once upon a clock
my house was but a pile
of cards
dealt badly to me
or so i thought
but as time rolled by
riding a mossless rock
i was inclined to think
i could rebuild my deck
using a straighter arrow
and some crazy glue
and make a  cosy nook to
theorize and dissertate
on the new and better
portion, for to sit on
my plate.
for as the wind blows
it can bring fortunate things
of gilded dust and dedelian
wings.
sonetimes it is the choice that matters.
and somtimes it is ok
to just sit on the dock
and watch it all blow away
but don't watch kettkes.for they are just introvert and shy... now the toaster however
is a pop up kinda guy.
ok so now this garden path is leading somewhere a tad weird
down past the zen all calm and white mountains
to the quirky and a little bezerky secret garden
wall and locked where all the gnomes have ned kelly beards, and the lions are dandy and a titch randy.
the dragon snaps are snippity and the roses
are just **** posers and the camelia's would **** for a good cup of tea.

but enough of the garden tour,
we needs must be giving attention to the
matter at hand tho sleight as it be
we have a house of cards to rebuild

fickle......
             is the.. wind that blows tonight
                              tying...

knots in ..the... clothes
.....left  ..  
                on the line. ... . . . ..

     howling ........ ..... ...... ... . .                          

                   at the seams ...

..of this old place...
                                      raising..
the.. hackles.. on ..the ..cat...

...... ..raging..at  ...   ..... ..        ................the...flower..beds . . .
     .......       ..    . . ....     ..... ..  .

..creating ...pressure ..in our heads.... ripping.... my

thoughts ...... . . . into ...to .     .......shr.. ..ap......nel.. . . . ..

b.bl...blah..b..lah.blah...sting blasted .....wind...
.......    .............ratt... atattling the...... window.... frame

....and then....


                       silence reigns

the cacophony of whispers speaks again ....giberish spouts from my bloated brain ....my head is .....
rotating.. tating around the room whispering at a decibalac boom . . .  up is down and down. .  . is no left turn... drumbeats skid off my dishpan brain... i see a mark.... liqour green.... an unholy stain.... parrot like my mother squawks.... that won't soak out ... you've ruined your best brain ...
my my mind is ... listing to the right....and feels.... decidedly....  strained like ....custard bumpy..  and lumpy...... the whispers....... screams chunk about... and i ****..... awake.....sweatslicked,
drymouthed....... and ......jit...jitt....jittery...jitter...

i sit a second ...and then reach for reality .....a toddler who's had a bad dream.

virtual ink etched on vitual paper.. synapse rebounds taken down, on tablet... applet releasing the
imagin- ed pressure in my incohezant brain. little bytes of... making it right sent into.. the webby ether clouds....... zip drive compressed, pixelated, ram driven,memory boosted, data mined, spam shot,
drive by.... now encrypted ... password denied... .....virtual ink lost to the .....link ... .......... 404 error ...... page not found... virtual paper, now, lost forever.

destined to be in
www. miscellaneous file/ never to see the light of day. not org. nowheres

there is this photo....you see
of pretty much nothing...of
nowhere....at least....
nowhere i know...

the skies are blue, with
a cotton balling of
innoccuos clouds
it seems as tho the weather
would be pleasant there.

there is a gray-blue-rock
covered track, well road, that roughly disects the photo,
beginning right in the centre at the forfront
and then wending off
to the right behind a small hill.
the track would be wide enough for a small car
or cart
but is in the picture
devoid off traffic.

as is it's smaller,
companion walking path, terraced and to the left of the road.
cut about six foot below the road persay

to the right, a spindly tree
of indeterminate species
then, stretching off to the photo's edge,
green grasses, roughly, cropped low by machine
or beast.

to the left, once again below,
the walking path,
a swathe of green
and then, an expanse of water,
loch, lake, river,
i do not know,
but it is wide and slow.
there are no,
watercraft, no birds,
to be seen.

just water,  greenery,  
a spindly tree
and the two tracks,
leading to god knows where and coming from, behind
the lense.

but right now, the ambiguity
of destination, the lonliness
of the landscape are appealing, enthralling, even.

there is a dichotomy,
in the fecund greeness of the grass,
opposed to the, apperent,
barenness of the lake.
and in the disection of the pastoral scene, by man made road, there is disruption,

there is choice.
to, cant to one side,
or the other.
there is choice to, go forth into the unkown.
or to, retrace one steps
on the road behind.

