It is longer spring here
down at the bottom of the world
(if I were being truthful
at the very bottom of the world
spring is a mere matter of degrees)

Here in the land of Oz
we are in Autumn,
yet driving today,
the sunshining through
the last  of the clouds and
the waratahs red and vibrant
competing with the yellow
sunshine cascading drops
of the wattles , all outdone by
the bougainvilleas with their
bursts of deep, deep purple

the smell of lemon myrtle and eucalypt,
giving a zinging zest to the air
you could well believe that
nature did not get the memo...

and then in
the Land of April
there was a
foolish fool
who did not
quite have either
the werewithal
or the the tools
to ably prank,
the citizens
of his town,
those citizens
did feel
awfully
let down by
the foolish fool
they often
thought
they may be
better served
by a mule
so after
much thought
they caught
a wild mule
dressed him
in a tutu
of tulle
and a paper
crown
and made
him
the ruler
of the
foolish fools
foolish town
the foolish fool
gave up his
foolhardly ways
and became
the keeper
of King Mules
royal maze

In a ceramic concave
Take one cluckfart and beat
Add a cup and a half of moojuice
mix with a whirlpool motion
Then find beaten crushedvwheat
add two cups
mix with a whirpool motion
discover sweet cyrstals add 1cup
mix with a whirlpool motion

find and turn on heatslabtop source
put metal pool on heatslabtop source
add a dab of solid yellow moojuice
allow to liqiufy

pour in a measure of whirlpool mix
to create a babylake,
add some bluejuice spheres
or some monkey smilebars
listen for sizzle, watch for bubbles
take a babylake flipper and flip
the babylake so both sides cook evenly

place babylakes on ceramic circle
and repeat the process
dab of yellow moojuice
pouring the babylake mix
so on and so forth,
until ceramic circle is full or
you run out of whirlpool mix

sit at eating tree, with ceramic circle.
if you wish, add the juice of the maple
or tears of the sour yellow leather fruit
to your share of the babylakes
and then consume......and feel
your tummy muscles  smile

when one
waddles
through
puddles
one often
gets wet
from
the feet up
then one may
get upset

yet if one
takes to water
like the duck
should not
the wet feet
from waddling
be akin to it's back
water free falling
and feet unstuck

if unducklike
you be
avoiding
the puddles
of life
may well
be the key
to a life
of dry feet
and a smiling
phsyche

I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
so shiny as to be reflective of my soul
as I stared at them from the floor
of the church, laying between pews
memsmerised by hymns of god's glory
and shiny black shoes


I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
with the crack across the sole
as she put them on to walk the mile
to work, caring for other peoples
sick children

I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
as an adult I sat across from her
dozing form and stared at her feet
malformed by hours of standing
in heeled shoes in operating theatres

I remember, the year we got new shoes
and she had her's patched and repatched
I remember the sighs of relief
as she took off her shoes after a long day
and placed those weary feet into sheepskin slippers,  
bought yearly at the mother's day sales..


I remember these sacrifices
and more as  I help the old lady,
who is my mother with crooked back
and shuffling legs from chair to table
and back again..

I remember with gratitude
the quiet fierceness of her love
I remember my mother's
black patent leather court shoes
and all that they represent...

inundated by rain, flotsam and jetsom floats down the street
the river has burst it's banks and now  muddy water flows
through her house, at least her new car is safe on higher ground

we perch above it
this deluge of brown water
cyclone debbie's tears

it still suprises me
how gentle his fingers
can touch and tease my skin

his mouth so insistent
to find the pulseline at my neck
raises  goosebumps along my being

the length of him finding the depth of me

his ardour and mone still fresh as when young
though now we take time before praking
and our langour is much longer
as his fingers play on my moist and
oh so satisfied skin.

