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

keyan blend
in coffee ***
                             sun smiling
                             high in sky

maramalade
of crisp muffin
                            
                          sea sparkiling
                          breeze cooling

lawn mowers
cutting green
                    
                           my boys
                          gone fishin
                        
                        
lazy sunday
has begun..

we sit at the edge of
vespertide
listening to the chorale
of evensong
this day's opus almost done
now tapering off in
slow melodious decrescendo..
it is the gloaming
and the final flurry of light
glimmers on the horizon

now the night becomes
the diva,
the first star has been wished upon,
the first sattelite too.
and the bass note of the cicadas
builds to a *****, needful hum...

lights go on in little square
patches, and the smell
of barbeque fragrances
the summer night air

under the streetlights
the moths come to dance
a dare each other to touch
the midnight sun...

and in our garden
the rustle of the
tame gone feral
rabbit "bellamy"
has begun...

a hulking grey white
shadow now he lollops
toward the tasty green
carrot-tops...
until the sound of pounding
feet causes him to freeze
considering his position
bellamy chooses discretion
over valour and departs with haste

the wind now has a coolness to it
and the grass grows damp about us
by still we sit enamoured of the changing
slow and quiet about us
the seas whisper secrets
and the birds settle in for the night
excepting those who hunt on silent wings

the stars begin to pop
bright white on the darkening sky
and the crescent moon smile with
a sideways grin...

it is now the darker things come
owls on the wing
spiders to reknit there webs
the big bass frog to sing his song
and the small blood seeker
come with whinging wings

now we must give the night
it's privacy, as we walk inside,
from the pond a series of sounds
means the frog has found dinner
hopefuuly a mosiquito buffet

the vesper tide hath turned
the night is now come.....

two small gifts
as i head to bed
a new friend, lending
an ear and broad shoulder
a gift recieved and a burden
shifted and lifted
the second, a shaft of light
from the full moon, catching
possoms at play, on the front
lawn...snacking on stolen camelia heads.
so daintily nibbling with
tiny hands and feet
and big suprised eyes
and ears a' twitching....
and then they were gone
to the darkness again....
and i to bed ....to sleep
and slumber...

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.

my slipshod heart
creaks along
i was taught
to make
the best of things

but waiting for
some one to die
is no song

my myocardium
is imperfecta,
apparently...
won't last too long

used to be,
not a problem.
but now age
is catching up
with me.

sad thing is
i am only twenty four

hard thing is want to live more

so like a ghoul
i wait for someone....
hopefully not a mate
to make some sort of
fatal mistake....

cannot lie...sometimes
would be easier
to just lay down and die...

but it is my life's
designate
to sit on this
sad razors edge
and wait

please let me apologise
i am unable to write
well of  today's suggested
prompt, but write i must
i made a mental deal.
i am meant to
be writing a terza rima
but at present the form
is beyond me....

my creative flow is
silted up and sluggish,
mindless and murky
just muddy thoughts,
caught upon a logjam
of tired emotion.

and i feel unable to
produce,
a  credible rhyme,
let alone......
tercets with a braided
rhyming scheme.

but a deal is a deal....

to day i plod,
from dawn to dusk,
the world a beating rod

upon the broken husk,
that once, was my mind
now muddied, mush,
gouged by memories,
broken elephantine tusk.

i feel, so blind, so blind
stuttering,stumbling,
about in the dark
chased by ....

see this is the mud...
....in which
i am swimming...

so sorry to you,
as you can see.....
having......
.......a bad write day!!

we wear grieving, like a        
                              heavy cloak,
with a large cowl and  
                   theadbare sleeves,
it gives, some measure of
                                     warmth,
but never, quiet enough.
as we stand alone,
facing the winds,
that howl... sad,
sighing,
loss.

loss.
complete
and utter
abanbdonment.
....by design or fate,
leaves your heart, foresaken,
your soul, ***** and      
                                     ravaged.
meanwhile, the world
                  moves on, blind to,
the mad monk,
        that inhabits your mind.

