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Apr 2014 · 365
thoughtful healing
betterdays Apr 2014
your words...
a balm...... to my
                .......careworn soul

words..... chosen
         ...with thought
                           and love
knit my radled brain....
**** the hole .......
.....in the heel of my heart

your words...
sought to save....
.. to bring life
.....seed inspiration
cease the strife...
and the pecking
       of the nagging hurt.....

your words.... water....
to my..... parched and
barren land....

....seeds of hope
and inspiration...
left in my heart grow..

...thank you ...for your kindness
and your.... courage to speak
with thought.... your words
...made my life brighter
a place.. now... a lot less... bleak.
....written in response to comments left
by shivani and venus of my poem
"thoughtless wafare"
the flipside of the coin
so to speak.
Apr 2014 · 825
thoughtless warfare
betterdays Apr 2014
arrowing words,
whispering lips,
shotgun words,
freudian slips,

words as weapons.
cutting delicate hearts.
****** syllables.
bruising brains.

what power we wield,
not ever knowing,
the cost.
less often gain,
more often at great cost.

but, for the moment
of retention,
between,
careless thinking
and hurtful speakings,
push the pause.
because,
the words that have slain.
mayhaps be the ones lodged
within your brain.
words, written or spoken
have much power
as we their caretakers
know
but sometimes forget.
Apr 2014 · 398
sunshine's harvest
betterdays Apr 2014
today,
this morn,
the sun shines through.

all the doom and gloom
may conspire and gather
at my back.

but,
today,
this morn,
the sun shines through.

and in it's argent glow,
we will love and play
and dare to know,
joy, unfettered.

because,
today,
this morn,
the sun shines through.

and
bears with it,
the great hope,
of a, better yet
tommorrow.
written while sitting in the warm autumn sun watching my boys big and little build sandcastles on the beach.
there is my today and my tommorrow
such love,such love.
Apr 2014 · 478
she has seen it all.
betterdays Apr 2014
this old teak farmhouse creaks this morning.
like an old woman settling into her favourite chair.
we will need to paint again soon,
the coastal wind abraids
her seascape blueskin
and the sun, bleaches it
to a faded blue grey.

she has seen so much,
when they first cleared
the land on the rise of the cliff.

she was the only house for miles and she watched
the farmer's cows stand placid accepting of the buffeting wind as they chewed their cud.

she watched the slow encroachment of the town on her fertile red loamed pastures.
as tall white ghost gums and norfolk pine trees,
gave way to squat ugly houses and box like apartments.
stacking families atop families.
she saw horse tracks
turn to black ribbons of rock and tar,
the neighing clopping rhythm
become buzzing booming honking discord.

she watched families,
come and go,
loving, living, dying and all the life and strife in between.

she is solid still,
she was built to withstand, man's mark upon the everchanging land.

she is our patch of love now, we have the upkeep of her care.
but inside her snug old walls we known she carries
the tales of times long past and will with time keep
our families secrets just as well,
we are but passing through she as creaky as she is,
will be here standing, watching after we have moved on.
Apr 2014 · 370
write
betterdays Apr 2014
write love
he said.
i know you are sad
he said.
but write love
he said.
i know it is unfair
he said.
but write love
i know you think
it will change nothing
he said.
but write love
he said.
it will be a legacy
he said.
for those left
grieving
write love
he said.
write her soul,
her life,
her joy,
her love,
he said.
so that it has
a voice beyond
her living
write love
he said.
so she feels
her life growing
not ebbing
not diminishing
write love
he said.
and he was wise,
within his speaking
my husbands reaction to my reaction to my  friends
terminal cancer
please read also "speak"
in my my the two poems are linked
Apr 2014 · 452
speak
betterdays Apr 2014
we speak,
of love and living
and the love,
that endures, past life's giving.

we talk about,
loss and the cost
of bringing one
soul bright and
shining to another.

souls that intertwine
and grow together
into loves pasionate,
compassionate vine
.
we talk of cost
when one of the hybrid withers and dies.

we talk of love and lies,
one tells to empathise.
we talk,
we listen,
we cry and cry again.

we talk of what happens,
at and after the end.
we spill words
and salted water.
but still,
we know,
little to nothing,
except...

death, grief and mourning are the final scenes,
in this play, without a script. this sad, sorry improv, before, the epilogue and the exit to the next stages learning.

but we continue to speak,
we do not let silence reign.

