this day is beyond warm
less sultry, more stifling
the heat, holdings it's breath
awaiting the gathering of  the cummulus

the boys have gone, with polesand lines
and a box of milling maggotty enticements
to cajole water beings out of their depths
into the gasping heat of the day


my mother sits  in between making
sheep into woolen rugs and concoctions
of woollen froththe keeps the tea cosy,
before the drinking,
switching the tv channels
between the small ball sports on offer
like stone fruit, there is a glut
of tennis and cricket
and she gorges with patriotic fervour

I lie in, reading, making internal lists
of what should be done, but will not be
too hot, far too hot, the little tuxedo devon
lies in the bath room
stretched out on the cool slate tiles
and i wish for the life of a cat
one with out lists incomplete....

the stockings were hung
then unstrung
the gifts wrapped
then opened and scrapped

eyes open wide, at gifts given with pride
forgive us dear lord for the little white lies

I adore it, no it won't leave my side
Where can we find a place for,
this monstrosity to hide

The church bells were rung
the carols sung,
All the while thing of the traveling miles
for the holiday away in the summer sun

Dinner was baked bbqed and burped
Wine was drunk, now Uncle Albert
is dancing, just shy of naked
drunk as a skunk, Aunt Em in the throes
of the holiday funk....has declared her new teeth
have been sunk into the trilfle....of which she is
elbows in, having a rifle, through
Dad's mid nap, and we are counting down the seconds
between each snore, Mum still asking any one for any more pav
And Malcom has dissapeared to the lav

and this is the Christmas, that we have had,
and tho it sounds dorky....I am a wee bit glad....

Tommorow we box ourselves in the car
travelling, travelling o so far
and back to the bickering, backstabbing and fights
but we practise peace to all men at Christmas
as is our right....
but with da and his snoring,
we have no chance of a silent night.

grumble, rumble, crack.
god in heaven, stretching his back


spit, splat, splosh
out goes god's bathwater
with a great heaving toss

wind blow, seas squall
rivers rise,  mud forms
oh gosh what a summer storm

lightning forks in the sky
jagged streaks,
thunder speaks,
from clouds of grey
glad i'm home,come what may
on this sultry stormy summers day

day 43
28000 miles out
isolation no longer imagined
small specks floating, floating.
outside the window... space
and so very distant
home...
blues, greens, brown
almost perfect, almost
the marble of earth ....
plaything of gods
                             and mere mortals.

i see you
run and leap
off the cliff-head
and plummet down

only to stretch your wings
and fly, skimming across
the white capped waves
before majestically  rising
into the endless sky

you are beyond me now
all potential and life for living
courage incarnate, dreaming large
and ineffable technicolor  dreams

yet to be broken,
or touched by brokeness
your light pure and shining

god, i envy you, but, yet
i don't want to be you...


i, too
once made that amazing leap
into nothingness
with the same grace and confidence..

but that was my journey
this is your day....your life

and icarus's all,
as you make your way
to the sun,
remember this
there is but one thing
that burns more brightly

and that thing is...

one year on, one year on
and nothing differs,
yet nothing is the same

the sun come out today
as it will tomorrow
the grass grows,
the wind gusts and shakes the trees

all manner of things just carry on
all manner of things are blithley unaware


but not I,
I feel the difference, the sorrow
the spaces that can no longer
be filled...

I feel the void....a great gasping thing
that hides, waiting to catch you unawares...
and then takes the colours from the day
leaving behind a glassiene grey

one year on, one year on
and still, I turn to you to say...
but you are gone,
and now even your scent
has begun to fade away....

not got poetry within me...

have searched and sought,
found only dry bones
and hollow whispers

mirages to a soul that sighs.
mirages to a soul that cries...

bones that clack and clatter,
whispered words that natter
and scatter and dissipate
....at an alarming rate

my ear aches, my heart aches
and those bones, do break...
and shatter

mirages drift, mirages drift...

