in the cool clear air
of the mountain night,
as the stars glimmer,
with long ago exploded light.

i let go....
the woman,
of ninety three years
i let go...
the friends
who had shorter lives...
i let go...
those whose burdens, i bear.

i leave my salt upon
the dust.

and seed memories
to the wind....

knowing...tommorrow...
i will be desperate...
to find them,
again.

and it is,
when i am with you....
i shed all my outer coverings,
take the sledge hammer
to my walls,
drop pretence and artifice,
like beggar's rags
and stand.

my scarred and naked body,
before you.....
with beautific but battered mind  intact
and heart beaten and besieged

i stand naked before you

and you......
gather me up... and love me
with your besieged and beaten heart ,
battered but beautiful mind
and scarred and naked skin
and it is when we are together....
like this
that our weary souls entwine
and provide the love
that allows us to believe
we are both human...
                                    .... and divine.

and give strength to each
other...

writer's block
again the white washed
wall just there...

curving quickly over head
like an igloo
taking creative reasoning,
stealing words and making
lost, not found the joy of creativity...

but i will fight back,
****! diddley i will
with my trusty pen
as sword....
graffiti- ing gibberish
on it's smug white washed
face...
(salmon scraping against the upward curve of the sward like steamships bumping in the old dockyard...talk to me of joy life procreation....)
marring, scarring, scribbling
away... taking back words and wordplay....
i will not be defeated,
i will not stay in this cocoon
bland and grey....
if i write hard and long
if i doodle long and short
i will see the light dawn
on a new creative day.
so watch me scribe away...
creating portholes in my cocoon
writing words to make the
block a boon....

this book got no title
so don't dare compare it
to the others dozing on the shelf
man, the blank stare
you are reading, as stupidity, disguises heart and feelings, kaleidescope dreamings, overtures operatic.

mental fluidity.....
just workin in a different lane to yourself
savant to the art,
smart to the keys...
hit the beat....
find the real,
create the start,
just sometimes,
becomes,
the begining of the bugeoning of the being.... caged behind the stare.

Last week...

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

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

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

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

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

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

red moon rising
through flannel grey clouds
sea streaked with silver
pine trees black silhouettes

on the winow pane
brown moths paint
their lives away
and underlying it all
is the bass of a lonely treefrog
singing his heart's desire

tonight the moon hides itself
shly peeking out
from behind ragamuffin  grey clouds

the stars are a'twinkle, twinkle
on indigo blankets
clouds dash to and fro

i gaze upon the heavens
and briefly wonder
if others elswhere also gaze

and ponder about the nature
of the sky
and the nighttime flying by

or do they sigh and
give no thought
to why the moon
                              is shy

i watch
with quiet intensity
as he, my man,
planes smooth as piece of lumber

because of the heat
he is shirt less and wears
shorts and work boots...
he is unaware of my scrutiny

long smooth strokes,
from one end of the board
to the other, create a swaying motion,
through his tanned torso
a flexing in his hips and
thighs and bunch of his
taut calfs....
but it is the rhythm and
curving of the long muscles
of his back that....has  me
entranced, and in need
of either a cold shower
or a fast and ***** session
in the bedroom.....

i choose the latter...and make my need known...

you mumured love
into my ear,
that made me glow

those words made a home
as they echoed in my my mind
they painted walls a warm blue
carpeted in a lovely angora white
moved in chairs, tables and
a big feather bed
those words warm and encouraging
had a family, that follwed them about
like little fluffy ducklings, bring a smile
to my face

they expanded their homstead
to make my heart large and welcoming
and those duckling words grew up
and flew from the home in my heart
out into the world, to give love

you mumured love into my ear
and the whole world changed..

must have got a dud
coffee.....still nothing
brewing, nothing clicking
over.... just open prarie space....not even a cliched
tumbleweed......
........ god.... hope i have n't
lost my brain.......

maria,
a woman, unknown to me
sits some where grieving
battered and beaten down
by the heaviest of burdens.

her loss, unimaginable,

but i see, many hands
lifting her up, into the sight
of gods.

many hearts ache,
many people pray
many people write

lifting her up, into the hands
of gods

i add my words of consolation
my paltry words
from a world away

know you are loved,
dear lady and though
it is inconcievable the burden, the loss,
you carry

you will be lifted up by love
into the sight of gods
this day

lost,
adrift,
led astray,
just disappeared,
nowhere to be found,
slipped, down, between    
                                the cracks.
irretrievably, wayward.
gone... the way of flying pigs.
that qoundam, thought has
                     now...gone awry.

did you know?
did you hear?
what's the go?

chinese whispers,
cost us dear.

at the water cooler,
in the dark,
murmuring inanities
in the park.

gossip, gossip,
word of the day.

such and such's,
significant other
has run away.

