it is a day of sunshine,
yet i am chained
to a desk.
balancing budgets.
but oh! how the sun calls.

it whispers,
sweet, slices of
watermelon dreams,
in to my ears.
it murmurs, bubbling
brooks of tantalizingly,
****, homemade
lemon-limeade.
it talks, incessently
of mangos, eaten warm
and straight from
the skin...

it beckons me, to sin,
to walk barefoot, across
forbidden grass...
to the sand...to the sea


oh! how the
springtime sun
beckons me....

yet,
here i sit,
admist budget misery....

a creative entity,
kept far too busy,
unraveling the enigma,
unwrapping the riddle,
of the mystery novel,
that is living life....
euphorically, emphatically,
whilst furiously rowing,
in ever dwindling circles,
a slow-leaking dinghy,
on life's
idiosyncrasea....

that kind sir
just about sums up
the story of me....

he cleans his paws,
with a delicate pink tongue.
always the left first.

he is a cat of order,
not for him,
haphazard ways.

i sometimes wonder,
how he survives,
in our chaotic house.

but then,
i see him hidden up
high in the bookcase
watching us all, beneath him
dashing madly about,
with amusement,
quivering at his whiskers.

and after all...
he is...
the god of wrinkly things.

my left foot,
is the one,
that now drags
yet my right breast
is the one
that has begun to sag
it's just a matter of balance
you see.

i have what i want...
and
sometimes more
yet
still i whinge
and whine, like a bore.

i am loved and blest
with husband, child,
a cat and, the rest.

but still somedays
i know...
i have failed life's little
tests

and somedays
i am way, way,
short on zest.

they tell me
i am,
peri menopausal
and that may well explain ....some of the above.

my hair is graying
and my waist ....
best not mention,
my waist(overound).

and to be honest
there are days,
i feel like i am fraying
around the edges.

but not,
going to complain
at least,
not loudly
for that may give
the impression
i'm vain....
and really i'm not...

i am just a....
middle aged mother
slowly....losing the plot.

her hands
once strong
and beautiful

now frozen
into gnarled
and sculpted
tree roots

by arthritis

all bent
and knobbed
aching joints

thier skin
marred with
wrinkles
and spots

stretched
taut over
aches
sagging
inbetween

nails
kept
trim

her hands
almost
but not quite
useless

is that
how
she feels
within.

"we are learning to ...
fish in the river of sorrow"*
Faith Sherien

this has been a year of
hard lessons.....
of trying,
again and again,
to perfect the the cast
to catch, cleanly,
the fish of loss.

to split it open,
and seize it's innards...
the stench, the messiness,
the ichor, the guts.

to scale the skin,
rough, cutting scales,
little tear shaped discs.

to eat of the flesh....
chewing, chewing, chewing
on the hope of afterlife.

and picking the bones clean
of delicate, delectable memories....

hard lessons,
too many this year,
yet all a part,
of a fishermans journey....
down, the river of sorrow.

the citrus caviar
of the finger lime
is introduced to the
tongue

where the spheres
of sunshine and
pale green love
sit tingling.

until upward
pressure is applied
by the tongue being
placed against the roof
of the mouth

and the jewelled sacs
burst, releasing their cargo,
all **** and refreshing,
evoking a fine summers day
with just a hint of,
exotic islands in the aftertaste

and a desire,
for more delicate,
citrus love...

sorry joe
tried, can't write
a poem about sand....
each time i try
all that comes out is

" like sand through,the
    hourglass.....
    so are,
    the days of our lives"

huh, talk about subliminal
indoctrination....

i place the configuration
of bones,
commonly known as hands
against the convex cusp
of my cheek,
then place the whole mad
contraption ,
elbow first onto the bench,
that seperates you
the bartender,
from me,
the person wishing,
to inhale copious amounts
of alcohol....
and say in my finest
of linguistic stylings....
"can i  ave  another....of
da ***** mules....ta

.....muchly luv...."


upon your denial,
of my well worded request,
i being both,
discombobulated and distraught,
cry,
into some one else's beer,
before leaving,
to stagger and stumble home....

where i puke $73.00+ dollars,
worth of cocktails,
into the porcelian bowl
of the only restroom,
in the apartment...

