one year on, one year on
and nothing differs,
yet nothing is the same

the sun come out today
as it will tomorrow
the grass grows,
the wind gusts and shakes the trees

all manner of things just carry on
all manner of things are blithley unaware


but not I,
I feel the difference, the sorrow
the spaces that can no longer
be filled...

I feel the void....a great gasping thing
that hides, waiting to catch you unawares...
and then takes the colours from the day
leaving behind a glassiene grey

one year on, one year on
and still, I turn to you to say...
but you are gone,
and now even your scent
has begun to fade away....

Redemption has no currency
in the holiday nation
young men thank the executors
for small kindness'
as the await the bullets flight

they do not deny the wrongness
of youthful days...
but have learnt, and changed their ways
they do not expect freedom
they understand the debt to be paid
but their unrequited wish is for more  days.

they now travel to their destiny's end
at a small island paradise and the
end of a guns barrel

redemption has no currency....
Redemption has no currency.

we speak,
of love and living
and the love,
that endures, past life's giving.

we talk about,
loss and the cost
of bringing one
soul bright and
shining to another.

souls that intertwine
and grow together
into loves pasionate,
compassionate vine
.
we talk of cost
when one of the hybrid withers and dies.

we talk of love and lies,
one tells to empathise.
we talk,
we listen,
we cry and cry again.

we talk of what happens,
at and after the end.
we spill words
and salted water.
but still,
we know,
little to nothing,
except...

death, grief and mourning are the final scenes,
in this play, without a script. this sad, sorry improv, before, the epilogue and the exit to the next stages learning.

but we continue to speak,
we do not let silence reign.

because...
the thought of silence,
the thought of not being able to speak,
to share,
is simply
too....
unbearable.

grumble, rumble, crack.
god in heaven, stretching his back


spit, splat, splosh
out goes god's bathwater
with a great heaving toss

wind blow, seas squall
rivers rise,  mud forms
oh gosh what a summer storm

lightning forks in the sky
jagged streaks,
thunder speaks,
from clouds of grey
glad i'm home,come what may
on this sultry stormy summers day

my thoughts, to prosaic
for poetry today.

to many minute,
details in play.

too many red *****,
to be kept in the air.

that i must speak,
my words plainly
without, any flair.

today i must,
just plod
ever forward
with out, any fuss

and if by dint
of hard work and despair
i make the end
of the job list,
i get myself there.

only then i suppose
i may sit on my laurels
and begin to compose

but until then,
shoulder to boulder
and grinder to nose.

my thoughts to far prosaic
for frivelous and
self satisfied
wordplay, today.
to this course, i have chosen
true, i must stay....

balanced upon
the rim
of this waking firmament
the scale
dropped from
the hide of the dragon
that circles
far above the sky
orange red
and glistening yellow
it burns with fervour
bright, bright argent light
that dispells the softness
of the lingering night...

and the dragon circles
so far away....unaware
to us he has gifted
another day....

there is a man of
gentle genteel nobility
who writes in quiet
anonimity
words that give the
soul wings to soar

an the is a rough and
ready workman
who writes his life
warts and all
with a pen that
drips literary gems

there are a couple of young guns
ready to change the world
one poem at a time
and one has nailed
the knack of the pithy rhyme
the other a thinker
gears grinding all the time

some, two or three, at life's end
or at least on that very  street
that share wisdom, the art of writing
both joys and defeats
old soldier's in the war of rhyme
defending the bastion
against the tyranny of time..

then there is the man,
such a clever soul
that deals almost soley
in wit and folderol
his pieces have
such a rollicking style
and always cause a chuckle
and sometimes leave you
rolling in aisles

one who delves into
the art of the rondelle
his mastery of the form
keeps me underaliterary spell

I know of a man
to whom sonnets are bread
to him, I take off my hat..
to write iambic pentameter
just does in  my head!