it is a photo,
that while not
bucolic in nature,
is pleasant
that is well framed,

....that is the one...
you take when you
want to finish the roll of film,
or these days fill the memory card...

why it has me,
fascinated at present is ...
it is a photo of somewhere... that is not here...
it is a photo of somewhere...
where, the possibilties are new,untried...not impossible
.......where the grass
.......is greener...where the grass is greener...where the grass is.....

hush,hush,
you clamouring crowd.
if you all scream at once,
you will never be heard.

form a line....form a line.
be patient, not loud.

oh, you little thoughts,
be not annoying or proud.
you will all get,
your turn,
even, if it be at three am,
tommorrow morning!
so! that is what  insomnia
is for....

that is when i
have the time to even
the score, to clear the
slate.

so please, don't yell
and make a fuss.
just bide your time.

and please, please,
do not disturb
the moment of,
blessed silence
standing quietly over there.

form a line, form a line,

one thought at a time,
maybe two.

oh, for crying out loud!!
you would think,
my mind is a zoo!

as the oak is always the acorn,
so the poem is always the word,
no matter, how decimated       the tree,
no matter, how faded
the word,

inside resides, the tree, awaiting  the catalyst.
inside resides, the poem,
awaiting the esprit.


always, the essence remains,
embedded...  
always, is the outcome, foreshadowed...
etched in, by a code,
known, only in it's base intricacy by one...
the creator.

hi
not a poem
just a quick note
to let the person
who suggested
a change to my poem
"tommorrow"
i am not being rude
just can't accsess
you advice via
my device
it just dissappears
have msg'd the
deveolper
but you may want to
send a message, message
in the interim
and thanks
for your interest
in my work
cheers
bd.

walking through water
today,
so grey, and humid.
a sea mist earlier,
when the cool of
the night,
danced with cloud,
shrouded sunlight.
a dawn,
vienesse water waltz, delight.

now, just muggy,
like a warm, wet blanket.
making... thought
making...thinking
                        ...soggy
making everything
                       ....soggy
...soggy... soggy..

walking through water,
not wading, walking!!!

tomorrow has enough joy,
if only we are able to see it.

tomorrow has enough love,
if only we are brave and reach, to embrace it.

tomorrow has sorrow
if we choose to face it

tomorrow has anger
if we choose to engage in it

tomorrow is today
with different clothes on

we much choose;
be it
friend, foe or stranger,
we sit opposite,
on the train,that trundles
ever on,
toward life's
final destination.

i want to bite
down,
on the word
and tell you the absolute
and dangerous truth.

that your bitterness,
has soured your
soul.

your famed stoicsism
has fled,
and most of
what you say, has become
a whine,
reedlike and annoying.


but i clench my fist,
against my thighs
and count to 97.

because,

you are my mother

and your life,
has been,
not exceptionaly
kind,

and at eighty five,
you may well be
entitled,
to luxuriate, in your pain.

but just,
sometimes,
could you do it  a bit
more quietly.
please....

without a word
you can turn me
from my path,
leading me astray
and then another
minute, hour, day is gone.

you do one little thing
and my mind
becomes a blank canvas,
for you to draw
your funny little cartoon pictures on.

you can turn your head
and glance my way,
and i just melt
and commit with heart overwhelmed
to watching you play
and grow.

there will be a day,
far too soon,
when you will find,
my love for you,
awkward and embarassing. this i know and accept.

but for now, i can lose myself,
basking in the sunshine
of your love.
you are just
a little man right now
but you give a...
whole world of love
and a dollop of joy
and a sprinkle of hope,
in that happy, beeming, sunshine on a rainy day, smile.

you are my little, big, love

today i would write,
of the mundane...
the weak tepid tea
place before me.

today i would write,
of the unmatched...
the pile of sock,
singular, but legion,
that grows,
but never lessens.

today i would write,
of the humdrum...
the bills that tap, tap, tap,
incessently, at my brain's
back door.

today i would write,
of the wearisome...
the washing, ironing
and other weekly chores.

today i would write,
of  burdens...
but at present,
i have little, to none.

today i would wait,
(im)patiently...
for the morrow to come.
for then,
i would pen...
happy joyous tomes.

but today i write,
of the mundane....
for it seems,
some one, needs must,
give them fair airing...
for the world,
is not all,
loving, lust and

Munster was his name,
after Herman Munster
of TV fame cause,
he was so big.
But not scary, feral big,
just double dose of cat big.