as i sift and seive a tired mind,

yet no poetry do i find....

it is in the cool green edges
of my memory
that i see you
                            standing, talking, with other men
                            cigarette in hand, a hat cocked on head
                             all tall and strong and smelling of brylcream
      

it is in the deep purple
of my mind
that i love you
                                 remembering days stolen from a lost childhood
                                 beacons on shipwrecked love
                                 admist the heaving sea of a saddened childhood


it is with orange streaked red rage
that i hate you
when i can be bothered to hate you
                  
                                for parties lost, birthdays  fogotten
                                for questions asked and gossip whispered
                                for the belief instilled by lack of interest
                                 that i was not enough, that i was the problem


it is with a tired sky blue
that i forgive and recognize you
    

                                                as  a man who wished, and wanted
                                                but was unable to give and recieve
                                               a world of wonder and days of sweet wine

it is with white...i let your memory drift...into the dark  of your making

and it is to the bright welcoming yellow of my life
to be lived, that i turn and embrace....

Last week...

Last week, I lost my alarm clock
with it's murp and bop and purr

I had this clock for twelve long years
through feast and famine....
joy and sorrow....
crazy days and long dark nights....

For the most part it was a reliable clock
waking me morning after morning
with love and honest hunger...ready
for the day to commence
Although it often  stutter started,
through the daylights savings changes
and sometimes felt the same way I did
about cold frosty mornings
but it was a good clock...
a good, good clock,
inbuilt with joy and warmth
and a persistence. ..
that made me face the dark days
and love the days of sunlight and nonsense

All the recharging it ever needed
was love and sunshine
the occasional scratch under the chin
and a full food bowl, whenever requested

Last week, I lost my alarm clock,
with it's murp and bop and purr

This week...for the first time... in a long time
I can sleep in.....
and I don't much care for that... at all....
                                                                       ...at all.

it's all
up in my head
all  these disparate threads

all these under the bedclothes
secrets
all these don't mean to be
but am what i am moments

all stuffed away in stacked suitcases
braced by not sure what you ,mean faces
all those sacred and scared places
within this wearied, wary and weirdly  warped soul

all the tattered scraps, the you are here, maps
the body slaps, the landings without *****
the god i need a nap snaps
all stacked racked and filed under
memories:
vivid, hazy, pleasant,pissant, piquant,
crazy, tearful, fearful, beerfull
and happy, sad glad mad,
**** why did i follow that there fad
bad...badass
fragile as glass
pain in the proverbial...
ask no questions ....
tell no lies
time flies....

all there bats in the belfry
cats in there pj's
no where, mayhaps be free
listening to internal dj's

dancing til dizzy
drinking slightly fizzy
alcohol.... misty tizzies,
getting bizzies...

all there, in a mixed up soup
smiling faces, put through paces
thoughtful moments, all the components
to make a life....to make a life
it's all up in my head.........
                                                roosting

worthless words
fall from my mouth
to beat like moths
at the dim light bulb of your brain

we at present speak
different languages
and have no desire
to find a translator

we circle each other
and watch understanding
whirlpool down the drain

for the wont of kindness
we expire, we declaim
not my fault, as we take new aim

this is not a dual,
life at ten paces
not a race
no one wins
no gold for first place

this is life, and living
gritty bits and all
this is the big wide world
where all are destined,
to fail and fall

this is how you get up
not how you fell down

this is the world of world weary
and the panache of wearing
a truly battered crown

this is the sticking point
the stinking, smoking left-over joint
the left behind,  the neverminds

this is your day
and yes...
you can live it your way

but you need to know
there are consequences
things that go bump in the night
things that in later years
you strive to make right
things that affect the trajectory
of your haphazard flight.

live your life!
live it free....
but sunshine,
in my class...
if you don' t hand
in your assignments
you heading for disaster
and this is the word.... from
the red ink master.