ginger pear slice
mixed well
with dappled sea blue effect
on deepset leather lounge
this is a mother's day best bet
is easy to ***, grows in sunlight
or shade
free seed give-away
grow them yourself
children of style
remember a smile and
a kind word is the most priceless
easy bake dinner for four
what to do with weeds
how to fix that wonky door
citrus colours: the fresh new you
subscribe now twelve issues $42.00

words fail me,
or more accurately
i fail them.

today ....my mind,
a field unploughed
and me digging,
****-arsing about
with a teaspoon.

forgive me,
my shallow holes,
but you use what
you have been given.

and today, it appears
i was at the end of
the inspiration line..

my first job,
i think i was about seven
was to do my grandfathers washing,
every saturday  morning.
we had chores at home and got an allowance.
but this was a way to supplement it.

so every saturday,
i would ride across town, with my brothers and...

spray preen on stains,
scrub collars with solvol
measure out omo powders
then wait ten minutes
oftenat this time,
i would play with the cat, munster, who was my,
self-designated foreman.

then to start,
water and omo, into
the machine, an old twin tub
drop in the first load,
wait for it to process,
sitting on the laundry step, reading the latest book....
CS Lewis' Narnian series or Enid Blytons Famous Five.

you could only read,
at this point,
because after the first load had stopped washing,
it was into the spinner
and then it was,
a juggle of washing, spinning, filling water levels and getting the wet washing into the basket, without, dropping any.

now,  i was still,
to short to hang out
the washing, on the hills hoist,
but i would call for my assistant, Aunty Barb
and off we would go down to the line .... she would hang...
but i would hand
items and pegs up to her.

once all the washing was done, all that was left was,
one final rinse,
of the machine with
lemon pin-o-cleen,
a wipe with a dry cloth
and my labours were done.

time for a cup of tea,
a peice of gingerbread
and payment of  wages $3.50- $5.00
depending on the size
of the wash.

what is life?
if not a jigsaw puzzle,
without the box.
waiting....
to be put together...

diaphanous....
are we...
in the bigger
reality...
mere wisps of
fragility....
our thoughts...
the epitome...
of self indulgent
verbosity...
creating...
the semblence of
sodality...
in the
spinning...
duality..
of the
mediocrity
versus...
creativity
paradigm...
apparent
in all of nature's...
sublime...
totality...........

stand me up
dust me off
wind my key
and set me off

i am your
clockwork
heart

and i will beat
for you
when your not strong

pay an extra ten dollars

and i will play this song....
*(insert song name here)

sun shines through the rain
grass is green again
the cat lies on the old verandah
re organizing the dust
into different piles

there is hope on the evening breeze
and in the trees the birds sing alleluh
the tarmac steams and the cars stream by

time in a bottle, love in your eyes
these are the last days of summer break
soon be the time to take
up the reins and load up the dross
but for now.. for now ...we laugh
and love and lose....later we can count
the bruises, cry at the heartache

now we run  through  rain

24,720,437.
(give or take a few)
minutes in my life.
the number is profound,

but it's not that easy
to break a life down.
i'm sure there's a calculation, that covers the basics bits work, eating, sleeping, abultions.

but, to bring the moments
to the minutes,
thats a vastly different thing.

how do you count the moments of brillance
that burn bright,
on the horizon beyond and before.

those moments of pure kindness,
or blind and ****** ignorance
that elicit change.
the joy of the moment,
the rage of a second,
the hours borrowed
in worry never
yet to be repaid.

how many minutes
wasted or not fully tasted, devoured to quickly.
those seconds we fumble,
in awkward silences
or those we waste
wanting more.
then the hours of breast beating or simply bleating

are they lesser in importance,
than, the days
lost in thought,
or in grief,
time spent,
begging for relief
from a heart so, so, sore.

remember the weeks
we sent packing,
the fox or the bear,
or the lion and the tiger from fear's flimsy, fragile door.

