you, you little
lighthouse of love
your gap-toothed smile
sent out over a bowl of
brown butter porridge
guides me away from
the reef of workday despair.

your hand in mine
so small trusting
and divine
brings me back
to the path
and
out of the dark woods

your cheery wave goodbye
keeps me swimming
through the murk of
the tedious day

and that welcome cuddle
at the end of the day
brings me back to my
home harbour...

you, you little
lighthouse of love
my bearings
my light on the hill
shine on, shine on

my slipshod heart
creaks along
i was taught
to make
the best of things

but waiting for
some one to die
is no song

my myocardium
is imperfecta,
apparently...
won't last too long

used to be,
not a problem.
but now age
is catching up
with me.

sad thing is
i am only twenty four

hard thing is want to live more

so like a ghoul
i wait for someone....
hopefully not a mate
to make some sort of
fatal mistake....

cannot lie...sometimes
would be easier
to just lay down and die...

but it is my life's
designate
to sit on this
sad razors edge
and wait

the day's breathe
runs thick in my brain.
a heaving mucoudial sigh.

words play tag and dodge
but will not stand still
prefering to run and trill.

the hum of traffic
soporforic....
and it
takes all of me
to concentrate on
the simple art of
driving....

i am at the end of this day
so drawn out and opratically
long...

i sit now, numb,
from all the academic,
angst and drama.
in the car,
in the driveway.

the home straight,
laid out, right before me.

the lights on in welcome,
inside husband and child
dinner for the table
the fires warmth beckoning


but still i sit
here ensconced,
in the quiet cocoon,
of the car, parked in the driveway.

where,
no one wants
or needs , a piece of me.

our love making
early this morning
was slow and exquisite
and made me think of moss
all green verdancy and
softness,
gently enveloping moistness

always close to water
the ultimate source of life
simple but enduring

green earth velveteen
a soft place to fall

but then....
it may have just been
the feel of your soft scratchy
stubble
against the tender skin of
my inner thigh

either way....
thinking on it now
arouses me....again.
again... again.....
                           moss

the rain has come
finally
first in thunderous
clould burst
big fat pregnant drops landing
labouriously on
the dessicated dirt
leaving craterous footprints
as evidence of a
glorious dance

more fall to the cloud's internal beat
a steady rhythmic fall
into the mudpit dancehall
that once was dry dusty street

the rain has lessened
now wavering
between drizzle and mist stragglers late,
to raindance fall ball.

i have found a patch
of quietude in my busy
day and spend it outdoors.

under a dovegrey, marshmallowed sky
and with the gossip of
two brown house sparrow
wifes.

i take my loafers off
and share the fragent warmth of the earth
with the colony of oiled, black skinks
and the shy, baby
blue tongue.

and i  sit on a log...
and breathe..
long and deep...
restrorative sighing.

then appearing  above us all, a kite or eagle, rides the wind in circles....perhaps...
the baby blue tongue,
is right to be shy...

in the distance
the kookaburra chuckles
and the lorikeets squabble
and people murmur and shout.

too soon,
my respite is over.
then it is shoes on,
and back to the computer screen and desk....

but at least i had a few moment's grace...

i am but one leaf
not important me
i just gather a little sun
and a few breaths
when it rains, a catch
a drop or two.
one leaf, not important me
but as a part of community
as part of a tree...i help
the world ....i run the world

i am just a leaf,
lying, dying on the ground
not important me
just decaying rotting
fibourous bit of dead tree
not important ******* me

but as community
as mulch and compost
i help  protect the tree
and i help feed the world

dayumn!!
i am leaf
and
i amaze me....

his tenure,
on this earth...
is done.
sad is the sky today,
as id in memory
and the fields he planted,
miss his loving care.

to his family scattered,
but loving,
the calls were made.
his only request,
reiterated to all.

please bury me,
in the shade.
i toiled my lifelong
days,
in sun and rain.
let me rest eternal,
in the shade,
of the old ghost gum.