Mid-day heat beats down
Shingle-back lizard lazes
On old rotting log

Termite smorgasbord
Dinner in pink tongues reach
Warm sun lies above

what was nothing

becomes reality

it happens momentarily

a thought creates an action

which sets the heart alight.

then reason takes flight

on wings of  purported glory

we skim the stratosphere

oblivious to gravity

we soar in graceless ecstasy


until .....        until....       until..................

this missive of love
scrawled upon the ether
little seeds like mustard or dandelion
spread upon the wind hoping above hope
to find landfall in hearts cracked asunder

this missive of love
humble but true
as love is and always should be
needs love too grow strong and big

it may not be much
but if added to
will compound upon itself
stand tall and become not shy
this missive of love must come
from both you and I
it must not be scared to whisper it's name
to those broken, shattered,
or under great strain

this missive of love, should be
like rain to parched ground
this missive of love should
be able to speak all languages
go all place, be scared not
of religion or races
should not hide it's face
nor be proud, but always,
always allow grace and time
to be it's partners

this missive of love is easy to write of
but the hardest of all to partake of
but it is now needed more and more
by those who have hearts burdened
and torn by the actions of zealots,
maddened and inflamed... men
and women who know not
this missive's name

this missive is my response
to this horror,this shame
this blight upon the world
in varying God's name

so as I sit and watch the sun rise
I send out this missive
to those that suffer
and those that grieve
to those that are so weary
that they wish only to leave
to those who seemingly stand alone
and those whose voices cry into the night
to men and women weeping this night
and to those who see no end to their plight

I send love and forgiveness
the ability to see,
the goodin the world
I send  the ability to  just be...

from this heart full of kindness
I send compassion and grace
I send hope and the stubborness
required to look this world
in it's face and see not the hurt
the grime, the commonplace
but to look beyond and see
the good, the beautiful, the need
for us, to grow the seeds of greatness

this missive of love, is small
and may if ignored
make no difference at all
but if taken in and given space
it may well be a fresh start
a turning of degrees
toward the world as a better place
the ideology is lofty and illogical
but let us try here at the coal face
to change the axis from hate to love

sitting at the old oak table
sipping on cold redemption
thinking back to when i was
not some one else, but far less than myself...

turning memories over to
discover the fossiled  id
and the ambered ego"
damaged, dismembered,
by the time of slow, low moving sadness...
that created glacial time..


now, exploring
the barren forest,
like an inquisitive tourist
hoping to find the keys
to the locks that i left behind
whyfor i will never know...

but the former self has hidden the  relics all too well....
(and we bless them to
their  hidden eternity)

and the cages remain sound
the lack of treasure, remains
unfound.

...and i .....and i....and i
can retrace my steps...back
to the days ....of serenity...
and forsake the turbulance
for  the  promise of sunnier days......

sitting at the old oak table
sipping on redemption
...warm and refined....
turning....beauty over
to see....your love reflected
...

lingering on the edge
of a sunday morning lie in
I drowse and wander
through a forrest of
dream and thought

in my dream
I am small, the trees large
but not in a threatening way
more like that of welcoming elders

they speak in a language of comfort
there is other life, busy and invisible
bustling about, things I hear but do not see

I walk on a path meandering, touching age oldbark
gathering wisdom and strength by osmosis
giving love and hope in return, small flowers bloom
in my small footsteps, the fragrance uplifting and clean

sunlight dapples the path before me, little dics of pure joy
lead me on, to the end of the trees and into grassy dunes
covered with and abundance of coloured flowers
all with faces set toward the warmth of the mellow sun

in the distance I hear the sea, welcoming me home

the horizon is a golden line in the distance

and the birds sing glorious aria's of happiness

I awake  to the kiss of my lover
and the smell of coffee and pacakes

all is right with the world.....

i  detour on the way home
to the light house on the headland
such a grandiose appellation
for a stolid white box  with
a light in it...
more utalitarian than romantic
but still it is nice to see it blink on

but i digress ... i am so ****** tired
beyond the bone, right down to the marrow
god this winter has been so long
and the grief i drag around,
in tattered threads... and sepia tones
leaves me cold....