months of not belonging, then, the longing
and finally the lounging
and laughing,
when tickled to our core.

the tock of the clock
when we are too cold,
or too hot or just not...
quite right.
time that keeps ticking, while,
we are sticking our noses where they are not wanted.

time spent watching
from afar,
minutes of small talk,
hours of deep and meaningful,
days of young love,
months of expectancy,
years of togetherness, decades of love.
a delineation of seperateness,
eons, immemorial
of eternity.

these are the times,
of my minutes,
my moments of grace,
i want these,
ciphered into,
the fabric of time.

oh woe is me!!!
have pity, cruel and
heartless world.
the sky now fallen.
my sadness,
unfurled.
i sail, upon a ship
of abject misery.
i sit at the helm
and weep and cry 
and moan and mewl
til, my eyes have
run out of 
wet, n' salted fuel.

now, those who know me,
are wondering why,
me, who writes happiness.
is having a hysterical cry.
if i can but,
bring myself,
to tell you why, 
you must be generous,
of heart, and not say fie.
my big, catastrophe,
bigger than you know.
is a death, in the family...

they have lingered long
and been, a dear friend.
but this morning i went to see them and they were gone!!
and oh dear me!
what an embarassing end...
it is,sad,
beyond,sad.
i cannot tell a lie.

here its is....  in all it's badness:
MY JEANS DONE DIED
(pause now for a sobbing, dramatic.....sigh!!!)
now you have finished laughing
at me i will explain why,
this is, not a matter for disdain.....
i have/had this pair, of favourite, faded, blue,white jeans.
had them long enough,
that they had done,
the complete circle
and come back into fashion....
had them longer than,
my child, my husband, my car,
my present job. 

they knew me, so well and
so comfortable too.
i went to wear them,
this morning,
as a pick me up treat....
(cause to be honest,
been feelin kinda beat)
and lo and behold,
they fell apart, at my feet

the crotch, had frayed away
and if i had worn them,
my smalls and privates,
would be saying a cheeky, g'day....
so i am sad 
and an old friend has departed. 
but at least it happened in private  and not at work, when i farted....

i tonight, will give them, a burial, tried and true in the duster bin... and then drink to them,
with tonic and gin.
fare thee well,
my faithful, denim friend.
and consider this to be...
your heartfelt eulogy

imagine if you will
a piece of handmade paper
heavy but fine grained

and upon the piece
of ivory coloured paper
delicate hues of green,
and blue,
placed in an abstract way
using water colour paints

the paper having been wet
no longer lays flat on the table
but undulates, with small hills
and valleys

and upon that piece of paper
artfully decorated
imagine some words, written
in a round and beautiful cursive
formed by an old fountain pen
the ink used, a deep purple
that has been softened by years
the words, are those of young love,

yet to be tested by time
yet to be tested by seperation
yet to be tested by loss


the paper is old now, set with
four creases from where it had
been folded and left within a book
of wordsworth...


on the front fold, the following
To Mary with much love Jack. 1915

and upon that piece of paper
handmade, delicately decorated
inscribed with love and hope,
the beginnings of a family rested.

life.
four
letters,
but an
awfully
big
word.

love.
even
bigger,
a word
both
gigantic
and
minute.

live.
being
the
biggest,
broadest,
open to
enterpretation.
but
still
a looming,
largeness
to
behold.


live,
love,
life.


together,
a
mantra
for
a way
to be
large
among
the
small.

tallest
of the
tall.

broad
and
encompassing,
of one
and all.

live,
love,
life,

we all
fall,
sprawl.
but
rise up.

stand
and
fall,
learn,
to
learn,
from
it all.

love,
life.
live,
life.
live,
love.

going to try counting poems,
thoughts, things....