He was predominately
sleek, shiny black,
with a white bib
and crooked muzzle,
like he had his moustache
painted on in a hurry.
Oh, and he had one white paw.
Poppajack used to say,
he had been caught by God
stealing cream.

Munster was sleek, sinuous
muscle,
he rippled when he walked.
In stalk mode he was, panther incarnate.
Albeit, dressed in a tuxedo.

In cat term's he was vain,
always preening, or finding
a vantage point to show
himself off to the best photographic angle.

But just occasionly,
if we were lucky
and the butterflys
were on the wing,
he would, kitten prance
like a pixie, at the birth of spring.

He was a hunter,
not of bugs and lizards.
A ratter of renown,
he could take a bird
from it's early flight
without a care.
I once saw him, come home
and drop a rabbit,
at Poppajacks feet, before
finding the evening sun
for a well earned nap.

Munster loved Poppajack,
with dedicated flair
would follow him about
the garden, bulter-like,
dignified tail, straight and tall.
They would parade
in regal state,
to check on the vegetable serfdom.

He was not a cat of lap,
but,would sprawl over Poppa's feet like,
black satin slippers
with a purring engine beat.

Majestic Moggy Munster,  was felinetity in it's prime.

words swim, now
like minnows,
against a tide.

sleep beckons, now
like warm autumn leaves,
with a clover scented  breeze.

dreams invite me, now
the thought,of soft cotton
pillows, excites me now.

now i have, a need to be,
sombulant and snoring,
no longer poring and
pining
over,
so many  poetry lines,
so many poetic thoughts,
so  exquisitely fine.

now i must, allow,
the words to recede.
and succumb to the body's need.

so to bed i must, now.

for tomorrow,
again i read,
diversity in talent

but the same,
in overall breed.

g'nite poets
and thank you,
for narrating
the wonder of
my dreams.

amemini,
semper amandus,
te amica mea,
ego sum amator,
est ductor noctor,
et quod suus 'peregrinos,
in hoc itinere vivendi,

siete amati,
sarai sempre,
amato tu sei il mio amore,
io sono il tuo amante,
l'amore è la nostra guida,
e noi che di pellegrini,
in questo nostro cammino
di vita.

*you are loved,
you will always be loved
you are my love
i  am your lover
love is our guide
and we it's pilgrims
on this our journey of life

when i want
to build a wall.
i take the stone,
formed by,
anger or hurt
from my gullet.

wash it, so it's
dark facets shine.
then place it,
in the footings,
of my insecurity.
find another and repeat
til they form a line.

using as my mortar,
pain, embarassment
and indignation in equal parts.
mixed with tears and bile.

and then, i begin again
buttering bricks and
offsetting, them.
i want, no need,
my wall to be strong.

tho i never build,
my walls too high
three or four courses,
never, no more.
i want to be able to,
step over them
and be free

i have seen those
and watch them still,
thoese who, built a high, formidable wall,
a fortress, it does become,
with them, still locked, imprisoned inside.

so i learnt to build,
walls strong, but squat
so i can,
when ready,
emerge.
righteous and graceful.

but this is my folly,
the flaw, in my scheme.
my walls, they run
*****, nilly, everywhere.
and over them i trip
**** over beam..

so now...
i must find a school
to teach me the art
and give me the tools,
of how to deconstruct a wall.
with out the haphazard use
of a wrecking ball.

my cat has dreams.
while sound asleep,
his little grey legs,
flex and run.
his ears ***** and tail lashes. he chatters that funny little hunter's cry.
sometimes i watch him
and smile,
thinking in his dreams,
he must be a panther or lion on the savanah,
or up a jungle tree stalking his dinner,
as does, a big sleek animal roaming.

some mornings,
when i wake.
from a deep sleep,
of half remembered dreams. i open my eyes,
to find my little cat watching me.
i ponder,
whether he attributes dream's meanings,
to my, nighttime
twitchings too.

