it is intangible...

how I have tried
with high-falutin,
poetic words....
to describe
how I miss you..

but I never get it right...

I just miss,
the warp and weft,
we weaved between us,
those links of the fabric
of our lives.

small threads and large,
words and silences,
smiles and tears
oh how I miss, I miss...
simple touches, shared laughter,
a cup of tea and a seat in the
evening sun...

I miss, I miss, I miss...

I am not alone or lonely.
I am loved and love.

but... I have not become
reconciled to the absence
of you..... I don't think
I ever will...

I am resigned,
but oh how
I miss.....

here i am...
nailed to the cross....
of elephant hide.... memories
.....walking the slack rope
balanced..... between
if ..and ....why..
used to be...... watering
a ducks back .....was making
....a water feather slide
but now....... it just *****
up my equalibruimal tide......
making sense now?....
...........not ****** likely..
spinning words....
..on empty tequila shot glasses
  .....while student one
and student fourteen .....are
making moons with they *****
......so the mouse squeaks
memory roars......been here b4
time to climb.............down....
........off the cross.....jump on... .......off the wire
..let it go ......was just.... teenage .........angst v desire

walk away  now...get some water.....
..go home get to bed ....or the morning will be simply .....hangover.....
.....slaughter..... city .. rimed
with lime ...and salt.. and   tequila .....worm-fed fears...
so....listen ...well  ....to the squeek of the mouse......

she is all but
gone from me now

sitting quietly in her chair
a mix of memories
and medications

she used to be fierce
and bigger
than her four foot nine inch frame

but now bones and flesh
fall and curve in
gnarling hands and feet
making  her skin
look and feel like a letter
read a thousand times

her voice once so rich and strong
once full of opinion and humour
is now but wind
sighing through ever present pain

I miss the quickness
of her wit the most,

But I miss the mothering more.

Time has reversed our roles
and the decisions are all mine now...

She has out of sheer weariness,
having battled so long, for so hard

aceded her will
to the slow walk of dementia


She sits quietly in her chair
memories gathered
about her, as her companions

Some days it is like I am not here
and others,
she is not there

The days we meet
in passing....
or for a a good while
are gifts that shine bright
at least, in my saddened mind

On the other days,
I hope and pray...
she finds herself
amongst friends
in happy times...

as she wanders slowly away from us

god, ya gotta
love the honesty
of children

overhead
from the backseat

"your mum is fat"

"yeah but it's ok
she's  mostly happy
and i love her"

i am,
origami....
all mountain folds
and valley creases.

most days,

something, intriguing
and exquisitely beautiful.

on others,

a piece of creased paper,
lying discarded....
at the bottom of the bin.

he cleans his paws,
with a delicate pink tongue.
always the left first.

he is a cat of order,
not for him,
haphazard ways.

i sometimes wonder,
how he survives,
in our chaotic house.

but then,
i see him hidden up
high in the bookcase
watching us all, beneath him
dashing madly about,
with amusement,
quivering at his whiskers.

and after all...
he is...
the god of wrinkly things.

first alarm
feet to floor
empty bladder
feed the cat
walking gear on
out the door
greet the day
tunes in the ears
wave to early morning peers complete the requisite k's back thru the door
hit the shower
wake the boys
fill the bowls
muesli,wheeties,rice bubbles
juice to glass
coffee to cups
lunch in sacks,
icebars too
help dress the toddler
second alarm
kiss the husband
wave him off
tv on for cartoon relief
dress the office worker check the bags
feed the cat again
set him free
make up applied
pack the napsack
time for another coffee
and a look at poetry spots
write a bit
third and final alarm
wash boy's face
shoes on
tv off and out the door
off to daycare and to work weekend over
new semester begun
of the weekday routine reruns

writing life on the upbeat
no mean feat
when riding pell mell
down to bowels of hell
on a harley fatboy
bought as look at me ploy
with a kooky sidecar
of sarcastic sidebar
talking of friends
my god  are
we are all just lemmings
to mediocracy in the end

a useless cartographer
i would be,
as all roads
my love would lead me
back to thee..
all seas
would wash upon
thy shore....
all rivers fjords
and waterways
would  be found to flow to your doorstep in a cascading
maze
meridean, ley lines,
all would be  
******* in  bows and attached to your casement windows
mountain, plains, steppes
and vales would rest
adoring, in your garden pails

so i could not
be a cartographer.....no
useless would i be.

