it is true
that until
some one
has gone from you
you do not know how will
miss them...

i miss sitting quietly
with you after a day's work
tea cups in hand, savouring
the fragrance of smoky tea
and the silence that comes
from a deep sense of compainionship

I miss, coming upon you sitting on a bench
face turned toward the sun, hands spread wide
i  an act of joyful worship, a smile lighting up
your face,

I miss the itense look of concentration, as you
described a new thought or concept to others
and the loosed limbed wonder of you as you
came alive upon the stage....

the generosity of heart and spirit,
your allocentricity...

all these things i miss and more
and most days I find some new
thing that I miss...

but...
my missing you
is a living elegy

I miss most
the sound of your voice in my ear
...but I hear the echoes
that tell me....
you are stronger than this
....just breathe on through
and wait
for the sun to shine for it will, it will

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

there is something so lovely
about the ignorance of one's youth

the time when bliss is your
paramour,
and age your best friend.
when life is a promise to be
fufilled,
with all things,
wonderfully crystalized and distilled.
that brief shining era,
when all is gold
and you keep forever,
what you behold.
when indeterminate of color or creed,
you make friends with
curious ease.

it is the time before,
you learn how,
to bleed,
to mourn,
to grieve,

the time before,
the era of discovery,
that within you
and all others,
there is an ocean of tears,
a hurtling freight train of fears,
an everest of desire,
a krakatoa of rage,

it is the time before,
you are forced to turn the page,
on stories half written,
on dreams denied,
the time before,
you can translate the trillion meanings of sighs,  
the time when, regrets begin to collect you,
the time when, worries begin to tatter and rent
the fabric of your soul.

youth, it is the vibrantly
hued years.
after the warm fuzziness of childhood cuddles.
and before the comfortable grace of adulthood.
it is passion and fumbling and finding and fueding and ecstasy of knowing,
it is mistakes and victories, woes and triumphs,
it is needing and it is bliss.
it is horrible angst and it is loveless loneliness,
it is what cow!
it is is'nt he lovely!
it is standing out in a crowd.
it is standing alone in a crowd.
it is  knowing everything,
needing no more lessons.
and it is ignorance,
blind with no descretion
it is hating your mum,
it is wanting your mum.

there is something quite lovely
about the ignorance of one's
youth...

             .......when the world
is there to be  conquered....

somedays I sit
on the edge of sanity
feet dangling in a ocean
of the deepest black water

somedays I stand on the edge
of reality
willing myself not to leap
into the clouds of depression
that float by

somedays I lie in bed
whispering the mantra
circling in my head

I am not here,  I am not here,
                                                    I am not here....

here in the little wee hours
on the night so cold
my toes ache
i sit pondering
life and such
by the light
of fire and tablet

wrapped in blanket
threaded with memories
i think nonsense and ingenuity
and watch cinders fly

on the hearth the dog and cat slumber
wrapped around each other pretzel-like
defying with casual snores,
both physics and laws of natural enmity.
there is an ease to their bromance
that both confounds and humours me

behind me spreading on the couch
like slow(very slow) moving lava is
the surf god, encased in flannel and ugg
he gargles breathe like an old Harley
soon I will escort him to bed and leave
him to the embrace of his new lover
Madame Cpap...and they can share
a night of slumber in a wind tunnel
then in the morning , he is mine once more

the golden boy sleeps elsewhere tonight
having come into the season of sleepovers
he resides in a tent,  in a bedroom
half a suburb away ,oblivious to
the sound of stretching apron strings
he too shall return to me tomorrow
older and with new cultural references
to share with his increasingly
dim witted parents

for now, in the wee hours
i stare at the cinders
and see the old man as younger
and the boy as babe
as my toes ache
and my eyes leak
just a tad....

unwinding the dross
from my mind
makes things no clearer
but at least i see
the rapids before me

unpicking the stitches
from my heart,
makes it no less painful
but at least it lets
the infection out

taking the rocks
from my backpack
does make it lighter
but leaves me frozen, staring
at the signposts of my life

and how do i
get rid of the
etchings of you
off my bones
the tattoo of
your love inked
into my soul

how do i change
my essence
forever
mixed
with yours

it would be just
as easy to
paint the sky green

there once was a time,
when her face was unlined.

her hands,unseamed
and uncalloused.

her eyes, bright and unclouded.

her *******, perky and full.

her back straight,
her stomach, tight and naturally, slightly concave.

and she had legs, that turned heads and a walk,
that created many,
a wolf whistle.

