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

small but fierce
comes to mind

three feet and a bit
of restless energy

hair so blonde and fine
it resembles spun cotton

eyes deep blue

and a mouth that moves
non-stop, with questions,
observations and affirmations

the thinness of her is that
that happens with a growth spurt

she walks trippingly, the line
between grace and gawkiness

she brings with her curiousity,
positivity and  a huge bouquet
of daisy's

my heart leaps, when she smiles
this little bit of strangeness

so used to the male child
the feminine is unfamilar

the small arms encircle me
and squeeze love into my soul

and the laughter, that tinkles
from her lips lights up the room

she is come, she is come

in class
she hangs back
unsure of herself
a wallflower
yet to bloom
into beauty

she is delicate
and nervous
hugging the walls
watching, learning waiting

and then one day
she blooms
in artistic beauty
still delicate
but more assured
her voice, a whisper
we all lean forward
to hear.
body lithe
and so expressive
all are mesmerised

the wallflower,
now an exquisite rose

loss
loss,
there are...
many types,
many degrees,
to lose your car keys
one end of the spectrum,
to lose a person you loved,
to an argument, difficult,
but to lose them to death....
                            off the scale.

morning has broken... me
and my swirling head
....the blackbird has spoken
to me of life .....choices and
....bad breath
the cat of humble has .....
dragged me home
and left me....bedraggled.....
....upon the kitchen mat...
for the daylights bright
corusculating light
to pin me..... between the eyes
....my remedy... of coffee black
with asprin on the side...
is over glacial plain
......hangover wide
mountain..... of  roaring
rending, sounding, guilt
....top high
let the shower hot then cold
then freezing then hot......
cleanse the grit, grime
tequila lime, rime..... away
...........time to be bright
... time to be right.....
           .....and start the godamned day

i stand on the grass,
and above me tonight.
the sky an upturned bowl,
no.. a collander,
with stars streaming
bright...through the blue
metal sky...
and thus the moon is, dinner plate big
and  cottage cheese lumpy.

and i hear the sea sighing
and fretting away...

but not too hard.
there is, enchantment
in the air.. .
and i wait a few moments
more,
in the crisp, winter
night's air... for magic
to happen....
before walking inside,
to a child asleep,
a husband reading
and a little blue, grey cat
washing the day away,
in front of the fire...
and i thank the night,
for the magic...
it has sent,
as i turn off,
the porchlight.
and enter into
my haven.

my mother was
the kitchen of our house
the place of practical, purposeful sustenance
and my father,
the useless, flapping, broken
back door,
that was ripped away one
night in a storm...
gone forevermore

my mother's father, the strong beams, hardwood,
that held us altogether,
kept the roof over our head
held out the night....

my mother's sister, the soft
places to fall, to cuddle in to
to cry and bawl...

and us the kids, all three
i hope, we were the joy
the bright, painted things
the hope for bigger,
better days....
the windows that,
allowed the sun's gentle rays.

we were the laughter,
that i know....
as we grew,
out past the rafters ....
and into ourselves.

my mother was the hearth
around,
which we all where
warmed,
my mother,
was the architect
of how the house,
was reformed...
after the storm
and gave us all a strength
of beam and a go get the world gleam.

the house, was a metaphor,
for the childhood days,
understood, more and more now,
with the passing of days.

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

in a xebec,
we sail...
seas,
of turqoise, teal
and cerulean blues...
with horses white and alabaster,
galloping in wavelets,
beside,
the creaking mahogany,
hand caulked hull.
the brass once shining bright
is now speckled,
by the salt of posiedon's
briny brow

above the masts.
one two and three,  
hold the lanteen sails,
set free, in a flurry
of canvas hysteria.
full and billowing,
now,
they propel us,
gently onward.

you and i recline,
undecorously,
on a plethora,
of bright morrocan cushions.
like bees,
busily rummaging,
among the flower petals.

as the sun sings the days
lullaby,
in the east,
in notes of tangerine and  buttercup yellow.

i did not dance
until i met you

it is a though
you held the key
to the music box
in my heart

now i dance with
abandon
wild and free

for the release from
that cage of inhabition

i am ever grateful

my mother is losing her words
or at least, misplacing them
(there may well be,a great pile of them, lying around
lauguishing, somewhere)
her mind is slipping,
on it's weary and
hard-work-worn cogs.