because...
the thought of silence,
the thought of not being able to speak,
to share,
is simply
too....
unbearable.
for my friend Sue
endstagecancer
please read "write"
as well they are linked
at least in my mind
Apr 2014 · 574
of feathers and fledging
betterdays Apr 2014
the feathers of hope
float upon the tenebrous air the unfledged girl
unfolds herself
from the straitened maze
in which she mused encumbered
by the remnants
of her former beings

to glance at the promise
of the world composed anew

if she be resolute
in courage
to take grasp of one unblemished pearlescent feather
hold
and then step/ dive /fall
into the flight of a future
unfathomable
and soar
Apr 2014 · 354
sometimes(15w)
betterdays Apr 2014
sometimes
you just have to let
your yesterdays
fall behind
and into the abyss....
sometimes
...this one just a drifting thought.... during a coffe break at work.
Apr 2014 · 610
really small thoughts
betterdays Apr 2014
miniscule
itty
bitty
tiny
teeny
runty
paltry
petite
flying commas
lilliputian
smackerels
midgey
smidgens
gnatty
buggies
catch my
peripheral vision
doing my
brain in
annoying
the sh#t
out of me.
Apr 2014 · 708
insomnia's gift
betterdays Apr 2014
my insomnia has gifted me unexpectedly
on this pre dawn morning.
i share the beach
with a single sand plover and a large work crew of sandbubbler *****
as they work their spherical graffitti magic.

i expect if i thought long enough,
my mind may make the practical connection, between the darting and bobbing of the stiff stilt,
red, legged bird
and the hyperalert scurryings of soft shelled, orb infatuated, crustaceans.

but, i prefer to play peekaboo witb the sun,
as it peeks it's sleepy rotound rim over the rippling bedsheets of the ocean's horizon.
eyes blinking, crafting opulent dusky lavenders and apricot oranges,
that meander lazily across, the brightening skybed.

i am alone on the beach until,
the next soul comes
this is my kingdom.
i stand firm and
breathe the tang of salted lands.

there is a deep silence
in my soul,
which i take to be completeness.
with neoteric expectancy and unchained exuberance,
i turn and run along
the firm sand's, edge of the high tideline leaving fading, ephemeral footprints
behind me,
scattering the little crabworkers every
which way.
i run in rhythm with the crashing waves
and we eat up the sand
until i am spent.

i sit and watch as the riders of the wave arrive.
their lithe young frames silhouetted by sunlight,
they stand at ten feet tall.
i wave and hand my kingdom over to the knights on fibreglass coursiers.
they mount their steeds
and begin the morning's tidal hunt,
for the perfect wave
Apr 2014 · 923
radiohead freeflow
betterdays Apr 2014
here i am..
walkin the line,
that's blowin in the wind.
suantering down the
pathways of my mind,
not knowing where to
begin.
cause i've seen fire and
i've set fire to then rain
had sunshine on my shoulders
been addicted to  the pain
run for the roses
on the glorious road
sat on a dewdrop
carried a ain't too heavy load.
danced in the rain
turned the tables
read the fables.
been another brick,
in the big brick wall.
conversed with
the mildy insane,
went to the chappel.
drank bucksfizz and
straight champagne.
been to paradise.
been to me.
waited at the copa,
wanted to be bornfree.
sat on the dock
and watched the
bad moon rise.
walked 500miles
saw it rain in spain.
knocked on the green door
of the lobstershack.
took the stairway to
heaven,
by the dash board lights.
rode a avalanche back.
built this city,
had a drink at the pub
with no beer.
talked to the solitary man,
about the days of the old
school yard.
laughed a lot.
stood down on the corner,
thinking of  fernando
and red red wine.
sent my message via a bottle,
to be heard on  the grapevine.
got my self all dizzy,
dancin with myself,
at the the fairground.
but didn't cry out loud
found my true colours,
tarnished and dusty,
in of all places, xanadu.
waiting now with bright
eyes, for my baby to arrive,
he took the morning train
me i am keeping busy
watching the world drift
by on granma's featherbed
all the while the nips are getting bigger. send in the
clowns to run amok
downtown and i will sit on top of the world lookin at bothsides now.
see me trying for
jumpin jack flash  
gas-satisfaction.
whilst losing my religion,
after six months in a leaky
boat and four seasons in one day.

all i've really got to go
with is:
obla dee obla da
life goes on
blah......

life goes on.
thanks to r for the inspiration
had a lot fun with this
also a big nod to all the artists whose lyrics are running round my synapses
Apr 2014 · 1.3k
honeysuckle breeze
betterdays Apr 2014
The scent of honeysuckle rests
lightly on the night breeze,
rendolent memories beguile me.