but then,

she had a life,

left her youth behind,

married,
badly, as time would tell.

had four children,
watched one die.

discovered,
she had married,
a selfish, gamblin man.

got a job
and then a second,
just, to feed her clan.

watched the love die.

then, watched him leave
with a resigned ,
yet  a relieved sigh.

raised,
two rambunctious boys
and a sickly, stubborn girl.

then, watched them leave.
launched them,
succesfully,
into the world...

now, the years,
have gone, bye the bye.

and with,aching back and teary eyes, she shuffles on
toward her demise.

with the memory of
times long gone,

and the echoes
of wolf-whistling guys,
legs long and lean
and her unlined face
with, eye catching smile.
giving her a sense of
inner grace....
that plays upon
her lined and crumpled face.

as she relives her youth
in her memories
as she finds that wonderous place, when once she was young.....and oh so beautiful.

does any body else remember,
the hungry jacks whopper,
when it had a big hunk of bacon,
or is it just me showing my age.

does any body else remember
when a cup of coffee,
came in just one size,
or am i just feeling old.

does any body else remember,
when chip packets were fuller
and softdrink cans were small and stout.

god i am just so freakin ancient
can some one tell me,
where i parked my dinosaur?
i can't remember!

once i met a man
with a broken wing
a voice of a nightingale
but sad shynesss was his song.

he would sing only when
alone...
yet the beauty of his song
would carry on the wind..
and the earth would stop to listen...

after time his wing healed
he went about his daily chores....the song he sang
forgotten....

the wind howled....and the world went on, but lesser for
the loss of the momentary angelic pause....
the song was lost....and so the beauty too....

but the man had a bumper
crop of apples and pears to make to ciderand perry  that year....the year he was broken.

Cold fingers touch my
Heart as we await news of your
Condition  ....Hoping....

somewhere......
....a man sits
legs dangling,
over the edge
of a precipice.

wrangling with
the thoughts
running rampant
within his mind.

the cool breeze
dries the tears
that fall,
as his hands
throw pebbles
and his eyes
track their fall.

and in the puddles
left by ealier rain
a chemical reaction
occurs...
a glassiene rainbow
appears to form...

as he falls,
pebble like through
the sky,
he thinks he hears
bluebirds....flying...
                  way up high...


--------------------------------
*in memory ....
for J..... who lept from The Gap. 11 years ago to day.....
may he have found his
red slippers and made his way
home...r.i.p.

neverfull,
mama,
neverfull.
quoth the raven chick....



with a gentle nod to mr poe

what is fate?
if not, the hindsight
of hope and circumstance..
combined to form....
life's wibbly-wobbly jello....

so the stars are hiding
tonight...

perhaps they make a deal
with the clouds,
so every now and then,
they can kick back,
drink a beer and go
to the movies....

it must be hard,
to keep your twinkle, sparkly
night, after night, after night,

everybody....
even the heavenly ones deserve some....
                        down-time.

am i right or am i right!!!!

in the wake of
the Baltimore riots
I saw a picture of
a young boy
offering bottled water
to the line of shielded police
right there...is the hope
for humanity....
I commend both the boy
and his parents for their actions
there is goodness everywhere
should you want to look

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.....

soggy bottomed shoes
encase wrinkly tender feet

it's been raining solidly
for more than a week

the towels all smell
of mould and mildew

the carpets more mud than wool

the vegetable garden
is accsessed by canoe

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

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

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

tommorrow
i travel backwards
again
to the town of my sculpting

hard cold mountain edged
meeting the silent lament
of the grieving sea....

small minded mercies
given in pious charity
heart of salt, ****** fruit...
made the clarifying  fast
made the chill last....

grew the best apricots
i  ever tasted on the downside hill of the local
necropolis......
yet the single cherry in our yard....never gave a lonesome globe....

and the timber jinkers sang my soul to sleep....
rested for the days next burden.... and the hard chip-
chipping of the sculptors hand against my marble heart....

frosted
lawn
freezing

toetips
through
sheepskin
uggboots

but
st­ill
we
prance
dance

leaving
tracks
in
the
delicate
purity

of
this
cold
unexpected
mid-winter
morning
gift

two poets,
came together,
after, much word love,
they had a vocabulary.
bought a tortoiseshell
thesuarus...and a golden pen
then, lived,
in a self written chapbook..
deliriously happy.

forever, amen

there is, a swarm of
bumble bees
making, a hive of
lucsious, loveliness
in my  honeycombed
brain.
they bring, with them,
golden pollens and
nectared ambrosia.
from many places,
exotic and plain
and this,
these, very words.
are the sweet honey,
mumurings,
they produce.

