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1.1k · Apr 2014
still water
betterdays Apr 2014
stillness
requires,
patience
requires,
consciouness
requires,
awa­reness
requires,
attentiveness
requires,
calmness
requires,
still­ness
~~~~~~~
~~~~~
~~~
~
there is an art
to being still
and allowing
the world to
enfold you.
~~~
1.1k · Jul 2015
the collective
betterdays Jul 2015
i write poetry
from the collective,
that resides within my mind

they gather often,
at the water cooler
or for coffee, tea
and a bit of a natter..

all my idio's and syncranicities
my ego,
and my shy shuffling humble-bumbler
the flambouyant quirke,
the little girl memories

all get the memo and out they come.

earth mother, surfer chick,  
daughter of despair,
moderator, instigator,
wanna-be litigator
acerberic premenstrual ditzbitch,
all represented there.


so in the end,
what you get to see;
are the minutes from the meetings,
or the gossip from the gatherings
the intimate murmurings...
from the musings.
of the legion, that ...
collectively
call themsevles
me.
1.1k · Mar 2014
riff
betterdays Mar 2014
the kookaburra's
shuffle, along
the power lines
like, wing-ed music,
they organise and reorganise
the day's riff.

darting down, to pick
a lizard morsel from
the earth,
recalibrates, the sound
of maniacal mirth.

shuffle down, shuffle down,
hop across, and shuffle up
swoop away, fly on in.
all, accompanied by
raucuos din.

then they settle and they
doze
beady eyes open in repose.
a pause in the clamour
of the day's beat.
the clan a couple of days ago
1.1k · Mar 2014
little trials
betterdays Mar 2014
shouldn't complain,
my life is good,
what's little rain !

but these little trials
of today, have me complaining anyway.

spilt coffee on my favourite shirt,
on the upside coffee
stone- cold no one hurt.

lost ten thousand word report, computer glitch
on the upside,
someone in Nepal
will have insight into dramatic synergy in isben's plays.

some dude stole my lunch, leftover chicken *** pie,
on the upside,
i'm fairly sure my two year old sneezed in it.

broke a heel in the carpark. no upside,
they were my favourites.

got home my mum,
who has come to live
with us,
has re-organised the kitchen. still looking
for the upside.

burnt dinner, no wine looking for the carkeys,
to go and find upside,
probably in the next city over.

car won't start,
upside,
no one can hear you,
scream in locked car!

downside,
they can see you....

...........shouldn't complain
just having  one of those
days
1.1k · Jul 2014
so..lazy.....today
betterdays Jul 2014
sunday morning
sleep-in
sticky cinnamon rolls
fresh from the oven
in front of the fire
coffee brewed and poured

lazy day ahead...
may even
make it back to bed...

cold weather makes
for an inside day...
movies and popcorn

roast lamb
later in the day

good book and chocolate
curled up in a sunnyspot.


for now cuddles
and lego, a ticklefest

gotta love me
a lazy winter sunday...
last week of holidays
taking advantage of
taking it easy......
1.1k · Jun 2014
bide
betterdays Jun 2014
i will bide my time
here,
with you my
love,
for it was you,

who came with,
the gift of love.
to my barricaded
door
and knocked gentle
and soothed my
unruly mind.

you came with a box, wrapped, in compassion
and tied with, ribbons of joy

and inside...
hope, on the wings
of butterflys.

i will bide with you,
my love,
i will bide with you.
1.1k · Mar 2014
worship
betterdays Mar 2014
you have come
to me,
this early evening

with
a need,
to worship
at my *******.

and who am i
to deny a man,
in his need

you bare
my udders
to the world
and sigh
in adoration.

before your
thumbtip
traces the
bluevein river
that arose during
the suckling season,
years ago
and has never subsided

you are fascinated by it
for me it is a blemish
upon the milky hills
your where your fingertips
trek and wander
those same hills rise now to
ripple and bump under
your roving sheperding skin

and your tongue asks,
seeks, direction in the vale
between
with pressing lips
and murmuring breath

that thumb
intrepid leader
of the pack
has  found a peak
and with rubbing
caress has claimed it
for his own

not to be outdone
your lips grasp
and flag the other one

but be careful
my wonderful
mountaineers
i feel
an earthquake coming on

as you quest and worship
at the two peaked temple

i  sigh and mewl and groan
some goddess i am
when i am the one who begs
you the peon for mercy

but soon the peon
shall become the god
and the goddess,
a pilgrim.

then i begin
a  sacred sojuorn,
in the southern regions
as i  worship
and love and own.
1.1k · May 2014
under the morton bay fig.
betterdays May 2014
we amble down, the hill,
to the waterside markets.

i find it so quaint,
that our town has a green
beside it's river, running.

grass manicured and lush,
presently filled with little town of tents,
and open marquee stalls

that sell, all manner
of things,
plate sized portobello mushrooms,
olive tappenade,
great bunches of happy faced flowers,
cupcakes of scrumptious, more and more-ish flavours.
home made cordials.
jewellery, and cushions and
carved wooden bread boxes.

all spread out for us to see.

ant and owls made from old
silver spoons..... bonsia trees, fresh herbs, jamon
and piccalilli, tropical fruits
in smoothies, icecreams and salads

and over, under the age old
morton bay fig

face painters, wooden geegaws and thingymagigs
painted in bright carnival colours.......

what a way,
wonderful and sublime,
to while away,
a lazy sunday morning..

we amble back up the hill
with bags of edible treasures
an silver owl named boo....
a child tiger hybrid and a spinning clown....
1.1k · May 2014
falderal & balderdash
betterdays May 2014
falderal and balderdash
two little imps,
of some small renown.

