my voice is
just dust upon the floor
swept into piles under the carpet

my art, the scribblings
of a child, with no sense
of line or colour
haphazard in it's beauty

my words, dry leaves
set to dance upon  
the winter winds
without direction or
consequence

my mind, a small seed
awaiting the glorious spring  rains
til then,  just a shell in which
my muse baby...
slumbers

the candle flame flickers
as the zephyr breeze blows
across our sunwarmed skin

we hold hands like teenagers of old
and you nuzzle gently at my shoulder

the stars brighten, as the sky darkens
from chambray to indigo
and the moon shones with mottled ivory glow

the frogs sing love songs and the lonely boobook calls
the night settles in as we make our way indoors
the candle flame splutters dies and leaves behind
a trail of smoke, taken away by the zephyr breeze
and the boobook calls again....mopoke....mopoke

dog's worn out
so are we
social buttrfly
and social bee
not our schedule,
not our cup of tea
but the golden boygod
has now discovered
the mystery of girl meets
boy ...and then runs away
only to dart back ..."wanna play"

new year new school...needs
new mates..so we opened up
the gates ...
the tuxedo rex
chose discretion, the pup
absolute valour, followed
by adoration of the...***
these little humans will
play with me,  a lot, kind....
whoopee!!!

we made nice with new faces
some wanted to play,
we be the Jones'es races
some played aloof and standoffish
those with aspiring social graces
a few came in all bluster and huff
but with first words called their own bluff
then there were those comfortable
in their skins, those who chatted
and engaged, they were not here to win,
just to meet and greet begin to know
the parent of those with whom,
their kids will grow
those who's kids come first,
those kids all running ragtag
fit to burst with energy and joy
hopefully they are the ones
that the golden god boy
chooses to team up with
for this stage of the game


but when the dust settles
and he makes his way
we will be social with who ever
cause at the end of the day
we have our friends  
made on many such days
our team is big...
if some what greyer
than when we started
his is newer, brighter
and he gets to choose
win or lose..
part of the learning

as for today, all went well
no major meltdowns
no social  hell
just a family  worn down
and tired excepting the cat
who is now inspired
the anti social thing:
to sing  to us the
"song of his people"
in an earsplitting key
and will only stop
for a sardine...or three

i would, if i could write.
this in the layers of your skin
a tattoo  of my love....

you are my songline
every note, beat and pause
melody and harmony
you make my soul sing
and smile.
lover of my life
still nine years past
one look undoes me
one look and i am on
my knees
one word and i am begging
you....please
mother of my child
what an amazing thing we
made!
you think yourself fragile
but you are strong
you keep going, keep smiling
keep loving.

you are just so *******
gorgeous, all those curves
and curls, with eyes of sea blue ever changing

this year has been hard,
but we struggled through
you think i am your rock
or oak tree..
but honey it is all you.
you tie us alltoghether
with cords of sweet love
and i just need you to know
i see what you do
and i love you so very much
and everyday i hunger for
you...
have a great day..

the whales
have started to come
gliding past with a wave
or tail breach.
occasionally they breach
thier entire bodies in the air
even if only for a moment

we are blasè about it
joking about the tourist boats
that race to be near the tails and fins
but really when the season is running
on a good day you can see three or more
so many more than when I first came here
then I kept a log of fins tails and breachings
now it is like when you see your neighbor
mowing the lawn you smile to acknowledge it
but still continue on with your day

and on some level I think the whale prefer that
cause when you think about it, would you want
some group of gawkers chasing you down
when you went up the coast for a romantic holiday

despair  and hope
both seeded within us
each and everyone
as is love and hate
anger too

they are there...
we would be incomplete
without them

so it becomes
a matter of  choice

which seeds
do we nuture
which saplings
do we prune

what do we
allow to flower
and fruit

you are the gardener
you get to choose...

but as you are learning
every choice has consequence
both for you and others...

i bit my cheek
and then the
blood,
salted
the caramel
i was chewing.

it is these
small things,
a poet notices....
and wishes,
to make memorable.

sometimes words spoken or written
are woefully inadequate
they clutter up and make
the emotional space claustrophobic

silence can give just as much comfort

sometimes even more

slipping
slowly
under
the
saltwater,
the
coolness
so  
sensual,
like
softest
silk
against
my
skin.

sloughing
off
sweat
and
days
disasters
I
sink
further
down
to
rest
on
sand,
sifting
it
through
my
fingers

rising
only
to
take
simple
breathes
I  
allow
myself
to
silently
decompress
and
my
soul
simply
sighs

We stood
on the driveway today
at dawn
Candles in hand,
as the boy  down the road
played The Last Post,
imperfectly but with
such a beautiful heart

We stood
on the driveway today
With rosemary
for remembrance
and red poppies too
Pinned to our chest.
as birds flew over head

We stood and  remembered
the sacrifice and courage
We stood and remembered
those who did not return
those who did but left
brothers and mates behind
Those who fell,
those who returned injured
In body or mind.

