ten thousand tears
fall to your memory
enough to water
a grove of magnolia trees

ten thousand joys
remembered there
give light and sun
to the soul, stripped bare

and as those trees
grow with light and water
we sit and revisit sorrow and joys
and contemplate, the art of bee's
to bring colour to the palest day
before leading us home
to hive and life, leaving behind
toys and strife....before we succumb
before we falter...to the melancholy
of those that remain

the first spring flower
brings you to mind sisterkin
hands deep in the earth

growing things your bliss
as i watched tea cup in hand
we solved all problems

there in that garden
while the fat persian cat  stood
and watched, purring

the scent of lemon zest
reminds me of my grandad
both sunny and sharp

we stay still
the surfers and I
caught in
the moment

as the sun breaks
the horizon
a whale breaches
the water

the  apricot light
plays off the slick
oil black sides
of the massive beast

it was a moment
of  grandeur
broken by
the massive
water slap of
whale as it dropped
back into the blue water

and still, we stayed still
the surfers and I
caught in the glory

of the bellyflop

we go now
to the place
of  solemnity
all three
of us
together

we go
to place
memories
wrapped in
flower petals
on the doorstep
of your afterhouse

we talk
in hushed tones
to the motes
of dust that
sparkle in
the sunlight
hoping they
will carry
our news
to you

we water
the grass
that covers
your afterhouse
with salted tears
hoping they will
carry our love to
your landlocked bones

we hold hands
believing that
you see our
togetherness
and take solace
in it...

we go back
to the everyday
leaving you behind
with these little
particles of ourseleves
called sorrow

they are your substance
until next we come

we went, that day
to your house,
with food and drink
gifts wrapped in bright paper
it was a day of celebration
all day we would remind you
that fifty was just a number

we spent, that day
gathered together on
couches and armchairs
watching the world change
as planes became weapons
and buildings became like trees
falling in a forest, peoplee became
ghost and ether on the winds

we wept, that day
for those lost
on the other side
of the world
we wept, that day
for those left behind
we wept, we weep still
when we think of the atrocities
that mankind can do in the name of gods

we left, that day
with food uneaten
presents still wrapped
heartsore and sorry
images of horror imprinted
praying for succour

we send our thoughts
out each year to those
who have suffered
to those whose family
names are remembered
with bell chimes and prayers

it was,  meant to be such a wonderful day
when we went that day to celebrate your fifty years

little birds
all yellow mouths
and hunger

chirp with needful bellies
keeping the olds
in frantic motion
to  silence the calamitous cries

you are the show of the day
for the half grown, well fed instinct
that sits on the other side of the window ledge
eyes wide, ears forward, poised to leap
he watches trembling, with adrenaline
filled need to hunt, years of
domestication be ******
he is tiger, you are prey

at least till the door to the
refrigerator opens.....

into the breach i go
no heavy footed
but on tippity toe

into the dark night i sail
in a boat shaped like a whale

into the forest  i run
with a smile and bread crumbs

the highest mountian
i will climb, only to
roll pell meel down the other side

i will walk on clouds, swim each
and every sea...i will be as magnificent
as only i can be...

i will dive with polar bears
and fly with albatross
will run with  giraffe
and stand with rhinoceros

and when i am done with this day's play
home to you i will come,
with clothes, *****, ripped and frayed...
and you will sigh and grump and say...