so now he lies among
the roots of the ivory and
silver barked tree.
looking down,
on the market garden
of  lettuce, carnations
and snow peas.

and his family scattered
but loving
are hopeful
he is finally at ease....

as they stand and
remember earlier days
and grieve the loss,
of their link to the land
and think sadly but fondly
of the man who had
the greenest of hands.

it's past midnight
and my thoughts is just
fuzz, lintballs and
cotton candy
rolling around like
tumble weeds
across a vast and barren plain
that purports to  a working
brain.
i am so very far beyond
myself that i am forgetting
who i am....why...

it is grant writing season
and i have used my quota
of words ...

so just visualize
something wonderful,
off to the west over there..
while i sleep over under
this tree here....
and if i am quiet enough, maybe i will come back,
to me.

then the carniva,
will begin again
tommorrow...
sonetimes real life is
such a grind...

i sometimes sit and ponder
what my life would be like
with out the both of you

i suspect,
i would be some
small (uni) town
catlady, about sevencatcrazy
exsisting on takeaway chinese and rom coms

soglad you came along, happenstance as it was...

O captain, my captain
i stand on my desk and stomp, for you...

au reviour, you manic mind
of mirth and astounding depth...
ork has lost it's greatest son
and we a genius...

you will be missed

vale, robin
and may you find
peace on the other side

the morning after
the night before
rises with a cold crisp sun
and sea mist rising

i shuffle out...glad i do not
need to be at work til 2.00pm
i am already wrung out
my leg still achew
and growls
and my eyes are
bleary from
crying.
hair,
a sidways birds nest
smelling of a night's sweaty tossing and turning
and the smoke from the fire dressed fashionably not,
in flannel pj's and hippo studded robe.

i can barely raise a smile.

and still,
he says he loves me
and kisses me soundly ...before  telling me he will
take Tod for Maccas
and then to kindy...
it is a male bonding day....

and i should just go back to bed.....
cause i had a rough night....
oh' and he will bring lunch home at middayish

and that is one
and one again,of a million reasons,
why i love my man
to the stars and beyond.

it is three a.m. here
and the unseasonable cold
has etched itself onto the knobby bones of my spine
and eats voraciously at the
callous of bone and metal
that now suffices as my
lower left leg...

in answer, i sit in front of the
newly stoked fire, as close as i can without becoming fuel
and await the painkillers sweet surcease.

i drink russian caravan tea
and as always,
it draws my thoughts to you.

the time spent with cup in hand and eyes full of laughter.
the way you rolled each teabag up into a neat little
parcel...

and those times of ceremony, birthdays and
big announcements.

when the tealeaf was allowed to swirl joyously and swim in the squat blue teapot,
releasing the aroma of
a gypsy campfire...
all rowdy, with celebration
and then served with the
orange and ginger cake,
(so **** good)of which,
i never did get the recipe.

always, the tea, served
in fine bone china
the tea, visible through
the white translucent pottery..
and we still,  playing at being, civilised and grown up...

the tears slide,
gently,down my cheeks
to fall and be comsumed
by the warm hearth...
as the gypsy songs fade

and i do not know,
whether, it is from the pain or sad and grasping grief,
that they come...
                          but they come.

life in a pond
small magnitudes
at work

all those minute lives
living large and long
in an enlarged puddle.

oblivious,
to the immensity
of the beyond


inception to deriliction
and the decay that
nourishes after
the whole cycle
in the same watery place

i so think that there is
something, quiet wonderful
in that...

i would live on a place
where all the roads are water
and i would be a paddle
peddler of wares
that come from the sea

i would trade in fresh
water a commodity
and take with friends
galanal tea

i would be busy
as could be, by day
and at night sleep
in the shade of a
tottentot tree
it's perfume
would be
a balm to me

that is what
i want to be
on days  i don't
want to be me

oh, and the bitterness
taints my toungue
and blurs my eyes

all i see, all i see
is happiness
but
not for me, not for me

and the dark inches
ever closer,  
a low growling ravenous
thing

wanting me, needing me
to sucumb, to sucumb

where has my sunshine gone.
in this bleak, drear season.
it is gone, it is gone.