a butterball sun,
sits low in the
morning sky.

as the weekend peloton, whizzes on by and down
the hill.

in the council's headland park precinct,
the illegal nomads,
are being rousted
and evicted from, their overnight, purlioned and picturesque views.

the early fishermen,
in their dinghies,
dot the teal sea and
the sail boats,
are racing out further,
white sails, against blue sky.

in our pond,
the koi leap in a frenzy,
trying to catch,
the itty, bitty, midgey bugs.
and the old blue tongue,
comes out to settle on his
rough log .

the bees work tirelessly,
from flower to flower.
as the blue wrens,
gossip and preen,
in their lilac bower

the dragon flies dart
about in distraction.
while over at
the milkwood patch,
you can see the caterpillars,
are busy decimating,
leaf after leaf.

i sit on the porch,
coffee in hand.
newspaper forgotten
on the side table.
slowly taking this beauty all in.

as the aroma of eggs, bacon and pancakes, drift from within.

i have been attacked
on another poetry site
because i found a
baby plagierist....

it is of no matter
really...
a storm in a teacup...
i only mention it here
because...
the logic of the this cyber ****,
was so very ludicrious.

among the swearing
and none to inventive ways
i should go **** myself
was this little gem....

"and stop using a dictionary
to make yourself look smart"

now...i am honest in saying
none of the ranting had affected me up to this point....

but this...just left me...
       .... rolfing.....

as poets....is not that part of
our credo...is the dictionary
not one of our basic tools.

anyway..just thought i would share this
as an example of the genius
minds that take up trolling.

so many,
        so, so many stories....
                that remain untold

love hidden within....
                      the shy breast

justice that has yet ....
                           to unfold

joy blooming within....
                                the bud

sadness caught up in ....
                              life's tangles

a new road to forge....

            old steps to retrace....

the recogntion of hope....
   burgeoning in a new place

the light growing dim....
          or the bulb turning on

first words....last words....
and all the words....
        that lie somewhere....
                                in between

within all....
the grain of sand
that can become the pearl

as poets....
we are a voice to the world.

we stood
             transfixed
                         in disbelief
as the day of 9/11 unfurled

way down here ....
at the bottom of the world
  we cried in horror
        as the buildings died
            and so much was lost

all on small screens of despair....
and tho, life moves on...
the feeling of loss...
stays, right there.

apparently...
i have ...been told
i write organically
....from the soul.

spending my words
on healing...
on feeling.... empathy
....and seeding thoughts
sublime...

i am not sure... if ...this
is indeed...what i do..

it is what i feel,
i recieve.... from the
majority of you...

...when i write
the thoughts just
flow...
i do not sit and ponder
and construct....
....mostly .....i do not ....reconsider
but.. often leave the
punctuating marks....
to just before i deliver

i mostly.... do not capitalize
and is because it breaks
the flow...and then when
done....
well if honesty does now speak.....
i suppose it is my laziness
that keeps my poems in
the lower case...

i write... what is ...at that point me....
.. a reaction to what i feel
and see...
and i write.... to play...with words and thoughts.....
to have a voice.... to have
say...
but.... mostly and most importantly... i try to write
each and every day...

it is my... small voice
..in this ..crowded place.
it is me....
just happy to be....
...addicted .....to poetry..

and so, the calvous dome
which held his brain,
was set upon
a scrawny frame,

of bleach-ed,
parchment on bony wire.
all cobbled to together,
with old horse glue.

and covered with
clothes of a faded,
soft, denim blue
and when,
this sombulant
pile of  aged junk,
moved he sorta slunk
and creaked and clacked,
accompanied by a stench
that was not of rose.

clouded eyes,
blackened teeth
toe nails,
reminiscent
of a coral reef.

this was the old man,
who lived in the old
winnebago van.

this was the old man,
who always lent a hand.

who loved us all from afar,
who left us a library,
when his life was spent
and he was to heaven sent.

my thoughts, to prosaic
for poetry today.

to many minute,
details in play.

too many red *****,
to be kept in the air.

that i must speak,
my words plainly
without, any flair.

today i must,
just plod
ever forward
with out, any fuss

and if by dint
of hard work and despair
i make the end
of the job list,
i get myself there.