"little man, what did you get up to, today?"

to make the choice, to use your words
for the betterment of others
is sometimes thought of
as  somewhat antiquated gesture

to use one's talent (which is sublime)
to draw attention to some one else's
achievements, with both grace and humour
not once or twice but time after time
is beautiful beyond my word ablitities

to do this with  such panache
to do this with absolute humility
to honour this with a joyful spirit
so as to, do this in a way
which gives the recipient, all the glory
is highest art form
it is the poetic way of chivalry
it is magnanimous beyond magnanimity

it is to my reckoning; this particular poets
way of giving, small peices of his very big heart away

it is confetti made up of admiration and love
thrown high in the sky for all to see
it is one man's ticker tape parade
that i stand on the kerb waiting for
each and every day......

five pebbles
stacked on bottom step
circled with chalk of blue
culminating in an arrow
pointing toward the back yard

four pebbles stacked in the driveway
sitting on a piece of sandlewood
sharpened to a point
indicating a pathway to the back yard

at the corner of the house
three pebbles wrapped in wire
stung together, hanging off the
battered surfboard ...arced toward
the backyard

in the middle of the vege patch
a table upon which
two stacked pebbles sit
table set for breakfast
chairs with cushions
an invitation to sit

one god boy, coming with tray
from kitchen, ever so carefully
makes his way to the table
serves pancakes and syrup
juice and coffee, fruit salad
and gives his dad a single pebble
deep brown striped with white
and a small gold spot..polished to a shine,
with a hole drilled throughand leather loop

smiles, tears and bearhugs
father's day has begun...

the waters edge
is where i stand
feet sinking slowly
in the golden sand
water is ice in a
white lace hand
salty tears from
a far off land

sun is bright
and warm is air
breeze is light
just ruffling hair

off in deeper places
dolphins play and
win races against
the curling waves

surfers sit awaiting
water graces before
leaping walking on
surf and slimline pieces
of wood and fibro foam
artfully worked into boards
of about three paces

whales swim along
the water roads
occasionally
showing age old faces
and fins and tails
in the dance of ages

birds fly high
on wind planes
dipping and diving
in order to gain
greater speed
better angles
to spear down into
water tangles
coming up with
dinner or not
spreading wings
again seeking the aloft

at waters edge
where i stand
mountians have been
broken down into sand
horizons quiver in the sun
somewhere day is starting
somewhere day is done
and still the waves seek the shore
and still the water always wants more

perch on stools
too high for short legs
elbows resting askew on
sawn wood table top

the smell of dill pickles
pefumong the air
we wait for the bagels
to arrive......

heaped with pastrami and onion jam
crumbling half melted sharp cheddar
dill pickles sliced acroos the top
a mountain of foodlove
on an old china plate

old time root beer floats
and a mound of serviettes
let the **** begin....
as we snarf and scoff
our way down to china

don't forget to buy
some bagels for breakfast either

cold weather outside
sad thoughts within

rains cleanses the windows
tears cleanse the hearts

rain gives water for growth
tears acknowledge slow death

clouds blanket the sky
my other gives me a blanket
both make the day warmer

the sun breaks through cloud
that heavenly beam of light
reminds me of my mothers faith
for her, everything will be alright

me, I gather my blanket closer
and cry into his broad shoulders

three bags,
two large
one small

two boxes,
of assorted
miscellany

photos of
one and all

two calendars
two clocks
one for the bedside
one for the wall

quilt and favoured pillow
one petite eletric recliner

assorted toiletries,
mostly pretty soaps

decorative pillows
nine in all...

this is what we moved
from place to place
gathering up the fraying
edges of a life unravelling
moving her one rung
closer to the divide

melancholy  thoughts
meloncholy thoughts

these are the small pieces
of a life lived large and hard

tears gathered in linen
as new friends  are lost
uncertain the path before
sadness at the cause

brave hearted she  is
at yet more loss....
brave hearted she is
at what lies before

we bought our tickets
and now take our place
on the flying ship of fools
denying rules...
and rising into clouded skies

four days in the big smoked
town with grit and dust
in every breath
going to turn cement beige
into dappled rainbow red

see some shows...
get over or underfed ....
sleep in ...1000 other peoples bed...
aquarium, Lunatic Park and zoo...
museum a  must, halls of old things,
covered in aged dust
but only interested
to see  thebreally old dino poo

ride on a train....go insane
in peak hour traffic...
buy extra stuff on
credit-instamatic.
watch buskers be
musical and dramatic.