and i am a lonely figure
in a crowded place
and i am desperation
running a losing race
and i am weary to the core
bruised abraided red raw.

but still i stand,
what else can one do
it is after all,
what life demands.

here i am,
cold winter,
sunday morning...high.

my drugs.....
a predawn lovefest
lots of, little boy
giggling n' smiles
bannana berry pancakes,
made by my satisfied guy.
blucat purring at my feet.

and the sun,
lazily peeking in

god i love
the sunday morning high...

to my way of thinking,
we are all poets.
even, if it is...
just for the briefest
moments, of time,
when the words allign
perfectly..and then,

poetic nirvana,
               the release of ,
                   the mudane mind.

let go the words
like seeds,
to the vast and
windblown
sky

let them settle,
where they may.
some may flourish,
take root and be...

a happy little flower,
a great oak tree.

some may lay dormant,
until the right season.
some may become,
a life's new reason.

some may fall
to ravening birds
some may fall
ans flourish
yet never be heard.

and sadly some may
wither and die...
without ever understanding, why....

we as poets,
truly are,
just the sowers of seeds.

to the winds....
to the sky,
let your words go,
let them fly...
to some say, adiue
see you soon.
to some goodbye.

but let them be...
borne on the wind
...to make poetry

sloth is a sin they say,
but mayhap,
it's just busy... on a heavily
medicated day

there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed   and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.

the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,

passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.

the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.

salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.

sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.

nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.

apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.

rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.

so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.

and the sun is
warming the long
muscles in my back

and the beer is cold
and ****** on my lips

and the smell of onions
caramelizing  with steaks
on a pop-fizzing bbq
is  tickling my nostrils

and  my soul is unfurling
it's wing...there is a hope
of the joy of spring
in this friday afternoon air

one thousand feathers,
a bird does not make,
less there are wings
a heart and beak
and such a deseperate
want to fly,
into the upper reaches
of the bluest, widest sky.

without these things,
it is just a pile of dreams,
lost and forgotten.

no, it seems to be,
one thousand feathers
in a pile, is a sad
and sorry thing.

house is mouse quiet
walking down the
hallway
in
the dark
step on a malevolent
lego brick, swear mightily

this epitomises my day...

now to crawl into bed
and pray tommorrow
the vagrant gods like me...

looked for my
poet in residence
this morning...
all i could find
was a badly scrawled
note
that said,
gone, need me, some
me time.
back whenever.

not to sure if the
stillness and calm
found within me today
is,
just down to the bone
weariness
or,
something a tad more
zen...
if i get a chance
i will close my eyes
and find out...

Waiting,
on hold..
sappy muzak.
Dropping raindrops on my head.

All i want to do
is make an appointment about the voices in my mind

Still holding,
my call is important,
apparently.

Now sunshine is on my shoulders making me, happy.

Stupid musak,
my names not annie,
this is not my song....

Waiting still,
but they promise someone will answer...shortly.

But for now,
a baby elephant walking jauntily along.

Wait it's ringing...
Thank god i thought i might need a twelve bore shotgun.
(if that baby elephant got an idea to run)

Yes may i help yo......
Disconected line

Waiting,
on hold...
sappy musak
Telling me to stop in the name of love....

four twenty three,
antipodean time
and i am caught,
wide awake
between, my thoughts
and the sounds of
a snoring husband
and a cat purring
hungrily....
for an early breakfast.

i have a feeling,
no... i have a knowing.
this is...
going to be a long, long day.

and tonight it is
the elder, mother god
of which i speak....

she  snores and snuffles
in the lazyboy chair
slumped awkward
and sombulant,
akin to a ragdoll,
carelessly,
tossed aside,
after a day's hard play.

and it is in the cracks
and crinkles, both large and minute that craze and track
accross her well worn,
well loved face
that i see,
the god-dust...
lingering.