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

stymied,
i sit in the library
surrounded by words
but ....yet
               nothing of worth
comes to me....
instead i write this missive
all the while knowing....
it is the drivel of a mind
confounded....stumped
....run dry...

it occurs to me...i write
more of the act of putting
pen to paper,
than aught else at present

and that i well may be
caught in a meta maze
of my own making....

i feel my wells have run dry
and what i write here and now
is but mud and slime scraped from the murky depths.....

i excuse this muck  as the product of a long year....
not enough time
distractions of the
overly emotional type

but am secretly scared
that i have come to the
end of my ink
that i will succumb to
poesis nullaris
and not ever write
                                    again....

or worse....write
dreck, drivel, and bad rhyme

stymied......
                 stymied
whispers the gnome within
my ear...

there was a time
in my life,
when my view was,
monochromaticaly blue.

the deepest darkest blue.
verging on, but not quite
black.

it was not a comforting
or calming shade.
in fact it was jagged glass
in my eyes.

it shred, rendered
my mind into shards of
bitter and hate,
it unraveled a deep, dark blue twine
and  wrapped it about my heart.
marking, marring
and restraining my hope of
remembering other shades
or hues.

i sat inside my deepest darkest blue,
with my confetti blue mind
and snippets of blue blue twine.

waiting for the deep dark
bluetide to rise and wash
away what little i had left...


instead you came,
with artists easel and brush
and painted my world
polychromatic.

with strokes of purple orange.
green, yellow and blue,
you gave me the colours to see,
deep, dark blue was only the
smallest part of my view.

straight line
turns to squiggle
as tired mind
turns to slush

weary soul
begins to wobble
as happiness
fades to grey

and in the twilight gloaming
paces the dog, black
with eyes a' gleaming
mouth a' drooling
and  dinner on his mind..

torchlight
follows the squiggle,
brings warmth and sunshine
slush becomes liquid
fluidity comes to mind
and the wobble is centrifugal
seperates the grist and the grind
gives surety to the tired and weary mind

torchlight comes from kisses
murmered words always kind
not breadcrumbs but shining pebbles
to my hansel and gretal state of mind

forrest large, big wolf lurking
pebbles help me find
home and hearth and kin
that gives grace to the
rebelnheart and mind
that oft makes me blind
and lost and a'wandering
in the squiggle......

i sit in the low afternoon
sun
the warmth of it's rays negligable, but the colours
of it's farewell glorious.

in the lilac bush, still holding
green, the bluewrens chitter,
gossip, chirk and flirt away..
as they dart and flicker from twig to twig.
i think what a bluegreen end to a greyblack day....

and the sun shines,orange
and peach and the horizon
takes that lavender hue.

as the sky fades to deepest
blue.... my thoughts my friend, settle on you...
farewell my sunny friend
                                    farewell.

anguished, anemic, adolescents, arrayed, in a line.
apprehensively, observing the ambulance, take away
an afficiando, again, today.

bereft of energy and ability
to see......
that cutting,
while a momentary thrill.
is leaching their ability,
to be anything
but lethargic, listless and ill.

an addiction to, endorphines
angst and red blood spill.
becomes a viscous, viscious
cycle,
that daily, causes a spiral downward.

you cut, to feel,
release from pain,
blood flows,
draining you of
the nutrients and
sustenance you need,
to cope with living life,
you become,
less able to deal,
with the slights and arrows
and daily dross.
so you cut,
to deal with the loss
of the ability to cope,
you saw away,
at your skin like,
it is a mental rope.
all the whil
you lose blood the live giving force,
you lose the ability to hope
spiraling, until....
you collaspe in class... your secret revealed...