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
ya ya  mama's  out!

Gad Zooks,
the zedonk,
was mostly,
a happy little fellow.

but,
there did happen,
to be days,
when his,
incomplete
stripes,
got him down...
he was not horse,
not full zebra,
only part donkey.....

and that made him feel, shonky, wonky,
weird n'strange...
like an equine oddity.
not at all likin his ***-dity

when he felt like this,
he would run afar
and pray for god
to take,
his markings,
away.....

Granmama Zooks,
a zebra matriach
and of magnificent stripage,
found him this day
mumbling and crying away...

she then said to him,
in her best zebra neigh....
you are sad little zedonk,
to act this way....
you should think of yourself,
in a different mindset....
you have,
the best bits,
of zebra and donkey.
you just don't see it yet...

i've learnt in my time
you just have to work,
what your born with...
some times,
what you see,
as bad,
actually is,
a god given gift.

you, should be always
be proud of who you are
and what you will become...

people will travel,
for miles and miles,
to see your bars...
and will still be,
talking of you little gad..
as they leave, all smiles.

in their cars,
calling you,
either zedonk...or zonkey,
or zedonkedey  too.
telling each other,
you are,
both cute and bizarre..

so my little,
hotchpotch friend,
be proud of you...
for in the end,
you will,
stand out from
the crowd
just chill, little zook
                      ...and be zen.

he lies sleeping under
the sage green sheet
on his side turned away
from me and my intrusive light

the sheet is gathers about him
like grass upon the mountain range
that peaks at shoulders and hip

at tne bead head, a tangle
of jungle vines curled and intertwined
and the sound of a bear embarking
on a short winters hibernation

at the foot, ten pebbles of varying size
attached to two size eleven boulders
of a sunbrowned material
aged by sun, surf and sand
yet on the underside
a pale pink, reminiscent
of the delicate  inside
of the finest seashell

the grass on the upper reaches
of the moutain range, waves
as the wind sighes in and out
of the bear-cave mouth
and the plains of the lower
shift in small earthquake tremors
before settling in somulant torpor

when my man mountain sleeps ,he sleeps

they are like,
amorphous things,
these thoughts, these half remembered dreams
floating,
like lilypads upon a pond
luscious green rounded fronds and shooting,
ponted drafts of sun....
luminescence, drifting on.
i dream in monet, today.
all fuzzed dots and pastel hues....close up, nothing new
but from a few steps back,
a picture...gorgeous to behold...
let me now... dream....
somemore....mayhap
i soon will see, immpression:
             soliel levent

i walk...
out into the sun,
through the creaking gate,
down accross the strip
of brown driedup grass,
over the already warm,
under my feet, tarmac
to the roads crumbling edge,
all the while, the kookaburras are laughing
with glee and the rainbow
lorikeets, are gossiping about me....
i walk down the cliff side steps, seventy three and
then one last, doozy jump,
onto the squeaking sand.
stop a moment now, to
shed my shoes and shirt,
down to the tideline...
now, i am leaving land,
for wave and froth and
beating water, keep striding
through, to the deeper salt
and then, suspended,
in the ocean.....
feeling free...
as i give myself to it and it gives to me....

