weather: wild and brooding,
seas, roaring and bruising
the coast.
rain, bucketing down and flash flooding, about.
trees, going side ways,
three doors down, red gum
uprooted, narrowly missed the house, garden shed obliterated.

it appears that winter has
saved it's fury for it's last gasp, this year....

time to get the wellies on...

it appears as though
there was a coup,
in kookaburra land,
this morning.

much fuss,
and cacophony.
as the brown and blue kingfisher clan, reassembled,
their royal court.

the big old king,
uncurled his talons,
unfurled his wings,
gave one last,
manical chuckle....
and fell from his perch.

to lie still,
upon the dusty,
brown earth.

shocked, silence for some seconds, and then...
the eucalypts erupted into, (what would appear to the outsider);
cold calculating mirth.

as the young jacko princes, all began the joking joust
for the top place berth.

in a melee of swooping, chuckling grace,
a contest no less,
set to test....
mettle, worth and cackle call.
each young bird,
takes to the wing and flies into the maddening...and how close,
         how loud,
                  how startling,
         they can be.
            is made known,      
by those,
whose years,    
            have flown.

when all, is said and done. tourney overflown,
feathers are preened.
then the winner
is presented,
with opportunity, bold....
to nest the queen.
as to the rest,
they take their place,
in the chaotic, cackling, cacophonous,
kookabuurra clan nests.
to bide their time,
until, the next coup,
                        comes calling...

between us
our breath mists
as we pursue passion
this  night of zero  degrees
our ardour is  summers hottest day
as the sweat cools upon  bared *******
we reach an apex our very own everest
and then become aware of the chill in the air

tiger, he was,
could not honestly,
tell you the breed...
he was a mispent afternoon's produce....
but by the stock of his body
and the smile on his face
some one's prize corgi,
was now in disgrace...

allways a smile and a little
yip-yap...
he was my childhood,
of running and jumping,
just because, we could.
the picking of blackberries,
the finding of mushrooms,
wandering along creeks
and afternoon naps,
with his soft furriness,
under my palm....

mottled through, ginger
and blue,
with an under-carriage,
supposedly white,
but more often muddy or dustily brown....

a co-conspirator of the highest degree....
would  sit under the table
and eat pumpkin for me.
but not the beans....
they made him smell...

his tongue so long and pink,
his ears ***** and mobile, tail was docked,
but his *** it did wag,
with such a unique style.

he was my childhood,
but then,
he was gone...
off to chase rabbits up
on the farm...

good boy tiger....good boy
you where my protector
with you i came to no harm...

soft soft softly
he creeps about
the edges of the room

finding his way....
with the precision
of a Noh dancer...

as the blucat watches
with gestapo stare...
the new kitten...
black and white
tuxedo...not quite right
all wrinkles and fuzz
and fffft, ffft fights

the blue cat...
old cantankerous king
looks at this scrap
of a thing...
growls, deep
from his belly rotound
turns his back...
in overstated disgust....

that wrinkly thing,
is not one of us!!!.....

later in the day...
i pass by the same way
to find blucat and tuxedo boy, wrapped up asleep
in sombulant joy...

my husband, my lover
the man i hold dear...
you know the one
the sports zombie
who dress's so fine.

sauntered out to the back
deck and asked
"beer or wine"
as he is the chef of,
this evenings decline.

now, here is the conundrum
that often,plagues my mind.
wine, tonight, is not really, my palates delight
but beer, tho tasty and thirst quenching,
expands my quarters hind
and leads to wrenching and
writhing in midweek training or at least coniving
of how to be released from
exercise captivity

which way to go,
a cheeky pinot griggio
or a robust boutique beer.
which way, crisp chardonay
or mango ,belgium wheat,
micro-brewed  pilsner.

oh, for the days
of the cask or the
slab of vic bitter.
when the biggest
problem was how
to drink fast enough,
to gather a blast.

the man mountain,
has become impatient.