falderal is a skinny,scrawny slip of a thing.
all intelligent darkness, rootlike in nature.
all grasping and clinging hands and feet.

balderdash, well he is
as his name implies,
round and shiny.
far less than exceedingly bright.
stolid, and cat curious,
smile quite endearing,
but a sense of humor
to be fearing.

imps they are,
as already stated,
of the cadre of earthbound. they are to each,
the yingle to the yangle,
the left to the right,
the peanut butter to the jelly, the day to the night.

apprentice and journeymen they be,
falderal quick to rush through the ranks. balderdash on record,
for longest ever time,
at the start of the race.
they are attatched to the place,
the "rooms" if you will.
of the quacksalver,
come life's strife coach, buttinskimentor.
(he thought to modernise and appeal to a larger demographic spread of people).
the shingle over his eaves, pronounces his name to be, hi. p.r. condriac esq.
if you please.

one day it might be,
when you are feeling,
confused and perhaps,
a tad frail
you skim your junk mail, then, you may find his brightly hued pamphlet,
just skitters to the pile top
and with the dust of conviction spread over thick, and a little innoccuos doubt, another mind trick.
you stupidly think i might try this chap out!
his work sounds appealing, if somewhat radical,
i hope i get lucky
and he gets to revealing,
the source of the foot odour, the smell in my shoes.
that makes me think of hell, and regurgitated *****.

unbeknown to your goodself you have begun, a set of trials, a hopless spell,
a winding serpentine course of sysiphian tasks,
(at a kind and generous 10percent off)
to rid yourself of,
this unholy smell,
which really is,
if i am a secret to tell,
the *** of falderal
and of course the sweat of balderdash's shiny brow,
and places less mentionable,
applied with delighted relish and made to stick with medical grade super glue.

and so after months of debraiding your life,
a light switches on
and an epiphany occurs,
you become wise to these minions of strife
and garner up the courage to yell "
it is a sham and he, but a shylock"

you then wend your way back to the good doctors rooms.
i can garantee you he will not be there,
to listen to your plight,
with due care he has long since,
packed up his snake show, revved up his vespa
and into the night's cacophony,
he has driven,
with journey man falderal and apprentice balderdash, in tow,
clinging on tight,
to the rear mudguard.

he now has other fools in his sight.

as to the problem of the pongy shoes,
to be rid of the smell.
the answer so simple,
you will hear in your mind the loud ringing of bells. garbage the lot shoes,
socks as well.
walk the world barefoot.
you will not be mocked,
but you may find that people mention the words,
slightly eccentric,
when you come to mind
1.1k · May 2014
musings on an oaken pew
betterdays May 2014
in church old
draughty, cold
listen to sermon told
twenty times or more
even the vicar sounds bored

seats long oaken planks
window stained glass,
beautiful,
but,
drear on this dark
and cloudy, autumn morn..

does god really live here
in this dismal place
or does he choose to live
in a heart filled  with grace.
i suppose if omniscient the answer
is both.....
no direspect intended..... to church or god.
betterdays Sep 2014
it is a day of sunshine,
yet i am chained
to a desk.
balancing budgets.
but oh! how the sun calls.

it whispers,
sweet, slices of
watermelon dreams,
in to my ears.
it murmurs, bubbling
brooks of tantalizingly,
****, homemade
lemon-limeade.
it talks, incessently
of mangos, eaten warm
and straight from
the skin...

it beckons me, to sin,
to walk barefoot, across
forbidden grass...
to the sand...to the sea


oh! how the
springtime sun
beckons me....

yet,
here i sit,
admist budget misery....
it's enough to make a grown
girl cry.....but deadlines are
immminent.
1.1k · Jan 2015
fracture...
betterdays Jan 2015
only the lonliest princess lived in the castle.
wandering,
from room to room....
but alas, no one else
lived there.

sometimes,
she thought she saw
someone in the garden

...but convinced herself
it was the wind...
            and stayed indoors.

only the the lonliesst
gardener boy
was left,
to tend the gardens,
overgrown, as they were.

sometimes,
he thought he saw some one in the windows of the castle

...but he could never be sure... so he stayed outdoors

so the days passed....
and the lonliest people
in the world lived, unknowingly,
within reach of each other.


and where was the
fairy-godmother...

...the one, who was meant
to put these lonely souls together....

she had gone to barbados
on holiday....
been hit by a falling coconut...
gotten amnesia
and was now making a living as waitress
...and wondering why
her back was itchy all the. time...
from where her wings
had retracted....
the moral.....
life does not always have a happy ending, stuff gets in the way...
or
...don't wait for someone else to create your happiness.
step outside your comfort zone and find it yourself.
1.1k · Dec 2013
wordlove
betterdays Dec 2013
words.
i just
love
them.
big ones,
little ones.

just love them
they are like
honey on my lips,
poprockz candy to my
brain.

they crackle and fizz:
igniting,
exciting,
vibrating,
reawakening...

synapses too quiescent;
jiggling,
wiggling,
slapping,
trappin,
thoughts....

c­aught snoozin and napping;
flip flopping
flim flam-ing
photograph
framing...

opinion only halfway dressed;
jitterbuggin,
jiving,
striving
sometimes conniving....

fighting for a voice;
half formed,
brainstormed,
uninformed,

spoken on a baited breathe,
giggle, gaggle,
gobbledegook...

given egress;
hornswoggle,
bing bang boggle,

lolloping through....
galumping,
triumphing,
tree stumping....
both
me
and
yoohoo
too!!!
zip
it,
zinger
coming
on
thru.
my
mind
a
veritable
word
zoo
where i
graze
and nibble
and
nab
a
theasuarus
or
2
.....  