          **back to the mother,
      my souls own, delight,          
   saltwater  washing
                           heals all.

here i am..
walkin the line,
that's blowin in the wind.
suantering down the
pathways of my mind,
not knowing where to
begin.
cause i've seen fire and
i've set fire to then rain
had sunshine on my shoulders
been addicted to  the pain
run for the roses
on the glorious road
sat on a dewdrop
carried a ain't too heavy load.
danced in the rain
turned the tables
read the fables.
been another brick,
in the big brick wall.
conversed with
the mildy insane,
went to the chappel.
drank bucksfizz and
straight champagne.
been to paradise.
been to me.
waited at the copa,
wanted to be bornfree.
sat on the dock
and watched the
bad moon rise.
walked 500miles
saw it rain in spain.
knocked on the green door
of the lobstershack.
took the stairway to
heaven,
by the dash board lights.
rode a avalanche back.
built this city,
had a drink at the pub
with no beer.
talked to the solitary man,
about the days of the old
school yard.
laughed a lot.
stood down on the corner,
thinking of  fernando
and red red wine.
sent my message via a bottle,
to be heard on  the grapevine.
got my self all dizzy,
dancin with myself,
at the the fairground.
but didn't cry out loud
found my true colours,
tarnished and dusty,
in of all places, xanadu.
waiting now with bright
eyes, for my baby to arrive,
he took the morning train
me i am keeping busy
watching the world drift
by on granma's featherbed
all the while the nips are getting bigger. send in the
clowns to run amok
downtown and i will sit on top of the world lookin at bothsides now.
see me trying for
jumpin jack flash  
gas-satisfaction.
whilst losing my religion,
after six months in a leaky
boat and four seasons in one day.

all i've really got to go
with is:
obla dee obla da
life goes on
blah......

life goes on.

i am baking bread,
hair piled atop my head.
abba playing ....me out of
key singing along.
flour dust and nordic exuberance,  in the air.

....my friend fernando...
as i knead the dough...
punch it down.
....i would my.....

****** smell, silky feel.. dough, dough, dough...
oven not too...hot ...
money, money, money...

rest the dough...agnetha
i am not....
but baking bread....
may make me a mamma mia
or may be my waterloo...

just have to wait and see.

the elephant sits quietly
in the corner,
reading Holmes
as we tiptoe through the to,
too many words,that slipped
from tequila lips
and open-gated brains.

the leopard,
is in the bathroom
tinting his fur
to an even shade of black
and the owl
is busy outside
trying to get
the wisdom of the ages
safely back.... inside.

monkey saw,
monkey did,
monkey lies,
monkey defies,
monkey now,
in the barrel
with a nailed-down lid.

and the whale sings,
a mournful song.
the dolphins,
once  again,
thank us  for the fish
and then move on.

but still,
the elephant sits
and reads on...
as we fervently wish
the dormouse to appear
and slap the mopey begger
on his ample rear.

*with nods of thanks to:
folklore, CS Lewis, Dr Suess
and Douglass Adams

on the edge of darkness.
feline grace beholds,
the little things of nightime.
scrabbling away.
the nose quivers.
pupils dilate.
questing ever questing.

tree boughs, creak and pop
then silence once again.
as the moon reveals,
the tide upon the rise.

nocturnal beings found,
bathed in silverlight.
unworldy and archiac,
in days bright colourings.

but some how, realistic,
in the nightime setting.
faded but majestic.
clothed in monochromes.
different not pathetic.
darkness is their poem.

just found out
today is
random acts of kindness day
although not so random
if they assign it a day....
the point being
take a chance
go a little bit out of your way
to do something kind
for some one today....
perhaps write a poem
for a fellow poet...
or take an old neighbor
some flowers
pay some one bus fare
or buy a homeless person
a muffin....
does not really matter
what you do....just
spread some kindness
around....
lord knows the world could do with it...

whis, whisp, whispering
sibulantly
soulfully
in my
ear

the deep darkness
speaks to the
kindred lost
inside the
synapses

break free
breakfree
she is a
broken
thing

but
still
my heart
holds strong
against the desire
for madness to reign

it is a
battle
fought long
and desperately hard
each and every moment

i prevail, the voices
only, whisper now -
once they were clarion
bells, ringing loud and long

i prevail
            and will be
                              sane soon.

                               sane, soon
                 i will be
prevail i will...i will...

In my heart,
a road travelled, enough,
but still overgrown and walked
in pensive  solitude
leads
to a green field of stones
that looks out over white chopped seas

To here I come when my soul is
perplexed beyond belief
when my heart is torn and bruised

This is my field of ragecand grief
where I stand and howl at injustice
beat my breast at lifes inequity
and weep slow salted tears of regret

Today again I come to my field of fallen friends
and etch your name ernesto,
the ded poet, who lived a thousand lives

And I rage and rampage, and set war in my heart
against the gods who took this voice,
this warrior this talent....friend.... and father.

But all is sound and fury set to the wind
to be dispersed as froth and rain...

As my soul quiets, my tear fall softly,
thinking on your moons, your love,
for them, and you love for your life...