only then i suppose
i may sit on my laurels
and begin to compose

but until then,
shoulder to boulder
and grinder to nose.

my thoughts to far prosaic
for frivelous and
self satisfied
wordplay, today.
to this course, i have chosen
true, i must stay....

coffee steaming, in ceramic cup.
eyes cast down, toward pine boarded floor.

i breath in and then exhale.
the coffee then passes my lips.

i sigh once and then once more.
stolidly, continue to study the splintered floor.

struggling to surmise.
the reason for the sadness in your eyes.

the problem in a nutshell,being at the age
of just about four.
you have no idea of the score  or even,
how to play...

an hour
and an hour,
past,
the twelve struck gong.
my eyes lie open,
my heart awakened
by the notes,
of a sad, sad song
of longing,
now,
lounging ,
in my psyche
and i see the wisps
of half-remembered
dreams fading in
the moon bright air.....
oblivious,
to my waking.
my lover slumbers on,
as i try,
to capture the words
of the sad, sad song....

the bellRINGS
                     tinitubular
sending curlique vibrations
             of sound unseen
but felt at the very  heart
of the core
            and then there isJOY
floating around in moted
                          DEFIANCE
small smidgens fall like        
              MANNA
on the thirsting ground.
   and in this simple action of grasping at  INSPIRATION
we the poets
                    hear
                         the ECHOES  
                of lives unlived
and see the beauty of        
                               DREAMS

yet to be broken
                and in that
                        small moment
we are the KEEPERS of the
                     world  
WITHIN the bells that are
                              RINGING

sometimes when i
contemplate the art
of grocery shopping

i yearn for much simpler
days

when butter was just butter
and no one knew the harm
that it could do..

those days when you did n't
worry about milk
simply because it was
delivered in clinking glass
bottles right to your door

when you knew the butcher
who cut up the cow
and you knew that the pork
sausages came from the pig.

and when your mum
sent you to get the fish
she sent you with a clean
pottery dish

those day of yore
when fifty cents would
buy a coke some chips
a sherbet bomb and more.

but those day are long gone
and i must move on

so again when i shop
tommorrow
i will stand in front of the
twenty brands of margerine
spreads and butter
and endevour not to mutter
about the fact
that butter is still, just butter.

there
is
so
much,
magic
in
the
motes
of
light,
limed
dust,
that
dance
in
windblown
ecstasy,
before
my
sl­oe
lidded
eyes,
as
i doze
in
the
sunkissed
study,
of
my
much
blessed
house,
so
that
is­
why
i
smile,
while
dozing,
utterly
and
blissfully,
content
in
my­
very
own
fairytale.

in times, long gone
to the books of ...
once upon memories,

she was,
a princess beautiful
and he,
a hero dashing and bold.

and they,
made adventures
of everyday things...

breakfast,
a sight to behold,
with armies,
of bread solidiers
waging an egg war
and maple bacon,
hors d' oeuvres,
breaking down,
pancake castle doors.

they,
played at history,
through out
the day,
creating mystery,
along the way
and after a dinner
of an inspirational stew.

they,
practised romance,
the whole night too.

they,
were young of heart
and wise of mind
but in one instance,
oh! so very blind.

because they,
forget one thing....
one very important thing...

they,
left the real world behind.

so now,
trapped in wonderous
fantasy....

they,
crave, with mindless,
intensity
a small glimpse,
of reality
to give balance,
to the fantasy.

that has now,
become a far less,
tantalizing thing
and is now,
more like a toturous,
slow closing...
neck ring.
stifling, all life,
causing,
no end of strife
in a world....
far less.... perfect,
than first thought,

this is the world, that
boredom wrought...
now, slowly come undone
now slowly, come undone
now slowly come, undone.

there once was a time,
when her face was unlined.

her hands,unseamed
and uncalloused.

her eyes, bright and unclouded.

her *******, perky and full.

her back straight,
her stomach, tight and naturally, slightly concave.

and she had legs, that turned heads and a walk,
that created many,
a wolf whistle.

but then,

she had a life,

left her youth behind,

married,
badly, as time would tell.

had four children,
watched one die.

discovered,
she had married,
a selfish, gamblin man.

got a job
and then a second,
just, to feed her clan.

watched the love die.