Waiting for the taxi,
sitting in the front room. Dressed in her very best.
A small posey of blooms, favourites of his youth
on the table beside.

A sepia photo of a young
and blushing bride.
The groom tall serious,
all pride,
stands at loose attention. Khaki clad romance, captured before war's incoming tide.

He left for the front,
she stayed behind.
Waited and prayed
for her God to hide,
her young strong lover
from war's unwavering gaze.

Letters came sporadically, cheerful but underscored with fear.
Speaking of a future now held more close and dear. The telegram came to her
as she pruned his roses.

Her march of tredpidation now over.
Her life long walk of grief begun.

She stands now,
and his medals brave
clink, *****,
over her lonely heart.

For while, her ride has come, so she can remember
with others.
In heart, alone, she awaits still and true,
her strong young soldier lost in yonder blue

Early this morning,
rain, hail,or shine.
They will gather in salute
to the fallen and frail.

The young soldier's body, now bowed with age unrepaired.
Yet they will stand
straight and strong
young in their minds.

And when the hymns
have been sung
and the words
"Lest We Forget"
have been spoken.

When the bugle's final note of the Last Post
is played.
Then they, who came home gather and speak
of those who,
now walk in the ranks
of the fallen,
the Jim's, Davo's and Pete's.

They raise their glasses,
high and with a tear salute, brothers of action with a small pony of beer.

And at day's end,
alone in their bedrooms, they sit remembering
again the death,
the war and the loss.

It abides within.
As the Last Post
plays them to bed.

i rest my hand lightly on your chest,
the crisp grey blond curls tickle my palm.

this is not invitation, not yet.

but a need to feel your essential substance underneath my fingertips.
i move to rest my head, my ear hovering
near your heart's steadying rhythm.
at counterpoint to the waves on from beach below.
you cup my face in your large carpenter's hands
and draw my head away from your drumbeat's base.
gentle calluses graze my cheeks.
your face, now in my curls inhaling me,
my thoughts, my grace.

we lean, into together emeshed, entwined,
ensnared.

we are our foundation pillars and piers.
we assay each other finding
the potch and opal dross and gold.
we accept the measure, allay the fears.

two seperate. two complete.
bound together.
made one.
intricate in design and blueprint.
layer by layer,
baggage and taught lies are lost,
forgotten and sundered.
we revived hearts atrophied, critical and dead. shifted paradigms, opened heads,
rehashed, reworked, rewired.
reawoke the sleeping giants,
found truth and honesty
and love and grace.

took a liking to this unkown place.
created gardens, from thought, tumbled weeds. we sought and saved and watered wilted needs.
our house, our home now, built strong
and stable.

we lean into together emeshed, entwined, ensnared,

your gentle calluses brush my cheeks,
finding salted water.
your deep rumbling resonance,
mumbles into my curly locks
"you ok babe?"
i turn my face to yours,
seek your eyes, smile and reply
"just thinking beautiful thoughts"
and gift my lips to yours,
lovingly lingeringly,

this, now,

is an invitation.

does any body else remember,
the hungry jacks whopper,
when it had a big hunk of bacon,
or is it just me showing my age.

does any body else remember
when a cup of coffee,
came in just one size,
or am i just feeling old.

does any body else remember,
when chip packets were fuller
and softdrink cans were small and stout.

god i am just so freakin ancient
can some one tell me,
where i parked my dinosaur?
i can't remember!

i suppose,
i must, i must, i must,
go forth, go forth,go forth,
into this brave day.

but know this, truly,
i crave, i crave, i crave,
to stay, to stay, to stay,
alone, here away from,

the maddening crowd,
at play, at play, at play,
too loud, too loud, too loud,
for my disconcordant mind.

if i had
my way, my way, my way,
i would hide,
away,away away,
over there
with books, with books,
with books
and uninterrupted solitude.

but my lot is such,
that a hermit,
i am not!
nor most days,
want to be.

but,today, today,today,

the words penned above
make up my mind's
clockwork soliloquy.

please let me hide
my face, my face, my face.
in this peaceful
place, place, place,
just til i catch my,
breath, breath, breath.

what was nothing

becomes reality

it happens momentarily

a thought creates an action

which sets the heart alight.

then reason takes flight

on wings of  purported glory

we skim the stratosphere

oblivious to gravity

we soar in graceless ecstasy


until ..... until....