Too soon, for you to go...
but the words, you have given them
and us, as well are jewels, cut and faceted
treasures for the darkest of nights.

....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

No man an island
yet we stand with brand
in hand, waiting
to set set alight all bridges
as we make our stand
for ourselves
over our fellow man.

We stand and watch as
killers ****, then
turn the channel
seeking the next
momentary thrill.

Less and less we involve
ourselves with others
in a meaningful way
we are more likely
to be engaged in
digital play
as we die
a little more
each solitary day

If it sounds
like I am preaching
it is because  I am

More to myself
than others
but then again
perhaps I am reaching
to you and others like
to those who understand

the carillion is a ringing
that, the sounds of bells
are stealing up upon us
as we ignore calamity to play,
tetris and zombie clan

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.**

we the poets of consciousness,  
are the translators ....
of the thoughtless thoughts
and long lost creeds

we are the heart that cries
as this world bleeds
from razors cuts
by the many thousands,

we are the recorders of the deeds
both small and large
important an seemingly insignificant.

scribes and libraians we be both
noting written word and oral oath
we partake, we give to all
but at our best we are the accord
of action and thought, deed and word

so that we reflect upon
ourseleves and others
the joy, the hate,
the hurt, the succour
the wonderment and ease,
the love and loving care
we make the hard easier to bear
we make the horrible, we make crazy
we have the ability to make the hard person care
those in despair hope...those at the end of themself
reach once more for the dangling rope

we are the fabric, the paper
on which this world is printed
we are the old gold coin
and the newly minted

we are islands with bridges between
we are understanding,
between commoner and queen

we are those who stand ready
to extinguish harmful flame
yet we are those to set hearts alight
we are those who call others
away from the game
and into the heart of the heart
into cognizant frames

we are listeners
and bell ringers both
we refine the languages
we create the quotes

we are the fresh morning
we are the new start....

the little white lie
just a harmless seed
but will it grow
into flower.....
or ****.

i see, in the black
studio cave of creativity.....

gangling, disinterested youth.
metamorph...
into mecurial, liquid madness...

fluid, upon the stage,
they fly, toward the lights.
moths, to a burning moon.

momentary flashes,
of. god's humour,
in flight across
the mechanical sun's
gelled brightness.

and then the curtain falls.
and they drift back,
into their former selves,
inarticalate, but secretly
smiling.

i am always amazed at how
my convoluted mind works.

just read sverre,s title...

my cup runneth over....

and was instantly, catapulted,
back to....
a sweltering, sunday morning.
sitting on a slippery gloss
painted bench...navy blue
and white....
in my itchy lace collared
dress....for best use only.
singing, angelicly.
the lord saved me
(sign of cross, then
hands pointing to the sky)
i am as happy as can be
(point to smiling face, then hands clapping)
my cup's full and .....running over.
(hands make cup,heels of palms together. then roll over each other.)
my hands reiterating the
words with the actions,
(in brackets).

i would not have sung
that gospel song,
for more
than thirty years...

my mind....is a funny thing
but the memory is a happy one.

must be a local now,
and doin something
right...
just got my logain  badge
my work dreck to his sight
redundant too

whoo!!! hoo!!!

when I was small
to small to see over
the tabletop, my aunt
taught  me to make God's Food
she gave me lessons
in baking, in alchemy

I stood on stool,
so I could mix the
ginger powder,
flour and eggs in
the big old green
mixing bowl
with a big wooden
spoon, half as tall as me

I wore an apron and had
one of my poppa's hanky's
tied over my hair...

My Auntie Barb,
poured over my dry mix
hot melted butter,golden syrup
and brown sugar, with careful
hands and then briskly mixed
it through, a glorious batter
was made.

together my hands
covered by hers,
soft comfort and calluses
would pour the batter into
old rectangle loaf tins,
paper and greased,
then into an oven
to bake and spread
the scent of  ginger, cinnamon
and caramel, throughout the old
weatherboard house....

