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.

mister ant,
on that rubber plant,
carrying a load of cheese souffle.

found on the ground,
fallen from dinner plate
and landed on kitchen slate,

please, do enjoy your plunder
from down under,
wooden table

we suggest it be paired,
with a reisling after airing
if your able.

we hope you enjoy your meal
for your dessert,
we have some fresh apple peel.

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.

this little poem
                        a pilgrim of
letters and words
                         my mind
zestings and oils
                          sent forth
to add my flavour
                          to the world
and now my thoughts
                  bubbling & boiling
to mingle with yours
                    with excitement
making a new world view
              just to serve & enjoy

taken back today,
to a time of ignorant simplicity,
of sunday afternoon's fluid routine.
the venue might change,
but not often the steps;
an early bath to wash one's hair.
a take out feast of chinese for tea,
followed by chocolate icecream, in a bowl
in front of the old boxy tv.

we three, two big brothers and me.
lined up acording to age. waiting,
for walt disney and his wonderful world,
to take the tv's stage,
we would watch the play unfold.
enraptured one and all.

for mother dear,
a hour's peace,
mostly, but not always,
free and clear,
of squabbling brawls.

if we had been good,
we often times could,
cadge some extra time.
to see the bannana splits, have their funny fits
and laugh at the weird cartoon bits.

then time to brush those teeth,
and into bed to read,
quietly, for an hour.
a goodnight kiss,
and tucked in tight.
to sleep away,
the dreamless night

upon the waters
i threw my bread
only to watch
the fish and ducks
gobble it up.....

i gave my pearls to the swine
and they pawned for quick cash

i set my words on  a butterflys wing
only to see it fly into the windscreen
of a fast moving truck....

so today..i find a room empty
and bare....walk into the middle
and sit quietly there
waiting for the world to spin
and afford me the smallest
of wins...

i ate
my weight
ten times over ten

all green leaves.

now i encase
my fat body's face
in chrysalis
and
become, soupy,
torturous bliss
awaiting wing-ed
grace.

i awake
and crack the
membrane
crawl dishrag damp
out into summer's
kind light
and slowly
spread my wings.

please,
do not think
me vain.

but as i await
my wings to dry
and the glorious dust
to set.
i wonder at the ironic beauty,
that i, the fat catterpillar,
has become,so fine
and delicate,
an exquisite pallete upon
the canvas sky....

i take flight and find
freedom....
is a state mind
that flits upon the wind
and knows,
dfrom the beginning
             beauty is always
                            from within.

little man,
you are, skipping stones,
across the millpond,
of your mother's heart.

you are not a monkey
in the jungle
or a superhero in flight
you are breakable,
not undestructable...
and we are not always
there when you jump...

as much as i would like to be

it is you....
i love,
not because
of your looks,
tho many a head they turn

it is you ....
i love
not because
of the beauty of your blue green eyes,
tho many a time they have
raked my body
and left me,
naked and wanting.

it is you....
i love
not because of your hands
so gentle and strong
they,
that make works of art.

it is you i love
not because of your
generous heart
that gives with no thought
of cost or recall.

it is you....
i love
because you...
first saw me
and came through
the labarynthine traps 
and minefields...
to my frightened heart

you came...
took me by the hand,
and led me
to my
betterdays
it is you....it is you

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.

a poets heart...
so very far,
outside
of my,
whitebread imagination.

sun and earth,
to, two, little moons.

a man, true,
who has made mistakes,
but owns them
and then pushes on through.

a craftsman,
of a passionate poems
and substantial verse.

no idol, no god
just a man,
who deals in words.

a poet,
a heart,
a pen,
some paper,
builder, of a universe.

lover of mine,
just wanted to
let you know
somedays
you are'nt my other half ,
you are my whole.

those days you are the
keeper of my soul...


but then my love,
there are those
DUMB MAN days,
when you struggle
to be a quarter...

just being honest....

with ya...

this a DUMB MAN day...
get it together....please

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

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

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

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

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

you are my little, big, love

heart, encompasses, soul
acorn & oak my life,my loves
blessed by days better & free
you both a treasure given me.

by the way ...don't forget to
feed the cat...

so the bodohggedies
danced their dance
under the soogothle tree
and in their minds
they sang sigines
of  depopple lines
and made the world
fleaegopple

then the caturnaps
made jackgnondle pies
and recited zungundes
of yeesterways and
told gobnibbittts
imogabble lies
to make them
flabhouter away

and when the great day
of Ubuinaqa was almost done
the teopssangwars
gave chant to the
promise of Gosbingilia
in formal
Datulach ligalibilate
and all Phfidugimea
around sat and listened to
the haquisalical sound,
sighing with
mneuss and saeszfedi

upon the thorny cane,
of a rose's trailing bush,
walks a lady bird.

all dressed in orange-red
n' black....
she toils in a bustling way,
to the very tip of the wood
and then after a moment's
thoughtful balancing....

she alights....
incogurously beautiful,
as she all but hovers,
in the warm rose scented air.