my heart not in the teaching...
i feel disjointed, displaced .
i have misplaced the knack
to find the joy in youthful creativity
and am running this marathon by rote

i worry that the key won't turn in the lock
and i will be caught within
this cage...
an exhibition in the museum
to has-beens  and never-were's

yet paradoxically...
my performance stellar
sometimes so good
that i fool myself...

god send spring soon....
or i fear am come undone

it has rained for a week
cold and bitter here
give strengnth to  the roots
of my tidily packaged fears

and if i don't see spring soon
they will be spread and torn and ripped
and you will see the inside and
understand the grift

and there the light blinks on
sending out the saving beam
safe secure and strong
and in the shadows
you see the woman
scrabbling at the earth
burying deep in sandy loam
the thoughts birthed from
an  overtired mind
the thoughts that she
must not nurture ...
that needs be left behind
buried deep, stomped  hard
into the ground...

and as she stands in the lee of the light
and looks to the sea ..... she sighs heavily
the turns back into the deepening night
less heavy of heart....able to continue
the fight..... one last look...
then homeward bound....
thanking the lighthouse
and leaving  sacred ground.

the curve of the beach
is outlined in a murky red today
the kelp has turned in the heat

on the sand the little *****
make little spheres and bubbles


where the damp meets dry
a sandcastle slowly loses form
as the wind takes it away
grain by grain


on the rocks three kids clamber
shouting and pointing poking sticks
into the pooled worlds

up on the grass, sit two old gents
and the clamour of seagulls that
are being fed skerricks of fat golden chips

i stand admist all this feet in the water
work pants rolled up, shirt tails out
breathing in the saltspray
looking to the horizon
as it begins to colour  the evening sky

at my feet swirl ribbons of red brown kelp


it has been an unseasonably hot summer

words... skitter ...flit
across my mind
but they are ..flighty
little blighters
and i cannot ..grasp.. them

scrabbling... whickering
secretive.  things far..to
agile ....for the sluggish
...nature ...i bring... to bear
with me today..

i had hoped, it was just
a need for stimuli, coffee,
or an intelligent conversation
...but.... it appears not.

i have had ....copious amounts of the former
and am... still struggling to find a.. smidgen ..of the latter
(in honesty, i am not holding up my end, of the disementary
discourse association, with aplomb either.)

i ...fear sleep deprivation... is the ...ultimate ..victor of
                    ....this day doings.

and... i ...slave to the clock ..........plodding... on through....
dreary and disconsolate ...until it has wound....
it's ticking hands....
     .....      .....      down to
the final ....moment···

tick, tick, tick, and so on··÷
and so forth~·~

violets nod dainty heads
dancing to the zephyr breeze

watched over by gum
and swaying willow trees.

verdant leaves all shades of green
have returned if but for a short season

and on the rocks the lizards bask
and the ants continue working.

it is the time in between
the last of the summers sun
and the first leaf fall.

it is the most gentlest time of all

time
and time
again

i awake
my soul
surprised
by the
blessings
in my life

somewhere
sometime
i must have
done something

exceptionally
wonderful
because

karma
gave
me

you..
­
and
the little
boy god

and
all the other
multitudinal
bits of
good stuff

that
make me
smile

each
and
every
day

the rain falls,
like a hymn,
upon the windows.
a song of hope,
sent from grey
and sombre sky.

given to an
adoring ground
accepted as
communion and
restoration.

listened to from within,
watched by wondering eyes,
the holiness of nature.
....beautifuly divine....

another postcard came,
sent from the hollowman.

bright, happy pictures
on the front.
and terse, inked messages
on the back.
"am ok" or "doin fine"
"still here"
&  "i am living my life"

anger and grief,
etched in each
& every  penstroke.

he, rings ben,
& they talk,
like lovers , in hushed
& secretive tones,
for long periods of time.

but he won't speak to me.
ben says,
he says, it is still .....
too hard, to fresh & raw
....and i remind him,
to much of her...
(she has a name,
i say angrily)

but, really,
i don't know,
what to do with that.....
any more than i know
what to do with.....
the boxes, stacked,
in our garage.
your bequest to me,
the residue of your life.

each time i open
one to unpack.....
i add,
a cupful of salty tears,
before resealing it....
god!  
it might be years,
before i get them done.

and i know,
this is not so much,
about his all encompassing grief,
or the tidal heft of mine.

as much,
as it is about,
my need to make,
things, better and smooth and fine.

you,
in your much missed
wisdom,
once said,
"we are the sisters sisyphus'.
me, i am wanting to be,
glue,
always, holding things together,
often, way past, their prime.