she sometimes has difficulty,
grasping new concepts,
or attatching two thoughts,
coherently together.
and sometimes the blankness behind her eyes
reaches the horizon and beyond.
(and scares the very dickens out of me)

we have lots more, doovers
and thingies and whatsits,
in the house...
and usage of these and other,
all purpose words,
that lead to subtle guessing games,
has increased manifold,
creating  conversations,
that drift, into the territories of
"remember the kid with the
doover thingies,
red....on his head.... on his head" !!!
(the boy with the beautiful
red curls and corksrew ringlets)

perhaps having been,
away and now returned....
i see this more  clearly.... whereas, whilst, living
with it daily.
....you just compensate ... and move on.

my brothers  do not want to know this.... and nor does she want them to....
they,
have busy lives.....
(note the irony lost and languishing here)

i am concerned,
and speak to both her doctor and the bluecare nurse,
who comes to  help with her abulutions and dresses the abrasions from her latest fall.

they say things like,
she is, within the healthy range for her age, 85.
however, there is marked
depreceation in certain areas.....
we need to keep an eye on her...
( and i am reminded of my old combi, sad but true)

in the meantime...
mother, no longer does the cryptic crossword, citing it as mere balderdash(these days)
and we often find the daily
incomplete...

a new piece to my mothers
puzzle....
rather frank and bewildering conversations.

this one regarding ***...
one will admit....
very disconcerting over a breakfast of muesli and cheerio's

her  " your father enjoyed ***, me not as much, i often
just lay there and let him get on with it...it was over quickly enough"

me  reeling internally,
you must understand my mother, the epitome of the straitlaced woman,
sent me to the doctor,
with a group of my peers for 'the talk'.

"oh, um...did you see the whales"

her  " he never forced me tho, he was polite not just any good at it all fumbling and grunting...i don't think
i orgasmed once"

me   * dumbstruck

her*  " after he left, i only had *** once more,
it was so much better...
it was as much about me,
as him.
i orgasmed then...
it was nice.....
but he was married."

me .... who?

her " i suppose it doesn't matter now.
mr clement, bob,
he used to bring the rabbits
and vegies from the farm.

me  "oh.... him" remembering a short statured,  swarthy man
with a kind nature...
and big hands

her  "after that...
i did for myself,
much easier allround..
*** is important in a marriage....good for communicating.
you and ben,
seem to do alright .......

me  " thanks for breakky
mum must get on."

i am so very sure,
i don't want to discuss
my sexlife, as good and rich as it may be.....
with my up till now, prudish
85 year old mother...

even if she,
finally,
wants to talk to me,
about ***..

just way too....disconcerting.

the pond asymetrical
mirrored the old oak tree
in perfect symmetry

the stillness of
the autumn day,
chambrey blue sky,
fairy floss, fluffed, whiteclouds
drifting along, lazy and dryeyed
people strolling by wrapped in scarves and coats.

all in conterpoint
to the stillness of the pond
and the old oak tree
caught staring,
lovingly, longingly
at each other.

incandesence...
                     muted...
by the ravages of time.

sitting oh, so, carefully,
                               darned,
                      designer clothes.

still hauntingly beautiful,
                                          but...
more haunted,
                     by beauty lost....

elegenty arrayed,
                      trying to hide,
sun blemished,            
                   wrinkled, skin...
                                        away..
behind a mask,
            ..of make up
                         and geneality,
                      expertly applied

conversely,
doing more to display,
                              than deny,
the decades of living,
that had sailed....
                        blithely on by.

mutton....
            dressed as lamb
and mutton...
                 led to the slaughter
as she awaits,
             the loving embrace,
of her exquisitely beautiful...          
                                   daughter.

and while she does not...
                                 begrude
her daughter beauty....

she despises herself
              and the world she
                                   inhabits...
the world in which
                             beauty
is the beginning,
                         the middle
                              and the end.

musing on pondering,

cogitating on ruminating,

postulating on speculating,

considering multiple theories,

deeming the discrepancies deniable

positing the petty presumptions,

theorizing multiple condsiderations,

apraising the mediations,

digesting the deliberation,

allowing for  freefall meditation,

envisioning the expectations,

presuming the pontifications,

anticipating the asumptions,

comprehending the conclusion,

accrediting the rationalizations,

concluding the comprehesion,

spinning synaptic wheels,

hypothesizing the conjecture,

recollecting of the reminiscence,

adumbrating the prognostigcation,

concocting of the subliminate,

masticating on the cereberal machinations, of the ocillations,
in the agitatation, apparent in insomniac's maniacal  brain,

reckoning not,
                   on the simple summation,
of the  night's  wayward,
                       mental arbitratration,
i have way too much time
                                          to think...