A is for  ANGER...
bright fiery red,
at the abtruse,
asininity of it all.

and underneath your skin
lies a heart no longer beating

and you lay
cold and still

and you ask
of me questions
with lips tinged blue

to which
there are no
answers


i know not why
and where to now

i know there is sorrow

i know we move on somehow...

but underneath your skin
your heart has finished
it's toil.....

it is okay...old friend
you can rest now.

being held ransom
by,
incapabilty to form
rational thoughts.

please send help.....

apathy rising,
hope hiding behind
fear.

please send help .....soon

leave thoughts with,
drifting mind, dozing,
on the park bench.

for pick up by random person.

the rainbow lorikeet
is evidence
of a creational dichotomy
a bird of feathers,
bright and sweet
but
with a of voice
of snickering raucousness undeniable, universal proof: you can't have it all!!!

the morning has dawned
achingly bright
the clouds of yesterday
blown away in the night
after leaving.....
just a dusting of spherical
pearls on leaf and grass tips

the wind just now a breeze
giving the sea a herd of
white horses  to cross
the blue- green plain
and play tag with the sailor
in racing boats.

i stand inside, with the warmth of the fire at my
back , cup of tea steaming
in my hands...and make plans for this promising
winter's day...

full well knowing, in an hour
the vista could change....
thus are, the vagaries of life.

heres is the story of
Bad boy Bill...
..with slight of hand
he had the plate
with eight pieces
of skate
which he quickly ate
not that he was
a deadweight
he did share
with a mate
before he did
donate the *****
plate to the nearest
gutter grate
he was a pick pocket
that he could not debate
he had given going straight
a trial but could not cognate
the traits of the cheapskate
state that gave him too many
gates to open only to end up
at the same old checkmate
so after beating his breastplate
he went on the lam
lashed out against
the ingrate magnates
and after a spate
of flyweight burglaries
he now awaits
as a sometimes
somnambulate inmate
at the pleasure
of the  abrogate state
in a room slightly
larger that a crate
with a surly
burly bedmate.
they who dictate
think he will be
down for at least eight
he was at this news
discombobulatedly
disconsulate
But that is the fate
of those who hesitate
to choose bad over good
and manipulate the laws
of the land.

poetry calls to me
like the sky beckons a bird

i cannot but concede
to my inner being
and launch myself
with expectant hope
of a good outcome...

and then swoop
and dart with
exuberance
when
my hope
becomes miraculous
flight....
up amongst the clouds

alright world...
give me a break
can't you see...
i've got all my ducks
in a row....
so what, if there is
a decided...
weave in their waddle...

so...
this is it!!!
we have reached,
the epoch!
and now busy,
ourselves,
buying souvenirs
and taking selfies.

what next...
if this is the age of,
best "whatever" ever!!!
where do we go from here?
after ever ... is done,
(remember the reality is,
ever is never really done!)

well i suppose we
'mose well pack ourselves,
into the best pine boxes,
ever made and return,
into the soupy oblivion
from whence we came.

with less than a whimper,
more of an apathetic sigh.
as we watch the best ever
epoch slide on by...

the length of the write....
varies with the vagaries
of the topic and  type.

the time taken,
is often time....
forsaken,
forgotten,
forgiven.
a pause,
a rest.
stolen,
from a busy life.

the inspiration,
the notion,
the intonation.
sometimes,
a slow burn....
sometimes
a conflaguration

for me,
there is no formula.
no ritua.
just a pen
and a scrap of paper.

for me,
it is a brain,
just letting go,
giving up....
word flow

flotsam and jetsam
driftin along,
caught in the framework
of  creative phenom....
and given to me,
as i wander along.

thats why
punctuation,
does not figure.
just workin,
the beauty of
the words.

stitchin rhymes with
non, appros, de rigueur.

making words dance
on sprained syllable ligaments.
******* with thoughtful
ligatures.
spread with inspirational
linaments.

not needing,
the lime light.
but wanting some
bright candle work,
for to illuminate,
the process of the precepts,
to the multitudinal few...
who see through...
the intricate footwork,
to the stumbling
fatigue underneath....

sometimes long
and wordy,
sometimes succinct
and brief

but always, always,
with purpose...

sometimes mine
but often left
up  to you...

the reader.

thats how i do.....

I have lost my muse
in the hustle and hustle
of my days
I have put her aside
and now she is gone
from me..

and my writers place
is lonely and bereft
of her joy and life
a soulless room
dusty and...
well,  just .... beige and bland.


so if you see her,
my muse....
ink-stained and laden
down with words unwritten
please....let her know
I miss her terribly
and would like her
to come home....