one....singular...seperate
     alone......
but are we really
.......in my head....there are
so many other voices...alive
and dead....providing...insight
.....opinion......pathways....
derisi­on....
they are all up there in the penut gallery...generations
back......family friends...people i read about in a book...peoples....whose book i read....oprah and the self help gang.....that dude on utube...and the talking cat.....
all in there...waiting with baited breath...all with two cents or more..sometime a whole dollar, even if it is a day late...
my own personal cheersquad,muppet show
critics, have a go,quit while your ahead, be a hero, your nothing but a zero, live life till your dead, don't run with scissors, take a break,c'mon get happy
all this and more...rolling
round my head...like abag of loose marbles....
so not.... one....singular...seperate
           alone.....

more ..... many ..... lots
               legion

             vying for
15minutes on the throne

he, perched upon,
the swing's
seat.
like
a little bird, just,
waiting,
waiting,
for some-one to,
give him a gentle push.

and then he could arc,
back and forth,
by himself,
and
fly up into the clouds.
laughing in joyful
fear,
and exuberation.

but,
until then, he perched,
waiting,
waiting.
dreaming, of  unfettered
flight.

hot,still,torpid air
made stagnant,
by stifling, sultry heat.

we sit shattered,
sapped, silent,
on the back deck,
drinking beer,
sweating salt water.

watching the distant
scrubfire smoke, feed
into the heavy,
green-black storm clouds
on the mountain's ridge.

the cat shifts, with the rays
of broken sunlight, a grey shadow,
on the teak deck.

my son cries listlessly
and then returns to his nap.
the sound of sport and
energy drifts, distorted
from nana's anexxe.

we sit effete
on the back deck,
drinking beer,
quiescent in anticipation
of rain

the dog, strains against
the leash, tied to the
no parking sign.

all, quivering white
and caramel fur
docked tail, ears up,
eyes bright and
searching, searching,
for his alpha love.

water bowl, full,
next to him,
ignored.
eyes firmly set,
to the grocery store
door,
quivering, wriggling,
animated, anticipation.

every time, the door
swooshes open,
a double yap.
"i am here.""i am here."

doggy devotion,
denied by food health regulations, master inside,
but i am  here waiting,
still.

i would live on a place
where all the roads are water
and i would be a paddle
peddler of wares
that come from the sea

i would trade in fresh
water a commodity
and take with friends
galanal tea

i would be busy
as could be, by day
and at night sleep
in the shade of a
tottentot tree
it's perfume
would be
a balm to me

that is what
i want to be
on days  i don't
want to be me

there is a leak
                    in the roof
            of our house
                 no doubt
                   caused by,
   the winds of the past week.

           now
                  the rains
       are coming in.....
                      one drippity
                 drop
                       at
                          time

we put a bucket under it, at
                    first,
            splosh, splosh
                    but
now have replaced it with a
              glass bowl
                  plink
              plink,plink
                plinkety
                  plink

  tommorow my husband
    will climb up and fix
                the roof

until then, we will listen to
                  the rain's
                      song

O captain, my captain
i stand on my desk and stomp, for you...

au reviour, you manic mind
of mirth and astounding depth...
ork has lost it's greatest son
and we a genius...

you will be missed

vale, robin
and may you find
peace on the other side

'free butlers for everybody'**

yippee!! hooray!! huzzah!!

i would so love,
somebody to follow me
around all day.
doing the mudane and
boring things,
all that daily guff.
to be at my beck and call,
for just about anything at all.

but then,
if there are 'free butlers for all'

would my, butler,
not have a bulter, of his own
to order about from,
his butler throne
and so on and so forth
and if we all had butlers.
would anything, ever,
really get done?

OR, would we all be,
passing ***** laundry
about in a neverending,  
linen chain.
drinking tepid tea from each others ***** tea cups.
polishing silver for some one other than us ...
would i end up,
being a bulter to you.

my god!  

this, idea of

'free butlers for every one.'  

is spiralling,  out of control

this  factotumnal conudrum,
is going to  drive me insane.