as we murmur and smile and sleep
life's little surpises are wonderfully deep

scintillant bodies flicker
blink and fade in a  darkness
beaming in charcol waves

indigo trees rustle and sway
in tribal dance, as the sea
beats out the metre
on the hard packed sand

on the wing, dark birds
cry lust, death and desolation
and mice write wills and testements
on dry dust paths, before signing
them with a squeak of suprise

in the creek, the platypus rises
and subsides with a quiet splash
surprised by a large form drinking

the frogs write and sing deep bass  arias
with the cicadas and crickets providing chorus
and amongst it all a high pitched perping
from what beast, I cannot recall

we pass now from summer warmth
to the crisp catching cold of autunm nights
darker for the rain cloud weather
making the moon an erethal wreath
if seen at all...

out off the coast a patch of luminous blue
gives of wonder as bio luminescence
holds a small patch of sea in it's thrall

in the morning more leaves
will colour, fade and fall,
the circle continues
from day to day...
                        simply heeding nature's call

wandering into the sun room
with a small question
I find my boys in repose

the acorn, lies across two beanbags
as though he had just
finished a marathon and collapsed
for want of air all legs and arms
with a fringe of needs to be cut soon hair
affordung his face privacy
he glows with youth and promise

my oak, rests sprawled in the old mamasan
hairy legs akimbo, one deck shoe on, one half off
he has sat on one hand, wedging in between cushions
the other dangles off the chair's rim, long fingers hanging
his shirt has ridden up to show tanned trim stomach
with a surfer's bleached snail trail leading to a darker hairline
his mouth slightly open as he dreams his bulldozer dreams
his hair long and now slightly thinning  curls in the humidity
he has not shaved for days and
his stubble a dusting of silver and gold
his lips are a tad dry, but still so inviting

I turn and leave them in repose
my question forgotten

lingering on the edge
of a sunday morning lie in
I drowse and wander
through a forrest of
dream and thought

in my dream
I am small, the trees large
but not in a threatening way
more like that of welcoming elders

they speak in a language of comfort
there is other life, busy and invisible
bustling about, things I hear but do not see

I walk on a path meandering, touching age oldbark
gathering wisdom and strength by osmosis
giving love and hope in return, small flowers bloom
in my small footsteps, the fragrance uplifting and clean

sunlight dapples the path before me, little dics of pure joy
lead me on, to the end of the trees and into grassy dunes
covered with and abundance of coloured flowers
all with faces set toward the warmth of the mellow sun

in the distance I hear the sea, welcoming me home

the horizon is a golden line in the distance

and the birds sing glorious aria's of happiness

I awake  to the kiss of my lover
and the smell of coffee and pacakes

all is right with the world.....

after walking (for my health)
I sat on the old wooden bench
in the park (mostly to regain my breath)
and watched the world for a while...

it was pleasant, the sun warmed my face
my muscles felt good (not overused at all)
as I sat I was joined by a duck,  
who took an interest in the soles
of my walking shoes
(is it not decadent that we possess shoes  for walking)
the duck proceeded to give me a foot massage of sorts
before settling in to lean against my ankle
and we watched the world pass by

I stayed much longer than I should have
not wanting to disturb the duck
and now as I write, I feel a stiffness in my calves
(but  i cannot begrudge myself
the quiet wonder of the afternoon
spent in companionship  with a duck)

NAPO WRIMO

Next month is  Poetry Month
Why not, endevour to write
a poem a day from provided prompt
Stretch yourself, find new sources of creativity.
Discover new poets, new resources,
Celebrate yourself and other poets
Check out the website:
http://www.napowrimo.net/

seven.
it was at this point
I started running
because there was no way
three more numbers
were going to get
his temper/ rage
back into the box

eleven
that was the age
that I learnt the effect
of a fast moving patella
aimed at a *******

twenty nine
the number if times
that story has been told

forty three
that's  where he caught up
with me with a crash tackle
splitting his lip and my eyebrow
in the completion of it

thirty two
the number of stitches we got
me 14, him 18

fourteen
the number if days
we where grounded
no tv, no visitors

five
the times
I have used
that manoeuvre
since then

two
the visable scars
we still have.....