....now i need to
make a decision.

so,with a women's precision,
i state with a smile,
wide and then wider.
"i'll have one of those
apple-pear ciders"

feelin lazy today,
so you get what you get,
turn the page
move on
learn from your mistakes 
be brave face your fears
footloose and fancy-free
don't run with scissors 
smile
stay a while 
catch more flies with honey 
wrong way turn back 
a stitch in time saves nine 
when i was your age 
no rhyme or reason to it 
high road or low road 
polly want a ******* 
click, click, boom
first past the post 
i 'm just a smiling sunbeam 
barrel of monkeys 
to thine ownself be
thank you what doesn't **** you 
hand in the cookie jar 
never seen the like 
flat out like a lizard drinking 
not happy jan! 
take a bex and have a good lie down
pull your socks up!
sunshine and daffodils
slip, slop, slap, put on a hat 
life passes by in the blink of an eye
stand up straight
chip on your shoulder
take note 
laughter the best medicine 
*** 
brainfreeze 
kindness warms the cockles of my heart 
if you can't be nice 
you did not just say that 
umm, ahh, now you in trouble 
quiet now i am watching tv 
do not cry 
don't spray it, say it 
do not tell mum 
it was'nt me 
hava mint,
please lol
go to your room 
do not pass go 
do not collect one hundred $$ 
hello 
all the world's a stage... merely players 
wanna play
go away busy 
want to come over 
can i kiss you 
push 
it's a boy 
what a whopper 
please i've seen better 
do i know you 
the dog ate my homework 
who now 
why am i here
put your clothes on 
what goes up must come down
 life goes on 
is my *** big in this 
stop the merry-go-round,
i want to get off 
whatever
i need a dollar 
tea anyone 
she had a goodlife 
sorry
how much 
every things coming up roses 
what pink pigs flying overhead 
snap, crackle, n'pop 
one sugar or two 
in case i don't see you 
good morning 
good evening and good night
rinse, repeat. set
now see here 
ttyl 
out
take a bow you've earned it

it's the middle of
the afternoon
on one of those warm
winter days,
that hold the promise
of summer inthe brightness
of the sun..

and we three are at the park
having swung to the sky
on the swings, gone up and slid down the slippery dip
a dozen times
and made ourselves dizzy
on the merrygoround
we now sit quietly, watching
pelicans and ducks
icecream, soft serves melt
in hands and on toungue.

when we are down here
we will go down to the jetty
and throw our bread upon
the water for ducks and pelicans to squabble over

and then home to play
in the garden....
before dinner.......
there is a simplicity
to this.....yet it deserves
to be written... for it is too beautiful an afternoon
to be forgotten

unleash the mind
from the worn workaday bind
jump the groove
leave inhabition behind

for a moment, an hour , a year
let it all unwind
unravel and spool
to lie limpid on the sand
let the physche sojourn
let it be
leave the worry, the regret
and fly the cosmos
or sail the carribean
or better yet
do naught  
but unbind the bound
unbide the  biden
let loose the liger
and find
sweet freedom
if only to ask directions
to the  nearest  
imagine-that-atorium.

if it were to be,
my last day on earth.

i would wish it to be like
this....
gray flannel clouds,
set against a blue,blue sky.

puddles, glassiene,
on the ground
and water dripping,
an unsteady rhythm,
from leaf to leaf,
to ground...

there is a...
soft edged feel
to the world,
newly cleaned,
full of promise and hope
and the scent of frangipani.

if it were my time,  
i would love to leave
on a promise,
of hope and frangipani...
wouldn't you?

i have found a patch
of quietude in my busy
day and spend it outdoors.

under a dovegrey, marshmallowed sky
and with the gossip of
two brown house sparrow
wifes.

i take my loafers off
and share the fragent warmth of the earth
with the colony of oiled, black skinks
and the shy, baby
blue tongue.

and i  sit on a log...
and breathe..
long and deep...
restrorative sighing.

then appearing  above us all, a kite or eagle, rides the wind in circles....perhaps...
the baby blue tongue,
is right to be shy...

in the distance
the kookaburra chuckles
and the lorikeets squabble
and people murmur and shout.

too soon,
my respite is over.
then it is shoes on,
and back to the computer screen and desk....

but at least i had a few moment's grace...

sitting in the sun,
with double-shot latte,
cooling in my hand.

i watch, a gangling youth, barely yet, a man.
fold his heart,
into a paperboat
and set it sail,
on the sea of  love.

destined for a young
maiden's land.....

he sails forth,
on the winds of hope
and mooning, soulful  looks.

she oblivious,
to his approach.
engrossed, in the book
at hand....

will they meet...
their hearts entwine,
will fates allow...
this sea of love is large...
will they love...
this, i will not, ever know.
...they, are not students of mine..

just two,
of  several thousand,
...that sit in the sun and dream...

but that moment,
when he...launched
his ship of hope
and lust...of the wanting,
youthful kind...
....o, my lord... that look....
love caught...in the,
totality, of it's prime.