My grandparents stealing a kiss
on an old white garden seat,
his knotted fingers carressing
her weathered skin
with a tenderness that
takes her breath,
they whisper to each other
like children with a perfect secret
....long life, lived in love.

The breeze allows another,
hint of sweet nectar,
I am surrounded by the sound of bees,
wings vibrato,
greedily harvesting ambrosia,
I stand between eons,
not in fear but awe.
at the simplicity of it all.

One more fragrant breath,

I turn to my man
and whisper,
I promise to you eons.
Apr 2014 · 810
the tiniest conman (hiaku)
betterdays Apr 2014
crocodile tears fall

toddler learns deception

flim-flam at age three
Apr 2014 · 696
a little to the left
betterdays Apr 2014
i'm feeling a just little to
the left of sane today,
don't quite know what it is.
but it feels a little like
that itchy spot in the middle of your back.
you know the one ya just can't reach to scratch.

the day started good..
now a smidge of paranoid and pinch of misunderstood is make making me feel
less than i should
if i had to colour me right now,
it would be a deep grey, indigo blue.
perhaps....
i am just getting a dose of manflu(strange as i am a woman-girl).
but no it's more than that.

i feel rundown, runover, squashed flat.
bummed out busted and outright flustered
yeah adding a dash of that. now i am on a roll down a hill going fast.

nothing of import has happened to make me feel this way.
no arguement, cross words, crisis or dilemma has crossed my path today.

i am out of step,
stomping on toes,
counting to ten,
to save someones nose,
from my tense and tightly clenched fist.

the way that i'm feeling
one of two things could happen.
every body else could...
shuffle to the left a little
to align with me (yeah like thats gonna happen).

....or if thats just a hassle your going to need to:
step aside as my progress,
is now furious
and my wake is wide.

make your choice
my toes are a tappin
i no longer
have time for this lip flappin....

....boom thar she blows!!!!
Apr 2014 · 833
crisp
betterdays Apr 2014
the air so,
crisp this morning.
there will be
no early morning swim.

but i will trek to the beach,
to watch the surfers,
young and old.
continue their love affair
with the waves and the wind.
Apr 2014 · 402
cloudtown survey
betterdays Apr 2014
"what do you miss most?"
i asked.
turning to my friend sitting on the park bench.
she replied,
with a wistful smile.
" the colours in a rainbow"

"what do you miss most?"
i questioned.
as i dug the garden over with my grandfather.
"the smell of rain on dry soil"
he replied,
dusting his hands against his pants.

"what do you miss most?"
i queried.
my old mentor as we sat drinking tea, before a roaring fire.
"the warmth of the sun on my back."
she replied,
snuggling further down into the cosy chair.

"what do you miss most?"
i asked my forever young sister playing on monkey bars.
"the feeling of the ground under my feet."
she replied,
swinging upside down.

"what do you miss most?" the kindly old gentleman, asked me as we walked together.
" i miss the sounds of the wind rustling the leaves."
we paused to rest in the peace and quiet place.



" but i miss my heart beat most."

i said to no one
Apr 2014 · 512
boobookery
betterdays Apr 2014
mopoke

the mournful call

                                      mopoke
of the boobook owl

as she ekes out
an existence
for her and her chick

                                      mopoke
fair warning to,
house mouse and field
you have entered my fiefdom.
now are you prey
to feed my fledgling fold

                                      mopoke  
               mo..poke..mo...poke

from my aerie
                                      mopoke
my eerie calls,
defray my diminutive size, my too cute name.
my chocolate feathers
and startled gaze.

                                      mopoke
i am owl warrior queen  

                                    MOPOKE
boobook owl
small owl eastern australia
has a distinctive call
Apr 2014 · 637
Gundagia Blues
betterdays Apr 2014
The verdency has long been bleached from the grass.
It is now hollow straw and chaff.
It soughs and rattles it's
sorrow in whispering distress.

The livestock, ***** smudges
of skin and bone.
Stand listless, under the stick
bare branches, of the ghost gum .
Waiting for the rumble
of the feed truck to come.