The dawns gentle light
watching over us all
as we looked to
the left and the right
to see neighbors all
Standing  in their driveways
Gifting our diggers
the respect they are due
for the service they gave
to the countries they love

We stood and gave thanks
as the last trumpet note died
and the kookaburras  called
Australia the nation stood tall

the page remains unturned
tho the bottom corner
has been worried into a soft dog ear

it is not that the words are boring
the plot mundane, or the prose stilted
it is I who cannot read the black ink
the same words repeating in my mind

as i stare out into the garden
my ability to read is well below par
as i day dream the hours away

content to be a  warm, squishy cushion
to the tuxedo rex cat,
as he dreams panther dreams
and purrs like a Massey Ferguson

outside the window, in the hazy warmth
a dragonfly darts about the garden,
before settling with dainty precision
upon the craggy green mossed rock
at the pond's edge, a pause, a blink,
then the insect alights again

i too should be up and about....
but i am anchored by lassitude
and  three and a half kilos
of contented cat....
whose daydreams  are not
to be disturbed....

through the keyhole of your heart
i see the journey you have made
through deserts dry
and mountains ranges
you have travelled,
swimming in blue sea's
and muddy swollen rivers,
sleeping on beahces of sand
so golden it gleams, golden
in the early morning sun

you have laughed in the wilderness,
when there was no one to hear
cried alone and bereft
in cities so crowded, that no one heard
you have walked under
every phase of the  silent, lonely moon
and howled at the world,
your tears have watered
every continent
and your smile brought
warmth to many a cold fire place.

You have bartered,
your money, your life , your soul
and then bought them back for pennies, shekels and zots
only to give them away
to the next traveller
with a mendicant tale....

And you are home....in order to lick your wounds
in order to come to terms with those decisions
that have forshortend your allotted span
and we provide hospice and love and more
for you are our racounter,
our bard our sight
into the faraway,
the unthinkable...
the other side
you are the brave and reckless self,
we wished, we all wanted to be..

so welcome home, friend, welcome
pull up a stool and tell us a tale

as we sit in the shadows and cry at your fate

here's a thought...
most of you,
would not send
a child out into the world
without a name....
but you will a poem.

                          *is not a poem,
                      merely, the child
                          of your heart's  
                             speakings,...

Each Day
a marathon
Unto itself

feet slap
the pavement
as we walk
to the left
the sea
breaks
onto
golden sand
to our right
a group of
yummy mummies
and their
trendsetting
offspring
play

we walk briskly
with purpose
walking off
indulgences
creating
healthier
versions
of our
built
for comfort
bodies

The sun is warm
on our backs
as we chat
through our days
one awaits
her first grandchild
another speaks
of the upcoming trip
myself and one other
speak of parents in care
we all talk about our boys
both big and small

we are friends
gathered over the years
now made a twice
a week exercise group
we are the framework
of support that helps
us all stay strong
some strands slender thin
some shiiping cable thick
intertwine and hold us together

feet slap the pavement
as we move together
lioness' on the plains
proud among the
zebras and gazelles

golden crumpets
toasting under the grill
butter and amber applebox honey
waiting to be spread  and fill
those litle wells of battered goodness

warm milk and cocoa, mingling in the cup
before dancing around for a minute
in the microwave....then tap dancing
with tantalizing richness on the tongue

this is midnight snackery at it's finest
all  sweet and decadent, touched by
whimsy and eaten in the silver moonlight

then it's back to bed with honey still
on lips.....making them sweet and smackery

Pobblebonk frog  calls
In desperate disco rhythm.
It's Fandango time.

sorrow sings silent songs
in my heart, in my heart
while my face smiles
and responds to you

i dance the line of the shadow
on toes tipped in light
this is my life

balancing the gray with the white
my circus has monkeys
now quieting sleeping
in their cage

i have learnt to be quiet
so as not to endanger
their rage

i see the sun and feel it's warmth
i look to the light, i fight, i fight
somedays, just by standing still
i fight....

the music score is changing
slow but sure, there is joy
in my encore....