I enter the small town coffee shop
desperate for caffiene
                           and a moment's respite

and I find it is to another era
I have come, hot and flustered

I look at the menu,
scratched in chalk on dusty board.
No artistic rendering  here
just a list of good honest food,
humble, but a smidgen dear

I order coffee, latte,
with cold milk on the side,
to which the large lady server
looks at me her head cocked to askew
and states, in a flat australian drawl,
that brings billabongs and jumbucks to mind...

Darl, I can make it tepid if ya wants,
or I cans put ya cold milk on the side
but I gotta charge ya extra..
for ya mouthful of chilled moo juice
smiling, lips thin and wide

I replied I'll still take the milk on the side
and one of those little peach cakes
if you don't mind.

She gave me a price and I complied,
thinking unto myself,
the moojuice, must originate
up on heaven's side and
cure all ills, ward off chills
and give only ....
joyous thoughts whilst one imbibes.

I sat at some old farm wifes table
worn down and grooved.
Come to town to shine in this caffiene shrine
rubbing my finger agin the edge
awaiting the latte and cold milk...
on the side....

Watching me from the prized corner table
three old dears.....
With stacked mahjong tiles, and swivelling ears

and on the floor crawling with gay abandon
two small children, in tandem,
they wandered amid the tables
on uneven floors the colour of slate,
deep dark wood, tongue  and groove...
that had seen to much walking, to much talking,
the tongues have slipped and the groove all but broken

As I await the cow to moo, the beans to grow
my heart slows a beat..I let go..
and see the joy, of a fella and a good cuppa,
two old friends caught up in a natter.
and the mahjong queens, realease the tiles
old friend and foes, in an a company of smiles

The cake comes, presented with due grace.
Two  pink half moons of light sponge
in a thin jelly and coconut case,
caught in a lover's kiss of delectable cream

and I understand now,
the cow is an angel,
a veritable dream,
to be loved and cosseted,
the moojuice... of moojuices
the mother of creams...

And now for caffiene...
well go figure...they know their beans

Refreshed and renewed I arise and I leave
but not before buying more moojuice
                                                      an­d moocream...

bludgeon me with reckless words
i will stand
threaten me with silence
and solitude
i will stand
berate me with vicious abandon
i will stand

in your actions you prove yourself to be a small man

i will stand
till my dying day
against this type of
pompous academic bullying
i will stand
tall against the mean minded mentality of it all

and you....

it does not matter...
to give you more space
is not worth my time
nor will i stoop
to look you in the eyes
**i will stand

he, my man, my atlas
holds up my world
with all encompassing love

he, my boy, my hermes
his smile brings messages
of love from the lips of heaven

me, all creative curves and
fertility...
goddess of hearth and home
hestia, in modern form, i be

he, little blucat .. bast
all compacted and wrinkly
a reminder....of fidelity

then out the back
in a temple
her own
mother god
now become crone
but ever loved
and worshiped

here at #259
we reside almost gods
yet biding the devil's own time

blackberry pie
forsooth
golden short flaky pastry
buttery crumbling goodness
then the luscious purple filling **** but sweet
bubbling hot gooeyness
cooled with cream white
purple...mauve...
soooooooo........gooood

another slice please!

lots of bits and pieces here, bits of strings, pieces of cloth, laundry pegs, handles to god knows what, scattered coins from scattered lands, paperclips, brokendreams, rubberbands, scraps of life
on paper doodled, rolls of film, batteries alive and dead, scary thoughts from one's head, lego blocks, bits of wood, seashells from the seashore, keys from a life before, unknown things, important somehow, jigsaw pieces of a china dove, thumbtacks, nuts, screws and bolts, lists to do, that just did not, lids from old jamjars, spent pepperpots, bright neon plastic straws, words left unsaid, that may have started wars, little stone pebbles collected,
because, packets of seeds, vegatable and flower, the combo to the lock, of all the lost hours,  bits of the times, i often regret,  pieces of my heart, awaiting repair.....
but amongst all this
stuff i cannot find,
any leftover, clarity of mind.
rooting around in the junk drawer of life, always an adventure, not always kind.

beneath the daily noise
is the quiet sighing me
floating on a current
of poetic alchemy

i convert the grind
and bustle
into
calm serenity
and post the golden lies
on here, for prosperity.

and then with bluebottle
ink and jellyfish grace
i float away...
to write the insanity of another day..
leaving but a trace
of saltwater tears
in my chosen place...