words.
i just
love
them.
.
1.1k · Apr 2016
camellia leaf
betterdays Apr 2016
The teacup holds memories
of laughter, love and time
steeped in years of  friendship

fine cut and flavorful our friendship
rests lightly in my hands beyond time
now, only in glimpes and fading memories

the russian caravan, has moved  on and i am left with time
you are gone, but the not the friendship
the aroma from the teacup, ignites the flame of memories

so it is a ritual, of loving sorrow and joy
i often have cause to maintain
when I was younger on most working days, my mentor/friend Sue and I would meet before going home for a cup of tea...mostly russian caravan and decompress....she passed a couple of years ago... but the ritua around this simple action still affects me deeply...
I know i didn't get the form right....but  for me today not really the issue....
1.1k · Mar 2014
heartspeak
betterdays Mar 2014
have i mentioned lately,
that my myocardial musculature,
pulses pure luminousity,
cause you are the incandescant
asterism in my biosphere.

no, well you are baby,
you are my hearts pure light,
it beats for you,
you are my stars and moon
my whole world.

i love you.
for ben
always for ben
1.0k · Nov 2016
at last......
betterdays Nov 2016
the cicada's have begun to emerge
after seventeen long years as a dormant miner

they arise, pushing through seveteen years of dust
and compounded muclch, breaking out into a brave new world

and for seventy two hours, if they are lucky
they seek to mate, to consumate  to extend their species

some become garish decorations on truck windscreens
some become exhibits in a small boys jam jar zoo
some become waylaid and sing their cacophonial opus
on barren concrete patio's
some become Sunday dinners to peckish nestlings

some succeed gloriously, then die happy
some don't...succeed...and die wondering

but apparently seventeen years ago...
a lot succeded...
if the booming base opera being performed
is a gauge of the primeval drive of the cicada

it is summer eve in the burbs
and the living is..... noisy....
1.0k · Apr 2014
outside my front door
betterdays Apr 2014
early morning,
with
cup of kenyan blend.
i step outside,
to meet my day.

all soft,
misty drizzle.
cocooning the view,
to the koi pond
and slick driveway.

stepping stones,
are
soft wet coins
on greenback lawn.
dewed and glistening new.

the last
of the snapdragons,
weep in bright tears
of beauty.
the portulaci
have closed their
faces to the world,
to await the
returning sun.

in the pond,
the koi swim,
and glide
like solar flashes
caught while bathing.
bright moving wonder
on the colourless day

and as i watch
the surface becomes
hypnotic as water drops
create ring,bisecting
ring, bisecting ring.
concentricity,
most exquisite.

the smell of jasmine
eucalypt and coffee
mix and mingle with
exhaust and salted iodine.

sound is muted.
birds, whisper this morning.
even the kookaburras call,
in stuttering short chuckles.
the sea, so close, is but a murmur, a chinese whisper
on the frail wind.


the small grey cat,
comes to sit with me
nose, aquiver,
ears swiveling
to and fro.

a pause before,
harrumphing
and stalking
back into the
dry, cosy, warmth.

i soon follow....
leaving the day,
to it's softness.
napowrimo day 6
prompt write a poem of what you see hear and feel
outside your window/door
(paraphrased)
1.0k · Aug 2014
vagrant gods
betterdays Aug 2014
house is mouse quiet
walking down the
hallway
in
the dark
step on a malevolent
lego brick, swear mightily

this epitomises my day...

now to crawl into bed
and pray tommorrow
the vagrant gods like me...
1.0k · May 2014
in writing poetry
betterdays May 2014
in writing poetry...
......you are writing
intimate love letters
to the world.


you bare your heart,
soul and .....***** laundry
....for all who care to read.

but there is anonymity
in your intimacy...
and there is ..
the dispensation of .... ....absolution, acquital, emancapation.....
leading to.....
....proclamation, jubilation
and .....discovery of a .... ....different self.

when you put...
words  to paper
.....as  a poet....
you allow the world
access, to your heart
....in times of joy and sorrow
and all the mileposts
..... lying inbetween.



you
1.0k · Jun 2014
bound
betterdays Jun 2014
a poetic collaboration
with Elizabeth Squires,
(thank you for the privilege)*


high in the infinite skies,
above the clouds.
where no, naked eye can see 
particles in the ozone layer,
bounce around.
in a manner, most carefree. 
these minute, wee, little things,
e'er bobbing and moving,
so happily. 

we on the ground,
would delight,
in their existence of joy.
but we're tied to the prosaic, daily grind working,
in our nine to five,
coalface coal mines.

with axe and pick,
we chip and hack away...
whilst our minds delight,
in front-lobal play.
of waxed wing-ed flight,
of acrobatic, aerobatic display.

whilst working,
in the cramped and dubious
spaces we inhabit....
we dream, of spaces, blue, boundless and arcing-wide, forgeting, forgoing, forgiving the mindless, daily grind...
we leap,
with fragile hope,
into fledgling flight....
up to the ozone,
up toward the light...

there, in the freedom,
of this spacious playground,
we're at no command,
of employer's tools,
of work.

on our faces, we'll wear 
those  effervescent, unfettered smirks
hopping in rambunctious 
fun 
in the ozone's air,
upon the weary brow of labor release, is found.

in it's mirthful atmosphere,
which eliminates, our obligations, to our bosses.
we then farewell,
with liberating tosses.

and so we soar
in insouciant grace, unfettered,reckless,feckless 
freedom, sliced and pared, away across our wings
and faces,
joy ungaurded,
is this moment's prey
unbidden, unbound.