hands in cup
circling, circling,
washing away,
yesterdays detritus

humming, mindless, tuneless
far away in another place
thinking, of memories

slip, crash, drop
favourite cup
now
mosaic on hardwood floor

shards, and shards
me, a barefoot island
in a sea of ceramics

every which way
sharp reefs to navigate

but needs must
I am an island alone

none will rescue me
and i cannot sit all day

one cut,
on big toe
one coffee cup
much loved
now, binned
one bandaid
and off to work

serves me right,
should have paid attention
sheesh I loved that cup

dew laden flowers
sing love to the morning  sun
blucat sits washing

awakened by the purr
of the little blue cat,
seeking warmth,
on this crisp spring morning

we, the little blue cat and I
take our breakfast outside
walking across the dew damp grass
to sit at the old wooden table

he, steps high, waggling his feet
me, i step deeply into the grass
enjoying the verdant, green smell
that rises,
enjoying the brief  commune with
nature
enjoying the return to childhood

we sit, companionably, eating
he leftover roast chicken,
me, purlioned cocoa puffs,
my son's saturday treat,
that he will surely never miss

as we sit, the sounds of the world waking
drift past us.
windows opening, the snort and cough
of an early rising smoker, cars starting
the birds chat and chirk, and the plop
of the fish as the break the surface of the pond.
the garbage trucks stop and start trek up the street.

and now in the house, the radio, and kettle begin
a shower turned on, a bass voice sings, not well
but with joy.

now the day has truly begun...
one last mouthful of half remembered childhood
and then back to the daily grind
as the sun makes it's way past the low lying clouds

the blucat, chooses to stay, out watching the birds.

I came upon Neruda today,
laying open, catching the sun
Just sitting there on the old  wooden bench

Much loved and well thumbed,
spine broken, ringed a dozen times
with tea, coffee, goodness know what..

That lugubrious face, staring sightlessly
out into, the world...

and my thoughts, drifted,  to you,
my friend, whose voice I never heard
but knew the passion of the writer,
He Pablo, was one of your heros..
and as I flicked through the beauty
of words, so emphatic and beautiful
so sublime, so masterfully crafted.

I paused and smiled, thinking of
you and he sitting on a park bench
on some other plane....
discussing words and their worth...

I left Neruda there to captivate
another mind and heart....

and went on my way...
somewhat
lighter of heart....

sticky tar on the soles of my shoes
the smell of meat bbqing
mixed with salt air, sunscreen, and beer

air shimmers, cats and dogs shadowy lumps
under trees and deck eaves,
old women sitting wide-legged infront of fans
children darting in and out of pools,
men in singlets or bare chested,
women in sarongs and shorts....

all waiting for the afternoon breeze,
the sun to give up and leave....
and the cool of the evening to come...

There are those,
by word or touch,
sometimes, a glance
or slight smile

Give to others, gifts
or strength  and hope...
The ability to move on,
take one more step.

They see, the best
in the world,
they know the depth
of a persons spirit
and are able to give it wings

They are ordinary,
They are extraordinary
They are you
And they are me..

A kind word, is a seed,
to a barren  soul,
A smile, sunshine,
A simple touch, rain,
to a dusty plain....

All it takes is courage,
All it takes is courage

In my heart,
a road travelled, enough,
but still overgrown and walked
in pensive  solitude
leads
to a green field of stones
that looks out over white chopped seas

To here I come when my soul is
perplexed beyond belief
when my heart is torn and bruised

This is my field of ragecand grief
where I stand and howl at injustice
beat my breast at lifes inequity
and weep slow salted tears of regret

Today again I come to my field of fallen friends
and etch your name ernesto,
the ded poet, who lived a thousand lives

And I rage and rampage, and set war in my heart
against the gods who took this voice,
this warrior this talent....friend.... and father.

But all is sound and fury set to the wind
to be dispersed as froth and rain...

As my soul quiets, my tear fall softly,
thinking on your moons, your love,
for them, and you love for your life...