as i drive to work today
i see the detruis of thebig rain
piled up on the kerbs

great heaps of garden trash
leaves and broken trees

and in front of me a council
team with a log chipper
pulls up at one of the larger heaps
and begins to decimate it
bough by bough, it rumbles
through the mechanism
that cuts it down to mulch
and throws it into
the back of a following trailer

whilst the practical part of
my soul applauds their productivity
the whimsical nature loving earthmother
cries..for the birds and possums that
just lost the family ranch

soggy bottomed shoes
encase wrinkly tender feet

it's been raining solidly
for more than a week

the towels all smell
of mould and mildew

the carpets more mud than wool

the vegetable garden
is accsessed by canoe

and the fire just splutters
cause of the water in the flue

we have gathered a menagerie
of frogs and spiders on the
front porch, there is a sugar glider

and still it rains....and the rivers flow high
gosh what I would give to see some blue sky

hey mister museman
float an idea my way

you see my brain is tired
and the creatives gone away

hey mister museman
give my some words
to play with
on this wet and grey
old day

and I will try to
string them together
so they have
something grand to say

hey mister museman
don't turn away
need me some
jot's and tittles
to chase these blues
and black grey hues
out into the middle
of Sunshine Bay

thanks mister museman
for taking the time
to help me rhyme
and float some words
out into the stratosphere

and again it rains
this time
a slow misting drizzle
soft to the ear

it has been raining
for days now
tempestous storms
full of sound and fury

steady rain,
with rhythmic monotony

hopeful sunshowers
with optimistic rainbows

nightime gushers
overflowing the gutters

now this today
this grey day drizzle
falling into puddles
washing an already
washed  world

small, mean,of a frigid mindset
you sit on your pile of obscure knowledge
like some old decrepit dragon

where is the joy, the love


harsh words and scathing looks
you wonder why few come to sit
at your feet

where is the love, where is the joy

you are a breed dying,
simply for wont of trying
something new and different
once the golden child
now you are dressed
in dullard's clothes
and atop your pile
of worn out woes
you sit, a caricature
in a defensive pose

having lost the love,  the joy

your opinions are outdated
and put simply ...on the nose

retire gracefully...
before you are bulldozed
like an old statue
whose point and meaning
nobody knows..

your time and place
has been and gone
for god's sake
realize you are
an antiquity
and move on.....

the little black lizards
scurry away
to hide under rocks

bettles and bugs
squat inside their
carapaces
snails in their shells

the novice hunter
is out and about
large pawed
and excitable

he jumps and scitters
catching leaves
and grass heads

while the birds sit and watch

short moments
timelapses
blurred colours
and lines

feelings
just beyond
fingertips
tingling
along synapses

but amongst
all the uncertainty
the almosts and not quites

the smoky smell
of Russian Caravan Tea

and then there you are
laughing mouth open wide
cigarette in hand
grey ash on black clothes

and for a moment
it is as if you were never gone
never gone......away

and we would get up early
so early that the stars
would still sit high
in the dark night sky

we would drink milo
out of plastic cups
and eat oval arrowroot biscuits
spread thickly with butter

we would line up to go to the loo
one last time before piling into
the old car, sliding across bench seats
half our world packed into the boot

then we were off, on the old country roads
still sleepy for the first couple of towns
stopping at Jacaranda for a cup of tea
lukewarm, milky and sweet from the thermos
half a cheese sandwich each, and a fearful trip
to the draughty long drop toilet...looking for redbacks
the whole time, but only finding spinning daddy long legs

after that back into the car, for two hours of
winding our way down, the big hill,
listening for the clearnote  call of the bellbird,
watching for wallabies and wombats on the road fringe
and the bigger kangaroos, bouncing away
across the clearings...

at the bottom of the hill, Grafton a quick stop
to stretch our legs eat the cupcake,
used to bribe us into decent behavior up to that point
and another vist to the conveniences.
before the run down the coast,
past the big white resort
and into Brooms Head,
for a week of surf and sun
fish and chips, buckets of prawns,
frosty fruits and sunny boys
in tent and caravan,  
swimmers and towels,
we were tribal and free,
roaming the tideline
staying up at the campfire,
sleeping and waking
with the birds......
always such an adventure....
those idyllic days of summer

she sneezesas the breezes
carry the pollen to her nostrils

she  is small
and somewhat frail
but  when she sneezes
she creates more than breezes
she makes a gale