then, watched him leave
with a resigned ,
yet  a relieved sigh.

raised,
two rambunctious boys
and a sickly, stubborn girl.

then, watched them leave.
launched them,
succesfully,
into the world...

now, the years,
have gone, bye the bye.

and with,aching back and teary eyes, she shuffles on
toward her demise.

with the memory of
times long gone,

and the echoes
of wolf-whistling guys,
legs long and lean
and her unlined face
with, eye catching smile.
giving her a sense of
inner grace....
that plays upon
her lined and crumpled face.

as she relives her youth
in her memories
as she finds that wonderous place, when once she was young.....and oh so beautiful.

and the word
                 rolled of my tongue
raced past my lips
          to pratt fall to the floor,
buster keaton style
      only to lie in a curlicue
puddle on
the ***** sky blue lino....

people applaud my performance
in a politely
dissaffected way,
before
returning to they desultory
gossip with regard  to
the state of the art draped
upon the walls....
strange blueprint of
                  mug ulgy beasts.
they say, in excellent      
                 babylonian accents
dropping
tibits of manna cake
and spilling ambrosia nectar
all the while....

**** me
i am  going to have to
get the clouds steam cleaned again... hope
monsoonal cleaners are'nt
busy this week..

and the word squiggled away to hide in the corner

her light is dim,
her words are slow,
she ambles now.

no more for her,
the rat race.
no more,
the daily grind.

her food is mush,
she sits alseep, for hours,
in the warm sunshine.

no more hustle, nor
any hint of bustle.

she is stooped
and has made
an art,
of the acts of decline.

no more,
taking orders,
she, bides her own time.

she knows,
her coil is ending
and that, the gentle night
beckons.

but still she whines.

until shooshed and comforted and put up,
into bed.

this old dog, Bess
has lived,
long past her prime.

it is just a sense
of well- placed loyalty,
that keeps her mind
fixed on staying, here
with John...
way past her alloted time.

i woke up today,
to find:
my husband still loves and
desires me,
my child still thinks, i am
wonderful,
my cat thinks, i control
the weather and is grateful
i made the sun shine.
i have a job i adore
and  it allows me to play
and in playing ignite
the creativity in young
and bright souls,
i still fit comfortably into
last years spring clothes,
i, with my husband own our
own home and are finacially
secure,
i and my family, are all
happy and healthy,
i am surrounded by friends
who value my worth
and whose worth and love, is of inestimable value to me,
i still love and desire my husband... and think my child wonderful,

and that,
some number of people, read my poetry
and enjoy it.....

i thank the gods,
for all of the above.....
but if honest,
the last is but icing
on the best tasting,
chocolate cake....
that is the rest of my life....

as the hands ever unseen,
push forward,
the tines of time,
i lie with eyes open,
but it must be said,
with a desperate desire
that they be closed.

i listen to the wind rail,
against it's perpetual,
homeless state.
fury has been it's nature,
this past long night
and has doubled
the occupancy of this old
king bed,
sprawled beside me now safely asleep,
is a tangle of blucat and small, but growing to fast, child
both resting, hard up against the lee- side of the man mountain.
all creating a purring, snuffling, snoring thing,
that has an equal measure
of comfort and annoyance, circulating within my brain.

outside the house,
something has come adrift, but not enough, to blow away and it bangs in an awkard thunking rhythm agin the side of the house.

in the bed it is warm
and slightly sweaty.
outside of the bed,
it is crisp and overcool.
outside the window,
the sky is lightening,
to a grey that portends...
a long day

i make my choice
and leave the warmth in search of, the first of,
far too many coffee's

and the unseen hands,
still move,
the tines of the
old grandfather clock.
ever onward, everforward.

surrounded by silence
only the slowblink
of the blucat eyes
in the stgyian gloom
of the overcast night
sleep eludes, sleep eludes

small smiles on the sleeping
godboys face
slack relaxed exhuastion
from the father, man mountain, hibernating bear.

single sips of chamomile
tisane....sit in silence
no gain in scrapping against
insomnia.. better to succumb
to calm evening solitude
sleep will come, sleep will
come

i see today,
the first glimmering
of summer,
in the curl of green nails,
on the deadman fingers
of the frangipani.