at the present moment
my lexicology
lies midway
between
bavardage
and
toom
so for
the moment
i spare you
the
presence
of my prattle

i stand for a while,
ankle deep,
in the soft sinking sand,
at the tip of the tides reach.
the final inches of
the curlique wavelets
wash over my feet
and take with them,
on their return to
the brotherhood of
salt and water,
my footholds.
the water, refreshingly
cold on this hot muggy
summer afternoon.
i wade further in to
the calmer wash area,
after the waves have broken,
to about mid thigh
before
i dive shallowly through
the caesious waters
of the green room's
breaking waves,
and swim out,
to beyond the rise
and swell of surf.
to float in the
embryonic embrace
of the sea
my heart sings
with primal joy
at the saltinate communion.
after time slows, sufficiently,
i return to the beach.
and stand in
the pressing warmth,
with rivulets
of my mermaid self
dripping onto the sand.

dimble dumble,
caught a, thimble thumble
of precious morning dew.

dimble dumble, took his thumble thimble,
full up to rimful.
on his nimble rambull
wooly stu,
careful not to lose,
a drippity drop
of the delicious dew.

they flimble, flambled,
up and overed,
down and undered,
till dimble dumble,
with his thimble thumble, filled to rimful,
on the wooly rambull... came to stumble.

his face a crumble,
as the rimful,
roamed and overflew,
the thimble thumble walls.
a dribble drabble did scribble scrabble,
down the rambulls hide.

dimble dumble
chewed his bottom lip
and cried.
"do not fret my little pet, look there is still enough inside"
wooly stu decried.
"i'll be more staid,as we ride our fortunes, soon will be made."

so,dimble dumble
and his rambull crew,
with thimble thumble recovered,
from the tumble.

on they skedoodledaddled. being careful to protect the remaining morning petal's dew.
after a while, time,
flew with dove like grace and dimble dumble,
with his dudes came
to the the very place, of the rimble romble rumble
and royal rapture rap parade

dimble dumble
and rambull stu on bended knee
and really humble
presented their
thimble thumble
not quiet full to rim still
but delicious and felitious morning dew
to the king awaiting
his purchase and perview.

before its spoiling,
it was boiling,
his kettle singing,
songs a ringing,
to the beauteous,
but not so bountious, morning dew.

dimble dumble
watched the
thimble thumble steam
and bubble blip away.
hands flipping flapping
nose jinkling wrinkling
as the fog blew,
his way boiling dew,
tea leaves darjeeling
with daphne blossoms
was the flavour of the day.

dimble dumble
with thimble thumble
empty now
and too, wooly stu
caught a peek of teacups platinum
holding royal blossom brew before the butler,
with a silly stutter,
sent them on their way,
with dimble dumble
all a fumble,
with a thimble thumble
of goldenboldens,
as his hard work's
reward that day.

outta step,
outta time
throwin out misdirected rhyme
need a nap
na. ya. nanna
need a slap
spittin poetry crime 101 betta than no one
just a face with em t space where da thoughts reside splitin definitives
deselectin prime words
just to be
downright freakin absurd
walkin out now
off to pout
cause my mind
just curdled cream
from a cranky cow
moo hoo hoo
ya ya  mama's  out!

dear prince george
( and your parents too)

hope you enjoyed
our menagerie of
fauna, at Taronga Zoo.
sorry we could only give
you the, Bilby, the rabbit
come rat rodent hybrid
marsupial thingymajig.
but, you're just not old enough for a kangaroo
and koala's a bit too much
like you, mostly they eat sleep and poo. yes they
are cute and cuddly, but
they tend to wee all over
you, especially if you have a celebrity hue. and you so do!

sorry, you are n't going to
Ularu, it is a spectacularly
big rock, with much meaning and mystery.
but out there, outback, beyond the last black stump,
it is stinking hot, and dusty
to boot and there really isn't
a lot for someone under one
to do.

one last thing, sorry we disturbed you, on your day off, when you were just doing normal baby things.
unforgivable in a sense,
but then your are the flavour of the month, down here and your smiling face
and chubby arms are doing
wonders for the crown.
so smile little prince,
don't you wear a frown,
soon you will be home
and forgotten all about,
the down under clowns.