swim in the harbour
not thinking of sharks
in the dark deep water

flap our wings,  see what the waiter
feed the ducks in the big city pond.
see old aunts of which we are fond

fly on home....
and take a two day
recuperation holiday...
before singing
the workday blues...

green tips
are showing
all over the garden

buding lime on
stick bare branches

muscling their way
up through
red chocolate soil

peeking out
of rocky crevices

all seeking
light and warmth

chlorophyll seeking argent
hope seeking fulfillment
winter aceding to spring

happiness is a game of courage
intricate in it's strategies
straight forward in it's goal

it does'na matter  if you play
with stick and ball or pen and paper
this game requires the strength of your heart
and sometimess the loss of your mind

you score according to your own gradient
some, the best players find happiness
in the small wee things, the rest of us overlook.
some search for the big score, whilst overlooking
the small golden fragments scattered about...

you can see those who are winning,
for when you look into their eyes
there is contentment, that is after all
the much sought after prize...

are ye winning today......

you bring to me
your offering
of  love

you place it gently
upon my sleeping breast

and the retreat
to the chair in the corner

and sit, content
to wait til I awake

you watch me
with eyes
full of  adoration

hoping your token
will be sufficient
and bring praise

i awake....to find
a dead mouse
on my chest

in shock
i scream
long and loud
i do confess

you are confused
this is you best
you bring to me

and i yowled  at it

you slink away
thinking these
human things
are difficult
to please

next time
i must bring
a baby rabbit
back to the nest

sun breaking the horizon
in a golden orange hue
promising another
unseasonably warm
winters day

i stand in your doorway
catching those last moments
of small boy dreams
the liitle tuxedo cat
creating eternity at my feet
his motor putt-purring away

in the kitchen eggs are scrambling
and coffee is being poured into large cups
by the aging surfer dude, who has already
been down to commune with the sea

i call to wake you and as your eyes open
you smile, the cat abandons me
to sail into your arms a frenzy of love
and whiskers, you laugh and laugh

today...is going to be a good day

ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation
    Against thy strength,
    Distance, and length;
Do what thou canst for alteration:
  For hearts of truest mettle         
  Absence doth join, and Time doth settle*


While she sits in her chair
vaguely following the conversation
she also drifts away in time and inclination
to care for the important things we discuss
in many ways she is beyond those cares
her decision has been made
and we but sound and fury
isee she is now more complete
and composed than of recent days
for her there is hope in the path she takes

i cannot begrudge her the choice she has made
as she said her age and medical disposition
means she is already walking that road.

but as daughters do I peer forward even now
and feel the lack of her grace in daily events
Even today as we make plans, her abscence
whilst still being here is a vast gap of darkness
that we all avoid with plattitudes and brightness

In our private hearts we do rail against the
happenstance injustice that befalls the matriarch
we struggle with the alteration to the long march home
we come together to watch as we fall apart in small
and large measures...

In our minds we pledge the best,
in our hearts we pray for speed
We know she has forever etched
herself into our bones and being
but we quietly sorrow at her growing
absence...apart from her memories
and leavingd


 *His mind hath found
    Affection’s ground
Beyond time, place, and all mortality.         
  To hearts that cannot vary
  Absence is present.

the small dog
attached to the long lead
has a tail that is blurred
with happiness
as he wanders through
the market village
tongue lolling
nose questing the air
for the myriad of  scents
he is happy curiosity
in a brindle coat

i watch amused at his vigour
as i drink from an enamel mug
holding a wonderful local bean coffee
eat warm coconut mango muffins
and ponder the purchase
of some artisan glass jewllery

my boys having scoffed their muffins
are off to see the woodworkers
the golden child hoping
to add to his collection
of wooden puzzles
his father to chat with
other lovers of woodgrains

we will meet later
after i have bought, applebox honey
collected by dave the beekeeper
portabella mushrooms the size of saucers,
to make stuffed fetta mushies for dinner
and all the other green and organic vege
i can find.  some prawns and a mud crab.
lunch tomorrow,  olive bread, olive tappenade
stuffed olives, some goodies for the biccie tin

and some of these coffee beans....