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....

we went out for dinner
just to a pub. used to serve
great chicken parma's
just you and me, a quick meal, nothing fancy

well i suppose it was eight,
nine years ago, i last ate there
gone upmarket, in that hipster way.... beers named by frustrated poets, drinks
made in jars and mixologists
charging bottle prices for a glass of boutique wine,mead or perry.
no table for two, just large communal tables, with cold
hard metal stools, that made
ben, tickle his ears with his knees.
one bluetounged beer and
pickled piper perry later
sans $23.00aud later...
we decided Macca's infront
of the motel telly would do just fine...

in the wind
the blood bright red
poppies dance and bow
the bee's bustle and hustle,
from one black hearted flower
to another, little engines
revving away, as they gather
the pollen count for the day's quota
the sound is like a conversation
you can't quite hear, as you
struggle to remain asleep
on a drowsy summer sunday morning

a comforting whisper with some
notes of anxiety, the sort of conversation
that precedes  a breakfast in bed made
by child and husband, one that comes
with best intentions, tepid tea, cold eggs
and slightly singed toast, sans jam
a breakfast that you eat smilingly,
knowing, the love that flavours it
a breakfast you eat whilst watching
poppies dance and bumblebee's bustle

brittle thoughts,
in fragile times.

brittle bones
and stick and stones,

leave marks upon
the  mind.

speak softly,
to the broken heart
speak gently,
to the shattered mind,

lest we leave,
a generation,
of maimed souls
on the road behind.

kindness becomes
the creed ...
each to another,
for under each man's skin,
beats the heart of brother.

and ideology
is just a thought...
hard pressed,
in overdrive...

be not a drone
think now,
outside the hive...

to the individual,
that lives within.

the one with
little, brittle
thoughts,
residing,
hiding,
biding,
to break,
the soul
and ****
the hope.
shatter
the mind,
find the rope,
take the life
and cause
strife.....

so speak softly, talk gently,
create hope, nurture life become unity, in this
and every life.....

or brittle anger wins...
like a vengeful voodoo
master with a swag of
pins...

cats entwined,
in skin-fur pile
on the cool tile floor.

thock, thock...thock.
15 love
from tennis on tv

cold beer...and  
cheese n' onion chips

hot muggy air...
sweat, settling on skin

as the storm rumbles
in the distance.

10.11pm Tuesday Jan. 2015

heatwave....continues

rain upon roof,
gentle falls,
creating a cocoon
of humid heat
in which we sit
mesmerized by;
the soft sound of
rain upon roof.

my rhythm, which has never
been good
is decidedly off today
running up to catch myself
fumbling with words
not knowing what to say...
this is so.... one of those days

my brain overworked....and underslept....struggles to
make connections...and
mifires hapharzardly....

i  lucky that it is a day practical theatre classes
and most of my faux pas
are absorbed as cleverness in making a some what obscure point....

but this run of luck, can only
last so long....i must find time to recoup....some lost sleep...or the afternoon
could be a disaster of comedic proportions...

a quick lunch and forty winks, is the approved course.
one more theatresports class
and then i can set sail....

the smoke haze is settling
now  the landscape wears ashes like
a widows mourning dress

no longer the rage, the flames, the fire
the passionate devourer has been siated

leaving destruction as it's  rememberance

And this day is long
longer than the accumulation
of it's hours

dragging slow booted feet
through muggy, treacle air

grey despondent skies
sigh salubriously overhead

and on the horizon  the days end
shimmers just out of reach

a mirage, an illusory insult
to the mind struggling with
five more hours...

behind this desk
                      in this heat.
this ****** interminable heat!!!

this patron
no longer exsists

well this is news
to me

i just returned some
overdue books

and wish to borrow more

but nope, not me
I no longer exsist

that must mean
I need not buy
those lambshanks
for tea

Not pay those bills
teeter tottering  on
the verge of overedue

no need to be pleasent
to any one, especially
not you

Rude lady, new
to the system
who has coldly
informed me
of my demise

Who states with
disinterest and haught
in her spectacled eyes
You must not have
borrowed for
the past three years
You no longer exsist
this she did insist
even as I pointed out
I had returned books
only three days overdue
Even as other librarians
stopped to chat, knowing
my name, recommending
new books, telling me gossip
about this and that....