I find myself three shy of the dozen,
not of wont but becuase my head is full
of the many  worthy scribes that could fit the bill

each man who writes of love won or lost,
each man who puts pen to paper
and has paper tossed, toward the round file or floor
each man who writes with simple eloquence
of what is out side his front door,
or inside a turbulent heart,
who tries with words to explain
the workings of life..
or the tumult of his brain.

could take a place in this dozen.
has already become,
one of this glorious coven.
he, who takes letters,
syllables, jots and tittles
and creates swirls of alchemy,
magic to the souls of readers
and to the hearts, cartograhpy
maps of fairy dust and well could be

so to these nine, and three more again
to all men who have placed the sign
'writer within these brain walls'
on their heart and in their minds
I thank thee all

Your work has been, an inspiration to mine...

on our after afternoon
ramble
we marvel at the beauty
of the autumn trees

their leaves show such
glory in their dying days
before they fall
and wither away....

i could give you colours
ten shades each of green,golden, amber, russet, brown.
but my words would be
a paltry insult to the wonder
of the falling crown

soon the trees will be stark
and bare.....sculptures against the blue and pewter
sky..

but my good god, you taught
them well, the art of an awe inspiring goodbye.

the little black lizards
scurry away
to hide under rocks

bettles and bugs
squat inside their
carapaces
snails in their shells

the novice hunter
is out and about
large pawed
and excitable

he jumps and scitters
catching leaves
and grass heads

while the birds sit and watch

the grace of my heart
lies in the palms
of your hands
broken,scarred
and calloused
as they may be
it is in this thought
i know complete serenity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sins of omission,
are piled up
mountain high.
led to by a road,
cobbled with
pride and self gain.

and my unknowing
self plies this road,
daily, to place the
newest coins upon
the peak.

and my knowing self
sits, at it's base.
awaiting the avalanche
to fall.

this once was,
a happy place filled
with love and laughter

now a place,
of dust and tattered cobwebs hanging
where tired memories roam

in place of windows,
boards
in place of floor boards,
dirt

with  pools of slimed
water stagnant, standing
from the ceiling, opened
to the weather and time...

a broken falling down place
in middle of overgrown plot

rusting chains
of swaying swing,
jangle in blowing breeze
wooden splinters,
from old decrepit seat scattered on the ground

there were once,
children here
this was once,
a happy place,
a home

it was, was it not?

dew laden flowers
sing love to the morning  sun
blucat sits washing

the night, so still,
so close....
the surf holds it's breath.
clouds, hide the small crescent of the moon.....
and it is just, the blucat
and i still awake...
he, is curled, in upon himself and has only one eye,
half, open.....
one last chapter....and then a cup of peppermint tea.
and i shall be, done...
i am sure, the world can...
move, forward...
....to a new  dawn
while,  we here, slumber on....

here's the thing.....
no one has chained
you to the chair,
put your head
in a vice,
glued your eyes open,
turned on the computer
and is forcing you
to read this poem.....

or indeed any one elses
work either.....

if you don't like my work ....move on
if you find everybodies
work sub par.....
consider this revealation
it might be you....
not the forum.....
that has an issue...

words and the artistic placement of them.....
is or at least should be an activity open to all.
not just the elite....

gotta, no gonna be like
aesop and his fable
slap a moral
on the table
talk about
old slow poke
tortise on his hike
up against a speed freak
hare  

zikes

this is harder that
it seems
like interpereting dreams

better yet
start again
find a new refrain
gotta make an original
stain
gotta use my incredible brain
bring a new flavour
new story to savour
not some tired old jam
not for this poetry slam

so here goes
follow the flow
stay in the know

don't be a facsimile
a sad printed copy
take the high road
and write a new load
of originality

be one with totality
up at the mountains peak
where the angels speak
to those,
who have time
to listen.

one word, one world
glows and glistens
that word be, free
that word be LOVE
and love be liberty
to a soul broken

so the morale of
the day
freely give love away
as truth,
not a carnival token

the wise old woman
(yeah that be me)
now has spoken.