the dog raises it's leg against the canvas
of the tent down the pathway
before carrying on....
oblivious

the mist of my voice
lays gently on the cold window
the sun is yet to shine
as i leave my comfort behind
still warm and fetal beneath
duck down doona's

i tell the house goodbye
and that i will return, anon.
and step forth into the frozen dew
sparkling on the winter faded lawn

once in the car, I sigh with deep breath
this is something that needs be done
but my heart falters at leaving the nest

for it is away i must go, to find some rest
it is to leave in order to stay, to be my my best
each year i take this small season of me
each year i go... go be alone in order to hone
my mind and shed dark blue barnacles
so upon my return my boat runs smooth
through river and wave, calm and typhoon

i retreat from this world and this world from me
i go find a place full of water and tree
and there i sit and sleep and walk,
very little do I talk, i do not perform
or  teach, i do not quest or overreach

i am but pebble in a river,
the water, washes and reforms me
i am but budding leaf, on tree
the sun energises me

I am snail, content,
within my fragile shell

I am quiescent, within my soul

soft the raindrops on my face
gentle the breeze at my back
warm the sand between my toes

soft the words you speak
gentle your lips upon my neck
warm your body next to mine


soft the sound of you sleeping
gentle my fingers upon your cheek
warm the tears that fall  on the sheets

soft the closing of the door
gentle the footseps as i leave
warm the regret that burdens my soul

warm the first steps to hell
gentle the push off the cliff
soft the mud in the gutter

today  we had
chocolate cake
for breakfast

the really deep fudgy type
the one that the taste stays
in your mouth for a long time after
so that you still think you
are eating chocolate two hour late

the type your mum used to make
and have waiting for you after school
sitting there on the table, with a glass
of cold fresh milk, the type that made
the worst day of schoolyard politics
be forgotten as you took that first bite

that is what we had for breakfast today
that sort of chocolate cake.....
I can still taste it now.....

moths play tag with the porch light
creating a soft jazz shuffle
unbeknownst to them
it is their  60 watt opus

as the fine brown dust
glitters down....and they lose
the rhythm, a dying of the, by the, light

in the harsh morning light
the small pile of carcasses
tattered and folorn
remind us...all dreams
have costs attached...

i wait standing at the old metal gate
my soul is tired, it has been a long Monday
then i see you run toward me
that action alone makes
my heart bloosom like
a sunflower,
all bright seeds, turning
toward you,  the sunshine
of my world

orchid mother
my niece so proud
because she has kept
an orchid alive
and had it bud and bloom
in winter

first year out of home
she lives in our backyard
and stumbles through
grown up  requirements
such as order and bill paying

the way she hangs clothes
on a line to dry is a form
of origami made into abstract art

but she is so proud of the big white
bloom and growing green buds

the balloons escaped the party
danced briefly on the wind
before being caught  in the
tendril grasps of the oak tree twigs

for a moment it looked like
the balloons all bright festive colours
were trying to lift the old tree
from the gloom of the grey winter day

but then the wind changed it's mind
and the strings untangled, the balloons
flew off toward the sea
and the tree settled back into a grumpy
acceptance of it's place in the word

as the children climbed up into
it's woody branches for a rough hug

he lays slumbering
tho the sun be bright

on hand grasping linen
the othe out of sight

he lays sleeping
not a care in the world

his face unfurrowed
his hair disarreyed curls

he is handsome
and beautiful too

unrazored cheeks
closed eyes of a green blue

his chest broad and deep
rises slowly in his sleep

all that mars this perfect scene
are the shuffle snores
as he dreams, little bulldozers
at busy work, chug-chug- chugging
driving me beserk

he lays sleeping, i do not
unfortunately this happens
a lot

he wakes refreshed
i wake cranky
mine is the last laugh,
the best revenge
this morning, no hanky
or panky...