and then she sets her course,
for who knows where
and zig zags her way...
to over there...

happiness bumbling
along on glossy spotted wing

this morning,
i take my coffee
on the front porch
and in the argent rays
of a cheery, winter sun.

i watch, the young birds,
learn,
the art and politics,
of perching on the wire.

the manouvering required
to keep,the heirachy entire.
the cheering, chirping refrain, undertaken, to remain in the game.

all lessons to be learnt
if to gain
a place within the
highwire elite echelon
of local birds of fame.

a lit candle
sways in the evening breeze

soft jazz mellows the muse
as i sit and ponder...

the wonder of the indigo sky
lit with shimmering wonder

and framed in wood-smoke haze
tonight, i can  well, relate to vincent
as the shimmer,
whorls and blazes
in a late summer ****
of sensual delight...

i lay  quiescent to nature's glory
as day bleeds into night...

and on the wind of salted air
honeysuckle and jasmine mingle
i sip the crisp cold mango beer
and sink further into,
the quiet beauty.

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

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

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

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


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

to the stones,
i poured their water ration,
but they seemed to,
be imitating ducks
and off their backs,
it rolled.

i spoke loudly,
to the clouds,
that hovered,
overhead
but they just scowled
and turned their
faces to the sun.

so, my next endevour,
is to re-arrange,
the sand dunes.
i think, that will be fun.

so set off i must,
with my bucket
and *****,
for it will
only ever get
finished,
once i
have begun.

If my cat could open the front door,
A lion he would be, roaming his savanah, stalking prey

If my cat could speak,
The words of wisdom would pour from his jaw,
sage advice and secrets galore.

If my cat could open the fridge door.
He would in heaven be,
a gourmand in a tatty fur coat.

If my cat could empty his own litter box .....
I would be ever so grateful, ever, ever so grateful.

when the tongues of snakes
flicker in your words.

when the day is darker
in my mind,
than the greying of the clouds

when sighs sing, melancholy
refrains.

then from you I am gone....

into a world asunder
a city of  labyrinth alleyways
that lead all to a fountain
of water tainted,
by memories unkind.

it is there,
there you will find
the bare bones of me.
sitting, drinking
at the fountain head,
drinking rememberances
of days gone by,
days desperate, diluted
with desire of a better hope.

tidbits of joy,
scraps of silliness,
ladles of laughter,
a micron of mutiny,
a heap of a heart, golden and true
and a pinch of perpetuity.
blend together.

and  walla!

my  baby's smile

open greedy mawed
thing
you follow,  berating me,

demanding more, maw, more.

can you not cease and desist?
can you not see i am trying?
can you not please be still?

demanding maw, more, maw.

your endless whining
is,
shredding my soul.
your bottomless wanting
is,
wrecking my life.
your  pitiless harrasment
is,
killing me with slow, determined intent.

demanding more, maw, more.

when will i be rid of you?
when will you  begone?
when will you fly from this
haggard nest?

demanding maw, more, maw.

i wonder,
are these the thoughts of a
magpie mother,
as she feeds a rapacious chick.

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

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

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

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

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

but,today, today,today,

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

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

a little poem
of little thoughts
just waiting to be loved

a little poem
of little dreams
just waiting to be woken

a little poem
with a great big  voice
waiting to be spoken

a little poem
in a little cage
waiting to be free'd

a little poem
from little me
waiting for little you
with little hope of trending

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.....

goodnight .... old girl,
goodnight, to you,
you quiet house,
you blessed home.

are you glad to see
another day done?
within yourself,
your hidden recessed places
are you sighing in relief
as we settle safe in our beds.

your present loves,
all accounted for,
sleeping within your teak
and nail embrace.
or do you prefer,
the drumming of our feet,
the hum of activity,
of when we are awake,
and bustling and bumping,
about your frame?

or is it best when we leave you,
silent and alone to contemplate,
in the sun and wind on a work day? my lord, the secrets you must keep, the lifes, that you have held close behind these old walls.

you must groan and cry,
with the weight of some memories, yet, others cause you to smile and sigh in near-miss relief.
you have stood strong and sturdy,
for almost one hundred years,
in one form or another,
your girth has expanded,
with the growth of family,
from farmers cottage, to three bed,
with study
and nannexe out the back.

you have been
all but knocked down,
rebuilt, reworked and restored,
to former glory.
you have withstood,
the element's rage
and time's insipid attempts,
to shift you, from your place
upon the cliffshead.

you have, and do,
do well, to hold us
all within.
and now,
just before i sleep,
i want to thank you old girl,
for the way, you keep us all safe.

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.

the crow calls
his mournful dirge
once twice thrice

early this morning
when the sky is  still
grey twilight
and his song of sadness
seeps in past the window frame,
to alight in my heart


today, you
would have been
fifty five...
and there was to be
a massive party
fifty five a glorious age
you said you were going
to retire.... see the world
but i could not see that
you who loved her job so....

but all of that,
immaterial now.
it is just past six months
since you died...
lung cancer...
metatasized to the brain
****** filthy cigarettes

i will raise a glass to you
my friend.....
probably more than one
some in joy and some in tears....

and the crow calls
again and again.....

cold air sifts through
the window, to climb
my unprotected spine

last night's storm
still drips erractically
from gutters and leaves

I turn to you seeking
warmth and passion
only to find empty sheets
and a lingering scent
of sandalwood.

rising to dance
on a cold wooden floor
I seek you out...

finding you, pyjamified
in the garden, checking
your babies.....
for storm damage.