your humble convict
betterdays

there is,
in my opinion,
nothing like the..... determination
of a four and half kilo
of blugrey feline,
that,
wants,
to be fed ......
at 5:37am.

the pushing and bumfping the disproportinate roar
of the basso profundo purr, in your right ear,
if still not convinced
or just,
downright lazy,
a whack!!
with a southpaw
to the back of the head,
your attention will restore.

no you are,still
resisting the charm offensive.
then be aware
of the flying leap&twis;;, landing on the midriff.

but from years of dilligent training (on the part of the cat).
i have deduced....
the cold nose,
trailing across my exposed flesh is to best to be avoided.

simply by,
stumbling up from your rest
and succumbing to...
the mantra,
the cat knows best!!!
fill the bowl,
be done,(no never)
with the furry pest
and hope...
you can snooze for a while

we sit on the back deck in darkness. amost..... there is a rough circle of glowing embers ........from the mosquito coils and then..... two glowing cat's eyes. we.... my husband and i .....both have the scent.... of...... aeroguard... sprayed heavily on our skin. as we sit in oppressive heat...... ...waiting for the ....gasp... of a cooling.. breeze to come..... the air so moist and warm has brought forth..... ....the frogs ....and we hear......    the .....deep... throated call of the... tree frogs competing...... with the pobblebonk's... ...unique sound. ...even the cicadas..... ....have succumbed to the muggy air... and have ........gone quiet. .....all we hear in the dark is the frogs...... ...reeebert.. and ....pobbblebbBONK... amphibian lothario's crooning away..... ....as we wait for that gasp of cooling air...

reebert............



..... ...    . .pobbble........BONK
pobble BONK
...REEBERT. REeBeRT...RRREEBERT.

i am a sheep of the blackest
shade.
and my sisters,
wooly white angels
in bleached mohair.
me i could do no good.
me bad through to the core.
them angelic, pure.
at least that's what, everybody,
thought they saw

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan

my feet have always had,
a need to be elsewhere.
Dad called it my infernal wanderlust...
so, i have heeded their call.
travelled far and wide,
finding love in ports everywhere,
but none for to be my bride.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

always moving forward,
so i don't have to...
look behind.
but still,
self recrimination
is a constant bedfellow
of mine.
you know, it takes years,
of dedicated time and headspace.
to become a man,
beyond, his prime.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

a merry, meticullous ****-up.
who can laugh, at hisself,
yet, still continue to commit  his biggest crime,
daily i **** myself....
daily i survive....
just a one man crime wave,
not worth trying to save.
but you do, you do.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

motley me,
with a jester's soul.
trying for laughter,
but just getting more old.
lived a life, bought,
purely on fool's gold.
now close to the hereafter and still breaking the mold.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

the Crue knew who i am.
i am just one of this world's many misunderstood.

*girl i am just one member of the black sheep clan.

the cool air of the morning awakens me,
bird's bustle and gossip in the first rays,
of a new turn around,
the sun.

tears pool and nestle,
at the bridge of my nose, thick with emotion
left from a dream.
devoid of details,
but rich in sorrow,

a hungering feral sorrow.
that still lingers,
licking at the corners
of my mind.

i feel a discordance
with myself, sighing to expell this thing prowling, my breathe,
catches on a sob.

the kookaburra's laugh, jarringly close
and then further away.

i wipe at these tears, unbidden, unshed
and turn?
to find my grounding,
my steadfastness,
my hearts ease watching,
he draws me to him,
his lips,smoothing
my furrowed brow,
his hands creating an intensity, that is ours alone.

we make,
sweetness and beauty,
joy and oblivion, before falling asleep once more.

running on empty
all outta gas.
all outta,all outta, all outta, gas.

my daddy was a gasman,
well... he drove a petrol tanker
big shiny thing.

that's before he went away,
then my mumma, she done
worked her fingers red raw.
to keep food on the table,
and the roof overhead.

she got us up before dawn,
ready for school and then
we went with and sat,
waitimg on hard hospital chairs,
til the bus  done come and
picked us up, for school.

i was always tired, fore, i got to
school....so by the three thirty bell,
my life was a living hell.

then, we started the long traipse home.
4.5km in a straight line then,
turn left,trudge another 550 metres
and the white picket fence,
gives a welcome home grin.

