i sometimes sit and ponder
what my life would be like
with out the both of you

i suspect,
i would be some
small (uni) town
catlady, about sevencatcrazy
exsisting on takeaway chinese and rom coms

soglad you came along, happenstance as it was...

this day
we come together
we congregate
we stand together
from different nations
we gather, in this place
to mourn, to weep
to say, to pray for no more
no more the innocent.....
we this congregation
made from different
colours, different races
different religions and creeds
stand in quiet hope and grace
trying together to put in place
an understanding, that leaves
no man, woman  or child
thinking that the death
of another person,
is a valid way to make
a political or religious statement

we stand together and weep
and pray for all those who have
become or have been made pawns
to this style of rhetoric...

friday night
the puddle of sanity
in which we soak

squish-squashed
in-between
the workday week

tonight i arrive
so swim ready
with chinese food
in boxes
beer and soda in bottles
and the biggest **** chocolate block i could find
and one or two extra
treats for
later...and never-you-mind

i am the hero/heroine
and as we sit
in a friday food frenzy
i can leave this week
from the gods of academic
penury way behind

hey you...
that last spring roll
                                    ..MINE..

Pigeon toed  wombats
Determinedly trundle by
Heading  to burrows

i am a mother
away from her child
i  am a child
apart from her mother
i am a friend come sister-kin
grieving a loss unbearable
i am adrift
in a sea of nothingness
please my lover hold me
close...murmur kind wise
words in my ear
and for you i will recipriocate
for you are
father,son, friend
and you too need
me to be near.
alone, together, adrift
this mother's day night.

today  we had
chocolate cake
for breakfast

the really deep fudgy type
the one that the taste stays
in your mouth for a long time after
so that you still think you
are eating chocolate two hour late

the type your mum used to make
and have waiting for you after school
sitting there on the table, with a glass
of cold fresh milk, the type that made
the worst day of schoolyard politics
be forgotten as you took that first bite

that is what we had for breakfast today
that sort of chocolate cake.....
I can still taste it now.....

i am a somewhat simple soul.
i find happiness in most everything,
a glimmer of hope,
a glint of a smile.

i aknowledge the great sadness anger and despair, that is the happy coins opposite bling.
have tossed and lost,
many times.

but now with joy,
i declare these things,
below, today,
are my happy fare:

a lover's kiss brushed across my sleeping brow, a grimy face,
two muddy little hands
and a satisfied grin.
the smell of muffins
baking in a tin.
the rhythmic click, clacking of knitting,
from the nanexxe exuding.
the smile of a gerberer,
the purr of cat,
the flight of ladybird,
the look of my bloke,
in a pork pie hat.

giggling, tickling, wriggling, boys watching cartoons. little girls, in pink tutus
with a lack of poise.
fine art,
a good turn of phrase.
me singing off key,
out of tune,
bass booming,
to my favourite song.
skip-trip dancing, along.

chocolate, coffee,
tea with dear friends.

o me, o my,
my list never ends,
so many things,
on my list,
so many things,
i have missed
but i must begone
to live my list
and wander on.

i find that in my pursuit of happiness i am often tackled by it.....
....that is the joy in this game of life i love

white sand
flecked with
blackend seaweed

occasionally
a smooth tumbled pebble

the smell of salt
and iodine

water, whitecapped
as far as the horizon
and beyond

and heat clear crisp heat
drawing and drying sweat
on bodies bronzing

seagulls squabbling
over chips thrown
to a zephyr breeze

and the sound of sea
making love to sand
sealife, in australia

In my big old double bed this fine Saturday morning.....
...one husband ....still blissfully snoring...
...one small child starfish....
...one cat kneading and pawing....
one paperback..... in want of restoring.....
one small wet patch.... we are all ignoring...
one headache slowly brewing.....regret for the loss of an early morning lay... frustrated desire at aforementioned lay.... physical evidence the big boy was ready to play....
chips crumbs..from a midnight snack......
...furtive guilt..at the thoughts .....i'm harbouring of.... running away ..just for the day
...a pair of jocks.. just one sock a small dinosuar ....and the picture book he's reading.......
for god's sakes cat stop your kneading.. i will feed you soon
a mental list..... way too long of things in need of doing........
years of love and family building......
....one early middle aged mother
.... one starfish child....
.... one husband blissfully snoring ...
....one little grey cat still kneading and pawing ......

not got poetry within me...

have searched and sought,
found only dry bones
and hollow whispers

mirages to a soul that sighs.
mirages to a soul that cries...

bones that clack and clatter,
whispered words that natter
and scatter and dissipate
....at an alarming rate

my ear aches, my heart aches
and those bones, do break...
and shatter

mirages drift, mirages drift...

as i sift and seive a tired mind,

yet no poetry do i find....

going through spring heatwave here
tempretures that are hot for summer
the last three days.

sweltering
guzzling
perspiring

phhht so hot
the lizards are seeking shade
the devon rex has declared
the bath tub as his and hisses
if we try go move him


sweltering
guzzling
sweating

found my boy
sleeping with the fishes
really he had climb into the fish pond
and was pretending to be asleep
while the fishes swam around him

perspiring
guzzling
sweltering


sweltering perspiring guzzling

sent the surfer dude out for some beer
he was taking a long time
rang him....hes said i live her now
in the beer fridge...at dan murphies
come join me....bring pizza and the boy
we will be happy

some days
the bunyip
comes
to
rip
tear
and rend
the
dreams
from
your
flesh
and
the
flesh
from
your
soul

somedays
the bunyip
just
comes
and takes
you whole

but most days
he sleeps
in the billabong
everdeep
in the stolen
lives he
has chosen
to keep.