I promise to take
better care of her
this time....I promise.

in the time between
sleeping and waking
my thoughts drift to you
the sky begins to turn umber-red
and tears fall softly down my cheeks
it is a deep hearted truth that you do not
appreciate  what you have until it is lost
yet the day must go on so by the time the sun
has risen, the tears have dried and i now motherless
go about the daily tasks of being a wife and mother
but just letting you know i miss you...so very much

i awake
an inexplixable sadness
welling from my sleep
laden eyes.

with cup of tea
warm in hands
i sit watching
the night give
up it's children
to the brimming
dawn.

and sigh
sadness
from the
innermost
secrets
of myself.

as tears
fall
unchecked
from my
eyes.

of the system
dinosaurs  at play

modify the system
dinosaurs at work

change the system
dinosaurs afraid

work the system
dinosaurs  delayed

ignore the system
dinosaurs confused

abused the system
dinosaurs confounded

abolish the system
dinosaurs extinct

create the system
dinosaurs  evolve

of the system
dinosaurs replayed

the morning after
the night before
rises with a cold crisp sun
and sea mist rising

i shuffle out...glad i do not
need to be at work til 2.00pm
i am already wrung out
my leg still achew
and growls
and my eyes are
bleary from
crying.
hair,
a sidways birds nest
smelling of a night's sweaty tossing and turning
and the smoke from the fire dressed fashionably not,
in flannel pj's and hippo studded robe.

i can barely raise a smile.

and still,
he says he loves me
and kisses me soundly ...before  telling me he will
take Tod for Maccas
and then to kindy...
it is a male bonding day....

and i should just go back to bed.....
cause i had a rough night....
oh' and he will bring lunch home at middayish

and that is one
and one again,of a million reasons,
why i love my man
to the stars and beyond.

beyond tired,
beyond sleep,
far down the winding track
of insombulance
at the forked tongue place,
known as...
the insomniac's state.....

there is a gilded room
where poets do keep
their muses,
fair and unruly...

and those,
who think deep,
philosophical notions

and they wait,
with lethivian patience,
but little grace...
in the shadows,

...until invited,
by sleepless souls,
to share,
wine and cheese
and a word or two....

then, they muses all,
are delighted
to discuss, at length,
all manner of things....

and suggest
topics that,
need be,
revealed,
re-examined,
rewritten.

....and to talk about,
how,
to make readers,
smitten with the words,
you have enscribed,
the ideas you extault
and extoll,
the emotion you extract
from your very soul.

but when the dawn breaks
they, the muses all,
take their words
wrapped up
in scrap paper
and off to bed they crawl..

leaving you, the scribe
dark shadowed of eye
to cope with the agnst
of it all....

fickle hearted beings...
one and all....
       but oh, how i crave
their company...

she writes despair,
from her womb.
in thick menstrual red.
...a dirge of lost potential.

lamentations of longing,
need and want for a child
sear her face and mind....

again a false start,
hope....stands expectant at
the starting line.....
only to falter and fall,
time after time.

she hates,
this carriage, that does not,
well do the job
she hates,
those who can, with apparent ease.
who do not mis,
but have,
the joyous moments,
of that first squalling cry...

but mostly,
she longs for
the next time,
she can try....
til then,
sadness prevails

first things, first
before i burst,
well,thats a blessed relief !!
coulda come to grief....
so easily.

it used to be,
put the kettle on
now it's slide
the plastic pod,
of coffee magic
in the slot.

lost the romance,
but i forgive,
as the coffee smell,
heaven scent
tickles, teases,
swirls and curls
in the predawn air

my nose hairs steam
and crema....crema
oh my giddy aunt!!!
i love the grind
of the bein' bean
my especial, expresso
blend
my bestest, favouritist, morning friend.
come to mamma's lips.
today....
is it gulps,
or dainty sips.
nectar in, either way
pulse begins, pupils dilate
lookin like another
beautiful day

the boy,
trails a piece
of brown twine,
with paper tied loosely,
to one end, around the dry green brown lawn.
it is for the little
grey, blue cat, to chase
and pounce upon,
a game, they never tire of.

the father,
tends to the flowerbeds,
with copious trips of
the watering can.
the water restrictions
forbid the use of the hose, and the plants must drink
to survive.
whilst to-ing, back and forth, from tap to plant,
he keeps an eye
on the boy as he plays.

the mother,
sits on the front steps
and watches all,
with cool drink in hand.
she has just finished, preparing the night's repast and has left it
simmering, gently
on the stove.
she takes this moment,
to escape the kitchens heat and sits in the cool sea breeze.
taking immense joy, in watching the afternoon, wind down in such a restful way.
the cat,
pounces on the string
pulling it gently from the boys grasp.

the family
laughs at his rolling,
pawing antics, as he, truimphs in his catch.

before picking up
the cat and boy
and walking inside,
to the smell of chicken curry, green but mild.