This patron does not exsist
it cannot be true, it is not a glitch
this patron is a patron
through and through
I left them to figure out
the mystery, I did not pout
or get out of sorts and a little blue
I said I would come back Monday
that is if over the weekend
I do not simply fade away

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.

in cold crisp air,
with steaming breath
and hearts open and laid bare.

we stand and remember.

the bugle sounds,
carry across the river
to meet the rising sun.
then it is quiet again.

we stand and remember

in tearful, grateful silence,
we stand and give honour
to, too many young men
who went a soldiering,
never to come home again.

we stand and remember

and in the rows before us,
old men they soldier on,
standing to attention
remembering wars long gone
and mates and foes and battlfields
and letters come from home.


faces resolute, set to the sun
as the bugle calls.. the last post,
remembering remembering
the wars that are long gone...

we stand and remember.

poppies, lie in drifts of red
in the air the scent
of pine trees and rosemary....
wreaths of hard fought grace,
lay placed with grateful thanks
below the names enscribed
upon the cenotaph's granite plane.

we stand and remember

the sun comes up,
with gentle, golden face
upon this special, sacred place.
we stand shrouded by memory
of those who fought and fell
and lie in a far distant place.

we stand and remember.
we will remember them....
lest we forget....

Memories of a father long gone and only just remembered.
"You must remember this a kiss is but a kiss a smile is just a smile...., as time goes by"
sung as my lullaby in a deep low voice.

The smell of cigarette smoke, old spice and brylcreme.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As we stood watching and yearning for life to treat us fair.

regret sometimes whispers
in a soft oiled voice, that meanders
through the mind, finding the raw
places of  guilt

those fires  that become embers
by time and studied ignorance
and blows soft worded memories
giving oxygen to cinders, that light
the night like cane fires, all smoke
and  the madly rushing things
that race before the fire
scream their  torror and fear and hate
as they blindly follow the exodus
into the light, into the short grass,
tarmac pavement, open grave
that is waiting....there they either
stop transfixed or continue pellmell
onwards...the fire roars behind them
they have no place but out
there is no control, there is no
measure thought or reticence
there is action, and smoke and grime

and a sweet smell, that is sickening
yet like candy, and campfires

I hate it when I  hear the slickoiled
voice of regret in my head...
for I know the conflagration follows

wandering the almost deserted beach
linen slacks turned up to
the knees and a flowing
shirt that flags out behind her.
hat in hand she stoops and rifles through the firm tideline sand and deftly flicks her treasure into a plastic blue bucket.  her feet shift to accomodate the salt water wavelets that play tag
with her manicured toes.
she glances sideways at the sea
judging time and tide
as she gathers her bucket
of pipis
destined for the dinner table.

the momentum
of this thing......
is beyond us now.

it has it's own life,
feckless and free.
always rushing foward,
without thought...
to cost or methodology.

is is madness, uncontained
an unbridled and ferocious thing,
racing, raging  across the plains of inner sanity,
howling at reality.
running in circles
and raising,
a dust storm,
of desire
and deniability.

this thing,
wants not moss
or memory it wants....
passion and creativity.
the pouring out,
of the still waters,
that come from the
stagnant ponds and lakes,
of  unloved corners,
in  distant hearts.

this momentous
and puissant, calamity,
desires only,
to live and die briefly,
ever so brightly....
in a conglomeration
of magnificent,
twinkling junctures......
like fireworks set,
on and against
the indigo night skies..
all heat and glory
all colour and bang
all inspiration and reaction.

and then, when
the momentum,
slows and dwindles....
is finally spent.
it will, as always, lie down
and quietly cease to be....
leaving as an aftertaste,
both sweet and acrid bitter...
just a vague feeling
of nostalgic irrationality.

today
i sit in mendicant's pose
on
the corner of
webster and roget

please
some one throw some words
my way....