I would tell you...
everything is fine,
you would believe me

I would tell you happiness is mine
and you would smile and believe me

I would spin tales of love and laughter
I would show photos of us all together
You would look and laugh and say
you are so lucky...believing me

I would lie baldfaced and fingers crossed
I would make sure you believed me
Then I could for a time, believe myself

You would ask to got to coffee,
to sit awhile and catch up

That is why I no longer call, my friend
I am not that good a liar
But you would belive me....
                                For a long time I believed myself.......

it is the frayed string
of hope
that sustains a shattered
mind
hope floats,

a little walnut boat
set upon the darkest  of seas

hope sees the dawn in the
deepest part of the night

hope sustains
hope maintains
hope remains
hope endures

that ember of grace, that ember of grace
endures, ever-ready to be coaxed into a flame

sometimes hidden deep within
but never absent, never absent
always wanting, wishing to be found

awaiting planting in fertile soil
taking nutrients in growing,
stabilizing  fragile ground

hope is life
life is hope

hope is knowing both flower and ****,
have purpose, that of both we need
flower for joy,
**** for silent comparision

hope loves both,  gritty or beautiful  
have place within a heart willing to grow
for as it has been said before:
by poets far better than me.

you do not see the dawn,
with out the darkness
of the night...

small thing you are
yet you bring light
to the room

take age from old faces
bring back years and memories
left behind in days long past

small bundle of love
accepting all, no matter
the condition, full of joy
wonder and an insaitable curiousity

it is a balm to the tired,
to the saddened, to see
the simplicity of the exchange
love for love, even if only a brief fling

i thank you and yours, for this day
this hour of escape, you truly are
a blessing to behold....

at one time, for a time,
you were my greatest love
at one time, for a time,
i could not have hated you more
at one time, for a time,
i could not live without you
at one time for a time,
i wished you dead

and now I see you in the park and feel nothing
it is like passing a stranger, albeit with a haunting face
we see each other, look away and then come together
we speak with awkard grace, making the smallest of talk
before hastening away, knowing that bridge
was long made ashes and we were calling across the abyss

at one time, for a time, our hearts beat as one,
synchronous and now our tempos are so different,
the past only an offbeat echo.....heard faintly on the wind
i wish you well my erstwhile friend....my forgotton lover

a sunday afternoon
in the lingering indian summer
provides paradoxes
my husband has sat down
in the inflatable pool with icecream
to watch a game of rugby league,

the winter blankets wave gaily
out on the clothesline, dry less
than an hour after having been hung

my boy watches black ants feast
on spilt hot chocolate and marshmallows
on the too hot to stand cement path

and the tuxedo cat lays in the shallows
of the pond, fishing tadpoles unsuccsessfully

soft the raindrops on my face
gentle the breeze at my back
warm the sand between my toes

soft the words you speak
gentle your lips upon my neck
warm your body next to mine


soft the sound of you sleeping
gentle my fingers upon your cheek
warm the tears that fall  on the sheets

soft the closing of the door
gentle the footseps as i leave
warm the regret that burdens my soul

warm the first steps to hell
gentle the push off the cliff
soft the mud in the gutter

must be time
to write again,
my soul itches
to feel pen,
imprint paper
in a way meaningful

must be time to write again
my word pile is building
out the back, needs a good cleanse
and the I may well find a gem
lying there waiting to be used
some word; like allocentric,
being the opposite of egocentric,
meaning looking to support
and grow others before yourself

must be time to write again
to put thoughts down
in a pattern that may
constitute rhyme
that may take the reader
to another place or time
that may even ellicit a tear
or a smile, maybe even
make someone's bad day
better for a while

must be time to write again
if only I could order my thoughts
that tearaway from me and hide
in the deep dark woods,
must be time to corall them,
bring them to heel
must be time to write again
for to write, for me... is to feel

was a time when
hills were mountains
rivers small trickling streams
towering trees, dormant seeds

was a time when
skies were clear of smoke
seas plentiful of whales and fish
the planets skin unmarked by greed

was a time when
life was hard but some how simpler
when you knew your neighbor, perhaps
even the whole block or town
when kids played til twilight and came
home to doors unlocked and books to read

when the most you borrowed with out great thought
was a cup of sugar or the neighbors saw
was a time, when courtesy was a given
and kindness was common

was a time....there was a time....almost a lifetime ago

green tips
are showing
all over the garden

buding lime on
stick bare branches

muscling their way
up through
red chocolate soil

peeking out
of rocky crevices

all seeking
light and warmth

chlorophyll seeking argent
hope seeking fulfillment
winter aceding to spring

How to age....