The dust swirls, red fine
and irritating to skin and eyes.
The only creature to thrive
are the buzzing horde of
flies.

The bore pump clanks to life
and the water allotment
flows.
The sheep arise and drink
the trough, bone dry.
Before resettling into hungry
repose,
under the white ghost gum west of Gundagia.

This is drought, this is the
wait for rain, this is the daily
struggle, the farmers lonesome refrain.

All but the sturdiest stock
sold, shot or long gone dust,
to the unforgiving heat. Nuturing the best,
saved from starvations
questing hold.
To rebuild the farm
and complete Job's test.

After the rains have come,
all will be good again.
And if they don't come.
Doesn't matter, soon we'll
all be dead.
written after a conversation
with farming friends.
Apr 2014 · 703
whispers of obsession
betterdays Apr 2014
i know.....
infatuation and obsession
are... somewhat.... compulsive
in need ...and sometimes  
misunderstood
but...
it is writing me inside out
this desire to.......  speak in
ink laden syllables.....
to scribe and etch my self
on the synaspes of your brain
so that i am ever painted... in the background of your pictures
so that my words become... your
idiom and phrases
so that i appear black... and white .. in film noir or slapstick comedy
is this wrong....
is this creepy...
this need to be in your blood..
in every drawn breath..
i am not unhinged or crazy
there are other things......
but you come to me.. at unbidden times and wrest me.....
into this  sojourn
on sanities thin, thin cusp
walking.... the wire of......
ratiocination... one side... ...sapience...
...the other stupidity.....
you are not aware
of me... and you...
should not be
for i am no one......
only a thought upon
a poets page harmless....
and imagined
oh! but to be free to live
life on knife's.....
sharp and cutting edge.....
merely a writing exercise....
Apr 2014 · 400
time
betterdays Apr 2014
time..

is the best gift
i have ever been given

time..
to see life anew

time..
to love and be,
beloved

time..
to see my baby grow

time..
to know what seems
insurmountable is not

time..
of joy unaccountable,
but well remembered

time..
of sorrow etched  
like milestones
on my brain's
memory cortex

time..
in between those markers

time..
to soar
with creations grace

time..
to quietly sit,
adoring his face

time..
to savour hearty food

time..
for a cup of tea
and a natter with friends

time..
to walk upon a lonely shore

time..
to laugh and tickle some more

time..
to write,to read,to learn

time..
to dance,to sing

time..
to bring perspective

time..
to see

time..
to wrest with ideas ginormous

time..
to stroke a sleeping cat

time..
to figure out how to be me

time to
wonder at it all
time....

time....
time....
for just,
about
        ......everything
Apr 2014 · 503
meditation(hiaku)
betterdays Apr 2014
praying mantis posed

vivid green, a deadly nun

basking in noon's sun
Apr 2014 · 757
toast(hiaku)
betterdays Apr 2014
newspaper rustles
smell of coffee freshly brewed
morning kiss and toast
Apr 2014 · 461
minutea
betterdays Apr 2014
it is the little things
that consume me...
the daily minutea
that others miss...
or deem discardable.
it is these.....
small moments
i am drawn to..
that.. i focus on......
as the big picture sails by
piccolo thoughts
and lilliputian dreams...
.... engage me.
encouraging me to ..
flights of fancy....  
expansive in expression...
....snatches of conversation
half finished gestures.....
are bread and butter
.... sustaining me.
...tiny bits of tree twiglet,
when they grow...
what stories could they tell.
a christmas stamp stuck to the
cement pavement...
i would hate to pay
the postage on sending that package.
always...and always
in the back of my mind....
the sea....
full of teeming....
tiny floaty things for me...
to inadeaquately... describe
and love... i write love  well....
then there are....
.... the familys forgotten moments
...gathered by my quill
we..... as poets... are life's truest horder's .....inscribing life on sky and tree.....
we see and hold....
....and feel and scry.
the minikens... of all .....mankind
with little.. splot, spotches..? of inkspots ..joined to form a line.
of words to open hearts...
..and free encumbered mind
Apr 2014 · 522
sate
betterdays Apr 2014
the cool evening draws itself inward
around our bodies close entwined
in musk filled sheets we lay mute
hands braille like speak of life's
message on lovers
skin cooling now
quiescent
replete
sate
best read in landscape
this is a nonet
poem
nine lines
first line 9 syllables
last line 1 syllable
Apr 2014 · 546
Long Gone
betterdays Apr 2014
Memories of a father long gone and only just remembered.
"You must remember this a kiss is but a kiss a smile is just a smile...., as time goes by"
sung as my lullaby in a deep low voice.