i see today,
the last sighs of winter
in the dessicatted, crumbling, leaves being,
blown ever which way
by the gusting, September winds.

i see today spring,
coming up,
in shoots of green,
sprung from the rain softened soil.
all different hues,
of potential and expectation
rising from the ground.

i see today, the the last glimpse of autumn,
in that pallette of a leaf,
stubborn throughout the winter now finally,
come to grief and floating, serene in silent submission, on the pond of koi.
the oranges and browns
blending into the watered background.

i see today,
all the seasons,
in the sky
and all around me,
time moves forward
and every moment,
counted as precious
and noted by this poets eye...

unleash the mind
from the worn workaday bind
jump the groove
leave inhabition behind

for a moment, an hour , a year
let it all unwind
unravel and spool
to lie limpid on the sand
let the physche sojourn
let it be
leave the worry, the regret
and fly the cosmos
or sail the carribean
or better yet
do naught  
but unbind the bound
unbide the  biden
let loose the liger
and find
sweet freedom
if only to ask directions
to the  nearest  
imagine-that-atorium.

on a wet morning
at the university

the library is full
of  people in need  of
a place to dry out...

in the quad, people
rushing from here to there
the bins full of dead and dying umbrellas

and in the library
the smell of wet dog
and wool pervades the air

the barista's
at the coffee shop
do really well

the classes are smaller
they also have that smell

and at some time you will
hear a fire bell
set off by,
someone sneaking
a smoke inside.....
then evacuation
and all hell
if you are in the block
forced outside...

weather: wild and brooding,
seas, roaring and bruising
the coast.
rain, bucketing down and flash flooding, about.
trees, going side ways,
three doors down, red gum
uprooted, narrowly missed the house, garden shed obliterated.

it appears that winter has
saved it's fury for it's last gasp, this year....

time to get the wellies on...

i ate
my weight
ten times over ten

all green leaves.

now i encase
my fat body's face
in chrysalis
and
become, soupy,
torturous bliss
awaiting wing-ed
grace.

i awake
and crack the
membrane
crawl dishrag damp
out into summer's
kind light
and slowly
spread my wings.

please,
do not think
me vain.

but as i await
my wings to dry
and the glorious dust
to set.
i wonder at the ironic beauty,
that i, the fat catterpillar,
has become,so fine
and delicate,
an exquisite pallete upon
the canvas sky....

i take flight and find
freedom....
is a state mind
that flits upon the wind
and knows,
dfrom the beginning
             beauty is always
                            from within.

colin, was a camel
who liked to roam

a two ****** fella
sort of brownish yella
decidely cool and mellow

had an eye on the road
always moving forward
albeit at a somewhat leisurely pace
and always with a goofy
smile on his face.

never looked back
and that's a fact
often found straying
from the beaten track
never in lack
of a kind word or to
incredably pragmatic
in his point of view

when asked his opinion
on the world today
stated emphatically
ya just gotta hope
and pray....that
and stay outta
the big boys way.

colin the camel
who liked to roam
had eleven big brothers
who stayed at home

colin was wise
most were twiçe
his size
and the rest
had habits
that attracted flies.

so colin kept
more than one step ahead
cause if they caught up
with him
colin was dead....

i  detour on the way home
to the light house on the headland
such a grandiose appellation
for a stolid white box  with
a light in it...
more utalitarian than romantic
but still it is nice to see it blink on

but i digress ... i am so ****** tired
beyond the bone, right down to the marrow
god this winter has been so long
and the grief i drag around,
in tattered threads... and sepia tones
leaves me cold....

my heart not in the teaching...
i feel disjointed, displaced .
i have misplaced the knack
to find the joy in youthful creativity
and am running this marathon by rote

i worry that the key won't turn in the lock
and i will be caught within
this cage...
an exhibition in the museum
to has-beens  and never-were's

yet paradoxically...
my performance stellar
sometimes so good
that i fool myself...

god send spring soon....
or i fear am come undone

it has rained for a week
cold and bitter here
give strengnth to  the roots
of my tidily packaged fears

and if i don't see spring soon
they will be spread and torn and ripped
and you will see the inside and
understand the grift

and there the light blinks on
sending out the saving beam
safe secure and strong
and in the shadows
you see the woman
scrabbling at the earth
burying deep in sandy loam
the thoughts birthed from
an  overtired mind
the thoughts that she
must not nurture ...
that needs be left behind
buried deep, stomped  hard
into the ground...