Make a mound of small unexplained aches, with some pains added , for better texture.

Into which you add a wine bottle's worth of memories, be they joyful or not

Add a few cups of reluctance, as many as you can find

A smattering of grace

Defiance to taste...

Liberally add all those confused thoughts

and smidgen or two of:

"When I was young"

Stir with mild anger at what the world is becoming

Set aside to rise....
whilst you go into the other room,
to forget, what you went the for.

Come back and sit a spell, for no particular reason.

Pour mix into a long rectangular box,
one with two slightly clipped corners works best.

Sprinkle the top with copious amounts of bran, but no sugar.

Place into oven,whilst complaining of creaky back or knees, your choice

Cook til well and truly done...so that when poked a snore or snot is produced

Remove from oven,
Do not allow cool, you no longer have time for all that folderol

Ice with tears for those departed, and regret of things left undone ..

Enjoy the fruit of you labour as the sun sets

Drowning the taste of sawdust with a good whiskey...
...and your prescribed
cocktail of tablets...

words,
do not
have to be
spoken in
a different dialect,  
to be a
foreign language,
to some one's heart.

i still see you
sitting in the sun
holding a pale ale
up in salutation
steel grey hair
flowing
down your back
legs crossed at knee
ankle jigging
up and down
to the beat of
the music
in your head
dressed in "blacks"
with a flash of colour
this time pale lemon
in your hand
a dhurrie, self rolled,
thin and a little bent
smoking gently, the whisp
of it curling in the breeze
today your face is thoughtful
caught up in a memory that brings
the corners of  mouth up
into a wry smile.
i still see you
in the periphery
of my mind
yet when i turn
you are gone..
a memory
playing tag
with my heart

oh, and the bitterness
taints my toungue
and blurs my eyes

all i see, all i see
is happiness
but
not for me, not for me

and the dark inches
ever closer,  
a low growling ravenous
thing

wanting me, needing me
to sucumb, to sucumb

where has my sunshine gone.
in this bleak, drear season.
it is gone, it is gone.

and i am a lonely figure
in a crowded place
and i am desperation
running a losing race
and i am weary to the core
bruised abraided red raw.

but still i stand,
what else can one do
it is after all,
what life demands.

not to sure if the
stillness and calm
found within me today
is,
just down to the bone
weariness
or,
something a tad more
zen...
if i get a chance
i will close my eyes
and find out...

he stood leaning against the frame
neither in or out but on the threshold
partly in shadow, partly in relief
like a masters painting
all angles and shade

my words are like ants
that an ant bully is playing with
today they wander aimlessly
trying to find the thread of sense
the trail to lead them home

we went, that day
to your house,
with food and drink
gifts wrapped in bright paper
it was a day of celebration
all day we would remind you
that fifty was just a number

we spent, that day
gathered together on
couches and armchairs
watching the world change
as planes became weapons
and buildings became like trees
falling in a forest, peoplee became
ghost and ether on the winds

we wept, that day
for those lost
on the other side
of the world
we wept, that day
for those left behind
we wept, we weep still
when we think of the atrocities
that mankind can do in the name of gods

we left, that day
with food uneaten
presents still wrapped
heartsore and sorry
images of horror imprinted
praying for succour

we send our thoughts
out each year to those
who have suffered
to those whose family
names are remembered
with bell chimes and prayers

it was,  meant to be such a wonderful day
when we went that day to celebrate your fifty years

the lightning tonight, when it came
was hidden behind the clouds
like old fashioned flashbulbs
those boxy ones, we used to steal
and setoff under the bedsheets

the rain came and went
in a windblown front
pasing through without
taking the heat from the ground
just making the evening more humid

the thunder lived up to expectations
loud and growling at the world
but brief like a dog called to heel

now it has passed out to sea
and the water drips from the leaves
and the humidity continues to rise

I write to you in my mind
on beautiful crisp white parchment

I write sacred things
disguised as daily minutiae
things of magnitude only
because of mundanity

small glimpses of the vast empty
hidden in the overgrown wastelands
milestone markers to nowhere
to a land inhabited by ephemera
daliesque in it's discrepancies
in relation to the current realities

i write mile after mile of dragging letters
a breadcrumb trail eaten by carrion birds
that grow fat on both joy and misery

i am like a plough horse, in a field
overused and crumbling,  but still
i work the rows, for no one has
released me from the harness

my words are mud, on crispest snow
turned to water and frozen to rime

my words are finest gibberish

bedlamese, sublime,

vapour in a hurricane

a cry in a bottle

the salt in a tear

my words....are the ellipses
of my understanding of your life.