The smell of cigarette smoke, old spice and brylcreme.

The bone of your knee bouncing my backside as we watched Skippy on TV.
The deisel and oil that darkened your hands.

Barking laughter when you played rough'n'tumble with the boys.
Big gentle, fumbling hands when you came to "afternoon tea ".

The sheepish grin and shoulder shrug when you came home "weathered" from the pub.

Pockets empty except for betting slips.
Too many dinners of two dollars worth of chips please.
Christmas gifts in late February,
sometimes not at all.

The plate of bacon and eggs sliding down the wall,
inches from your head.

Angry shouting when we were meant to be sleeping, door slams followed by broken weeping.
Silence so intense it had us kids creeping round the walls.

Back bumper of a muscle car,
tailights burning red,
tyres sqealing,
suitcases stacked high in the backseat.

Selfish ******* whispered, by my mother,(the first time i ever heard her swear), into the coldnight country air.

As we stood watching and yearning for life to treat us fair.
I was five at the time.
Apr 2014 · 636
monster hour
betterdays Apr 2014
little boy and little
cat blue,
roar around the hallways
during the monster hour.

the man mountain
lumbers behind
in frankestein pose
intoning
"the tickle man comes for
you....
the tickle man cometh,
to tickle your rickles,
and grasp your giggles,
and eat your toes!!!"
in his deepest basso
profundo.

momma, sits on the couch
in a zombie like pose
as she waits for the clock
to wind out the hour

and in the kitchen
the caulldron bubbles
with "brains and veins"
on the go.
brains and veins = spagetti bolognaise
man mountain= dad/ben
momma's a zombie from one too many academic meetings today
Apr 2014 · 519
the collector
betterdays Apr 2014
we went shopping this morning,
then to the movies.
all the time,
the little voice in my head
was telling me,
i had forgotten
an important chore.

we were gone three, four hours.
the little voice niggling away.

got home just now
and remembered
as i opened the front gate.

forgot to lock the catflap
gus's in/outdoor.
well, by now, its far too late.

you see gus,
the little grey cat
is a collector, not a
hunter of things.

if god forbid,
he were a dog.
he would be one
of those retreivery things.

he finds and he brings,
normally to his food bowl.
so now, we are in the kitchen
and were taking stock.

one mangled penny lizard
and two other tails.
one drowned moth,
one feebly swimming still
three dazed cicadas,
one belly up and by
the sound a few more yet
to be found
a praying mantis, sans one claw
and something else,
mushed into the floor
a magpie feather,
but,(thank god) not the bird
our little grey cat,
flat out on the mat.
it has been a big morning,
no doubt about that.

he sleeps on, oblivious.
as we his minions,
clean up his mess,
as best we can.
from experience the lizards,
find their own way out.
the cicadas, we find,
when they sing
their discordant song,
reminding me, all day long
my little voice,
not ever wrong.
we once came home to find a size 12 chicken
still in bag half defrosted and gnawed around the edges go figure lol
Apr 2014 · 297
todays truth
betterdays Apr 2014
let me share,
today's incontravertable truth
life is lived.
right now
let me share
today's incontravertable truth
death is lived
right now
they only differ
by a single moments,
grace, breath and heartbeat.

let me share tomnorrow's
incontravertable truth
it is the same as today's
Mar 2014 · 3.7k
the tourney
betterdays Mar 2014
if you drill down,
past the hair,
flesh and bone.

into my mind
where the ego
and id  reside.
then turn to the left,
and follow the i.q.
down the alley,
you will find
a place.

where on thrones of
cogitating thoughts,
king big questions asked,
reigns in conjunction,
with, queen yet unanswered.

they watch with interest benign,
over a field of  an eternal tourney,
split roughly down the middle
by a chasm quite wide.

on one side
of the gorge is arrayed,
the banners of philosophy.
at the vanguard,
the epistemological knights;
plato, descartes, ferrier,
kant, hume,spinoza
and bosanquet.
the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought.
followed by the lesser lights,
and those,
obscure or forgotten,
who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and
to set the tent poles.