and as she stands in the lee of the light
and looks to the sea ..... she sighs heavily
the turns back into the deepening night
less heavy of heart....able to continue
the fight..... one last look...
then homeward bound....
thanking the lighthouse
and leaving  sacred ground.

today
i sit in mendicant's pose
on
the corner of
webster and roget

please
some one throw some words
my way....

the little blucat
surfaces from
underneath
the pile of
cat's rugs
and
old towels
shakes his head
and stretches
his creaking old bones
before going to sit beside
his food dish and scolds
the day for being so long
and bitterly cold and wet.

when you find yourself
standing,
on the corner
of somewhere and desloate

holding a sheaf of sunbeams
whilst humming hopeful
show tunes
with a small nonedescript
black dog(you call bozo)
on a leash, lying belly up,
submisssive, at your side

that is when you have found
where recovery resides.

and when you know
way down in the abyss
inside
that you are looking at
a new way of being,
not necessarily
rose-tinted seeing.

and in that knowledge
you find the honesty
to decry...
that while, you be,
both living and visiting,
on the sunnyside.

that tho, somedays are fine,
some saltmine hard
and some too hard
to define....

despite all that
too-ing and fro-ing
all those tendril thoughts
and clouded over dark days
all the whispering
and bargaining fey things
your internal filmaker brings
to bear,
on the walls of your sanity
you will come through
with sunbeams glowing...

that is when you know...
....recovery
is the key to the lock
on a house...
                 in a suburb....
that does not have streets
named....

somewhere and desolate....

let us speak in tones.....
                                hushed......
of mountains and molehills. 
benchmarked by tape measures,
underscored, with
concerned....
                     apprehension.

for now it is time,
to masticate the elephant
and the roaring lion too.
with silver plated forks
and knifes undulled....
                                 with use.

slap down your....
                            grievance
on the noritake dinnerware
and partition....
                       the proportion,

dissect the angst,
and delicately place,
the rage,
between your bloodless lips. 
to sit ashlike on your.....        
                       scathing tongue.

we will drink....
                             once more,
one last time, one sip of,
your aged bitterbile wine,
in leaden crystal goblets.
smile at your witticisms,
however, humdrum...
                            and malign.

and then,when the elephant,
is but ivory and leather. 

and the king of beasts,
now, but a tattered rug....
                     upon your floor.

we shall cry....
                          jubilee, jubilee, cry freedom. 
our indenture is finally done.
emancipation now has come.

and we will run.......
                           we will run.

it is then,we will be.....
                          looking at life, 
with kaleidescope eyes.
fitted with lenses of love, joy,  
and liberty, crystalized.....      
                                        within.

we will be,dancing......
                            the fandango,
with robust, rebellious gusto
and singing glory....
                         hallelujah riffs.

and o' there will be......
laughter and big broad      
                                       smiles.

and o' there will be ....
                                   hugging

and much comfort shared.

and the door will be ...
                                         open...

for anyone......

to come sit and chatter...
                          on for a while.

heaven on earth.......
                    heaven on earth...

friday night
the puddle of sanity
in which we soak

squish-squashed
in-between
the workday week

tonight i arrive
so swim ready
with chinese food
in boxes
beer and soda in bottles
and the biggest **** chocolate block i could find
and one or two extra
treats for
later...and never-you-mind

i am the hero/heroine
and as we sit
in a friday food frenzy
i can leave this week
from the gods of academic
penury way behind

hey you...
that last spring roll
                                    ..MINE..

from the rust,red soil,
the nastursiums come.

first as tendrils, spiderlike
then, the little, disc umbrella leaves.

green and expectant,
in the sub-tropical,
late,winter sun.

and soon the riotous ladies,
come with skirts of colours
bold and joyous
resplendent in the party wear

then, they will run and skip
in rampant dance,
over rocks, tree stumps
climbing up the old fence.

with pepper in their tongues
and cheerful smiles.

they are one of summer's, most happy boons...
and soon and soon,
they come,
from the rust red soil
                               they come...