done now with
her word spin
done now

gotta go do
as she say
take some action

go give a nobody
a kind reaction
some hugular compaction

be a friend
to the friendless
the possiblities
endless
let charity
have a say
be brave this day

go on now
be on your way



-fin

i am sorry.

i am sorry....
that peoples, of a different colour.
came from wherever,
upon great hulking ships
with sails of white
and humanity degraded,
lost beyond heaven's sight. and misunderstood
your nations and land.
your dreaming time,
and native life.

i am sorry ...
this caused, so much loss, death and strife

i am sorry...
with their need and conquering ways they,
over much time,
generations in fact.
showed you,
the indigineous so little grace.

i am sorry...
for the generations of death.

i am sorry ...
for the generation of lost.

so sorry ...
to those, still paying the cost and looking for family and clan.

i am sorry ...
for the, communities lies,
indifference and fear.

i am sorry ...
that still you suffer and die. younger, than you should.

but now......
you and i,
must become... we
and change the world,
with hard work and harmony.
we must make it, better, safer, healthier....

more...
education,
less preaching.
more...
mental health checks
less blame.
healthier ways of living. giving.....
knowledge goes both ways. more...
hope in a bright, bright future.
more...
consultation, understanding of language and ways.
less...
empty rhetoric and laywer's plays.

i am sorry ....
for the past.

but...
ultimately and completely hopeful...
for the future.

wandering into the sun room
with a small question
I find my boys in repose

the acorn, lies across two beanbags
as though he had just
finished a marathon and collapsed
for want of air all legs and arms
with a fringe of needs to be cut soon hair
affordung his face privacy
he glows with youth and promise

my oak, rests sprawled in the old mamasan
hairy legs akimbo, one deck shoe on, one half off
he has sat on one hand, wedging in between cushions
the other dangles off the chair's rim, long fingers hanging
his shirt has ridden up to show tanned trim stomach
with a surfer's bleached snail trail leading to a darker hairline
his mouth slightly open as he dreams his bulldozer dreams
his hair long and now slightly thinning  curls in the humidity
he has not shaved for days and
his stubble a dusting of silver and gold
his lips are a tad dry, but still so inviting

I turn and leave them in repose
my question forgotten

as i drive to work today
i see the detruis of thebig rain
piled up on the kerbs

great heaps of garden trash
leaves and broken trees

and in front of me a council
team with a log chipper
pulls up at one of the larger heaps
and begins to decimate it
bough by bough, it rumbles
through the mechanism
that cuts it down to mulch
and throws it into
the back of a following trailer

whilst the practical part of
my soul applauds their productivity
the whimsical nature loving earthmother
cries..for the birds and possums that
just lost the family ranch

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
where 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

grasshopper poised
to make the leap
of it's life
but slips
cartwheels
and lands
on it's back
nature smiles
as theleaf dappled sun
strikes it's body
with gentle grace

imagine if you will...
as you sit and drink a brew
of leaf and water,
perhaps a sugar or two.

a book passed down,
from mother to daughter
much loved, much read
thoughts from inside
a poetic head...
of lover's crossed by stars.

and as you sit and drink and look,
imagine if you can,
the texture of the paper
the make a heavy gauge,
the ink so fine and black,
meandering in scripted lines
across the page.

and as you drink and look and read
of young love's joy and greed
and gentle lust and greenest jealousy
that gives cause to create trickery
only  to have true hearts  bleed
and lovers to pay the final cost
and pay the cost of love's mortality

and as you look and read and believe
the urgency, of the young lover's creed
your tears may fall and blend
with those that believed before
and if a tear you did not shed
then perhaps as others have
you will add a ring of tea.
as did they as they  partook
of a momentary escape
from the daily excess
of grind and toil and
travelled deep into the poets mind

and as you read and believe and dream
the pathways open and
the scenes are set
and you may find
the beginnings of book
to write, to beget,
or mayhap, just a fancy,
fledged and ready to take flight.
either way,
much was gained
from a cup of tea, brewed
and an old romantic book,
albeit tea-stained.

sloth is a sin they say,
but mayhap,
it's just busy... on a heavily
medicated day

the voice,
sultry, smooth...
like warm cream
sings, songs
of sad acceptence
as we drink,
our gaily coloured
cocktails
and talked
of small
and always,
insignificant things.
his breath warm,
insipid, sursurrating
upon my ear

the l.b.d.
still has power....
to attract.
the wearer
however
is far past ...
bored,
with the swirling,
synergies
of the academic pond.