as to the other side,
that is given to,
the seminaries of religion;
bhuddism, taoism,
islam, hindu, juche,
rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo,
judaism and christianity
with all its clans.
they array themselves in cadres,
according to belief.
and to the rear,
there rides,
an interesting guerilla band,
of intertestemantals,
about 3 or 4 hundred years wide.
these are the few who are  accounted for,
when god spoke nothing,
or perhaps
a lot but the message just got lost.
they number in their disparate clan,
alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans
and pompey the great,
not all, but the noteworthy.

across the divide,
by arrowing thought
were fought rallies of acumen
and battles of wit
and occasionally,
a persipacious fire was lit.

but there is one more player,
to mention.
apathy,
the great hulking ******,
who for want of gumption, and get up and go,
sat crouched,
(quite uncomfortably so)
on a spire.
made of mediocracy,
cemented by woe,
in the iddle of the rifted abyss.
unable to decide
with which team to go.
another 3word writing
exercise
epistemological
intertestimantels
abyss
Mar 2014 · 314
with
betterdays Mar 2014
within
your heart
without
hesitation
withhold
nothing
withstand
anger
withal
grace
withdraw
peacefully
Mar 2014 · 515
grooved down
betterdays Mar 2014
back in the days.....
when i was youthful
bright longing in my eyes.

when life was
a desperate struggle
based on a whim....

i found myself at a place
edge of a valley
start of a mountain
holding back ,
whilst ....
looking forward,
balanced on the rim....
of a new horizons skin.
what to do....... what....

dive
back into the shadow
climb
up into the light.

walking...
on a tightrope
of fraying indecision
circling...
round and round.

years of making myself
dizzy...
with fury
and  
rebounded thought
pinging,slinging, stinging
doubt....
about which way
back...
forth...
back
(g)round....and (g)round
wore myself a groove,
with witless, wistful pacing.

a grave slowly shuffled out,
deeper, darker...
valley dark,
mountain light,
grey grave groove...
on the cusp between.....

mental twilight...........
had me enthralled,
everday shufflin...
till,
when...then.. somehow...
i...
ceased ......
to be me,
frightened to decide....

.........epiphany........

any whichway
was better than this.....
grinding, ground down
groove worn grave.

small steps, giant leaps.
i found grace was in
believing.....
found was in the looking,
laughter in the smiling
life was in the living.
direction was merely mindful
deception....
coralling random disposition.

for one
up
for another.....
down

purpose is a delicate
preponent,
in decsion making choices
attitude the fulcrum
on which it all approximates.......

valley dark
mountain light
both wrong
both right
take .....
a step,
a leap,
a bound,
a flight,
of fortunate fancy....
........or petulant plight.
Mar 2014 · 591
black and red
betterdays Mar 2014
black
the sky above so far reaching,
but disinclined
to become involved
in petty disputes
that night.

red
glowing the fire of sugar cane cleansing,
smoke thick,
billowing greasily

black
clouds covering
angry thoughts,
brought to bear
in closed fists.
beating sense into her
until,

red
flowed down
cheek and chin
absorbed by skin
and hair
and the little

black
dress he bought
for her to wear,
with

red
stilletto high,high heels. lipstick too for pouty lips,
now

black
and blue.

red
her thoughts as she lay beaten, but not
broken on the warm

black
asphalt tar, leaching

red
the cigarette end
showed
as slowly she stood,
fixated

black
the hilt of the knife protruding from the white dress-shirt

red
the lifeblood spreading

black
dress walking to

red
porsche,

his last view .....
              ........fading to

black.
a writing exercise given to me by a fellow poet
create a poem using the words red and black
Mar 2014 · 495
proof
betterdays Mar 2014
the rainbow lorikeet
is evidence
of a creational dichotomy
a bird of feathers,
bright and sweet
but
with a of voice
of snickering raucousness undeniable, universal proof: you can't have it all!!!
Mar 2014 · 435
ink#2
betterdays Mar 2014
back to ink
and paper
told you
i was obsessed

brain to ink
ink to paper
paper to eyes
eyes to soul
soul to sky
sky to rain
rain to tree
tree to mill
mill to paper
paper to poet
poet to brain
brain to ink
ink to paper
Mar 2014 · 410
ink #1
betterdays Mar 2014
i have an obsession,
at present
with the concept
of
ink to paper.

the embodiment of
imbuing fibreous materials with tinted liquid,
by way of sharp pointed etching,
in flurries of creative osmosis,
to create,
imprinted strokeplay
is to me fascinating.