no longer hearing,
the sound of the grinding axe.... at play
we soar eagle high...
we soar to the sun's eye
but we are not made
for such undulterated bliss our wings of feather
and wax....
become, around us mist  
and to the ground
we do spiral....

into our adult occupations,
where there is little time.
for us to be engrossed,
in exuberant glee.
we're shackled 
and yoked to,
our heavy work day shrouds.
but our dreams of play,
with those ozone particles,
seem too impractical.

happy little vegemites
we'd be,
if our days were free.

take heart, our days off,
are nigh and on the lounge
we'll sigh, 
a well earned sigh.
1.0k · Apr 2014
siberian thaw(hiaku)
betterdays Apr 2014
the remorseful text
apology by technology
with roses to follow
linked to siberia ... last night
1.0k · Apr 2017
it takes a village
betterdays Apr 2017
it is
important
to see
both sides
of the story

sometimes
you need to
step back
to take
the bigger
picture in

sometimes
you need to
leani in
to see the
real, reality

we can all
stand on the
mountain
and proclaim
our views

but very few
stand in the
valleys
and join the
rescue crews

it used to be
a neighbor
was a friend
(mostly)
on whom
one could
depend
for a cup
of sugar
to stand
by you
if payday
was late
or
heaven
forbid
if the worst
happened
they would
be part of
the recovery
team
pitching in
til you
recovered
your steam.

now
we are
strangers
with doors
barred
against
the world
living in
insular
pockets

barely aware
of those
who live
beside
atop
or below...


be brave
people
lean in
knock on
a new door
let society
begin

learn a different story,
share your own
create a village
expand your home

plant a garden
to feed a crowd
sit on the steps
with a book
read out loud
look after
the old
learn their
wisdom
look after
the young
feed their
curiosity
swap recipes
and meals too
create a village
within your city
one run on love
with compassion
not pity

this is hard
but simple
as well
begins
with words
and courage
no magic spell

be brave
see both
the large
and small
lean in
to lean out
to grow tall
then climb
up atop
the mountain
and see it all
the hustle
and bustle
of community
make that
the real
reality
1.0k · Dec 2014
i smell daffodils
betterdays Dec 2014
as the rain slides  down
the window pane
and the moondrifts from
cloud to cloud

i remember my first
flatmate...

Jerome,
who tooks his smalls
home to be washed by
his mother,
who was fastidious about
trimming his ginger...brown
beard, but not so fastidious
in cleaning the sink...
the owner of Muffin, the budgeriagar who survived
being vaccumed up once,
but not twice....
Jerome, full of gay angst
and closeted pride...
who taught me...
love is not an animal
that can be leashed
but is a thing,
of wild untamed beauty...

Jerome....who gave love
in buckets and bunches
of floppy daffodils...

i lost him as a friend, many
years past......but some nights drear and dark
he pops by....to say cheerio
late nite wine and sad thoughts....
1.0k · Oct 2014
after the dying was done
betterdays Oct 2014
hollow pointed flowers
litter,
the war torn fields,
watered,
by the blood from human
carcass's

left,
after the battle.
now,
become mulch and food
to toxic soil's greed


the children
play
among the dry, white
bones
building clacking, castles
high
and scavenging the metal petals  and kahki cloth
for with which,
they haggle, for food to buy.

their world of
decrepit decay,
exsists.....
under a cloud of grey
and with only the
memory of parents,
they make their own way...

what once was green
is now brown
and what was was steel
is now rust, upon
the ground.

but not the hollow flowers,
somehow,
they retain their gleam
and they glitter,
like diamonds,
in the harsh daylight.

they, the children,
the keepers of this world,
know not how
to smile or cry.

they live to survive
to them simple things,
like joy and laughter
are myths.

they have no time
to ask why...

but they love,
the little flowers,
that sit upon the sands.
the hollow pointed flowers
that feel right, within small hands.

and the songs
they sing, are murky
as to the prayers
they say,
before bedtime....
just, undefined mantras.
taken from the before.
when the gods,
were advertisements
and everybody suceeded.

everybody was needed,
everybody was blind,
to creed and colour
and the world was
fine and dandy.


and mothers loved
their children,
fathers walked beside.


this, before the sundering
before the parents,
fought and fought
and died.

leaving just dusty bones
in toxic fields
and bullet blossomed
flowers
to mark the loss
of life...
to mark the loss
of living...
to mark the end of
fighting....
to mark the end of
destruction...

after the dying was done
written after seeing a photo
of a sprig of flowers crafted
from hollow point bullet casings....
1.0k · May 2014
monkey talk
betterdays May 2014
a monkey
from a barrel
once said to me,
can you appreciate
the absurdity
of a life
run on
the
collation
of wealth.
scrabbling
to find a monopoly.
not caring for
individuality
just racing
to be the last
man standing.
"numero uno"
grandstanding
with a poker face,
always having
to win the race.
hungry hippo,
grasping, grasping
all the time.
no patience for
games,
even life.
just running the board
playing chess,
all the time.
just waiting for the
mousetrap to fall,
kerplunk.
then just left  to
pick up the sticks,
to deal the cards,
for a game of  
go fish.
the mind just
boggles,
at the thought
of the frantic images wrought
by the monkey
and the mind games
he played
so i stuffed him back
in the barrel
where
he now
stays
he
and
his
bamboozling
jigsaw
puzzle
patter.
1.0k · Sep 2014
dream circus
betterdays Sep 2014
roll up! roll up!!
you fine hearted boy.
time now to put down,
the store made toys.
time to make magic...
with the inside,
of your mind
roll up! roll up!!
to the dream circus
let's see what we find....