I put the kettle on
and await your report...

Autumn has arrived.

the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.

sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.

it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.

and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****.
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.

that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.

i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.



.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.

is it in learning,
the art
of contemplation,
that we become
poets ?

or is it,
because,
we have become
poets,
that we learn,
to contemplate
life....

in all it's varied hues.

i will need,
to think further
upon this....

...and then,
get back to you.

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.

we have stopped,
for coffee and to leave Tod
with friends.

the comfort of their arms
open to our need is
immeasurable.

we walk down to the lake
and the quiet beauty soothes

the waterdragons, with the
scurrying, play brings a smile, as do the ***** wagtails with their
come-hither look-at-me
i'm better than, fred astaire, dance.

but beneath it all,
lies the quicksand of sadness
waiting to grasp at our feet again and again...

we must continue on,
leaving our boy in good hands, we go ......

lets just see
what the soothesayer
says he saw
in his silly  but soggy sanguinity
should he have seen,
the step, so slippery
that brought him to
this soap opera scene... seventeen stitches,
sore chin, not suffering...
too much silly,syrupy
stuff pumped in.
do you think the
soothsayer will see,
a sore and sorry sunday
for himself...
or will he be sadly
oblivious to the obviously, 
vaccuous summation
of the unpredictability of it...
seen here by one and all.

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

these words, i read
in quiet, stolen moments
are like....

exquisite little confections,

chocolates for my mind. somedays,
i am gluttonous and gorge myself.
somedays,
more circumspect,
cherry-picking, those well loved favourites.

some are, cream filled,
sweet to the tongue,
a hit of syllabalistic sugar.

others caramel and chewy requiring more -
a harder chomp,
a grind, a gnaw, before releasing the yummyness within.

then the dark,
the hard,
the bitter -not for all,
these concoctions
but to those who desire,
they become an addiction.

sometimes, there are
those tasted and discarded, not often i will say.
for i love,
the sweet, the bitter,
the smooth, the nutty.

my favourite, favourites have to be, those brandy filled chocolates,
cognac phrases with cherrylicious twists,
aged liqueured thought, distilled with care.
so to taste on the tongue
and burn to the core.
always leaving me,
wanting more...
                          more...
                       ­             more...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i think,
with years of sunday school,
indoctrinated guilt....

there is a small wavering
line between......
                              deceit
and kindness....

as i tell my aging mother....

she looks fine.

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

take one giggle,
from a wriggling boy.
add the gleam of love,
from a proud fathers eye.
mix with dirt, play
and dinosuar bones.
pour into the mix,
copious cups of tea and
red cordial.
mix in time, add sunshine
and laughter.
dust well with a mothers
love.
bake for the hours of an autumn morning.
then enjoy forever and a day.

and the word
                 rolled of my tongue
raced past my lips
          to pratt fall to the floor,
buster keaton style
      only to lie in a curlicue
puddle on
the ***** sky blue lino....

people applaud my performance
in a politely
dissaffected way,
before
returning to they desultory
gossip with regard  to
the state of the art draped
upon the walls....
strange blueprint of
                  mug ulgy beasts.
they say, in excellent      
                 babylonian accents
dropping
tibits of manna cake
and spilling ambrosia nectar
all the while....

**** me
i am  going to have to
get the clouds steam cleaned again... hope
monsoonal cleaners are'nt
busy this week..

and the word squiggled away to hide in the corner

these are the days we live by
bemoaned by youth
with ether coated fingers
scoffed at by geriatrics as the
wind their wristwatches
and we in the middle boomers post and pre...
wring the blood from each hour...
looking back, to hard memory
looking forward to retired
ecstasy
we live by these days,
waltzing through.....not
but plodding mostly
some days in ourstep
a skip, a jump, a hop...
each generation eyeing off
the others
and finding lack and want
when needing to step back
step up and take a gentle overview...
and taking up some slack
so the line... from begining
to end don't droop somewhere in the middle
recreating primodial soup
big bang or no.... generation
a to xy and z  all  gone back
to history.....
these are the days to turn it
around.
these are the days, compassion still can be found
these are the days, my friend
these are the days...
close...so close.. to the (b)end

add some sizzle
to that pan
me an my man
like it
hot and spicy

add some heat
to that beat
me an my man
like to samba

add some passion
to that kiss
my man knows me
i like it  long, **** and sultry

wind rattling the windows
while rain drenches all

blucat prowling
checking window and doors

the small boy snuggles
and listens to dreams

mothers and father
play scrabble, by candlight

the storm has won,
the electricity has gone

and now lights up
the clouded sky