and you,
you, want to take,
a jagged pebble
and work and polish it,
till smooth as a marble...

but really,
both these things,
are tasks never done....

and in the end,
the world has it's way..... things, lives,
come apart and shatter
and we are left,
to begin again, again....

so, sue for you
and  in your memory...

to laz,the hollowman
i give his mispent anger
and recieve his postcards
and hope that time will heal.

as to, the gift of your boxes.
i seed my salted love...
they will be there,
when i am ready
and the tide is right.

and i let the world have
it's way...
in hope you are smiling down from above....

and i think you are...
this weeks message,
    
                               "got a dog"

we go now
to the place
of  solemnity
all three
of us
together

we go
to place
memories
wrapped in
flower petals
on the doorstep
of your afterhouse

we talk
in hushed tones
to the motes
of dust that
sparkle in
the sunlight
hoping they
will carry
our news
to you

we water
the grass
that covers
your afterhouse
with salted tears
hoping they will
carry our love to
your landlocked bones

we hold hands
believing that
you see our
togetherness
and take solace
in it...

we go back
to the everyday
leaving you behind
with these little
particles of ourseleves
called sorrow

they are your substance
until next we come

this old teak farmhouse creaks this morning.
like an old woman settling into her favourite chair.
we will need to paint again soon,
the coastal wind abraids
her seascape blueskin
and the sun, bleaches it
to a faded blue grey.

she has seen so much,
when they first cleared
the land on the rise of the cliff.

she was the only house for miles and she watched
the farmer's cows stand placid accepting of the buffeting wind as they chewed their cud.

she watched the slow encroachment of the town on her fertile red loamed pastures.
as tall white ghost gums and norfolk pine trees,
gave way to squat ugly houses and box like apartments.
stacking families atop families.
she saw horse tracks
turn to black ribbons of rock and tar,
the neighing clopping rhythm
become buzzing booming honking discord.

she watched families,
come and go,
loving, living, dying and all the life and strife in between.

she is solid still,
she was built to withstand, man's mark upon the everchanging land.

she is our patch of love now, we have the upkeep of her care.
but inside her snug old walls we known she carries
the tales of times long past and will with time keep
our families secrets just as well,
we are but passing through she as creaky as she is,
will be here standing, watching after we have moved on.

i go to the river's bend.
today,
i want my water contained.
today,
the sea too big, too wide.
today,
i need to see the other side.
today,
i watch the water flow,
from small aquifer beginings,
to great worlds sweepings.
today,
i watch and see the cycle
of life....
drift on by.....

from the nest in the eaves
of the great house,
the little bird
could see.
a sky, blue and flannel grey,
a big ball of sun,

the tips of the tree tops,
down through the branches
and trunks
down, down, to the ground.
where they are bound
to the earth,
by knotty rope roots.

she, the little bird,
could watch the people,
hustle and bustle and
sometimes, but not often dawdle, on the street.
all chirupping and chirking
away.

she could see the horses
and the carriages, going
this and that way.
the dogs that, bark as they
play

she could see all,
the neighborhood cats
as the well-fed,
basked away the day
and the mangy old stray,
hunted for rats..
yes, she kept a close eye,
on all those sneaky cats.

but, what she liked
to watch, best,
what piqued her curiousity,
as she sat on her nest.

was the interior of the bedroom, across the way.

for in there, was a fascinating sight, of
a glamourous lady who had all manner of
wonderful things,
gloves of velvet and
lace and calfskin leather,
fans of painted paper
or finely carved wood,
corsets with whalebone stays
and finest linen underwear
buttons and baubles,
trinkets and geegaws...
strings of pearls and
glittering things..
a parasol, peach-pink satin
to shade her face from sunlight.

but for all of this...
the glamourous lady
came often undone
and sat weeping
on the window seat.

the little bird who lived
in the eaves,
did not envy the lady,
who for all her things
so pretty, was unhappy.
and who so often, grieved.

for the little bird,
knew how to be
content with her lot.
with her nest of straw,
her two little eggs.
she needed no more
than that...and a
view of the street....
so she could see
all those sneaky n' sly cats

perhaps there is a lesson
just there, in that.

in the blink of my eye
another thread frays
and breaks
the apron string one
thread smaller,
more fragile my hold
on your safe keeping

you run onto the field
oblivious to the loss.
reveling in the freedom
of running about with
an odd shaped ball.