now is the time
when ....it all winds.....
down....
            the lights are ......
dimmed.......
    and the world....
                          settles
the world settles.....
        .....and the breathing
of the room becomes
                         ...regulated
syncopated.......... smooth...
.........broken..only by...
the whimpers of.....
medicated ....sleep sodden pain.......
...as you shift ..... as they shift....
...  the broken...bruised ..and..
battered anatomy... on slabs
of latex ...concreted.... beds..
but.... even that.... has become
a ...descant.... that..
                harmonizes.....
with the..... murmuring lyric gossip...
... of the nurses station...
.... and the brass buzzers .
...seeking....seeking...
..........relief........
answered.....­ by squeaky.....sqeeeeky
... shod percussionary..... nurses
giving ....aid....care....pills
               i lie on.... the razors... edge...
...of pain..... ....in the half light
concentrating.... on this...
assonic symphony  ....willing for it ..
......to lull me.... into a... fitfull... sleep..
but .....   . tonight it seems the ....throbbing ...robbing...
roaring.....pain  ................
....in my damaged limb...
........... and ....torn ...........flesh
...............is playing.. playing
.. a counterpoint ..to sleep...
............... havoc........
........is this night's song.....
           .......for me....
at least ...until...
the meds.... sing .......
.in my veins....and then....
.... all is........ a lullaby.....lulla .....bbye

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.

quiet as a mouse,
in a corner
thats me,

it is simply this,
i have nothing to say
of any great worth,
at present.

so i shall sit,
quiet in a corner
chewing on cheese,
sipping red wine,
(decadant mousy, me.)
watching the world
pass by.....
                 squeek,squeek...

the inklings creep
in the  black indigo
depths of this dark
moon ridden night

they ooze over, down,
around the furniture of
this shadowless room

eye cannot see them

but heart knows

they are there watching,
waiting, dripping
blackness on the carpet

there is
no where
to hide
on a night
like this
one may
fight
but most
succumb
thinking
nothing's
amiss

the inklings come
and brood on nights like
this

the inklings come and come
and come.

we coupled,last night
ben and i
in a strange wild sobbing
song of grieving,
primal,greedy, frentic lusting.
it was, an affirmation
of life,
desperation and sorrow was
our rythmn.....
anger and sadness,
the counterpoints to our, thrusting, grasping beast.
spent,  but still crying,
we spooned,
and pressed our
anguish, against each other
this morning, we are sombre
and united in sadness.
as we pack our black clothes,
to travel to your funeral.
our blood,
still humming,
with that strange song,
so wild, in it's abandoned longing of desperate need to create living, life.. to go on.

always wishing for the best
from fingers to toes
she was optimism
clothed in black
with a fey look
in her eyes
as though
from a place
far wilder than this,
her magic drew you in
allocentricity her mantra
practised not preached
i knew her  when life
had greyed her hair
put myriad wrinkles
upon her face....but
still it is the smile
and the laugh I hear
on those days that
get me down..
my sugar plump fairy
in black hand me downs

sometimes when i
contemplate the art
of grocery shopping

i yearn for much simpler
days

when butter was just butter
and no one knew the harm
that it could do..

those days when you did n't
worry about milk
simply because it was
delivered in clinking glass
bottles right to your door

when you knew the butcher
who cut up the cow
and you knew that the pork
sausages came from the pig.

and when your mum
sent you to get the fish
she sent you with a clean
pottery dish

those day of yore
when fifty cents would
buy a coke some chips
a sherbet bomb and more.

but those day are long gone
and i must move on

so again when i shop
tommorrow
i will stand in front of the
twenty brands of margerine
spreads and butter
and endevour not to mutter
about the fact
that butter is still, just butter.

a prisoner of birth
the beachcomber
an a red rabbit
conversing in the place of lightness
spoke of the point of origon
then, shared the deception on his mind
in a painted house
until memories of midnight
became monday mourning
and the warlock
cried it's over now
let's bake ginger breads

just a minute
to jot something
profound

mere seconds
to create
something
that
reverberates
resounds

uber meaningful
deep as the ocean
spiky and fierce
to create a commotion

nothing lame
keep it sane
wake up
the inert brain

love is
like water
to a starving soul
it replenishes
make growth
make whole

on my couch...
(temporary hall of justice)
sprawls.....
one batman,
two supermen,
a flash.
and an age-ing green lantern.