......too many barracudas

and the voice
sings on...

what is this thing
between us
that changes grey
to light
that makes words simple
create the world aright
that whispers life
in the listening ear
that makes dreams
long forgot
dance delightfully near...

it smooths the world's
wrinkles and makes
the days, fly by....

what is this thing,
that burrows down, down
into my heart.
and seeds and grows
a garden...full of flowering
words...
and trees of  treacle toffee
and anything i please...

this thing.....this love
is my life longs day...
           the day that is always
                       blessed..

poems, poetry, words
are but mirages, today
wavering,
on a distant horizon
nebulous, yet so enticing

and i,
the thirsty traveller,
caught out,
hatless,
in the sandy dessert...

life in a pond
small magnitudes
at work

all those minute lives
living large and long
in an enlarged puddle.

oblivious,
to the immensity
of the beyond


inception to deriliction
and the decay that
nourishes after
the whole cycle
in the same watery place

i so think that there is
something, quiet wonderful
in that...

o **** you
little coffee cup
why did you
have to go
and commit suicide
your life
was so full
you had it all
rich
sweet
well loved
called upon as
friend & confidante regularly
and now
having leapt to
your demise
you are just
a sticky mess
on my slate floor
i weep for you

back to ink
and paper
told you
i was obsessed

brain to ink
ink to paper
paper to eyes
eyes to soul
soul to sky
sky to rain
rain to tree
tree to mill
mill to paper
paper to poet
poet to brain
brain to ink
ink to paper

she stands out,
in the crowd.
it is not.
that she is,
taller or shorter,
or indeed,
particularly beautiful.

it is her,  "joy de vivre"
that, carefree love,
of life,
that draws your..
eye and heart.

she is,
youth and laughter,
a memory,
of kinder days
those that wear,
a sparkle and  smile ensemble.

she is,
the girl
everyone befriends.
she is,
the girl that is
dilligent
and always ends,
each day with
a thankful sigh.

she is,
grace, and  life's
dance personified.

she is,
one of many students,
but by god,
she is sublime,
as an actress.
as a student,
a bit flighty.
her grades,
a bit hazy.
but, she smiles
and the boys,
just swoon
and the girls,
well some
of them, swoon too,
the others, just follow
in her wake.

she is,
seemingly oblivious,
to this power,
and thus it grows,
mysteriously.
but her joy,
is pure
and unbroken.
so, like moths,
to the flame,
they gather about her.

the mist of my voice
lays gently on the cold window
the sun is yet to shine
as i leave my comfort behind
still warm and fetal beneath
duck down doona's

i tell the house goodbye
and that i will return, anon.
and step forth into the frozen dew
sparkling on the winter faded lawn

once in the car, I sigh with deep breath
this is something that needs be done
but my heart falters at leaving the nest

for it is away i must go, to find some rest
it is to leave in order to stay, to be my my best
each year i take this small season of me
each year i go... go be alone in order to hone
my mind and shed dark blue barnacles
so upon my return my boat runs smooth
through river and wave, calm and typhoon

i retreat from this world and this world from me
i go find a place full of water and tree
and there i sit and sleep and walk,
very little do I talk, i do not perform
or  teach, i do not quest or overreach

i am but pebble in a river,
the water, washes and reforms me
i am but budding leaf, on tree
the sun energises me

I am snail, content,
within my fragile shell

I am quiescent, within my soul

forming the letters
of the words
that describe
my love
for you
is beyond
my mental
mettle tonight
so i lean over
and kiss your
sleeping brow
and  leave love
and salt tears
on your warm skin

there is a beggar,
in my town.
he is the most,
generous man around.
with soft harmonic blues,
and gentle souful smile,
he gives, away, for free.
cups of apathy,
and scraps of disinterest,
to all who just, pass him by...