melamine monkeys
mimic monstrousity's
mangling, minor majorities
in musical mayhem
symphonies, sublime
playing  mozart in part on
a shiny yellow kazooo

meanwhile marshmallow
crocodiles smile with
mincing beguile
at ****** moo cows
meandering miles
in crooked zig-zag lines
making milkshakes
all the while...

mouses and mices
are avoiding becoming
itty bitty pieces of
rodent and crabapple pie
by milling mindlessly
around the mound
of milliners, by the by.

now to
meet and greet at the
zoo
mrs hippopotomus
has ginger biscuits and
mango milk ready for you
while you watch the fleet of zebras  and their plataypi  crew,
sail in the xebec regatta
twice around the isle of goo.
before saying
huzzah and hooroo
they won the championship
whoohoo!!!!
it's all a happenin,
at the bing **** bingle zoo


but for all these
amazing thing to occur
my lad
you have to pay your dues
so close your eyes,
and sleep .....
and you  will see
a wonderful dream or two....
betterdays Jun 2016
weary soul
worn down
like sneakers
that have walked the line
far too long
the line far to thin
to make a difference
no delineation,
no real sides
to be taken
just a staging area
between the black  and grey
of a half life lived in half shadow
with the promise of
an hours sunshine
each day...

weary soul
wandering  along
to the end of this line
that peters out
in a morse code message
of mental and physical decline
a repatriation of lost time
a moments deviation defined
by years spent waiting for
a chance to rewind, declined
by a judgemental man,
signing on the dotted line

weary, wearied soul
worn out and now
just a faded memory
blown, dust to the wind
as the coffin winds down.
lines now terminated
ultimately, forever, segregated
from the life within
and on the topside,
a mourners line
thin and tired
throw soil
upon the lid

weary souls
crying for justice
but reaping sorrow
fearing for the break of morrow

marrow jelly and breaking bones
wend their way, back to broken homes
to sit on couches filled with dust
to watch television that peddle lust
and throwaway goods for throwaway lives

no call for effort,
no need to strive,
just be a drone!
live for the hive!
groan and moan,
give graft on loan
have your muttered say,
about the state of play
whilst, living lives, the deepest shade of grey
growing weary and more wearied evey day
waiting for the great big sleep
wading through beaucoup de petites morts
drowning in une petite vie


jamais las, éternellement usé
porter des clowns espadrilles
et un froncement de sourcils
*forever weary, eternally worn down
wearing clowns  sneakers and a frown
1.0k · Feb 2015
SLAM..
betterdays Feb 2015
SLAM down the words
like a slap of your hand
upon a wooden table

SPEAK the utterances
of your broken heart

SLAM  your anger into my face
with the fistful of furious syllables

SCREAM your defiance to the world indifferent
to the magnaminity
of your none to silent pain

SLAM down tequila shots
one, two, three,
redifing absplute clarity

SLAM  your body into
mine repeatedly
mistake realease for
ECSTASY...

SLAM  the door as you go
and leave, all the while preparing for the next girl the next show...

SLAM  me into a box, and
bury me,
my time is up, my words
are just crushed up dust....

SLAM the gates of heaven
in my face...done too much
bad to die with grace

SLAM DUNK my b'ball ****,
my whole life, just a dribbling farce

SLAM  me down to hell...
let me roast a good long time

SLAM...that now ends
this redonkulous rhyme...
Random word freeflow...
writing exercise.
SLAM..
1.0k · Apr 2014
black sheep clan
betterdays Apr 2014
i am a sheep of the blackest
shade.
and my sisters,
wooly white angels
in bleached mohair.
me i could do no good.
me bad through to the core.
them angelic, pure.
at least that's what, everybody,
thought they saw

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan

my feet have always had,
a need to be elsewhere.
Dad called it my infernal wanderlust...
so, i have heeded their call.
travelled far and wide,
finding love in ports everywhere,
but none for to be my bride.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

always moving forward,
so i don't have to...
look behind.
but still,
self recrimination
is a constant bedfellow
of mine.
you know, it takes years,
of dedicated time and headspace.
to become a man,
beyond, his prime.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

a merry, meticullous ****-up.
who can laugh, at hisself,
yet, still continue to commit  his biggest crime,
daily i **** myself....
daily i survive....
just a one man crime wave,
not worth trying to save.
but you do, you do.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

motley me,
with a jester's soul.
trying for laughter,
but just getting more old.
lived a life, bought,
purely on fool's gold.
now close to the hereafter and still breaking the mold.

girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.

the Crue knew who i am.
i am just one of this world's many misunderstood.

*girl i am just one member of the black sheep clan.
napo wrimo day20
prompt; write a poem in the voice of a family member.

for this i chose my uncle dan
now past, he was the adventurer of my mothers generation, and misunderstood by some in his family.
but a beautiful soul and sorely missed.
in the poem there is reference to Motley Crue's
song "Misunderstood"
1.0k · Sep 2015
The quiet hours
betterdays Sep 2015
Tis quiet
When I wake
The rest, in sleepful slumber

Not me,I partake
The bitterwine of insomnia
Sometimes, sips alone
Bare enough to fill a quill.

Sometimes, cups so deep
That one forgets the state
Called sleep, and tours
The town, called Stumble

Tonight's draught, a nip or two
Just enough, to say to you
Treasure the wakeful nights
When you sit and delight
In the quiettetude  of a house a'slumber
All loved, all safe,  and well
This is the ***** of a pilfered night
Taken from the restful isle
To watch and pray, and smile.
998 · Jun 2014
plankton!
betterdays Jun 2014
me, a small fish
in a small pond, here
plankton, really.....

but hopefully,
intelligently,
so..

i is, just swimming along,
taking note....
of the self  proclaimed big fish.
as they bring their ego's
along....
and fight for space....
catfish style......
mroewspit-spit...slash-spit.
all words and claws and puffing of self.....

we the smallfish, plankton,
yabbies and frogs....
find ourselves other places to be not from fear, no
boredom(nuttin new to see)
and other poets to read....
ones with interesting words to eat(to feed the brain)

so while the big fish take
bites outta each other...
and muddy up the water

we the smaller fish...
(but might i say no less better)
are just getting on with
pondlife.....
               but ain't that always        
                             the way of it.