....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

No man an island
yet we stand with brand
in hand, waiting
to set set alight all bridges
as we make our stand
for ourselves
over our fellow man.

We stand and watch as
killers ****, then
turn the channel
seeking the next
momentary thrill.

Less and less we involve
ourselves with others
in a meaningful way
we are more likely
to be engaged in
digital play
as we die
a little more
each solitary day

If it sounds
like I am preaching
it is because  I am

More to myself
than others
but then again
perhaps I am reaching
to you and others like
to those who understand

the carillion is a ringing
that, the sounds of bells
are stealing up upon us
as we ignore calamity to play,
tetris and zombie clan

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.**

we the poets of consciousness,  
are the translators ....
of the thoughtless thoughts
and long lost creeds

we are the heart that cries
as this world bleeds
from razors cuts
by the many thousands,

we are the recorders of the deeds
both small and large
important an seemingly insignificant.

scribes and libraians we be both
noting written word and oral oath
we partake, we give to all
but at our best we are the accord
of action and thought, deed and word

so that we reflect upon
ourseleves and others
the joy, the hate,
the hurt, the succour
the wonderment and ease,
the love and loving care
we make the hard easier to bear
we make the horrible, we make crazy
we have the ability to make the hard person care
those in despair hope...those at the end of themself
reach once more for the dangling rope

we are the fabric, the paper
on which this world is printed
we are the old gold coin
and the newly minted

we are islands with bridges between
we are understanding,
between commoner and queen

we are those who stand ready
to extinguish harmful flame
yet we are those to set hearts alight
we are those who call others
away from the game
and into the heart of the heart
into cognizant frames

we are listeners
and bell ringers both
we refine the languages
we create the quotes

we are the fresh morning
we are the new start....

despair  and hope
both seeded within us
each and everyone
as is love and hate
anger too

they are there...
we would be incomplete
without them

so it becomes
a matter of  choice

which seeds
do we nuture
which saplings
do we prune

what do we
allow to flower
and fruit

you are the gardener
you get to choose...

but as you are learning
every choice has consequence
both for you and others...

they are so very...
small and delicate
plump and oh so pink
these little hands
with tiny nails
that rest curled
upon your breast
I watch them  unfurl
like butterfly wings

and wonder at their beauty
it wiil be a while before
they are useful to you
at present they are just
object of amazement

oh, but the newness
of them, is beguiling
to both me and you.

must be time
to write again,
my soul itches
to feel pen,
imprint paper
in a way meaningful

must be time to write again
my word pile is building
out the back, needs a good cleanse
and the I may well find a gem
lying there waiting to be used
some word; like allocentric,
being the opposite of egocentric,
meaning looking to support
and grow others before yourself

must be time to write again
to put thoughts down
in a pattern that may
constitute rhyme
that may take the reader
to another place or time
that may even ellicit a tear
or a smile, maybe even
make someone's bad day
better for a while

must be time to write again
if only I could order my thoughts
that tearaway from me and hide
in the deep dark woods,
must be time to corall them,
bring them to heel
must be time to write again
for to write, for me... is to feel

sea, azure ripplings
broken by  a coal black back
whales passing on through

tail slap and full breach
immense elegance and brine
dinner plate eyes see all

the leviathan
of legends past, now become
tourist attraction

I sit here in the local laundromat
on a aluminium park bench
amongst the fish eyed dryers
and icberg washing machines
that rumble with never siated
coin fed hunger, the smell of
artificial spring and wet dog
swelling on the humid breeze

In the corner an o.d lady sits
reading a mills and boon love story
two young men  stand
leaning against the door frame,
smoking cigarettes, they look
like casual warrior guards, on their day off
all surfer dude tan and body buff
guarding the inner sanctum of local cleanliness