I write to you in my mind
and post the letters to you memory.

the first spring flower
brings you to mind sisterkin
hands deep in the earth

growing things your bliss
as i watched tea cup in hand
we solved all problems

there in that garden
while the fat persian cat  stood
and watched, purring

smallish birds chatter
scolding the weak winter sun
yet  glad to  see it

little cat sitting
dreaming of a bird breakfast
thwarted by windows

shaft of light, dappled
makes devious, angelic
little cat now sleeps

breakfast now broken
daily rush well underway
no cat naps for me

new faces
eager to learn
wanting to speak
not sure, too sure
waiting for brilliance
to fall upon them like rain
holding the centre of the space
yet small within in it

older faces
casual in welcome
relaxed in attitude
creating a sense of being
larger than they once were
filling the space with  synergies

they all come in  and mingle
the very fresh,
those who are middling
and those who are beginning  
the downhill trek to the end
this is the conduit,
this dark room
that seems dingy
and broken in the day
but at night
when the grid is lit
and the mummers come to play
it is the grotto fantastic,  
filled with other beings
opposite selfs
with faces painted
and multitudinal voices
making all from naught

and I am
the gatekeeper,
paid in coins of laughter
and notes of tragedy
opening vistas
and changing lines...

all the faces
have the one thing
in common
an earnest desire
to stand up and
take the stage

so throw open the gates
let them enter, let them play

words sing a song
a sonnet in my brain
yet my pentameter
is not iambic
more of a wild refrain

as they tumble jumble
bump and grind
it is difficult to
give them their
proper place in line

they all knock and clamor
to be the first in line
ain't but  one of them
that wish to be left behind

so no precise flow, no couplets
not a lot rhyme....even less rhythm
in my writ.....this time

sometimes i can plant
my words in neat little rows
water and **** them til poetry grows
sometimes i put a big seed of thought
suspended over a water glass and
wait til it grows roots
in it's search for love
and meaning

sometimes i just scatter
thoughts to the wind
leave them lie where they fall
and go off and begin other tasks
forgetting  those seeds
til come one day, when
i take a wrong turn
and walk that way
to find a field of riotous colour,
flowers upon flowers
no need for the distinction
of pretty over ****

today i write a torrent a river
that floods with flotsom, jetsom
and other.....
and as these words rush
to the sea, they cry
glory allelui....
i am free....i am free

listened to leonard cohen
last last night as he sang
"always, hallelujha, anthem,
in my secret life"...
and so much more in my
ear....

now, as i sit at my desk,
finely filmed in dust.
the memory, brings
a tear to my eye.

as i watch the sparrow,
alight from it's nest
and take to,
the clear blue sky.
just outside my window...

and i sit and try,
to make sense
of  month old notes,
scrawled to myself....

*"i do what i have to do..."

standing on the back deck
seeking a cool breeze
feeling the grain
of the old wood
beneath my feet
eyes meandering
from star to star
hearing the night birds sing
and the fish move in the pond
revelling in the serenity
still waitin on the breeze
I sip my  cold water

it is the sussuration of the passion
that is etched between
the lines of your forehead
that causes my heart to beat
with quiet fervor
as i await your next move

age screams
not so silently
back, carrying
burdens
have caused
muscle to seize

every step
measured
every movement
silent movie slow

inflamed muscles
hiss and growl
as I inch to and fro

yearn,
to be
horizontal,
alone
to
realign
but
no
off to
work
I go
......
heat pack
my solace
time my foe

Small cat sleeps
Lips twitch and paws run
As he dreams  lion and tiger dreams
Whilst curled into the cutest little ball of fluff in the neighborhood.

today i am
a teacup in a tempest
fragile against the slightest wind
fine china, in a world of sticks and stones
brimming over with tears, sat far to long
dark and bitter with tanin, sour with lemon
just waiting to be drained, in one long gulp
so someone may read the dregs of me