(and just as a postscript i may add that with out the plankton, the pond would die)
i am just writing poetry, not
marketing, politicking, or
degrading others ideas beliefs or dreams....that is not my place....or indeed my style.....or that of my poetry.
998 · Apr 2017
No longer springtime
betterdays Apr 2017
It is longer spring here
down at the bottom of the world
(if I were being truthful
at the very bottom of the world
spring is a mere matter of degrees)

Here in the land of Oz
we are in Autumn,
yet driving today,
the sunshining through
the last  of the clouds and
the waratahs red and vibrant
competing with the yellow
sunshine cascading drops
of the wattles , all outdone by
the bougainvilleas with their
bursts of deep, deep purple

the smell of lemon myrtle and eucalypt,
giving a zinging zest to the air
you could well believe that
nature did not get the memo...
It is cooler and it has been very wet where we are....but today when the sun came out the world arounds us looked newly washed and the lush exotic nature of the plants, shone through....
betterdays Sep 2014
bright ....butterfly.......talent.....
flicking tongues of
allitrative illustratation unsure
of present
improv packaging
puckers lips
to pout
and preen
..
grunge moth
in hoodie comes
to sauce the play
tounge twister fandango
...
paperlace lizards ...dreaming...
days streamin by
.
all the mouths
of ritual making
fourth wall breaking
....
accummulate the method
scribe to the write
formulate the figure
linguate the lyrical
....left.....
to the pintered flighted .....sighs.....
shake the speare
this night
.
with finger drumming colour rhythms
reveal the reasoned might
of the fledgling dramaturg
......
foot stomping
posse blighted  brainstorms 
...
 burn limelight
burn, bright, burn
..
...throw your fleeting... searing glow
on these little
dramatic vacations
from life's realities
freeze frame moments
of luducrosity
and
humming,
allocentricity
.
egos pay homage
to floor door
and wall
drink
the life
the love
the moments glorious
of it
all.
........

the fear
pin *****
and bucket dance it
......come one......
come all.
learn the art of
the comic pratfall

here at the home
of drama 171 improv. .
by
the pants
of
your seat
and other
mellowed
dramatic
complexities and pratfalls
thoughts on a residential drama/ theatre studies school i taught.
although an
oldee piece
i thought
it fit Joe's latest
prompt
creative nature
994 · Jun 2014
an afternoon detour
betterdays Jun 2014
the wavelets,
nibble
at our toes.
as my boy
and i comb
the tideline,
for tiny treasures.
curls blowing,
ever which way
in the salt
tanged breeze.
little hand holds
red bucket,
the
clicksnickclack
of shells
already collected
is a comforting sound.
as we
meander along,
soon we
will turn
and
wander homeward
to warmth
leaving the sealife
to their own
care.....until,
the next time.
on the way home, we stopped at beach... it enriches us both...
now time for chicken noodlesoup(home made)
big bubble bath and bed....
990 · Sep 2014
everchanging
betterdays Sep 2014
i see today,
the first glimmering
of summer,
in the curl of green nails,
on the deadman fingers
of the frangipani.

i see today,
the last sighs of winter
in the dessicatted, crumbling, leaves being,
blown ever which way
by the gusting, September winds.

i see today spring,
coming up,
in shoots of green,
sprung from the rain softened soil.
all different hues,
of potential and expectation
rising from the ground.

i see today, the the last glimpse of autumn,
in that pallette of a leaf,
stubborn throughout the winter now finally,
come to grief and floating, serene in silent submission, on the pond of koi.
the oranges and browns
blending into the watered background.

i see today,
all the seasons,
in the sky
and all around me,
time moves forward
and every moment,
counted as precious
and noted by this poets eye...
first day of spring, here...
and it is a glorious day!
989 · Nov 2014
shipwright.
betterdays Nov 2014
some days i write
rafts and barks,
kayaks and corricles.

some days, a mere log,
set hopefully upon the water.

some days, dories and yachts
pinnaces, sloops, ketches and tugboats

on rare occassions,
great two and three masted ships,
schooners and galleons
filled with treasure..

more often scows, punts
and barges,
work man like and useful,
but not alway pretty

all painstakingly,
crafted...
with planks of words
nailed together with punctuation...
and caulked, with my soul...
sanded down by thought
polished, oiled and varnished,
with love...

then i set my sails,
my inspiration,
to the mast of poetry

and push off....
into the great white yonder....
hoping my xebec...my catarmaran, my dinghy...
my log...
will find a fellow waterman....
sailing, on this...
the ocean of words.
please forgive me,
any nauticalogical mistakes
989 · Jun 2014
blue rinse...and set
betterdays Jun 2014
Blue rinse  and set
home done.
Meant the colour changed every time,
from shades of pale lilac...
to electric neon light.
Always wave set never permed.
Hair too fine.

She was what they,
termed politely,
in those days:
"a large ***** woman."

Corseted nine to five,
in matrons whites.
Jiggly in a flambouyant orange muu muu by night.

A spinster, devoted to work and extended family,
large of heart and appetite.

A soft place to fall,
when the stonelike,
stoicism of my mother, became to harsh to bear.

I was flummoxed,
when in my teens,
I found a dog eared,
Kama Sutra,
in my blue haired aunts cupboard.
I can honestly say....