I stand on the sideline
knowing you are small
but determined,
wishing for your blind
outrageous courage
yet knowing there will
be tears before bedtime.

the only question is,
will they be....mine
or yours?

this is the aftermath
here
sitting in my
dinghy of fools
three passengers
only.
me, myself and i
surrounded by
useless f#cked up
baggage
rowing furiously
in circles
on a sea
of stupid.

all cause
my words
in anger
cast
you
overboard
to swim with your
personal sharks.


would it help
if i threw you
a rope made
of heartfelt
apologies.

could you then
find your way back
sorry regret by sorry
regret.

so we can row together
toward  the coast of
mutual understanding....

can we get to there,
please?

it was a blood vessel,
within the brain.
that gave out....
too much thinking.
no, more likely to be,
a genetic imperfection.
undectected until now.
the brain, became flooded
and succumbed...

it was mostly painless,
if confusing...
synapses firing,
one last time.
a fireworks moment,
of
absolute brillance.
of
knowing all questions
and answers.
of
rememberance sublime.

and
then the quieting
of the soul.

the folding of the deckchair,
the closing of the book,
receding steps...
some bars,
of classical music.
the light,
being switched off.
and
the closing
of the door..
all that is left .... is darkness

and the sound of distant...
                             ...weeping

as the hands ever unseen,
push forward,
the tines of time,
i lie with eyes open,
but it must be said,
with a desperate desire
that they be closed.

i listen to the wind rail,
against it's perpetual,
homeless state.
fury has been it's nature,
this past long night
and has doubled
the occupancy of this old
king bed,
sprawled beside me now safely asleep,
is a tangle of blucat and small, but growing to fast, child
both resting, hard up against the lee- side of the man mountain.
all creating a purring, snuffling, snoring thing,
that has an equal measure
of comfort and annoyance, circulating within my brain.

outside the house,
something has come adrift, but not enough, to blow away and it bangs in an awkard thunking rhythm agin the side of the house.

in the bed it is warm
and slightly sweaty.
outside of the bed,
it is crisp and overcool.
outside the window,
the sky is lightening,
to a grey that portends...
a long day

i make my choice
and leave the warmth in search of, the first of,
far too many coffee's

and the unseen hands,
still move,
the tines of the
old grandfather clock.
ever onward, everforward.

the world winds down slowly tonight
coalescing into one  small house
on the cusp of something
we sit and watch the flickering
of other peoples bad news
and pray it does not become
our own

we keep in constant touch
with each other, the golden boy
sleeps with head in my lap
the father lays his hand
over mine and exerts gentle
reassuring pressure
the tuxedo kitten, sensing
our restless souls, moves from
person to person seeking
to comfort wish his two kilos
of wrinkled scrawniness

it is a time of waiting
and watching the small
screened phones, willing
them to carry positivity

it is a time of  cups
of lukewarm tea
and half eaten food
starting at sounds
and praying
to gods long losr
or forgotten

the night continues
to crawl, toward the day
the phones remain silent
we sleep in fitful dozing
snatches, with the blue glow
of reruns lighting
the huddled of  love

at 4.02 the phones buzz
and we answer,
with trepidation
the news is cautiously good
the surgery complete
the nephew, still with us

we sigh, with gratitude
as the sky begins to lighten

whatever.....
she threw the word
at me
with all the youthful,
disdain,
she could muster
as she flounced
out the out of my sight...


and


.....wandered away from
her talents bright light.

hi
not a poem
just a quick note
to let the person
who suggested
a change to my poem
"tommorrow"
i am not being rude
just can't accsess
you advice via
my device
it just dissappears
have msg'd the
deveolper
but you may want to
send a message, message
in the interim
and thanks
for your interest
in my work
cheers
bd.

small upon the wire
extruded with such effort
she swings with the wind
capturing her  stability against
the verdent green, once secure
she again  launches, like a spelunker
down into the darkness of the bush
only to reappear and leap from leaf to leaf

having constructed her main lines
the little architect, then proceeded
with absolutley no fanfare
but an audience of two,
enthralled by her
bravado and industry,
to fill out the infield of the  construct

before setting some fishing lines out
off her main points,  to sway in the breeze
she  then  strolled  back into her leafy boudoir,
one presumes to have a well earned nap,
before dinner

clasp these things gently,
to thy breast.
my love, my little love,
hold them gently.
tho' seldom will they bite.

feed them,
hopeful crumbs
and tidbits
of delighted joy.

do not neglect
them,
do not yet,
let them go
they are still to young,
to fledge and fly.

this world is a place
of broken things.