5.41
is the time on the clock face,
when the first kookaburra
calls.
this corner of the world,
still dark and cold.
but then i suppose,
some poor sucker,
had to get the early bird gig
i just wish, it was'nt,
the noisiest bird in the park.

look out worms.....laughing death is on the wing.
and thus starts another day.

.
                                    how is it?
you only live once.
but you can die,
a thousand deaths.

                                    how is it?
i can be blinded,
by your beauty.
but beauty is
in the eye,
of the beholder.

                                    how is it?
that i live,
only for you.
but i live,
to change the world.

                                    how is it?
love is a,
battlefield.
but love is,
life's refuge.

                                    how is it?
you loom large,
in my eyes.
but you make,
the big things,
seem small.

                                    how is it?
that to you,
i am a queen.
but to me,
i am love's
fool... lost.

                                    how is it?
history repeats,
itself.
but you are,
my first truelove.

                                         how....
*how...

white posts with red eyes
flash by with driven monotony
the trees a green-grey blur
in the early morning mist.

the beat of the wipers
poens the door to
memories...
as we climb into the moutains....

spiralling sprinklers,
and hiding before tea....
a bedroom of purple,
bbqs for dinner....
lavender patches,
the home of master jack,
the old black cat....

silver hair like a curtain
to her waist...
a silver brush, always,
one hundred strokes.

the smell of tonic and gin,
russian toffees melting
on my tongue...
jam jars awaiting filling...
and
a caress,
with bony fingers,
on a young  girls cheek.
a smile gentle and knowing.
a wave by the honeysuckle
gate...

the drops of dew cling
like petulant children
to the rusty stars of
the barbed wire fence

while below the sodden
ground is scarred with
the long footed imprints
of rabbit tracks
tufts of their fur can be found on the sharp edged
sticks of the fern fronds
that have been broken
by their hurried passing.

the sun light can only
be described as dappled
as it cascades in shifting
shafts of mote filled magnificence through
the slowly shifting leaves
of the gum tree canopy

and in the distance the bellbird peals
that clear sweet noted song
that brings a smile to my lips

in the underbrush a shuffling sound arises
an animal too wary of me
most probably a wombat
but perhaps something
more exotic, a bilby or
echinda, mayhap a goanna
i am destined not to know
as the sound recedes off
to the west....

and the kookaburras call
loud and raucous overhead

i walk on following the track
by the old fence...
so very aware, that,
here in the  aussie bush.
i am the indtruder....

tis time
said the elf in my ear
tis my time of year
unpack the baubles
the lights,
tinsel
and gear
the merryest of merry
times is near

said I to the elf
get back on tne shelf
nay get back in that box
good gosh and begorrah
calm down your striped socks
it is five  in the a.m.
December the 1st

said the elf, in my ear
I know the time
I let you sleep a whole
four hours and 59 nine minutes
over the strike of my first happy day

so now
get your great *** into gear
this is the only time  I see
the otherside of the box
after months locked down
so get it together mother dear

hang the lights
and let them twinkle
place the tree and
smell the pine needles
and the faint
odour of cat ******?
watch them as they shed
hang the baubles that sit
differently to how they
looked in your head
throw tinsel at that sucker
till it glows and shimmers
knowing that stuff gets every where
even  into the cats stomach and bed

bring on the cheer ,bring on the glee
bring out the angels, the santas, and me

start buying presents
and wrapping  them furtively
have the discussions about
what to buy for those less near
buy the cheap and nasty,  or
the  credit card dear
buy the simple or make the  stuff
or simply divert payments to next year
as if we mostly don't have
more than enough

remember those gone and those left behind
keep them close to heart and to mind
think of those with out resource or recourse
make  some adjustments in order to be kind
and give away joy to  some you don't know
could well  become their reason to stay ...not go

come on said the elf it is time we began
got to get ready, spread a little love accross
your patch of this land, don't be a grinch,
a scrooge or sadsack,  you gotta have
the big jolly-mans  back

and while we are here
conversing and such
remember  the reason
for all this fuss,
doesn't matter,
the religon, the caste
or the creed..
as this time approaches
take moments to reflect
upon this years closing
and hope with joy
and no fear
for love to conquer all
in the future year

said  I to the elf
yammering away in my ear
well said  young  chap
time to get on my good cheer

I sit here in the local laundromat
on a aluminium park bench
amongst the fish eyed dryers
and icberg washing machines
that rumble with never siated
coin fed hunger, the smell of
artificial spring and wet dog
swelling on the humid breeze