and the noise is like thunder
as her lungs do the rumba
all in order  to expell
the pollen from her being

her eyes cross
and fixate
on an ephemeral state
in order to calibrate
the legnth of the ah
in her ah-choo

sometimes it is
large and elongated
sometimes small delicate statacco
and then again it may be somewhere
in between the two

and after she sneezes and gales
and wheezes...she seems stunned
by the fuss and disharmony
she created by nasal cacophony

and in her daze, the taps
her nose and says quite clearly

good old faithful....
                           .....thar she blows

acidic
tomatoes
sunshine's fruit
sliced thinly
on crusty
olive bread
bursting now
on my tongue
simply
taking me
to heaven

the god boy, grows a pace
no longer small, squalling child

now showing a fierce independent streak
that causes pride and fear in equal amounts

it is hard to balance the need to learn
and the need to teach...to protect
we fail the balance regularly
yet are fortunate to have suffered
no great ..... or lasting consequence

his greatest attribute,
our greatest joy
his sunny side up,
the ability to always,
see the best
in everything.....
eventually

as we slow and grey,
he seems brighter,
more intense...
gathering colur into him
only to give it out...
in a argent radience
that is contagious...
in  it's beauty

of course,
he has his flaws
my child,
is far from perfect
like his father,
his floor is his wardrobe
and like his mother
he is prone to losing himself
in bookworlds, while mundane
chores await..

but he is both the worst and the best of us

and more importantly
he is himself....forging
and identity and entity
bourne of love and compassion

and honestly
as a mother godess
and as a father god

there is naught more
we could wont
or ask for...

I sit amongst
people I know
people who have
the same blood
and the same
historic milestones

and yet we are so different

i feel the black sheep coat
knitting itself about me once more
high turtle neck choking me
and wool coarse, causing my soul
to itch and raise hives...

as i sit  with family
but excluded by feelings
both mine and their
I must be true
and cry mea culpa... too

when  I was younger
I ran to the end of my tether
and was held to the family tree
by mere threads  
of silken spider web loyalty

then as I aged  
I reeled myself
back to the shore
of shared mythology

only to find my time
of freedom at the
end of the line
gave me a permanent
feeling of never having
been there...

and now as they visit
the mother of us all
we sit in polite conversation
about the progeny of us
and I think that
our particular dysfunction
is more of an exclusion
of the intricate nature
of bonding and care...

we are tied loosely
this bundle of family sticks
and I fear once
the bind that ties
the love of our mother
most dear
is torn from us
even now
she is threadbare
and once that is broken

our nature of exclusion
will scatter us to the wind
.....a family tree laid bare

i remember
that day, that moment
that changed
my everything

it was ordinary
in every aspect

bar one

your
incandescent
smile

beaming
like a lighthouse
showing me

the way home
to my safe harbour

I remember, that
with a gratitude
that guides my life

and causes me to smile

in a secret
and
self satisfied way...

They sit
on the riverbank
on rickety stool
or upturned buckets
elbows resting on knees
hand on rod or simple reel

they sit, they wait
they contemplate
and cogitate

hats on heads
with scrapes and muck and holes
old sandshoes
that have long forgotten
the words white and tennis
shorts or trousers
that sit comfortbably on the hips
and old threadbare shirts

they sit, they stare
into the bright river wake
they take breathes of air
they of the ambience intake

about them is a calm
a stillness, a balm
and tho flys hover
and create bother
there is grace
as they swat
and bat them off
their face

even when they hook
a catch, there is a rhythm
to the fight, of reel and splash
as the duel, to bring the hunted
to heel, be it snagged boot
or that night's meal

they sit,  they stand
rod and reel in hand
and thake a punt
on the aquarian hunt

with net and esky
and can of bait
they sit, they wait
and the world
revolves slowly
to them, there is
something sacred
something holy
about the time spent
on the riverbank

catching fish
catching up to oneself
time given to repent
relinquish, replenish
to reinvent, a soul