I learnt a lot... about a lot ...that day.
988 · Apr 2014
my other love
betterdays Apr 2014
i have an ongoing
love affair
with words
that roll around your
mouth

luscious, langourous
lilliputitian letters

sensual syllables
slick- sliding off
the tongue

ecstatic explosions,
erupting, erogenously
exciting, eager exclaimations,
of enraptured exualtations

organic, original orientations
of teeth and tongue
producing oodles,
of apogeic anomolies

my affair
accomplishes much
for little

it is you see
just a not so secret love
of letter, line, jot and tittle.

a casting eye upon a word
and i am set rushing
down a path
reserved for those
with terms, descriptive,
and names.
that in themselves,
decry
wordlove.

lexicographers and bibliophiles
phoneologists, linguists, polygots,
jonguluers, wordsmiths scribes
poets.

all possess this
heartstringed
tangled knot,
spiderwebbed
feeling,
for words.
which, we then,
endevour to spin,
into inkstained beauty,
to ensare
ourselves ...and others.
988 · Nov 2014
the house @ book corner.
betterdays Nov 2014
it was only a little house,
two bedrooms, small in space, a kitchen, bathroom
and living area..
some woul call it quaint,
others run-down and dilapidated...

...but it was
a happy place....even if it
sat alone ...bar a jacaranda tree...out in the middle of
a drygrass sea...

on the outside, the paint
had peeled and the boards
had begun to warp...
the yard was dry brown
grass and dryer red dust,
the roof, corrugated tin
was dull with age....

the door, was once painted
a bright hopeful blue
but now faded like old
denim... on the verandah
two chairs a table.....and
an old cattledog....
the bell, a suprising ******...


but inside that ramshackle
house... that stood by luck
and will alone....

was a home....filled to the brim with love....
the old couple who lived there...
still held hands ....still looked
at each other with love and
longing.....still danced to the old record player most nights....
still slept wrapped in each others arms....
still bickered and fought
then made up....with a lasting passion....
still wished for, more days
together in the sun....

these are my memories
of my aunt beth and uncle
wilf.....
and the house,
they made a home....
out in the middle of nowhere....
for marian's. challenge #1.
we only went to visit these relatives, childless, but so
entrancing a handful of times .....they made an impression....
the title....is not the true address of the farm...but more an allusion to the moral held loosely within these words.....the outside
does not ever portray the inside....of a book, house or indeed a human being....
not meaning to be patronizing....just explaining
myself.
987 · Apr 2018
tethered
betterdays Apr 2018
you are tethered here now
by just a few threads
gossamer thin
that flex and strain with
each laboured breathe

soon  the last of  them
will  fray and break
and you will be free
to float away

to see and enjoy
new vistas
to be
unencumbered
by that, that drew
you down into the dark

then untethered
you will fly to the heavens
like a bird, small against
the blue, blue sky

or perhaps more akin
to a dandelion seed
be taken by a gust of wind
to a new environ
mayhaps, a cliff top
by a shining blue sea
and there to take seed
and grow again and again
whilst the sea kisses the sand
And now she is...rest in peace... my mothet died peacefully  as dawn broke on the 6th of April...
983 · Mar 2014
complex feline
betterdays Mar 2014
my cat has woken up with a complex,
as they sometimes do,
he tells me there are monsters living behind the loo.
underneath the fridge a troll or buggedty boo.
he shows me how,
to walk very, very slowly
so they don't take note of you.
he warns me, that the sky above,
is full of a ghostly zoo
and that you must watch yourself,
as they are accurate with their poo.
finally he says to me,
i will stay by your side,
so that way,
when the cataclysm comes
and the pale horses ride
  - they will come for you,
giving me the time to run and hide.
i am sure the little beast has studied
Noh theatre. lol
979 · May 2014
sunday morning
betterdays May 2014
the air is crisp
as i sit on the front
verandah, snuggled up
in wooly hoodie, flannel
pyjamas and ugg boots
hands wrapped around
a large mug of steaming
coffee
watching those with more
enthusiasim, than nouse
riding up the hill in bright
lycra body suits.
the weekend pelaton rides
on to  wherever.
978 · Apr 2016
Thirty days....just 30 days
betterdays Apr 2016
November is a month
i dread, all the marking...
all the words ..... ideas
clutter up in my head....
all the hopes and ambitions
weigh heavily on my back.

the first day, my birthday
hip hip hooray!!!
then a rushing, pell mell
downward track
of red pens and meetings
going on and on and on

planning, prepping, late night stressing

then, when not at work,
not shirking, just not working
hoping to give the brain a rest
am bombarded...
like i am ******* in cheer
...continual messages of
christmas is near....
coffee and carols,
shopping and angels
harking, harking,
joy to the world, fa al lalala...
Santa queues
truly not an Ebeneezer
but Christmas teasers
in November make me grey
around the gills
fish out of water
lamb to the slaughter

and running on empty,
always empty,
just want one day...
when the world
would stop hassling
and just go away

no end of year parties...
prentending to be hale and hearty
with all sorts of colleagues
and academic smarties
no presentations of budgets..
thinner than last
no we could not fast
this area, to be on line
no it's alright, it will be just fine
while sculling copious amounts
of cheap, cheap, nasty  red wine.
no hangover from said feast...
no,  you be the one to corner the beast.

no more standing with mothers and others
watching children in a god awful christmas play
and clapping and chatting while little bettsy
recieves an award for knitting a sleeve
and george gets one for adding fourhundred and forty

please, please show me the door.....

not to mention hayfever,
daylight savings and more

but all this seems trivial...
when I consider
the blight of my life...
in the stakes of annuity.

the month of November has a great heart
Movember...a charity of moustache art
has an fanatic in my big, bluff,bloke
for a month he curries and cares for the
caterpillar  that grows on his lip...
a fuzzy flecked monstrosity
with the mange and a weird flip.