Too soon, for you to go...
but the words, you have given them
and us, as well are jewels, cut and faceted
treasures for the darkest of nights.

Tis quiet
When I wake
The rest, in sleepful slumber

Not me,I partake
The bitterwine of insomnia
Sometimes, sips alone
Bare enough to fill a quill.

Sometimes, cups so deep
That one forgets the state
Called sleep, and tours
The town, called Stumble

Tonight's draught, a nip or two
Just enough, to say to you
Treasure the wakeful nights
When you sit and delight
In the quiettetude  of a house a'slumber
All loved, all safe,  and well
This is the ***** of a pilfered night
Taken from the restful isle
To watch and pray, and smile.

Ragged breath
pushed through  lips
paperthin and dry

Clouded moons
in once sparkling  eyes

Skin of face
folded and creased
by years of laughter

Age has wearied you
beyond repair

Your first foot treads
heavily upon heavens stair

And in this pastel room
the reward for a life of care

As we come to usher you away
to your final, hopeful jubilee day

All have come, none have missed
the opportunity to thank you
for, the gifts you gave...

One word of kindness, from your lips
ripples through the lives you touched
and all your students learnt well
to live, love and give freely,
of caring humanities touch.

In this pastel room, we stand,
touching one last time,
the gnarled and giving hand

And when we leave, we do weep
for loss, but also joy....
knowing your soul does keep
to the pieties of love.

So in the days to come,
know your grace will live on
through lives and generations
your teaching will be the yardstick
to which our hearts are measured
YOUR WORDS, YOUR LIFE,
REMEMBERED AND TREASURED

today,
the little blucat...
dreams in hard edges
and of un-catch-able mice
and growls as he sleeps
under the old blanket.

These are the days
when a small boy
lying face down
at the waters edge
not asleep,
not playing,

but dead....

is photographed,
is spoken of in strident tones,
is lost to his family, to his potential,
is to become a beacon for greater  humanity.


These are the days,
when as a mother;

I weep as I watch the news,
I hug my son, just a little harder,
I rage against those with power,
but little compassion.
I thank god for my families safety.

I think....what is this world coming too.....

That I mourn for us all.

he is still and quiet
caught in the lingering dream
the boy god, growing up
to fast, takes up  more
of the little boy bed
each day...
this year has been pivotal
giant steps, have been taken

he has learnt, apron-strings are
just cloth, there for the breaking

he has learnt, to write, read and lie
he has learnt, friendships are not forever,
but then some are.
he has learnt, there are rules,
some can be broken,
others cannot. ...at least not without consequence
he has learnt, both wonder  and dissapointment

he has learnt, so much more....the curve steep and undulating

he knows, hopefully has always known... he is loved, cherished
and holds within his heart....the capacity for greatness.

he knows, hopefully has always known, kindness costs little yet
is a rare and valuable gift to give to both friend and stranger...

the little boygod grows into his larger self.....

and we watch.....

soon he will awake, and become the whirlpool...

but for now....his mother watches  over him

and reaps....peace and joy.

moth-eaten clouds
cover the moon

the sound of a neighborhood
dinner party coming to a close
drifts by on a zephyr

light flick off in a random way
and households begin to slumber

and still I sit on the back deck
playing a drunken game
of peek-a-boo with
the man in the moon

and the waves sing glory alleluja

the things that pass between us
by the merest touch, thought, glance and whisper,

are the precious threads
woven through the tapestry
that is our daily lives.

they glint and gleam
and catch our memories eye.

giving us pause
and creating the secretive smiles
that sustain us on the darkest days.