they sit, they wait
they contemplate
they consecrate

simple things to holy


these old men who fish
on the riverbanks

an ol man river
watches and  gently
smiles

white sand
flecked with
blackend seaweed

occasionally
a smooth tumbled pebble

the smell of salt
and iodine

water, whitecapped
as far as the horizon
and beyond

and heat clear crisp heat
drawing and drying sweat
on bodies bronzing

seagulls squabbling
over chips thrown
to a zephyr breeze

and the sound of sea
making love to sand
sealife, in australia

my mind returns
more often now

to those simpler days

when to seek a thrill
was to ride a bike
no handed down a steep hill

where to while away hours
you lay on your back
and counted clouds

friendships were made and sealed
by the fine art of daisy chain production

when others worried about important things
and we spent our dollars on lollies and chips

the time when all wars were fought in one day
then forgotten and forsaken for the next day's adventure

when you went to bed pleasantly tired
and slept with no sword hanging
over your head....

my mind returns
with a fondness
for those carefree days
those moments caught
in the amber of my memory

and sighs, longingly
before coming back
to the here and now
of adulthood.

my mother throws
the wet headed mop at him,
expecting him, nimble and atheletic
to jump over it
but it hits his calf
and ankle with
a sickening crack
and he falls
like tree felled in a storm
as he hits the too long green grass
there is a wet thud, thud.

then a momentary silence
striking in it's completeness
so profound, it is almost zen like

broken by the high pitched wail
as the pain receptors in my brothers brain
kick in to high gear,he writhes on the ground
my mother hovering over him
repeating this mantra
"you were supposed to jump!
you, were supposed to jump"

he was foueteen, the local sport star
arrogant as only teenagers can be.

she would have been middle to late forties
a single parent having worked a double shift

I cannot remember his infraction,
there were;  oh, so many
but still 38 years on
I can feel the silence
so absolute....
and hear the mantra....

you were supposed to jump
                                    you were supposed to jump

today
i celebrate
the small the mundane,
the almost forgotten
the things overlooked
push aside in the busyness

the tiny rainbows captured
in drops of dew on emerald leaf

the order in a trail of ants
working toward one goal
with synergy of belief

the grace of small birds as they commute

the song of the humble bumble bee

the energy in a grasshoppers legs

the mathematics of the small cat
sleeping curled in upon himself

the reassurance of my love's heartbeat

the smell of sea and salt

the warmth of sunkissed rock

the tick of the old hallclock

the slow avalanche of sand
***** by speck
falling through my fist

coffee in my hands, toast in my belly

the smile of the small boy
from inside...beside me

today I celebrate these small things
and more

today I celebrate,  
become inebriate
on miniscule minutia

so the the big
and the overwhelming
have no say at all...

perched on the cusp of disaster
looking down into oblivion
but sit we here, safe and sound
in our box of bulletproof glass

watching fireworks explode
and planting landmines
of despair in the land of the free
and sometimes fair

spouting words into air
of greatness and fear
ignoring the lost and scared
counting down the hours
til we can count the money
from over on the otherside
of the world this long ago
stopped being funny

now I can see some say
stop throwing stones
cause your houses is glass too
and your place has lost it's happy day glo

and I say back...yes this is true
we dropped the crystal ball
and are picking up a thousand pieces
and looking for some super glue

but for the moment lets get back to you
perched there, on the edge of disaster
looking down the throat
of a beast ravenous,
with the ethics of a goat
wanting to create some mythical wall
and some mythical moat

his maw cavernous
his need and greed ravenous
down here whilst playing at jigsaw
we watch the polotical beast bloat
and we  kneel and pray,
that his speech is just rhetoric
and this world don't fall
into war .....
as he cries wolf speak words
of the morally bankrupt
and compassionate poor
and his words of greatness
grate and draw, tears of sadness
from those cleaning up the gore

fingertips,
twitch itch and burn
with need

need to touch
torch-hot flesh
to feel, white-hot soul
ooze through thin-skin membrane

toungetips rake softlips
stealing murmurings
of heart and head
leaving desire
simmering  there instead

yearnings, deeper delvings
desperate dionysion delusions
draining staining steaming seeming
never ending mind bending soul rending ***

stealing silent sombulent kissses
of fearful guilty farewell
trip tip-toeing doors silently closing
need hosing, shamful moseying away
from who the....what the...oh hell!