and me in the kitchen
a mere mortal
making mini pizza's
and chicken wings

even hero's have got to
eat...

framed in driftwood
we stand, gathered informally
standing on sand, at the waters edge
with blue sky and sun behind

father, mother, son.
zinced but still pinked
by the day, on the beach
smiling, carefree

intertwined by love
and history,
the gene pool, strong.
hair blonde and curly
the feet, long toed
and the clefting dimple
on chin, the slight turn of nose

we are held for posterity
together,
for this moment
of memory.
smiling, laughing, loving.

as the tide recedes,
as the sun sets,
as the sand is blown hither.

we will remain......family....

i just have to make it
to the end of this week
and then they are on
five weeks of exams
and semester break....

i can do this.....

Pebble in hand
on waters edge i stand
Memories of you wax and wane with
each wave that laps at my feet
i sink into the soft sand..
Tears on cheek
Smooth pebble and
jagged breathe
As i let you go again. again....again
This time I don't throw the pebble away
I drop it at my feet, and watch it tumble and turn as the waves draw it back into the ocean
I watch the colours gleam and the pebble swing this way and that like a dancer swaying to the music...
I watch this small beautiful thing be subsumed by the much larger beauty of the beach

And I stand tears running freely as I learn another lesson about grief about letting go about being together but apart..
And through my tears I laugh...

you are,

my beauty to behold,
my strength to grow old,
my youth blessed, de-messed,
clean clarity, clear faced best.

you are,

my light in dark stairwells,
my long lingering farewell,
my langishing sighs
and final goodbyes,
rueful, regretful, redfaced rest.

you are,

my trial and tribulation,
my awkard salutations,
my pause in transmission,
stupid, careless intermission,
flayed, flensing, flesh rending test.

you are,

my hope for brighter,
my hearts renewing delight,
my compass' new bearing,
fresh, freedoms flight
upward, ever upward
from dark nights behest.

you are,

my inside, outside, beside,

you are,

my internal, eternal guide,
my passion, my power, my pride.

you are,

looking  back at me,
from the mirrors' inside.

how is it?
that,
after all these years.
your lips
still taste of
that scrumptious
gingered pear panacotte,
the dessert we shared
on our first date.

how is it ?
after all this time.
your eyes still,
shimmer and shine
with the reflection
of the turquoise sea,
that we first swam
in together on our
second date.

how is it?
after years,
have come and gone,
you still maintain
that wonderful.... facsination,
you have with the
hollowed dimple
behind my left ear.

how is it?
that now,
as we get older in years.
you have become so
much more than
handsome.

that now, your voice
spoken to my skin,
can set my heart a trembling.

no my lover,
you do not
misconstrue
my meaning,
my desire.
but then,
my love
our secret is
that you never have.

how is it,
after all
these years.
you still love me
so.....
it is the same reason
that i love you?

that when,
we first began,
we knew,
that our days
of  searching...
had just ended.
that we,
had found a love
worth spending,
a lifetime,
crafting and sculpting it
into true and lasting
happiness.

that is how...
with that,
unwavering belief,
we remain together.
not bound,
but free of will
and full of love....
together.

it is christmas
we sit laughing admist
an **** of wrapping paper
eating croissants and red fruit compote....(family secret recipe)

watching our boy cycle
about on his new red trike
with nana ensconced in
her new whicker chair...

the air full of carols and christmas cheer ....

later, we will again open
our house to those with
orphans and the festivities
will begin.....

but for now....it is us....
wishing all of you
the best of the season...
be blessed...be safe...
be happy....
                 merry christmas

my granfather cultivated
beefsteak  and ox heart tomatoes

great big red things
bigger than his
gnarled and ropy fist

smelling of acid and
sun shine and deep rich
goodness

he would sit at the table
and seperate the seeds
out of the pink granular flesh
like a surgeon
and they would sit  like pink red sago
on cut pieces of yesterdays news
set upon the window ledge
gross yet compelling
there they dried out
in the sun
and were sorted for planting
some discarded as not good enough
some set aside for the "prize winning" bed
the plot of soil that got the best sun
the best compost, and some watered concoction
that smelt of things dead and rotting

I once asked what made a good tomato seed
his reply," you just know girlie....
you know the ones that are going to be great"

tomato growing was serious business to my grandpa