everyday, i was running on empty.

all outta, all outta, all outta gas

my daddy was a gas man,
til he went away.

my daddy was a... mongerel *******
when he went away.

a calcium carapace,
sits upon the mantle's shelf. dreaming of the sea,
craving water and salinity.

pretty trinket ivory white,
a  plump smooth bubble with cafe au lait dotted curve, leading to,
sensuous convex lip,
scintillating burnt caramel
hue.

what lived in such a
palace of the sea.
what graced the interior hall.
did it wonder,
at the beauty of it's home,

or did it only see,
the weight of the walls, pressing in.

does the palace discarded
on the shelf dream,
of saltwater
and former self.

or is it an inamate relic,
of an unregarded time,
with out measured reason, unresonating thought, unrimed.

does it know
                 it is
                 beauty sublime.

" I found one Mummy!!!"
says my  just about four
year old boy.

We are on our town green
at the, combined churches Easter Egg Hunt.
This is Tod's first big egg hunt and he does n't quite
seem to have the hang of it.

Tod my boy, who now sits with his plastic egg.  
Happy as can be!!!

"Honey don't you want to go find some more ?"

"Can I ?"

"Why don't you go find one for Nanna & Da."

So off he goes, just about quivering with excitement,
Dad trailing protectively behind.

He comes back with four more eggs, so five in total.

One for Nanna,
One for Mummy,
One for Da
and one for me.

We ask, the obvious,
Tod, who is the last one for?...

It's for her,
he says pointing to a lady, sitting alone,on a park bench
watching the children play.
She is a complete stranger,
to us,  and looks a little bedraggled, not a street person, or drunk, just beyond caring.

"Why her ?"  We ask, just a tad alarmed,(Stranger danger and all that.)
because, " She is all alone and sad, with no eggs
and everybody should have eggs on Easter.

Gobsmacked much!!!.....
Our little man saw to the heart of it.
While we looked at the shell.

We took the egg over to, Anne, for that was her name and asked, if she would join us for a picnic lunch of fish and chips.
It turned out she was travelling through and had broken down .... was stuck till early next week(until her car was fixed) and was missing easter with her family. She had come to the
park, to see children play
on Easter Sunday morn.

As we parted later, with address's exchanged.
She leant over and said in my ear.
"You've done well, such a thoughtful little fellow."

I just beamed through my
welling tears.

Then she walked away.
and Tod gave her his cheery little wave.

today i am but,
a rude mechanical thing
a wind up toy.
plodding along with whining gears

today i am but,
a fool's pawn to swing
a mere pendulum being,
arcing between
the sun and moon

today every thing is done
purely on muscle memory.....
....my thoughts...
.... are engaged elsewhere.
the only difficulty encountered.....
....they neglected to inform me
of their intended  whereabouts

so now this is me,
a discombobulated, thingamajig
bought from Ikea, sans the allenkey, put together inexpertly, clunk-clunking
along, not right..a little bit wrong....clank- clunking on
by.

i am made of...
thought...
ink and pen and paper... and so much more.
scribbled phrases on diner napkins.
post it notes stuck to walls.
scrawled doggerel in bathroom pens.
phrased ideology in lined notebooks.
spinnered words on lazerprinted A4.
scraps of inklings, on ripped butcher's bags and wrappings.
condolences in funeral books.
ideas capital lettered on cards,
pinned to cork boards.
epitaphs stonemasoned
into granite blocks.
fury arranged just so,
on parchment.
newsprinted with loose blurry, black ink on broadsheets
scribed by pointed stick on
firm wet sand.
notes on heavy cards, of love
and light bright shiny stuff.
discarded sentence startings, left crumpled, lost in a bin.
loss, written with red wine on white table cloth.
art, etched on vellum anciently old, suprisingly relevent.
tapped into tablets both stone
and techview.
blue and red markers squeaked onto white boards.
daubed on canvas with a fine sable brush.
tatttoo-ed upon ones flesh.
carved into wooden school desks.
pressed into moist clay by delicate fingernails.
marked so deeply upon a soul.
chalked to cement,
to stay for...
but a short season.
written for some very, (un)important reason.
courage to speak, sing, whisper, shout, cry, laugh, observe and ponder.
this is me....
i am a word written down.. any word, any word.
i am undeniable, desirable often incomplete
always open  always waiting
for some one...
......just like you ...
to open your heart let me in
to recognize a new start
to have a play, a scribble,
doodle, pen jive. to become
alive.... to thrive,
just begin with a single letter.....then another,
go on be brave...
..........grant me liberty....