I would happily lick the spoon
and scrape every last bit of gooey batter
from the old palmolive green mixing bowl
as we waited for the baking alchemy to occur

Roughly forty minutes later,
the oven door would be opened
and loaf of gingered goodness
would appear, the kettle would be
placed on the hob to boil, tea in the ***
cups, plates and cutlery on the table
sugar,milk and butter too

Then her voice, would call
gingerbread is up, and all
would come, interrupting
footaball, a good book,
an afternoon nap,
or the tv program
nothing stopped one
coming for gingerbread

The loaf would be sliced
still warm and thick
almost overwhelming
all that warm ginger
so very exotic, then
it would be lathered
with butter, that would melt
almost on contact.....
and that was a such a feast

There was magic in that kitchen
even though I make ginger bread
the same way, something is missing
perhaps the warmth of the old oven
or some little pinch of salt or nutmeg
or perhaps the ginger has changed

Or it might be just nostalgia....
for simpler times..when my biggest
responsibility was mixing ginger bread batter

******! dali,
the clock's
sliding off
the wall...
again.

piccasso,
you *******
you blest
me with
three *******...
but nothing to
hold it all

van gogh,
whose
going to
clean up
all that straw
and blood.

and
munch,
do you
wonder
that
i
scream!!!

upon your skin
the tears fallen from brooding clouds
tastes of warm and wetness

upon your skin
the specks of sanded down mountains
tastes of salt and rust

upon your skin
flecked grass shaved from the meadows beard
tastes of goodness and hope

upon your skin
water rivuleted from the salted realm
tastes of iodine and mystery

upon your skin
timbers tamed, taken,
taste of cedarsap and history fallen


upon your skin
my tongue  tastes
these wonderous thing

i am but a beggar at a feast.......

as we lie sate,
in the sand.
postcoital
depression, begins.

this quickie, in
the sandhills, on
the beach.

well, while it
scratched the itch.
it left the soul,
bereft of connection.

we two just,
almost, known,
strangers,
made s.e.x.
lust,
the primary need
love,
a bystander,
at the freak show.

antipathy rises,
a dragon ravaging,
my soul.
as my co conspirator
stands, zips and staggers
away.

is the anger...
directed at him,
a rampant manniquin.
or myself,
an accepting needing
cavern.

darkness, wrapped
about in self doubt
i rise
and rearrange myself,
donning my disguise,
of carefree debutante.

i am the ultimate
partygirl.
i walk back to the
beat of the  music.
leaving behind,
one more scrap,
of my dignity.

one biscuit left,
in the jar.....
not for long.
wasn't quick enough,
all gone..
no biscuits left,
in the jar.
.....vending machine
here i come.....

some where in my house sits a cute little monster
in dragon like pose
on top of his purlioned
and just found lying around,
trove of treasure.

fifty seven odd socks
(i counted the others)
and three pair to boot shoelaces and metres of string
an inch of fragrant ginger root
a tie patterned cleverly with clowns
a beĺl that swallowed it's ding
used tissues galore
fifteen duplo men,
in various stages
three circus lions sans,
their cages
a sherrifs badge
about ten dollars roughly,
in loose change
a tiny baby dulldozer,
to shift it all about silverware, cottonbuds, lipsticks,
hundreds of chinese takeaway chops sticks
mr potato head's nose,
a squad of g.i joes
a ping pong ball that
has lost it's zing
a ring of keys for,
no longer locks
pencils, crayons, texta pens
all in a woodwork,
pencil box.


now this monster is cute
and he is twee
he loves all his treasures with cheery equanimity fussing and fixing
his stash he wanders about just out of sight
looking to add to his *****.

what a sight,
we see,
when,
with eyes, wide open
we love someone;
from the place of truth,
in our hearts.


it is, beauty incomparable,
enigmatic, eccentric,
sometimes unbearable.

it is, a labyrinth unravelled,
a road yet travelled,
a sojourn for sighing soul.

it is, awe inspiring,
death, defying hope.

it is, kindness and patience,
a forbearing of ill will.

it is, awkward and
uncomfortable
and the revealing
of family secrets.

it is, showing up,
showing off,
antics,
awesome and terrible.
and hell's bell's,
ringing out the doomed
damnation,
of carefree days
and liver
destroying nights.


it is, heaven,
when, you know
the love that is.
but remains unspoken.

it is, every aspect of
daily life,
given extra,
shine and polish

it is, ever forgiving strife

true love is life
and
life is love.
the other stuff,
mere, broken tokens,
spilled upon cobblestones.