Another mother, you can, tell by the handbag
is playing a game on her tablet, some tinny music
wafts over, and she glances at me with apology in her eyes
I have brought nothing except my phone
on which I am writing this, and carkeys and wallet
I watch the tumble dryers tumble, and am mesmerized
by the kaleidoscope of linens,playing at being acrobats
it is warm and cozy in the evening light, a world apart

Out side on the still warm sidewalk and old dog lounges
his eyes focused on old Mrs Mills and Boon, her load finishes
and as she gets up, so does the dog, both slow and methodical
as she folds her washing the dog noses the air, comes to the doorway, where one of the young blokes offers his hand
for a pat, the dog allows the contact, but his eyes remain on the old lady as she packs her wasing into a wheeled bag,
the pair then leave, walking down the street into the dusk,
the dog's nose mere inches from the old ladies gnarled hand
and his tail wagging furiously. I fell I have witnessed something
beautiful and intimate, as they wander away...

on rock
in centre stream
I balance,ungainly

slick dark green algae
and well worn sneakers
do not provide adequate
friction, to maintain
perpendicular functions

in centre stream
on rock
I sit, hard and painfully

the whales
have started to come
gliding past with a wave
or tail breach.
occasionally they breach
thier entire bodies in the air
even if only for a moment

we are blasè about it
joking about the tourist boats
that race to be near the tails and fins
but really when the season is running
on a good day you can see three or more
so many more than when I first came here
then I kept a log of fins tails and breachings
now it is like when you see your neighbor
mowing the lawn you smile to acknowledge it
but still continue on with your day

and on some level I think the whale prefer that
cause when you think about it, would you want
some group of gawkers chasing you down
when you went up the coast for a romantic holiday

singing love songs
to one he will not meet
living pipe dreams
he can not complete

how can I make him
understand the gland
required was removed
whilst he snored

tux the cat,
singing love songs
to a lonely moon
like a flippin loon

the ache in my heart
remains undiminished
pressed down by daily need
compacted into that small blemish
that scars my soul, the tattoo of emptiness
written upon the reverse of my eyelids

this is the season of loss,
the time of letting go
yet in my heart I cannot,
I acknowledge the leaving
partake once again in the grieving,
but still I know
my heartstrings still seek yours
and now people wonder,
which lover have I lost
no lover no,no, in one sense, more indeed
but we both know if we were of Sappho's breed
we could have, no would have been each other's creed
the north south and compass complete..
but we were not born that way,
the gods at play made us for different fellows
so we became friends then sisterkin,
we were joyful for each others loves, each others success,
we were together blessed with understanding deep, deepest, over tea smoked and steeped we leapt
and climbed to highest heights
and supported each other when
we fell to the depths below...
we gave each othermgrace and kindness,
perfected the art of compassionate blindness,
and then you had to  up and go,
leaving me bereft in a way
that sees life in a far more muted way

so on that day,  the aniversary of sadness
which even if the sun shines bright,
still to me is tinted grey,
I will again take myself to a quiet place,
and drink lots of gin and a little tonic,
smile cry and become slightly, mildly histronic,
you see now three years on I just discovered
whilst your face is clear
I can hardly hear,
your voice in my head,
it is now like a whisper in my ear,
and so it appears the world,
sisterkin dear,  
is making itself abundantly clear....
you are dead,  lying dead in a box...

the bee's hum loud in my soul tonight
you sit there oblivious, caught up
singing lovesong lullabies to the golden child
but later when he is sound asleep
we be making honey, soft sweet and luscious
that's the beesong, lovesong  I be hearing
as the bee's hum loud in my soul tonight

random beauty
calls to my soul
so much so
that I must stop
and ponder
before
recording the whole
maginificent mess
in my musings.
a poetic thesis
in many chapters
on the visual, aural
and emotional impact
of the small mudanities
of a life lived in the mind
and in the reality of multiple roles
the words as an artform to makes
sense of the idiosyncratic intricacies
of the world....according to me...