and as i gently,
place a woolen wrap
over her tired old body.

i take a moment...
to give thanks and
worship,
her hard earned diety.

and the mothergod...
slumbers, snoringly on.

little blue cat sleeps,
curled in the winter sun.
dreaming, big cat dreams,
run, gazelle, run, run, run.

he, my man, my atlas
holds up my world
with all encompassing love

he, my boy, my hermes
his smile brings messages
of love from the lips of heaven

me, all creative curves and
fertility...
goddess of hearth and home
hestia, in modern form, i be

he, little blucat .. bast
all compacted and wrinkly
a reminder....of fidelity

then out the back
in a temple
her own
mother god
now become crone
but ever loved
and worshiped

here at #259
we reside almost gods
yet biding the devil's own time

does the shell empty on the sand
mourn the loss of it's former inhabitant
does the pebble in the dry creek bed
wonder if the mountain misses it
does the feather on the ground
wish fervently for just one more flight
and the seed long for light

amd have we as human forgotten
to think simply
to turn our face to the morning sun
do we longer remember
how to become one,
with nature
and learn of it's quiet grace
and acceptance of order and place.

and await joy with the expectancy
of an egg about to hatch...

60,000 plus young men gone
150,000 maimed
in a war that changed the face of a nation, a world
the never again war...

so many lives changed,
so many familes, left bereft.
so many lives... just gone

today in australia,
we stop and remember.
today, 100 years past,
a war was begun.

and it is only now,
that some ,
of those young men,
out for a boy's own adventure,
are coming home.
after, lying lost,
in foreign fields
and some, now known
will slumber on....

it is a day,
of sad remembering
we pause,
then carry on.

writing life on the upbeat
no mean feat
when riding pell mell
down to bowels of hell
on a harley fatboy
bought as look at me ploy
with a kooky sidecar
of sarcastic sidebar
talking of friends
my god  are
we are all just lemmings
to mediocracy in the end

you were my yesteryear.
when you ruled,
as the pop-**** queen,
atheletic and cool.

me,i was one of the
weird, vibe tribe.
theatre mad, and
a library hound.
you barely knew,
i was around.

but we lived in,
a small, small town
and you,
dated my brother
so you only, iced me gently.

it was surreal,
truly dali-esque.
to see you today...
i would not,
have known
you....
so faded, grey..and overblown.

we have all got older,
but the years,
have...
mugged you
and left
you beaten, battered
and low...

you tell me
you were done,
with living,
about two husbands ago.


and now just plod
through, each day,
willing the dark grey
to swallow you whole.
staying, living only for
your son Tim.
you say all this,
while ,
heavily, perspiring,
pure gin.

you cry and the tears,
run down the cracks
in your leathered,
over-sunned skin
and down to pool,
on your blowsy breast,
clad in ***** pink polar fleece.

my heart, curls in pity,
for you have fallen far.
as you sit and drink,
gifted coffee, talk about
when you were the star,
the brightest, prettiest,
flame by far.

and as i leave you,
sitting, dejected and depressed.
there is a little, heartfelt shame, in the fact,
that throughout
our untimely meeting,
i could not recall your name.

Captain's Log,
rough seas this morning
as we sailed into
Port Hangover
first mate Asprin taking double shift
as is galleymate Coffee. Unable to make headway against megrim winds.
Also having difficulty navigating nausea reef,
may need to run aground
on Throwasickie island
as vision is becoming blurred.
Put present difficulties
down to attack of tannins, whilst sailing
wide red wine sea,
last watch.

i sit at the table
watching my fingertips
caress the wineglass
idly contemplating the day

no....my mind races  
and careens about
the alley and byways,
of my psyche
bouncing off
walls of guilt...
i am fast,
coming,
undone.

i look at you,
and know my world
is, safe and complete
a smile, comes to my face

no.... i grimace slightly
as i look at you...
your perfection
diminishes me
until i am,
but a whispered,
mockery of myself.