In the corner an o.d lady sits
reading a mills and boon love story
two young men  stand
leaning against the door frame,
smoking cigarettes, they look
like casual warrior guards, on their day off
all surfer dude tan and body buff
guarding the inner sanctum of local cleanliness

Another mother, you can, tell by the handbag
is playing a game on her tablet, some tinny music
wafts over, and she glances at me with apology in her eyes
I have brought nothing except my phone
on which I am writing this, and carkeys and wallet
I watch the tumble dryers tumble, and am mesmerized
by the kaleidoscope of linens,playing at being acrobats
it is warm and cozy in the evening light, a world apart

Out side on the still warm sidewalk and old dog lounges
his eyes focused on old Mrs Mills and Boon, her load finishes
and as she gets up, so does the dog, both slow and methodical
as she folds her washing the dog noses the air, comes to the doorway, where one of the young blokes offers his hand
for a pat, the dog allows the contact, but his eyes remain on the old lady as she packs her wasing into a wheeled bag,
the pair then leave, walking down the street into the dusk,
the dog's nose mere inches from the old ladies gnarled hand
and his tail wagging furiously. I fell I have witnessed something
beautiful and intimate, as they wander away...

today..... it is raining elephants
all the dogs and cats have
taken shelter
under ladybird umbrellas.
.....and the ducks
lets just say.... they are hiring canoes.

i am nine
and learning
by osmosis
secret women's business or
the art of  pie making
production line style
to the uniniated

i sit perched on a stool
in the corner, out of the way
boxed in by fruit
it is a heady place to be
as scents of apricots(bought)
blackberries and apples mingle
sweet woody and exotic,
with the citrus tang
of  zested lemon that sits
in an ever growing
pryamid on the table.

ginger and cinnamon motes
float in the oven warm air
and flour clouds the room
and settless in drifts
and dusts the collection of bowls
on the table

my mother aunt
and mrs blunt,the neighbor,
bustle about the room....
my aunts girth designates her as chief baker
and she rolls out pastry with
gusto...fat arms swinging
penduously, humming to herself.

mrs blunt is the pie filler
adept at judging the mix
and making the gelatonious
gooey syrups filled with sugar
and spice, chopped crab apple
and lemon zest.

mother is the friuter, she peels
destones and cores
chopping up apples, apricots and peaches...
leaving berries and cherries intact(sans pips)
and then later she mans the ovens  
watching for the golden crust
and bubble of pie juice...
before removing
them to cool on poppa jacks
old oval dining table...

me I sit in  wonder,
snacking on fruit,
and  ***** of leftover dough
swooning with the smell
of stewing friut.

Next year my true apprenticeship will start....
Until then, I listen to the murmer of gossip
the passing of secrets,
the bonding of these women....

in they bustle,
all gangle, jangle,
gossip and hangovers.

shoes off,
displaying,
a variety of socks.
paired, odd and holey

and then, we begin,
by greeting the sun
and follow thru,
to twistings,
of the tongue,
limber up,
both mind and body.
voice work too,
some improv games,
just enough to....
rattle the brain.

before beginning,
the "mash up project"
in which they pick
two scenes,
from
classic and well known works
and create a scene,
using them...

10 percent of
semester mark.
some interesting choices,

macbeth meets mother courage.
r&j;, on the streetcar of desire.

but my favourite so far,
metamorphosis at pinter's
birthday party.

oh! the young creative mind,
is such a glorious,
unbound thing....

on the opposite side of
the world
the green budded fingernails
of the frangipani unfurl
to their lush full verdancy

all the flowers stand tall
to see the sun
and open coloured arms
for a full-scented hug

the birds are all a twitter
with nursery nests
and sqeaking chirking beaks
and in the pond small rafts of gelatinous eggs are watched over by frogs

there is that wonderful
tang of warm salt and
eucalypt wafting inthe breeze

autumn for us down
under just a pleasant
memory...
here we now look forward
to the summer sun..

a quick word for paula lee
and  pamela rae
members of
the ditzy is as ditzy does club
may i join you ladies fair

my applicatory action
took place this morning
while labouring under distraction
i washed my husbands(a chippie) workwear
with cat's chicken flavoured kibble

it is now out drying on the line
with a row of cat's divine
staring at the brown streaked
grime in nose wrinkling adoration.

so ladies i think i made the cut
and can become a fully fledg-ed
member of this club refined
of absent mindedness defined....
(i plead pmt ...
intelligence in, sharp decline)
what say you..

this i know.
without a skerrick of doubt.

if not for your hands,
holding gently, my fragile heart.