smallish birds chatter
scolding the weak winter sun
yet  glad to  see it

little cat sitting
dreaming of a bird breakfast
thwarted by windows

shaft of light, dappled
makes devious, angelic
little cat now sleeps

breakfast now broken
daily rush well underway
no cat naps for me

green frog serenade
love a truly splendid song
if you know the words

quiet night broken
by the triumph of an owl
mouse house in mourning

more  bitter than sweet
the taste of your words lingers
acrid on your tongue
and as your diatribe continues
it becomes acid tearing at my heart

it appears my dear,your interpretation
of my intentions was so very wrong
what I meant is, so... not what you heard
and now you have begun a rampage
based on a reality that is simply absurd

and the sadness in  my soul,
is compounded by the fact,
that we will not be able to rebound
if you don't stop...
and take hold of the rage
that is spewing from you...
step back...fold

walk away from the table,
before you behold
the ice that is running through me,
ice cold I am,  as you review me
not knowing.. my mold is different,
to what you see... me,
I am not for sale I don't take fee's
I speak my mind...and my truth,
if that makes you blind,
or that makes you uncouth...
I am not inclined to back away from your rage...
this..or any other day....
If you can't take what I say, with a heart of love,
then, honey just walk away....
come back when you have thought things through...
take a day take a few...then come back
and create a discourse,
not based of volume,
not fueled by rage,
suppose what I am saying
(inside of the shell)
....hell...
come back
when you can act you age....

the tip of my toe
kisses the edge of the door
causing it to swing closed
displacing the motes of dust
so that they dance with abandon
in the shafts of light
and the smell of old books
rises with them, that smell
that takes me to so many places
and  I smile as  I remember
all the friends I made with
make believe faces.

how they shaped and moulded me
those writers of old, how they made me
curious and bold, taught me to question
what I was told, entertained  me not once
but ten- fold ten, way back when, I was a child
bright but shy, my paper bound friends
gave me a reason why. and sometimes how
to turn the page and find the next chapter

the dust settles and the fragrance diminishes
but the smile remains....remembering the,
then, sitting in the now....watching my friends all
taking their bow....before fading back into
the recesses of my  mind..

sentient beings scream silently as
society simply seeks an illusive dream
as sombulant walkers
we sigh away the seconds
unable to sift significance from
the silty slurry of sordidness
sad to say....but sorry is not safety
safety is no longer the sucurity blanket
at which we suckle as we sleep
we the sentinels stumble and slip
on the ****, left out to dry in the sun
and the sinisters snicker
at our slack jawed  stupidity

golden crumpets
toasting under the grill
butter and amber applebox honey
waiting to be spread  and fill
those litle wells of battered goodness

warm milk and cocoa, mingling in the cup
before dancing around for a minute
in the microwave....then tap dancing
with tantalizing richness on the tongue

this is midnight snackery at it's finest
all  sweet and decadent, touched by
whimsy and eaten in the silver moonlight

then it's back to bed with honey still
on lips.....making them sweet and smackery

his love of mac n' cheese
often outweighs the capacity
of his seven year old stomach
but valiantly he labours
so his love  is not lost
his belly becomes drumlike
and his visage narcoleptic
as he falls into slumber
one hand clutching the fork
the other curled protectively
around the bowl, with still
at least a third of his *****
gleaming in a viscous mountain
of golden sunshine goodness...
cooling rapidly to a solid mass
but still when we try to remove
his now completely sombulant body
he clutches his golden *****
to his chest. like a pirate
in  the story's he has been told
unfotunately the result of
this myclonic clutch
is a gluggy macaroni mess
down his front and in his crutch

so now, we have no mac'n cheese
a grumpy pirate too sleepy/ cranky to please,
a running bath and washer too
and the devon rex cat,  no longer the blue
but the tuxedo black scoffing down cheesey glue,
from the floor ...
whilst the irritable pirate is crying (read bellowing)
for more

god give me strentgh.... to  just endure