perhaps i need to practise
the art of calligraphy,
but my penmanship,
the epitome of
the word illegable,
makes that thought
a quixotic notion.
not worth pursuing,
unless this is my
opportunity to
tilt at windmalls.

it may end badly.
but so what,
sometimes,
that is the fun of finding
out the parameters of
ones limitations.
Mar 2014 · 251
each, someones
betterdays Mar 2014
we
are
each
someones morsel
of eternity's feast
by blood
or
affect
Mar 2014 · 574
digitising sheep.
betterdays Mar 2014
can't sleep,
tried to count sheep,
but the little buggers won't jump the fence.

can't sleep,
tried counting sheep,
but the pesky little critters, are to busy eating,
to jump the fence.

can't sleep,
busy trying to count sheep but the little f^ckers won't stay still.

can't sleep,
feel like i might have mentioned this before, counting sheep is a feckless chore,
but one i must try once more,
either that... or..
eat the leftover
curried lamb pie.
Mar 2014 · 315
just three words....
betterdays Mar 2014
quiet the night,
calm the heart,
sleepy the baby,
gentle the man,
soft the guitar,
done the dishes,
good the book,
warm the breeze,
bright the stars,
kissed the brow,
somnulant the child,
dreaming the dreams,
watched the moon,
held the hand,
drank the wine,
intense the look,
long the kiss,
delicate the caress,
soft the bed,
crazy the ***,
satiated the longing,
forever the love,
deep the sleep,
rested the soul
Mar 2014 · 814
Wing-ed Jewel.
betterdays Mar 2014
Teeny tiny beetle
in your designer carapace.

Busy bodying,
up and down the flowerstems ,
harvesting, juice of aphid.

Teeny tiny beetle wings
a flutter,
launching tiny little you, homeward bound.

A speck of enameled beauty, contemptuous of the ground.

Up and away with you,
you miniscule marvel
of god's mayhem.
Mar 2014 · 524
hush, hush, baby...
betterdays Mar 2014
the days heat
and the langour
of loves sweet makings

has left me
                    undefined
       descriptively
blurred
                ..water
puddled upon
       a
         raked...  
            .....stage
falling
       slowly
            waterfall
                       graced

into
the orchestra pit

of lassitude's blissful embrace

.............
            ........
and in the wings
my little girl self
giggles at the whimsy

as the band plays
"summertime
..... and the livin is."

sublime...

                  
                .....to the prime...
Mar 2014 · 1.7k
caterpillar thinkings
betterdays Mar 2014
ravenous ....
...i watch..
the caterpillar
.....munch the leaf..
..edge to spine
in a systematic arc....

with a... squirm and
an inching motion...
he moves ......all energy
concentrated ....on ...the...
mouthpiece..... *******
rhythm,....
...cookie cutter.. nibbling...
...green mouthfuls....
...always ...just.. one ..more......

...willful ...energetic...unstoppable....
...obesity... for a cause..

...i wonder... what
wonderfully... beautifully..
..exquisite ..flutterful......
thing .....will this fat
wrinkly ****......become....


i turn to go inside.....
....i have a hankering...
for some.... green grapes..
Mar 2014 · 881
awkward!!!
betterdays Mar 2014
well,
this is awkward!
my thought as i stand, balanced,
one leg in my knickers,
the other bent
flamingo-esqe
halfway through the other leg hole.
other than this,
-nekid-
facing the full length glass sliding door,
that in turn
faces the newly stripped
of garden house next door.

to be more exact that faces what the new owners,
must have chosen as their bedroom.
how have i come to this decision.
well as i hop and jiggle about,
the aforesaid neighbor stands frozen,
in his window,
hands on the towel in his hair,
the full frontal rest of him bare in all his glory,
bronzed and pale
bits, swinging in the breeze,
thin, hair less.