would that i be,
lost for an eternity.
in the sparkle
of your eyes.

would that you be,
found for an eternity.
in the upward turn
of my lips.

would, that we be,
after said eternity.
still enrapt,
in the love
of one,
for another.

it was, just one step.
not looking the right way,
at the right time.

a screaming hissing dragon
sound...
and then kaput!
i was down among the dead.

sitting in a room,
walls bloodred,
and decorated, tickertape style,
with all the things,
i'd left unsaid.

there was one window,
through which i saw...
what my life could have been.
if not, for an, unlucky draw.

there was no door.
and the floor was tiled,
in regrets and tears.
the light, filtered through,
a crystal chandelier,
of my fears.

i no longer sleep or wake.
but yet, am suspended
in this nightmare state.

and every afternoon,
at, four seventy five
the red eyed god.
checks that i breathe.

and always, he says
just before he leaves.

if you, had looked both
ways,
this would not have
happened,
you would have seen the bus, that left you, squished and flattened

and that,
is when it registers,
once more....
this is hell.... i am dead
and here forever....

and the red eyed god,
laughs and says,

are n't you clever!!!

he then leaves.

and  i remain,
wishing i could,
replay that moment
again
when i step down,
off the curb
in front of a bus.
going to some
unknown suburb.

in the dim reaches
of the clouded night

at the time when the
old grandfather clock
has reached it's peak
and begins the downhill
run into another day

i sit in the summer heat
still, stullifying and steaming
with a bottle of *****
straight from the freezer

in the gloom i read the memories of the kitchen
table scuffs and scars
and pour a glass of
clear *****.....

take  a sip....and let
the russian coldness
flirt with my tongue
dance with my throat
and bellyflop...
                     into my stomach

out to see lightning strikes
a jagged rip in the sky
and i turn...and see
the two cats....
watching me ....drinking
*****....at one am...

there is lead in the sky
and the lead, spits and cries
and the birds don't fly.
they huddle wet,
on branches, of dripping trees.

there are tears, pooling
on the ground.
puddling, muddling,
flowing down,
to the craggy, creviced
incurvate creek,
which is growing, swelling
and about to breach,
boggy, bullrushed borders.

the water dragons, are fleeing upwards,
to sit with the birds,
in among the trees.

the frogs they are singing hymn to the great watergod...
as the leap and dance along....
to the rythmnic revival song of the pattering, puddling rain.....
time of plenty hath come again.
          come.....again.

sing to me songs full of joy
songs that flood the dark
corners and crevices of my soul
with sunshine buttery and golden

sing to me of love requieted
of quests completed  with heros
homecoming to hearth and home
of reunions joyful and jovial

sing me silly songs,
full of nonsense riffs
songs that make my belly ache
from laughter, sing to make me smile
not only now, but for years to come
when i fondly remember that sillly song

sing to me, all the good and bright things
you can possibly think of, sing long
and sing loud, make the melodies dance
the boogaloo, the charleston and jive

drown out this sadness, drown out this anger
sing to me hope, sing to me love
sing me a future, full of joy
sing, sing,sing,sing,sing

everafter
           they lived
                       happily

why,
because, they took the
time, to beat the wolf back
from the front door.

because, they caught the sky, as it fell down on them.

because, they sold the magic beans on to some rube from another town.

because, they decided red was just not their colour.

because, they kissed enough frogs.

because, their knight did not
get lost in the forrest.

because, they knew the words to bippety-boppety-boo.

because they liked miners.

because they did not develop
a sweet tooth.

because.......
            
there was,
                a time,
                      once, they
       wished..... upon.. a    
                
               ...moon...

into the deepening night
I gaze

my eyes bright and searching
for you

as the moon rises I sigh
and turn away

one more night.....
apart

one more day's waiting
til my heart returns


into the night I gaze