November a month of avoiding
the succour of contact....
with that thing,
my toes curl now
thinking of it....
tho I try not to react
(after all charity begins at home)
november november
truly you are the ***.

last year he bought
the ****** thing a comb



yet in the end
you are but a month
and it seems I survive you
year after year
thank god for take away meals
and long cold beers....
976 · Oct 2015
bandaid
betterdays Oct 2015
hands in cup
circling, circling,
washing away,
yesterdays detritus

humming, mindless, tuneless
far away in another place
thinking, of memories

slip, crash, drop
favourite cup
now
mosaic on hardwood floor

shards, and shards
me, a barefoot island
in a sea of ceramics

every which way
sharp reefs to navigate

but needs must
I am an island alone

none will rescue me
and i cannot sit all day

one cut,
on big toe
one coffee cup
much loved
now, binned
one bandaid
and off to work

serves me right,
should have paid attention
sheesh I loved that cup
966 · Mar 2014
feast
betterdays Mar 2014
gem scones
and ginger loaf bread,
slathered with farmfresh butter.

washed down with
oh so **** cold home made
lemonade ices.

little pots of salmon rillettes
and tiny potted prawns
eaten on crisp potato wafers.
crustless finger sandwiches
of cucumber and tomato,
grown twenty feet to the left
of where we sit.

in the shade of the radiata pine tree.
minted gingerale punch.
sunshine dappled light,
playing on fine glassware.

the aromas of ovenlove
mint, pine, ginger, citrus
and salt,
mingle with old spice and
lavender water, of the grands, dozing,
as they sit baking, basking,
in the afternoon heat.

high tea,
at the homestead farm.
on the windswept coastal
plain.

once every couple of months,
awaited with much, anticipation.
remembered with much
fondness
a feast of food, family
and  much love.
a memory of family gatherings
953 · Nov 2014
Dear Wordvango
betterdays Nov 2014
there is a poet
who flirts with words
who dances the tango
and fandango
who's poetry is a joy
to read,
and among all this wonderous word tapping
there are truths seeded
waiting to grow....
and flower....
so thank you, Wordvango
for your flair and style
and thank you for the
thousands of smiles
and the beautiful garden
you have sown
in the place of my word's
home...
you truly make me smile
and think.....thanks
952 · Oct 2015
courage...
betterdays Oct 2015
There are those,
by word or touch,
sometimes, a glance
or slight smile

Give to others, gifts
or strength  and hope...
The ability to move on,
take one more step.

They see, the best
in the world,
they know the depth
of a persons spirit
and are able to give it wings

They are ordinary,
They are extraordinary
They are you
And they are me..

A kind word, is a seed,
to a barren  soul,
A smile, sunshine,
A simple touch, rain,
to a dusty plain....

All it takes is courage,
All it takes is courage
950 · Apr 2014
goodbye and farewell
betterdays Apr 2014
you called, i came,
that's what one does,
when a friend,
is terminal.

i watched you doze.
body skeletally thin,
face no longer yours,
more drawn and alien.
skin parchment draped loosely,
on a collasping frame.

quiet i sat,
not ready to disturb.
you woke and smiled,
with effort, moved
to bring me into focus,
you reached for my hand
and beckoned me close.
inside my heart lurched.
"glad you came, just needed
to see your face."
my smile tremulous,
as you gently squeeze my hand,
with all your strength,
"not long"
you sigh on laboured breath,
i nod unable to agree.

you slip back to sleep.
giving me,
momentary grace,
to gather myself,
my thoughts.
inwardly, i mourn your choice to cease the battle,
fought and won twice before,
but,
i know this is my need,not yours crying.
when stronger,  you as always, eloquenty explained your rationale.
battle weary,
knowing the final outcome you chose,
not to walk toward it,
but let it come, without fight,
for you, not fear,
but faith's reward.
pallitive care was all you sought.

the warrior woman,
had put away her sword.

you told me, all this, one day bright with sun,
as we watched my child play.
you ended the conversation with these words.
this is not suicide,
dear girl, but grace.

again you stir and mumble,

" live well my dear one"
"as have you"
my broken reply"
"go, for now there are others to see"

i put my lips to yours,
special in intimacy.
i walk from the room,
your salt tears on my face this will be my last time spent with you,
my mentor, my friend,
my sage wisdom women.

in the garden of death's place
i sit myself down
and water the world with my sorrow.
napowrimo day 30
prompt; write a poem of farewell.
i chose this poem, that i had written, years ago as this is the aniversary of my friend
Rose's death and this poem was written for her.
950 · Jan 3
Scavenger hunt
betterdays Jan 3
Young magpies,
still grey of feather,  
attack random sticks
thinking them food,
cry out despondently
when discovering
their prey is inedible wood.
Mother magpie overseas
Scavenging expedition with
beady eyed patience...
947 · Jan 2017
reunion
betterdays Jan 2017
old friends gather
tied together
by lines of
silver silk
memory

threaded from
heart to heart
embedded in thought
and action

actor trained
like the rhythm
of drumming fingers
on raked stage

toungue twisted greetings
bring saltwater to eyes
searching for the mentor

a congregation of etudes
belies, the sadness,
laughter hides the absence

shared memory,
memories shared
bring life into focus

years pass by
but still, the silk threads
play the heartstrings
and still we raise our
eyes in ritual goodbyes

and hug each other closer
til the next gathering
old friends remembering
the good times
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