fingertips tapping drumming
hunover mind blown but still hummin
no excuse away from home and lonely
awaiting the bill, cash only,
cause credit be evidence of crime of illicit time

now despondent knowing heart-sore
bad to the bone core, never wash away rime
dang, stuffed up to one's own detriment
balancing on earth-quaking, slip-sliding
no-place, nowhere to be hiding, mudsliding firmament
thinking deep, dark, stark stupidity rules
now just me the jester and the fools
all counting the cost and consequence
of one night, tispy cheap drunk nasty, nasty  thrill

books
stacked
atop
the table
holding them down
one skinny scrawny halfcat

upon sighting me
he scramble leaps
sending
books skidding helter skelter
across the table, gathering speed
like a sideways avalache
of pens paper, coffee cups,
plates of toast, random jams and cereals
all heading for the dead drop
of Calamity Pass A.K.A the floor

god boy watching with mouth agape
as tabletop avalanche, obeying
both physics and gravity
come to an ungodly
Pollack painting end on cleanish tile floor.

on fridgetop
scrawny halfcat
stretches, shows the world
his best downward dog
and gracefully leaps to cleanish
living room floor
before departing outside...
to terrorize the grasshoppers

heatwave

night air barely sighs
heatwave

bodies lie far apart
on sweat damp sheets
heatwave

tuxedo boy sleeps
spread eagled, legs asprawl
on wet shower tiles
heatwave

the god child
twists and turns
in superman ******, under
mosquito-net blown by fans
heatwave

outside small things
bathe & scurry through waterpans
placed on fast dying grass
and larger things drink
gulping mouthfuls from the pond
heatwave

and we all await the breeze
and the small hours of the night
when the temperature drops
when the air cools enough
so as not to stifle breath,
anger minds, open lips
leaving hurt behind

heatwave

old friends gather
tied together
by lines of
silver silk
memory

threaded from
heart to heart
embedded in thought
and action

actor trained
like the rhythm
of drumming fingers
on raked stage

toungue twisted greetings
bring saltwater to eyes
searching for the mentor

a congregation of etudes
belies, the sadness,
laughter hides the absence

shared memory,
memories shared
bring life into focus

years pass by
but still, the silk threads
play the heartstrings
and still we raise our
eyes in ritual goodbyes

and hug each other closer
til the next gathering
old friends remembering
the good times

cool air caresses my
too warm body as
I stand at the
window

watching the play of
moonlight on
seawater

fruitbats and boobooks call
across the valley
out, foraging in the
night light I see them
sweep across the sky
shapes dark and sinister
against the dusting of star glitter

behind me man and cat curl
into tighter *****, seperated by
doona  mountains

I stand letting the breeze cool
my skin, and await the
next shadows rise and fall
upon the deepening darkness
of  the summer sky

we have an echidna
dining on ants
in our garden

the little devon rex cat
tuxedo boy is perplexed

it is the first echidna he has seen
and tux is not sure if it is
a toy, food or a future nemisis
so is watching it from the deck,
neck stretched out so far
he has lost his wrinkles.
eyes big and nose twitching
his ears swivelling  like radar dishes

the echidna,
is placidly eating
little nose snuffling,
and spines shaking as he moves
he is done now
and makes his way
to the hole in the fence

the cat, now bold,
goes to investigate
nose to ground, but not for long.
the acridic smell of dying ants
give him cause to sneeze and sneeze
before hustling back to the safety of the deck

another lesson learnt
echindna's are no cat's toy...

twenty minutes to write a poem
to stop and think and scribe
to create an etude, a vignette
from daily life,
minutea



teapot sits
still warm
rendolent
of terraces
of camelias
in foreign lands

crumbs sit in clusters
on the worn pine table
survivors of the toast and jam war

underneath the tuxedo cat
basks in a sliver of stainedglassgreen sunlight
hopeful of something wonderful


the clattering of the boychild
can be heard, akin to rollerblading rhino's
as he prepares for another day of learning