JEEVES ! please, please be so good
as, to bring me a calming tisane.

they were in the corner
of the library again this morning.
not here to look for books,
but just a quiet place to look,
deeply into to one another
with eyes smoked
and fingers blind
feeling, touching, questing,
reading familar nooks.
not caring of watchers,
seeking only each other
with silent need bordering
desperation.
they read each others bodies
history, philosophy, tradgedy both greek and modern.
they braile like ******, word,
verse, and chapter whole.
eyes feasting the depth of
others soul.
one final look, one lingering embrace  and they part
with shakespearean sorrow
they close the lovers book,
bereft,
until tommorrow.

you once were magnificent,
standing strong and tall,
looking out over,
your world,
with quiet serenity.

i see this now,
in the lines of grey,
that sit upon your visage,
worn to a soft velvet skin,
by the years of
going out and coming...

i see the marks your children left,
when they were taken.
i see the patches
of hurt from when you
were forsaken and
given to others,
for purposes,
not natural to you.

and in your heart....
i see the willingness
to try to begin anew,
to be reshaped, resolved
into something of use...

i see the years of
casual abuse,
of scrapes and distress
your heart being lost
in the multitude
of words spoken,
around you,
but never to you.





                              driftwood....


i see much, in you,
in your fine grain,
the salt of many trips,
in the rough edges,
sand from many seas
and in the knotted places,
the homes of those vagabonds,
you did freight for free....

and there worn away almost
by wave and time...
the face of your former keeper
still smiling....
frozen in place.....
forever lost...
but remembering
you were once magnificent

the sadness rolls in
like waves eroding the shore
and the tides coming in
forecast of more storms
and heavy weather
skys dismal,pewter grey
friend is dying
and the waves are
eroding  my footholds away
kingtide baby, kingtide.

we went shopping this morning,
then to the movies.
all the time,
the little voice in my head
was telling me,
i had forgotten
an important chore.

we were gone three, four hours.
the little voice niggling away.

got home just now
and remembered
as i opened the front gate.

forgot to lock the catflap
gus's in/outdoor.
well, by now, its far too late.

you see gus,
the little grey cat
is a collector, not a
hunter of things.

if god forbid,
he were a dog.
he would be one
of those retreivery things.

he finds and he brings,
normally to his food bowl.
so now, we are in the kitchen
and were taking stock.

one mangled penny lizard
and two other tails.
one drowned moth,
one feebly swimming still
three dazed cicadas,
one belly up and by
the sound a few more yet
to be found
a praying mantis, sans one claw
and something else,
mushed into the floor
a magpie feather,
but,(thank god) not the bird
our little grey cat,
flat out on the mat.
it has been a big morning,
no doubt about that.

he sleeps on, oblivious.
as we his minions,
clean up his mess,
as best we can.
from experience the lizards,
find their own way out.
the cicadas, we find,
when they sing
their discordant song,
reminding me, all day long
my little voice,
not ever wrong.

it is a small thing
like sand in my shoe
this grief that wears
away my soul

but it is there always
in small moments
of wanting
in words lost to the
unhearing ear
in laughter that echos
thin in empty air

i still see you everywhere
but you are a year gone
from here...

your scent fades upon
your clothes....
your voice dims within
my mind.....
but your kindness remains
forever stitched within
my heart...
and your smile, before
my eyes,

it is a small thing
this grief within
my soul...
like sand in my shoes
both pleasant and wearing

i find
old friend
of mine
that
you have left
your footprints
in my mind
from
the days
when you tromped
down the bracken
of my narrow and
parochial upbringing
then
planted the paper daisies
and  bright poppies
of free and radical thinking...