these dreams you have,
are the chaotic butterfly wings that will flap and flutter and bring despots down

not yet, little one,
but when you
are tall
then my child
let them
fly one day,
in  sunshine's
wonderous thrall

for now,
my little love,
treat them kindly
clasp them gently
to thy breast
and do your best,
my child,
to  ignore, the random
snows of  barren, hopelessness
as  they fall.

i sit and watch,
the dust motes dance
in the stream of sunlight

the computer hums and burbles
like and old friend, intent on
sharing the latest gossip

last years detrius of papers
and unfinished lists, new job lists
teeter in the corner....

my backside has again grown
a size too ample,
for my ergonomic  chair

my brain is lax and lazy
slow to grind into gear....

this is the awkward,
i don't want to be here
start to the years marathon

it is the organizing of details
the preparation of the course

it is meetings and more meetings
dull, dry, academic, with others who
are in the same boat, those who want to
change course midstream, those who want to
tread water and those who are new to the game
rowing in circles with much enthusiasm, but little boatcraft


i, at present am resting oars, knowing this is the first
of many races, knowing the course, tho set, will change
when the students arrive, it is then the rapids come into play
and it is then, my energy, is required.

til then i cruise
and drink copious amounts of caffiene
in my air conditioned office....
watching the air, take dust motes,
for a ride.

Today I am
Jagged pieces of broken glass
Shattered by happenstance
Words meant in jest
Have pierced my marrow
and now I await
the world to turn again
witth tears  carressing
cheeks...

My pebble fractured
I must again wait the working
of the waters way
and become once again
Smaller in this place

This is the opposite turn
Of the waters wheel

This is the cracking
of the foundation

This is.......
                   reformation.....
                                              and
                                                      ..... reclaimation


of a damaged soul.

you leave me
alone.....
       to contemplate

and
all i can do
is
..........think of you

time apart
is ......
           anticipation
of
when we.......
can next
             be together....

they wait for godot....
                 i long for you....
this love
          so  unexpected
so....new
          
   my prayer......
                i hope  
we... possess...the stamina
to see it through.

found,
one heart....
slightly scarred,
but willing to
give love another...
chance, a twirl, one more go
at letting the balloon float...
upon the winds of,    
                        happenstance,
to find the fickle creature....
                              called love.

coffee steaming, in ceramic cup.
eyes cast down, toward pine boarded floor.

i breath in and then exhale.
the coffee then passes my lips.

i sigh once and then once more.
stolidly, continue to study the splintered floor.

struggling to surmise.
the reason for the sadness in your eyes.

the problem in a nutshell,being at the age
of just about four.
you have no idea of the score  or even,
how to play...

it's gonna be a slow day
my brain remains in bed
i am operating, all manner
of heavy machinery,
with an empty head.

the sky outside is grey
but not forlorn,
but it is making for a
slow moving morn.

my baby boy,
is sleeping still
my hubby has become
a tv sports zombie dill
and speaks in yawns and grunts
demanding a  headache pill

we all seem slow,
like treacle,
dripping off,
an ice cold spoon
perhaps i am just in
coffee and toast denial

but someone little,
is gonna, wake up soon.
then the world might
kick up a gear.
that is my, very,
rational fear.

but until then,
any which way
you want to slice it
this morning is just drifting,
caught up in a slow-mo eddy
and we all are just being dragged  along

on a wet morning
at the university

the library is full
of  people in need  of
a place to dry out...

in the quad, people
rushing from here to there
the bins full of dead and dying umbrellas

and in the library
the smell of wet dog
and wool pervades the air

the barista's
at the coffee shop
do really well

the classes are smaller
they also have that smell

and at some time you will
hear a fire bell
set off by,
someone sneaking
a smoke inside.....
then evacuation
and all hell
if you are in the block
forced outside...

putting words together
scarring paper
is just that
if there is no heart
surrendered to the art

we need not write in blood
but must stir the blood within
engage the soul,
release the paradigm.
nurture the word,
play with the rhyme

there,
lies the difference
between the poet
and the scribe.

as i and my red pen,
climb and clamber,
about in the latest,
offerings,
of inked thoughts
and dead trees.

i think of,
junglegym minds
and elegant phrasings.
of eagle eyed ids
and nuanced persuasions.

i think of,
 words and worlds, aged
and then discovered
and since and again, interpreted anew.

and i wonder ......
mr shakespeare,
if you lived today.

what would be,
your world view?

happy little snapdragons
i love  the faces i see
standing in rows
like little solider boys
at play
all knowing the joke
but not sharing the secret

you smile and wag your dragon heads
but not your earthbound tails.

you are an endless delight to me...