stretch and crack
unkink your morning back
bend and sway
blood rush to your head today
rise and stretch
showing way to much flesh
and pivot,and pivot,and pivot
those hips
and shut, and shut, and shut,
those lips
star jumps.... ground shakes
push ups.... heart aches
burpees .... desire to ***
and bend and bend and bend
please end, please end, oh god, please end

feel the burn
gotta be someone elses turn
match the beat
c'mon i am out on my feet
no pain no gain
gain i am trying to lose
lets work to beat the clock
lets work not to beat the ****
with a sweaty coin filled sock

okay time to warm down
fall down best thing i have
heard all morning  trainer ****

on this day
when the sky
resembles god's bellybutton
filled with fuzzy
only he knows
where it comes from lint

and the ground, sodden
and squelchingly muddy
and puddles abound

on this day....we look to
each other and find old
board games and puzzles to
play...kerplunk, unbarrelled
monkeys...snakes and ladders.....and jenga
all entertain...as we play
just us three....

(for nanna there is cricket
and napping)

now it is mid afternoon
and we are tumble together
like monkeys on the couch
tod...sleeping thumb in mouth...and us wrapped together....beginning the slow forplay that will
come to fruition tonight...
we have stolen this day...
and are happy....in doing so

into the gloaming
you dance, with small
uncertain steps

the music dims
heard mostly
inside your mind

the swing band plays
as you sway
between uncertainty
and the nineteen fifties

when you danced all night
in patent leather pumps
with stockings saved for
the occassion

glowing with youth
and the energy that
falling love brings

now these memories
burn bright as your
life light dims
and your dance partner
the kind young nurse

as down the hall
in the mood
plays on some ones
radio

we have an echidna
dining on ants
in our garden

the little devon rex cat
tuxedo boy is perplexed

it is the first echidna he has seen
and tux is not sure if it is
a toy, food or a future nemisis
so is watching it from the deck,
neck stretched out so far
he has lost his wrinkles.
eyes big and nose twitching
his ears swivelling  like radar dishes

the echidna,
is placidly eating
little nose snuffling,
and spines shaking as he moves
he is done now
and makes his way
to the hole in the fence

the cat, now bold,
goes to investigate
nose to ground, but not for long.
the acridic smell of dying ants
give him cause to sneeze and sneeze
before hustling back to the safety of the deck

another lesson learnt
echindna's are no cat's toy...

the days subsides,
with adoring colour
and the racous choral,
of retiring lorikeets.

we sit upon the deck,
cold bevvies in hand
and watch the master
painter at work,

over on the mountain range
the clouds gather.
ben, laconically states,

"storm tonight"

and yes that smell,
so wonderful,
sits heavy in the twilight air.

petrichor, heavy on the eucalypt, ****** beer,
and warm tar....
the smells of a stormy,summer afternoon.

with apologies to WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)

Once more to the table, dear friends, once more;

Or close up our hungry mouths with supermarket staples.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of hunger blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Cut fine the sinews, simmer up the blood,

Disguise cheaper meats with hard-favour'd sage;

Then lend the stirring spoon a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the foccacia bread

Like the brass cannon; let the garlic o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled onion

O'erhang and jutty his confounded  tomato base,

Swill'd with a wild and wasteful Cabernet Savignon.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.

Whose ragu is fet from Nonna's fail proof recipe!

Nonna's that, like so many  Stephanie Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even, baked

And brewed their sauces  and stews, for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest...

That those whom you call'd mothers did feed you well

Be copy now to men of larger appetites

And teach them how to eat.

And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your belt; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so hungry,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

did you ever wonder
as you walked along the sea shore
and picked up pretty shells

whether, there was,
a naked hermit crab
hiding among the rocks
and water swells
thinking....

*"well **** me....i just got
gazumped, again,
on my new seaside condo...."

Munster was his name,
after Herman Munster
of TV fame cause,
he was so big.
But not scary, feral big,
just double dose of cat big.

He was predominately
sleek, shiny black,
with a white bib
and crooked muzzle,
like he had his moustache
painted on in a hurry.
Oh, and he had one white paw.
Poppajack used to say,
he had been caught by God
stealing cream.

