin dive past
the breakers,
into the depths
of watered reality.

seventeen slimey slugs,
lay drunk and dying,
in the beer bath.
but not before,
their skullduggery,
had been done,in amongst the lettuce and silverbeet.
now made lacework,
by the snipping of slug teeth.

there is something
so very wrong
with this marble
when a four year old
gets into
the back seat of a car
and asks

mumma,
who is ISIS?
and why do they want to
stab us?

she sits
pressed into the
corner of the sofa
a scrap of a thing
so frail
and beautiful
but
somehow
damaged

hee marks
have dropped
from
high distinctions
to
pass-fails
and
whilst
she attends class
her voice is
no longer heard
her body
barely there
she has gone
from vivacious
to corpse bride....

and we are worried

she is crying silently
big sad tears
roll down her cheeks
as she tries to
dissappear into
the fabric of the couch

the index finger
of her right hand
is desperately scratching
at the fabric

i ask the questions
gently.....interspersing
them with safe statements
what is wrong?
you are not in trouble
we just want to see you
happy.
is there any thing
i can do to help?
any thing you say
in here will not be
repeated without your
permission.
why are you so sad
at the moment?
you are safe in here


her lip quivers
she pulls into herself
even more
she is a ball of misery

we sit......

and then a whisper
so quiet and tremulous
i almost did not catch it

he ***** me.....
i said no....
but
he ***** me....

we as poets,
are like birds....
in the sky.
soaring against,
the backdrop of
nature's grandeur

while aloft, we espy,
beauty and sorrow
and all the stuff....
that living life makes,
and falls forgotten,
in-between the cracks,
of just.... being.

from which,
we as poets,
glean .....
words and phrases,
that cause us to,
ponder, wonder
and cogitate.

those whispers of love.
sighing, breaths and sorrows
thoughts of futures blest,
of now, i am impressed
and yester's hollow,
and yet to be put to rest.

and bring them home,
with loving care,
to nidificate....
to interweave what we
see, hear and feel... & know
into the nesting chamber
for our wordlove....
                       for our poem

in they bustle,
all gangle, jangle,
gossip and hangovers.

shoes off,
displaying,
a variety of socks.
paired, odd and holey

and then, we begin,
by greeting the sun
and follow thru,
to twistings,
of the tongue,
limber up,
both mind and body.
voice work too,
some improv games,
just enough to....
rattle the brain.

before beginning,
the "mash up project"
in which they pick
two scenes,
from
classic and well known works
and create a scene,
using them...

10 percent of
semester mark.
some interesting choices,

macbeth meets mother courage.
r&j;, on the streetcar of desire.

but my favourite so far,
metamorphosis at pinter's
birthday party.

oh! the young creative mind,
is such a glorious,
unbound thing....

one eye open,
jackhammer in brain
....appears to be blucat
purring.

i see,
my hangover
has not....
diminished his,
need for food.

one eye closes,
drifting off again,
my head, so heavy...

one eye open, again.
whaaa...!!!!
staring up at,
a wrinkly bald blucat belly...
his front paws, on my forehead
backpaws, top of my chest.
still purring...
so not,
letting me rest....

determination...
thy name is....
hungry kitty.

the crow calls
his mournful dirge
once twice thrice

early this morning
when the sky is  still
grey twilight
and his song of sadness
seeps in past the window frame,
to alight in my heart


today, you
would have been
fifty five...
and there was to be
a massive party
fifty five a glorious age
you said you were going
to retire.... see the world
but i could not see that
you who loved her job so....

but all of that,
immaterial now.
it is just past six months
since you died...
lung cancer...
metatasized to the brain
****** filthy cigarettes

i will raise a glass to you
my friend.....
probably more than one
some in joy and some in tears....

and the crow calls
again and again.....

tea leaves
drift off the
spoon
dancing
down
to rebirth
albeit
scalding hot
in the cheery
little blue
teapot..

lover of mine,
just wanted to
let you know
somedays
you are'nt my other half ,
you are my whole.

those days you are the
keeper of my soul...


but then my love,
there are those
DUMB MAN days,
when you struggle
to be a quarter...

just being honest....

with ya...

this a DUMB MAN day...
get it together....please

on the opposite side of
the world
the green budded fingernails
of the frangipani unfurl
to their lush full verdancy

all the flowers stand tall
to see the sun
and open coloured arms
for a full-scented hug

the birds are all a twitter
with nursery nests
and sqeaking chirking beaks
and in the pond small rafts of gelatinous eggs are watched over by frogs

there is that wonderful
tang of warm salt and
eucalypt wafting inthe breeze

autumn for us down
under just a pleasant
memory...
here we now look forward
to the summer sun..

we i was young
and perpetually broke

and equally bored
there was a place
i would go...

with towel in hand
and a bottle of red cordial,
a book to read
and reef brand coconut oil,
in a cotton shoulder bag.

i would set off down
to the beach,
a mile or so away.
filching, apples and milk
money, along the way.

once there, would find
a spot up near the dunes
and stay and read and broil
away.

breaking my sunbaking
only to go buy
"three dollars of chips
and a chiko roll"
with money purlioned
and a guilty grin...

ocassionally i would fall
asleep and wake up
lobster red....and suffer
the burn for days..
but the more you suffered
the deeper the tan..
nut brown was the desired look.. or in these days
parlance cafe au lait....

now i pay for that innocent
delight...
with checks,three monthly
on sunspots and the lurking
fear of melaloma always near ...

i am not the only one,
there is a generation,
of sun bronzed aussies.
who now pay dear,
for those earlier
ignorant years.