I sit, running fingertip around teacup lip
as I contemplate procrastination
with regard to all things domestic

outside, the world reverberates
as some one begins to cut grass
and the the Beach Boys sing Kokomo

no more does my mother knit
half finished scarves, tea cosies
and tiny shell like booties
sit in forlorn piles
awaiting a hand that
is no longer deft
or interested

her conversation is now not
accompanied by the soft rhythmic
clicking of needles, tapping away
we are no longer halted in questions
by the phrase"just let me finish the row"

now, pattern books are filed away
wool paased on to others for their projects
groups of women no longer gather

my mothers hands lay idle and listless
in her lap, finger bent and curled
in painful submission  to age

she is some how smaller, diminished
as tho the k itting needles gave her strength
to battle to stand stoic, against the tides of misfortune
that battered the island that was her life...

my mother no longer knits
and in me that creates a sadness
that is deeper than words explain
and often as I sit with her
I long to here that rhythmic clicking
that was the back ground to my childhood

knit one purl one.....

the cicada's have begun to emerge
after seventeen long years as a dormant miner

they arise, pushing through seveteen years of dust
and compounded muclch, breaking out into a brave new world

and for seventy two hours, if they are lucky
they seek to mate, to consumate  to extend their species

some become garish decorations on truck windscreens
some become exhibits in a small boys jam jar zoo
some become waylaid and sing their cacophonial opus
on barren concrete patio's
some become Sunday dinners to peckish nestlings

some succeed gloriously, then die happy
some don't...succeed...and die wondering

but apparently seventeen years ago...
a lot succeded...
if the booming base opera being performed
is a gauge of the primeval drive of the cicada

it is summer eve in the burbs
and the living is..... noisy....

four kilo's of skin
and scruff and fur

four kilos of wrinkled blue
of velveteen and corrugation
of bat ears and amber green eyes

four kilo's of meow
and  chatter and purr

given in love
given to love
lover of sun
and warmth
and all things
chicken

collector of hearts
and bugs, lizards
socks and *****

littleblucat
so very big
in heart
for one so small

it has been
just on a year
since you were
called back
to the mothership

and yet
I still look to find you
still expect to hear you
and wonder why the
new batch of skinks
still retain their tails

you were such a small thing
to leave such a big gap

the moon
clothed in pearl grey clouds
sits high upon the sky
as the tides sings an ode
to it's beauty


the air still,
then zephyrous
dances with dust and motes
in the street lamps reflection

dampness sizzles and steams
on old tar roads, puddles erupt
as cars swing  on through
dragon lights on high beam
veering off into the night

we sit, drinks in hand
as small things pitter
and patter about
and listen to the deepening
of the warm summer night

it has been a week
a big week
full of turmoil and upset
goverments dying
to be reborm

people dying to be
something other or else


words spinning, spitting hate
words tripping, traveling around
creating hope and seeding love

flotsam and jetsam
landing on shores
both foriegn and known

big thing going on
going down

...and yet you still have time
to sit and rub my feet
...and I still have time to let you

life continues.....a pace

from afar
we watch the implosion,
some regard as revolution
others desecration

from afar we watch
the unravelling
the words spooling
upon the floor

we watch sparks fly, hopes die
we watch tears fall, ruck and maul

we watch, disbelief, horror, jubilation
we watch this divided nation..

we watch and pray, we watch and pray
this is the view from far, far away...

it gives my heart ease, to sit quietly
in the corner of your room
and watch you, as you sleep...

i sit in the chair
where not so long ago
you suckled at my *******

and marvel
at how the years have passed
at how you have grown.

i used to hold your feet
in the palm of my hand
and look down
on your little baby face

now you run and play,
you are daddy's little man
and nanna's goodboy
and tom and nates bestest buddy

this is the time,
sometimes the only time,
when i have you
all to myself,
this is the time when i spend
a few moments stolen from the world
to  watch you
curled up into a little ball
this is the time
when my womb calls to me
and i sigh and say;

"he was once ours but now
he belongs to a bigger, brighter place"

this is the time
when i kiss your sleeping brow
and give you
once more into the care of the god's
and then turn and go to bed.