no place, i would rather be.
sitting on golden sand, by sea.
once single, then dyad, now triad.
growing in love our little family.

and the sun shines down glad,
and we chase away, lingering sad
and we smile, the summer day long.
and i watch play, boy and proud dad

but in other climes, a sad song,
plays in a room where life is not long
and there is much pain
and somehow it is so, very wrong,

that some live and gain
and some who, seeded by bad grain,
are short changed, days of life
and  deseperate death reigns.


but in both places, love conquers strife
and in both places love is beautifuly rife.
love, lives hopeful and large, everywhere
because whether  long or short, we all live under damocle'an knife.....

half formed thoughts,
half finished lines,
breakfast  half eaten,
left on the...

half asleep,
half awake,
half dressed child,
starting today...
a mistake.

let us rewind,
to, when we were
all still abed.
then when the alarm
rings out
snooze it
pretend we are dead
at least to this
half made greyest day
and turn away
from this half formed mayhem
of  harried reality

go back, go back,
to the land of dreams
for today,
the better choice...
no half sown seams to burst,
hems to trip on,
clothes, that will not zip,
the zip on that set of pants that i must fix
no bad hair, no external rants,
about work incomplete,(half done).
no thinking rude thoughts,
about stinking heat swelled feet.
just cool linen,
pressed against my tired cheek
.. and an island
deserted... with cool breeze
and
a fridge with filled with
chocolate eclairs
and iced coffee ...
a big squishy chair...
utopia ....
see i am halfway there..
but
halfway here also
and the bell has rung.
time for these...
half @rsed musings to be done.
phones to answer, emails too
reports to analyse, lectures to
prepare,
here i am
half an hour
into the day
and already...  way..
too tired to deal....
so position.. my clock hands... at..
half way past... i don't care.

never is a longish time
evermore miles longer,wider
vulnerable to repartition
everlasting in it's perpetuity
re-quiescent supine                       eternally
                                 rewound
                                   rewound

rendolent of
stone grey gargoyle
he lies lizard flat
melded to the sun warm
cement by comfort
lassitudinally positioned
to collect sunrays

occassional movement
but as little,
as possible of that

have to say
i am awfully jealous
of that little blue cat

hot,still,torpid air
made stagnant,
by stifling, sultry heat.

we sit shattered,
sapped, silent,
on the back deck,
drinking beer,
sweating salt water.

watching the distant
scrubfire smoke, feed
into the heavy,
green-black storm clouds
on the mountain's ridge.

the cat shifts, with the rays
of broken sunlight, a grey shadow,
on the teak deck.

my son cries listlessly
and then returns to his nap.
the sound of sport and
energy drifts, distorted
from nana's anexxe.

we sit effete
on the back deck,
drinking beer,
quiescent in anticipation
of rain

the disquiet...
of the morning,
awakens me....
the magpie's squabble...
the wood pigeons.... cloying...
.. cooing love song..
the raucous, cacophony... of
the kookaburras ....as they sort out .....todays..... territorial hierachy...
........... all proclaim
morning has ......broken
.......in a sleep shattering... way
but... still ...today.. i try to eke
out ......a few more winks
....a few more.... .....moments....
of.... semi-conscious bliss
oh! .......... to .....close ....my eyes
and ....dream some more...
....but no!!!..... the cat
........is having
....................none of that.....
the birds are up...
and he........ housebound....
is hungry..... hungry...***..

slap on a smile.
greet the world.
don't dare think thoughts,
sad and unfurled.

make small talk.
the smaller the better.
do not think to burden
and fetter,
others with the sadness,
hidden behind,
those smiling glassy eyes.

walk the happy walk.
win the useless prize.

wave away the despair
and the complex layers
of grief.
breathe in the clean air.
if you must cry,
keep it brief.

think of all the useless
words,
that people say.
make them your mantra
against these sad and woeful days.

the future is bright,
for some if not all.

but the thing you need
remember,
most of all.
is these days too shall pass.
until then,
slap on a smile and hold fast.