Tis a poem
that comes from
a slow brain
today
Van Winkle
murmurings,
muttering,
postulating
creativity
as it
settles
further
further
down
into the
crevices
of wrinkled
wretched
weariness

slothlike
the words
come
like
treacle
on the
morn of the
winter solstice

synapses fire
with all the bang
of sodden gunpowder

and before you all
lays the detritus
of a mind
sans sleep
sans caffine
sans the wisdom
to read... not write

Tis a poem
orat least
the shadow of a thought
that wished, that wanted
one day, one fine day
to grow up
to become a poem....
but became this instead

and infinity loops
on round again
just to clip me
over the back
of the head
with memories
mostly benign
yet one or two malign
just an esoteric, reminder
that i may hold the reins
however the horse, going pell-mell,
down the side of the hill is
travelling independently.....

i write poetry
from the collective,
that resides within my mind

they gather often,
at the water cooler
or for coffee, tea
and a bit of a natter..

all my idio's and syncranicities
my ego,
and my shy shuffling humble-bumbler
the flambouyant quirke,
the little girl memories

all get the memo and out they come.

earth mother, surfer chick,  
daughter of despair,
moderator, instigator,
wanna-be litigator
acerberic premenstrual ditzbitch,
all represented there.


so in the end,
what you get to see;
are the minutes from the meetings,
or the gossip from the gatherings
the intimate murmurings...
from the musings.
of the legion, that ...
collectively
call themsevles
me.

on days like this
long and not really
profitable

i detour down to the
sea....before i go home

and sit fully clothed
on the sand
looking at the last rays
of the faltering sun

and wait for the sound
of the tide
and the smell of the salted
breeze
take the frustations of
the day away....

i throw pebbles into
the waves
naming the problems
they represent, in my head
give them over to the power
of the waves and sand.

and then when i am
sound of mind
and refreshed in spirit

i journey on home
with a smile on my face
and the smell of the sea
lingering in my hair.

so now..... you don't TREND?????
people have to pay money
to see your poem hit the front page

If that's the case,
(and i may be confused)
Save your money....if you like my work
Buy a homeless person a cup of coffee
I think I would appreciate that more.....

Sadness pervades my soul
Like cold winter air
Seeping under the doorways

Slowly I succumb
to mental hypothermia

Hoping soon the sun
will come

But fearing it will not.....

outside the wind howls
and gnaws at the corners
of the old wooden house

inside the fire roars
and eats the trees memories
in hot flickering bites

we sit at the kitchen  table
with mugs of steaming goodness
and chatter about the news

unthinking of those
who cower in windswept corners
cold to the bone,
remembering a forgotten warmth
of heart, soul and body....

the wind  howls,
my heart aches
at my own government's  
stupidity....

and the cold reamain cold
and the homeless numbers grow....
and compassion becomes a useless word
like the mewling of a kitten

It saddens me
No end
that due to
HARSH WORDS
and unremitting lies
I have lost a friend
Screamingnighthog
was and hopefully
will be again,
a poet who supported
and helped grow many
writers, with generous comments
And an open and welcoming heart

I do not believe he is perfect,
But nor do I believe he;
MASQUERADED as beryl dov
or anyone else for that matter!

I  write this hoping others join
with me in supporting him and
letting him know he is APPRECIATED
and  not in order to denegrate anyone else.

I miss his poetry....

Just a note to those here who
Are not familar with me
I AM NOT BERYL DOV
And for those that do know me
WELL DANG!!!!You already knew that.

it is intangible...

how I have tried
with high-falutin,
poetic words....
to describe
how I miss you..

but I never get it right...

I just miss,
the warp and weft,
we weaved between us,
those links of the fabric
of our lives.

small threads and large,
words and silences,
smiles and tears
oh how I miss, I miss...
simple touches, shared laughter,
a cup of tea and a seat in the
evening sun...

I miss, I miss, I miss...

I am not alone or lonely.
I am loved and love.

but... I have not become
reconciled to the absence
of you..... I don't think
I ever will...