i lift my glass
to partake sparingly
of the rich woody red wine

no...i dive in headfirst
to the bottle of red wine
hoping, to get lost
in it's woods
and then drown
in the dregs.

we end the evening
on a gentle kiss.

no... we rut like animals
with out care
before you leave,
without a backward
glance.

i sigh in quiet happiness
as i watch you sleep.

no.... i weep as i retch
and *****...on the motel's
bathroom floor.

i am lucky
to be so loved

*no one
gives a ****
about me

it's the middle of
the afternoon
on one of those warm
winter days,
that hold the promise
of summer inthe brightness
of the sun..

and we three are at the park
having swung to the sky
on the swings, gone up and slid down the slippery dip
a dozen times
and made ourselves dizzy
on the merrygoround
we now sit quietly, watching
pelicans and ducks
icecream, soft serves melt
in hands and on toungue.

when we are down here
we will go down to the jetty
and throw our bread upon
the water for ducks and pelicans to squabble over

and then home to play
in the garden....
before dinner.......
there is a simplicity
to this.....yet it deserves
to be written... for it is too beautiful an afternoon
to be forgotten

my mother handed out
love in admonishments
about clean shoes and brushed teeth
to try our best and not to bleat about a life hard and oft incomplete....it is only now after years of growing
in understand it is not because she was hard, uncaring  but that she was as fragile as spun glass
so much already taken stolen by this world...her mother while in her teens
first love taken by vietnam
war machine, first child, daughter a few days old...and then three live children, later husband taken by gambling and a woman she considered a friend.
those simple words became
hard to say....to admit love
was to have it ripped away.
so she taught herself, this terse morse of words imbued with love..take a jumper... have you got your books all double entendre
just in care not risque
with love bespoke....
as children we learnt to find the deeper meaning
to parse conversations
for love...sifted by despair...

we learnt well, the art of doublespeak....

dagger beak
and garnet eyes
feathers stolen
from the stormy seas
scalded legs
and gawping mouth

tis
the gull come
to call
with mouth a
begging, shrieking gape
alerting  
the whole **** clan
to clamour and fight
for the measliest of bites

once proud fishing birds
are now just feathered,
scroungers, grifters, ****..

friday, lunchtime
first week back at work

all i wanna know
is will anyone notice
if i take
a three hour nap
at my desk???

...and then head home

somedays

  karma is a *****,
     wearing six inch stillettos

and she's dying to dance...
                                    the tango

so today....

    i choose, to step aside
      and let her have her way.

dance on down
            dance on down...

be quiet and still
small and silent
and you will see
wonderous things

these were the sage
words of my grandfather

once a month,
we would go to
a grove in the woods
and learnt the art
of  patient watching....

i remember the first time
i saw an echidna rustle by
and the slow movement
of a blue toungue lizard
moving with the sun...

rabbits and foxes
wallabies, a koala
backing down a tree

but the day that still
delights, is the day
as we sat still and quiet
butterfly's alighted
by the hundreds to
become a carpet
of pure flickering enchantment

and i knew this was life....
at it's finest....and most wonderous.....

in my nightmare,
i walk across plain,gibberous
of melted blue grey glass.

in my nightmare,
the voices of the
four winds whisper,
words fetid and foul,
of love lost
and left behind.

in my nightmare,
the sun scowls
and rips the water
right from my lips.

and i walk on feet,
of bones stripped bare.

and i search,
horizon to horizon
but see only,
blind hope mirages,
fading away.

and my voice echoes,
in my calamitous mind,
calling names of kin and kind.

and my skin sloughs from
my flesh, to sizzle on the ground.

and inside,
the cage,
of xylophone ribs.
a wizened walnut heart
no longer beating,
to ordered time.

and my skull,
now, a hollow drum
of rattling, mutton-headed thoughts,
constantly bleating.

in my nightmare,
i am laid bare
and found wanting, needing,
longing.

in my nightmare,
you are not there.

in my nightmare
there is...
no one else, anywhere.

in my nightmare
i am alone
        all alone....
                      and that,
    scares, the **** out of me!