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

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

god give me strentgh.... to  just endure

two...yellow...blue,
now green...of leaf...
of grass...verdant...life
yellow sun...water...blue
now green...breathing...
rustling....soughing...sighing
bright flowered living beings....
two....yellow...blue...

such a voice....
quieted, but never stilled
the world has.... one less
phenom.....
one less laureate....

we as poet's .....have lost a mother
a keen eyed woman....that could speak to souls...
....make the caged... fly
her voice soft, or strident
knew my heart....led me forth...
gave me countless fresh starts....

is now at rest... but echoing
still... and forever.....
and the bird still sings.....
a beautiful song..

god bless ...maya....god bless

back in the days.....
when i was youthful
bright longing in my eyes.

when life was
a desperate struggle
based on a whim....

i found myself at a place
edge of a valley
start of a mountain
holding back ,
whilst ....
looking forward,
balanced on the rim....
of a new horizons skin.
what to do....... what....

dive
back into the shadow
climb
up into the light.

walking...
on a tightrope
of fraying indecision
circling...
round and round.

years of making myself
dizzy...
with fury
and  
rebounded thought
pinging,slinging, stinging
doubt....
about which way
back...
forth...
back
(g)round....and (g)round
wore myself a groove,
with witless, wistful pacing.

a grave slowly shuffled out,
deeper, darker...
valley dark,
mountain light,
grey grave groove...
on the cusp between.....

mental twilight...........
had me enthralled,
everday shufflin...
till,
when...then.. somehow...
i...
ceased ......
to be me,
frightened to decide....

.........epiphany........

any whichway
was better than this.....
grinding, ground down
groove worn grave.

small steps, giant leaps.
i found grace was in
believing.....
found was in the looking,
laughter in the smiling
life was in the living.
direction was merely mindful
deception....
coralling random disposition.

for one
up
for another.....
down

purpose is a delicate
preponent,
in decsion making choices
attitude the fulcrum
on which it all approximates.......

valley dark
mountain light
both wrong
both right
take .....
a step,
a leap,
a bound,
a flight,
of fortunate fancy....
........or petulant plight.

the days heat
and the langour
of loves sweet makings

has left me
                    undefined
       descriptively
blurred
                ..water
puddled upon
       a
         raked...  
            .....stage
falling
       slowly
            waterfall
                       graced

into
the orchestra pit

of lassitude's blissful embrace

.............
            ........
and in the wings
my little girl self
giggles at the whimsy

as the band plays
"summertime
..... and the livin is."

sublime...

                  
                .....to the prime...

would i could
i would write you
a new beginning
a new once upon a time
a lifetime of joy and fullfillment
with a smattering
of sorrows for seasoning
small dissapointment
to measure victories against

would i could
i would erase all of this
put salve on the black dog's
bites
make fair the injustice
of  your loss
give you the hours, days,
years,
ripped from your hands...

have words that would
fill the empty spaces
in you...the hollowman

but i am not a diety,
just a friend, who holds
your crying body...
and claims to understand

would i could
i would turn back time
to before the hollowing
began....
and take more care
of the lives we lived
when we lived
back there

.......would i could.....would...

three, one,one am
and out there in the
cold, cold dark
the sea's pounding entreaty
sounds like
god is heavy breathing,
on an old rotary phone.

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

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

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

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

are ye winning today......

rhuematic rumblings of a restless mind
ramble across the page
been awhile, since the muse muttered
been some time since she sashayed
dry mouth, dry wit, words bitter and unkind
all tasting of salt and sadness

yet here i am mendicant me
standing at the wall,
wailing for all to see...

once written, once a writer
once a poet... wailing

for words to align
in a semblance of song
for words to joyful, courageous, strong

waiting for the world to be coloured
other than beige
for the seed to be fruit
for the herb to be sage

til then i rumble and quietly rage

in the moist dank
hours, of this
rainy night.
the shadow
cat-blue,
has sought, the
high planes of
the house
and can now be
found, only
by glaring
lantern eyes.
we search
and find
him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.

we once made love,
on a shell and
shingle stone beach.
it was a cold,
uncomfortable affair,
of clacking, shifting.
a scratching, scrying game,
of hard, hurried, thrusting.
riding waves of tepid saltwalter
and banging, barging,
bruising ice beneath
our backs.

but we,
were new to love,
in need of intimacy
and at least,
there was no sand,

i remember, the next day
our backs and buttocks,
were pokmarked with bruises.
a karmic reminder of our
base human greed