Munster was sleek, sinuous
muscle,
he rippled when he walked.
In stalk mode he was, panther incarnate.
Albeit, dressed in a tuxedo.

In cat term's he was vain,
always preening, or finding
a vantage point to show
himself off to the best photographic angle.

But just occasionly,
if we were lucky
and the butterflys
were on the wing,
he would, kitten prance
like a pixie, at the birth of spring.

He was a hunter,
not of bugs and lizards.
A ratter of renown,
he could take a bird
from it's early flight
without a care.
I once saw him, come home
and drop a rabbit,
at Poppajacks feet, before
finding the evening sun
for a well earned nap.

Munster loved Poppajack,
with dedicated flair
would follow him about
the garden, bulter-like,
dignified tail, straight and tall.
They would parade
in regal state,
to check on the vegetable serfdom.

He was not a cat of lap,
but,would sprawl over Poppa's feet like,
black satin slippers
with a purring engine beat.

Majestic Moggy Munster,  was felinetity in it's prime.

well,
this is awkward!
my thought as i stand, balanced,
one leg in my knickers,
the other bent
flamingo-esqe
halfway through the other leg hole.
other than this,
-nekid-
facing the full length glass sliding door,
that in turn
faces the newly stripped
of garden house next door.

to be more exact that faces what the new owners,
must have chosen as their bedroom.
how have i come to this decision.
well as i hop and jiggle about,
the aforesaid neighbor stands frozen,
in his window,
hands on the towel in his hair,
the full frontal rest of him bare in all his glory,
bronzed and pale
bits, swinging in the breeze,
thin, hair less.

we have caught each other in undress.
awkward!!!!
as i said.
but manners hold sway,
i give a cheery wave,
as i hop and jiggle away.

I guess...
it is too late,
to become a gymnast.
too late to get up
before the sparrows rise,
take myself to the gym
and hurl my slim, svelte, sleek
gymnast's body about on apparatus

too late to tape my ankles and feet.
too late to slip into shiny unitards.
too late to covet trophies and medals.

I know...
it is too late....
my knees tell me so...
every morning!

I guess...
it is too late,
to become an astronaut,
to encapsulte myself
in a small rocket.
shoot myself into
the stratosphere
and look down in awe
upon the blue planet.

too late to deal with training.
too late to get myself fitted
for the baggy astro suit.
too late to be given the bubble mask.
too late to feel the awkward gracefulness of no gravity.

I know....
it is too late...
my knees tell me so
each and every morning...


thank goodness...
it is not too late,
to be able to dream.
to forget arthritic knees,
in delirious early morning dreams.

to believe these things are beautiful.
to know hope and glory, even if only
in the moments when you are yet to
awake to this days humble grind.
to live other lives..... if only..... momentarily.


I guess....
and I hope....
there will always be...
time space for that.

I know there will
my knees tell me so.....

and so, the calvous dome
which held his brain,
was set upon
a scrawny frame,

of bleach-ed,
parchment on bony wire.
all cobbled to together,
with old horse glue.

and covered with
clothes of a faded,
soft, denim blue
and when,
this sombulant
pile of  aged junk,
moved he sorta slunk
and creaked and clacked,
accompanied by a stench
that was not of rose.

clouded eyes,
blackened teeth
toe nails,
reminiscent
of a coral reef.

this was the old man,
who lived in the old
winnebago van.

this was the old man,
who always lent a hand.

who loved us all from afar,
who left us a library,
when his life was spent
and he was to heaven sent.

we are on strike
today...
in a passive sort of way
we got to classes
but don't teach
the students come to classes
but don't learn....
some lectures have become
filmhalls
here in theatre....we are offering donuts and  a big
bang marathon....
all to show a goverment
that placing a new pricing
scheme on higher education
is counterproductive....
but they are not interested
in our voice....we are but
cogs ...... they the machine.

on
        albatross wings
                                      i flew
                                            inspired to fledge
and grow out & off
                          my comfortable nest
                                                            my wings
        i did expand from small tight
             to broad - broad wide

thanks to you
                    who signposted
                             my wild flight of fancy
                                                             who fed me

from their private stash of goodies

                               who saw me fly up on the edge              

             of reason on majestic wings

                         if but for
                                                     a season.....
maybe two.....