I am resigned,
but oh how
I miss.....

she sat staring
into the creases
of the night
matt black
as it folded
over her

no stars
nor moon
came to give
her light

so she sat
and stared into
into the
unrequited gloom

for she knew
in her deepest soul
that from that stygian black
it would come once more

to stare at her
and see the faults
she held at bay
by mere force
of memory

if she blinked
it would sidle in
and stare and drool
and grin that lavicious
all knowing grin

so she sat and stared
into the black
hoping and praying
that the black
did not stare back

lists, hustle, bustle
no parking and a cranky
little one....
white knuckled derby
on cart with shonky wheels

dodging packers, shelf stackers
and half the universe(ity)
hungry, tired need to be fed
stuck behind an old couple
could not be worse

no checkout chicks
just the self serve aisle
****** going to be here
for a long slow while

home at last
take the freezer bags in
the rest left in the car
until we break the fast
lasagne in the micro
"someone's momma made it"(???)
bag of salad on the side
so we get some green
"okay troops dig in"

finally all unpacked
stored and ordered
now for my reward
ten minutes of poetry
and a big block of
chocolate sin.

first footfall
on dew laden grass

oh to live life that way

without constraint of past
with out baggage
to weigh down the step

each day a new beginning
each day a fresh horizon
each day a life unto itself

what a dream!
but with short comings
no anchors, only paper crowns

we return to life
blinking
at the changes
wrought by
time inside
one's mind

he once blue sky now
grey and dragging
against the seas rim

trees shivering at
the blast of ice
laden winds

and as we watch
the first angry
spots of the torrent
to come

we forgo coffee and cake
in preference to the cocoon
of the car as the water
sheets down from the sky

now home and cosy
with hot chocolate
mingling on the stove
we watch the continued
fury of the storm
the cats stay curled up
under the doona
hibernating til dinnertime

tis
a
shade
past the middle
of
the night

tis
quiet
with the
exception
of the pulse of
the waves
and
your breathe
whispering in
my ear

tis
time
for
all good and sane
people
to be asleep

yet
i
am
awake
pondering
life's
questions
and
eating a mandarin,
juice
bursting with citric
sweetness
running down
my chin

tis
slightly
absurd
yet
slightly
decadent
staring
into
the depths
of the night
with the
taste of
mandarin
on the tip
of your tongue

tis
one
of this
insomniac's
quiet
joys

tis...tis...tis

found, held loosely
in lovers arms,
while listening
to child's laughter

one muse, refreshed
by the words of kindness
spilt from the pens
of distant friends

poised to write
poised to live
poised to .....

the writer and muse
together again

found

the day is slow
the clouds barely drift
shadows lengthen
with minute pace

we sit together
and ponder life
grass grows before us,
tea brews in a cooling ***.

the cat stretches,
rolls over and
falls back into
blu-cat dreams


the world sighs....
                    such a wonderful
                                           lassitude

some nights
the world is just
against you....

in the mood
to get funky,
with the hunky
carpenter.....

got the bed warm
and the naked form,
working it's cold night,
warm bed magic.

when the cold nose
of a cold cat
runs up my back....

absolutely tragic

I jumped
when I should have
******...
and now the night
is ....static....

and all the joy
the carpenter has
is attached to
a bag of frozen peas.

the elephant sits quietly
in the corner,
reading Holmes
as we tiptoe through the to,
too many words,that slipped
from tequila lips
and open-gated brains.

the leopard,
is in the bathroom
tinting his fur
to an even shade of black
and the owl
is busy outside
trying to get
the wisdom of the ages
safely back.... inside.

monkey saw,
monkey did,
monkey lies,
monkey defies,
monkey now,
in the barrel
with a nailed-down lid.

and the whale sings,
a mournful song.
the dolphins,
once  again,
thank us  for the fish
and then move on.

but still,
the elephant sits
and reads on...
as we fervently wish
the dormouse to appear
and slap the mopey begger
on his ample rear.

*with nods of thanks to:
folklore, CS Lewis, Dr Suess
and Douglass Adams

the little blu cat
sits in a shaft
of sunlight

fastidiously
washing behind
little blu ears
with paws
encased
in crushed velvet

the image,
is ....sublime