we have caught each other in undress.
awkward!!!!
as i said.
but manners hold sway,
i give a cheery wave,
as i hop and jiggle away.
true story
still a bit sheepish when we happen to meet
Mar 2014 · 323
dreaming
betterdays Mar 2014
the caterpillar
dreams of technicolour wings
while eating his greens
hiaku #21
Mar 2014 · 471
dillydallying
betterdays Mar 2014
procrastination,
the unenviable task
being rescheduled
Mar 2014 · 435
a sticky mess
betterdays Mar 2014
o **** you
little coffee cup
why did you
have to go
and commit suicide
your life
was so full
you had it all
rich
sweet
well loved
called upon as
friend & confidante regularly
and now
having leapt to
your demise
you are just
a sticky mess
on my slate floor
i weep for you
Mar 2014 · 907
frogstroke
betterdays Mar 2014
i stroke the water
with amphibian grace....
plastic protuberent eyes
bob up above....
then down below
.....disecting view
sky blue../...to aqualine
aquamarine.. black line

water sluicing off...
latex bundled, bumpled head
in streaming rivulets...
legs creating rhythmic geometrics....
arms parting waters to glide.........

my frogskinned self.....
is irregularly pattern
....dead fish white,
and sunkissed brown,
......on appendages
bright cerulean, slashed
with swirled  butter yellow.
.....wrapped across the
overotound body...

glide onward frog girl...
....through...
the crisp chlorine clean pond...
thoughtless.... except for stroke
and lapnumber.

we.... the army of lapsswimmer
frogs.... are a silent breed
our territorial sound/call is the
regulated plash of arm or leg
.....against surface water

as we swim....always....
in straight lines.....
......that etch away miles....
and
...our overindulgent..
land based......
...vices

we are the water monks .....
of penance and self improvement
....grimly discharging our vespered canon of strokes....
before fluidly lifting our... watersilked
bodies back onto the reality
of land ......leaving
our amphibian grace
                        ........adrift
....in the wake of daily need
Mar 2014 · 726
scorned not yet scarred
betterdays Mar 2014
open the book
let your tears
fall on the pages
on handwritten
love

watch the saltedwater
make pools and ponds of
your heartfelt protestations

wait to see
the paper warp
and wrinkle
in cruel parody
of lifes reality

turn the page
now smeared
and blighted
knowing nothing
remains pristine

love has alighted
on a dark horse
no longer true
to the the troth
pledged when
love was true

the ******* just
walked out on you
leaving just when
forever was in sight
on the horizon
leaving you with just this

a lethal pen.. and a womens
need for.... vengance
for and about a friend whose partner
just left her
Mar 2014 · 577
just a mo.....
betterdays Mar 2014
just a moments grace
from the rushing roaring
in my brain.
just a little surcease,
a second's truce
between voice in and sane.
i just need to change my focus,
to blankly stare,
for the smallest while not to care.

to have a twinkling and a wink,
to re-adjust the mindset.

to re-sing the refrain,
to desist the cratering battle,
to lay in fields quiet,
to release the burgeoning
strain.

to hear the epiphanies call,
sweet and clear.
to understand life's meaning.
to balance fear and longing,
couarage and strength.
to walk my passage willingly,
all of it's undetermined length.
one quiet moment,
is all i need right now,
in order to adjust my wavering stride.
that and the knowing,
you will walk beside.
Mar 2014 · 921
otherworldly
betterdays Mar 2014
on the edge of darkness.
feline grace beholds,
the little things of nightime.
scrabbling away.
the nose quivers.
pupils dilate.
questing ever questing.

tree boughs, creak and pop
then silence once again.
as the moon reveals,
the tide upon the rise.

nocturnal beings found,
bathed in silverlight.
unworldy and archiac,
in days bright colourings.

but some how, realistic,
in the nightime setting.
faded but majestic.
clothed in monochromes.
different not pathetic.
darkness is their poem.
Mar 2014 · 426
can we.......
betterdays Mar 2014
can we start the....world anew
can we forget....forgo
the....(colour) blue
where do i apply to re
a do..(done).. over
world anew now!!
order on(e) up
can we stop....turn back...
the clock to before
the (my)...world stopped
turning.....started crumbling
stone....cold...iceaged...
can we just stop the world
please ... do not get
off(line/side)
canwe....cani... talk.... listen
(try to) ....explain?????
words don't come.....easy
back(for)lash(ing)
rework old refrain...disdain
my portions...keeper
do not maintain....contain...
innocence....(no)one can(is)...
does
can we not give...take blame
we both burnt bridges
got. ...caught... in flame's (f)ire
can we rewind ....unwind
desire unravel..
hate retire...
anger
....rework the paradigm
can we make....bake ...  the
world anew
aspect....ratio... payedforview designed....
  ....realligned for me...you
can we.... dare we ..must we
will we .....
can....you forgive me
i ....can...not....lose
again
experimental work
(at least for me it was)
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