and our son's, trust and need,
giving roots,
to my runaway feet.

my vagabond soul,
                              would be, but dust,
                                   scattered, to the winds..

your heart... and his...are my anchors ....sturdy.
agin,
the present, malestorm.
that is my iconoclastic mind.

never is a longish time
evermore miles longer,wider
vulnerable to repartition
everlasting in it's perpetuity
re-quiescent supine                       eternally
                                 rewound
                                   rewound

missing her face today
as the winter frost sets in

in my mind  i hear the gentle click
of her knitting needles,
she knitted her love with artistry
in 8 ply wool jumpers, scarves,
vests and cardìgans, all scented
with peppermint, jasmine  and rose
the handcream she used for so many years

i go to the cupboard and pùll out the last
piece of her craftsmanship,  a cardigan
in shades of blue and purple, pull it on,
wrapping my body in her love, sighing
as the tears fall from my eyes

i am missing her today....
as the winter frosts sets in

outta step,
outta time
throwin out
misdirected rhyme
need a nap na.ya.
nanna need a slap
spittin poetry crime 101
betta than no one
just a face
with em t space
where da thoughts reside
splitin definitives
deselectin prime words
just to be
downright freakin absurd walkin out now
off to pout
cause my mind
just curdled cream
from a cranky cow
                     .......moo hoo hoo

twenty minutes to write a poem
to stop and think and scribe
to create an etude, a vignette
from daily life,
minutea



teapot sits
still warm
rendolent
of terraces
of camelias
in foreign lands

crumbs sit in clusters
on the worn pine table
survivors of the toast and jam war

underneath the tuxedo cat
basks in a sliver of stainedglassgreen sunlight
hopeful of something wonderful


the clattering of the boychild
can be heard, akin to rollerblading rhino's
as he prepares for another day of learning


I sit, running fingertip around teacup lip
as I contemplate procrastination
with regard to all things domestic

outside, the world reverberates
as some one begins to cut grass
and the the Beach Boys sing Kokomo

i am a cork, set upon
the rapids today.
a storm, rising in
the darjeeling tea.
lightning, in the sugar jar
all bitterred up and jittery.

i am a feather, caught up
in a whirlwind,
on the edge of a cyclone.

running laps incessant, on the
hamster wheel,
of insomulance, that's me.


frenzied, fury, frenetic energy.
revved up, to beyond the max,
caught... ******* in a box with
bright,binding string.

claustrophobically, confined,
ready to explode,
my brain confetti, tizzy-fied.


why you ask?
            what's the go?

that's the ****** problem..

i don't know............

dear prince george
( and your parents too)

hope you enjoyed
our menagerie of
fauna, at Taronga Zoo.
sorry we could only give
you the, Bilby, the rabbit
come rat rodent hybrid
marsupial thingymajig.
but, you're just not old enough for a kangaroo
and koala's a bit too much
like you, mostly they eat sleep and poo. yes they
are cute and cuddly, but
they tend to wee all over
you, especially if you have a celebrity hue. and you so do!

sorry, you are n't going to
Ularu, it is a spectacularly
big rock, with much meaning and mystery.
but out there, outback, beyond the last black stump,
it is stinking hot, and dusty
to boot and there really isn't
a lot for someone under one
to do.

one last thing, sorry we disturbed you, on your day off, when you were just doing normal baby things.
unforgivable in a sense,
but then your are the flavour of the month, down here and your smiling face
and chubby arms are doing
wonders for the crown.
so smile little prince,
don't you wear a frown,
soon you will be home
and forgotten all about,
the down under clowns.

your humble convict
betterdays

and tonight it is
the elder, mother god
of which i speak....

she  snores and snuffles
in the lazyboy chair
slumped awkward
and sombulant,
akin to a ragdoll,
carelessly,
tossed aside,
after a day's hard play.

and it is in the cracks
and crinkles, both large and minute that craze and track
accross her well worn,
well loved face
that i see,
the god-dust...
lingering.

and as i gently,
place a woolen wrap
over her tired old body.

i take a moment...
to give thanks and
worship,
her hard earned diety.

and the mothergod...
slumbers, snoringly on.

there
is
so
much,
magic
in
the
motes
of
light,
limed
dust,
that
dance
in
windblown
ecstasy,
before
my
sl­oe
lidded
eyes,
as
i doze
in
the
sunkissed
study,
of
my
much
blessed
house,
so
that
is­
why
i
smile,
while
dozing,
utterly
and
blissfully,
content
in
my­
very
own
fairytale.