I came upon Neruda today,
laying open, catching the sun
Just sitting there on the old  wooden bench

Much loved and well thumbed,
spine broken, ringed a dozen times
with tea, coffee, goodness know what..

That lugubrious face, staring sightlessly
out into, the world...

and my thoughts, drifted,  to you,
my friend, whose voice I never heard
but knew the passion of the writer,
He Pablo, was one of your heros..
and as I flicked through the beauty
of words, so emphatic and beautiful
so sublime, so masterfully crafted.

I paused and smiled, thinking of
you and he sitting on a park bench
on some other plane....
discussing words and their worth...

I left Neruda there to captivate
another mind and heart....

and went on my way...
somewhat
lighter of heart....

i open the door to the
crisp autumn air
the smell of eucalypt
and salt...

first frost has fallen,
a light fairy dusting
of sparkling crystals
shimmer beguilingly
on the green lawn.

dissected by trail of cat prints
leading to a mess
of blue and black feathers.
this was one early bird,
who should have stayed in bed?

and on the rocks,
near the koi pond,
framed by the early sun.
the black and white cat
from down the road,
washes it's face....
with long clawed paws.

inside the house,
my less ferocious two
settle for chicken biscuits
and the warmth
of recently vacated beds.

I sigh and mourn the loss
of yet another wren....
before cleaning the evidence away.

the black and white cat watches,
with golden, gleaming and wholly unrepent eyes.
before slinking off, behind the lilacs.

so now, peace is restored....
and the water burbles gently across the rocks.
while the frost melts away
and the sun gains strength
to face another...
glorious autumnal day.

Ragged breath
pushed through  lips
paperthin and dry

Clouded moons
in once sparkling  eyes

Skin of face
folded and creased
by years of laughter

Age has wearied you
beyond repair

Your first foot treads
heavily upon heavens stair

And in this pastel room
the reward for a life of care

As we come to usher you away
to your final, hopeful jubilee day

All have come, none have missed
the opportunity to thank you
for, the gifts you gave...

One word of kindness, from your lips
ripples through the lives you touched
and all your students learnt well
to live, love and give freely,
of caring humanities touch.

In this pastel room, we stand,
touching one last time,
the gnarled and giving hand

And when we leave, we do weep
for loss, but also joy....
knowing your soul does keep
to the pieties of love.

So in the days to come,
know your grace will live on
through lives and generations
your teaching will be the yardstick
to which our hearts are measured
YOUR WORDS, YOUR LIFE,
REMEMBERED AND TREASURED

i sit on the edge
of your bed.
stroking your fine golden
hair,
as you murmur and mumble
in your sleep.

you had once again,
thrown off your covers
and lay with arms and
legs oustretched.

you are outgrowing
these pyjamas,
with the curious george
print.
you are out growing
this narrow bed,
made...
as your first,
big boy bunk

and sadly you are
outgrowing the toddler's
need,
to be within sight of
the mother.

i am glad you are defining
youself,
as independant.
i am glad you are going
through,
this season
of seperateness.

as it gives us,
comfort to know,
the examples we have set,
allow you to be,
a happy, carefree child
who can,
enjoy his own company
or,
can play within a group
quite happily.

but i do miss,
your squishy little hand
in mine...
i do miss,
those clinging cuddles
and the nestling
of your little body,
fitting, squirmily,
into the side of mine....

i must ask Da to design
a bigger bed for you....
perhaps now,
you can help him build it.

you have now  settled
back into deep sleep,
my golden boy
and yet,
i cannot  take
my leave of you....

i linger,stroking,
your sleeping head,
drinking in,
the last vestiges of my baby, my toddler...
my growing up, ever up,
faster than i thought...
little man..

sun plays peekaboo
with the horizon
i am awake
my hip aches
age playing tag
no...no,  i have dinosaur hip when i reach down
to massage the place
i find a gift from my boy
a tiny tyranasaurous rex
has left a lasting imprint
i am branded by toy

now sitting at the table kitchen
i read the mornings joy.... and despair from the
world of poets. hello!
gathering myself
together
over early morning tea
i organize my tin soldiers and wind up my clocks mentally.
big game today
big game everyday
the season  is long,
have to finish out strong
be crowd pleasin
no bench warming allowed forward full throttle
life is playing on thru...
life is  coming on strong
life the game we play
til the game's all gone.

go team!!!!

got caught up in blue ink
fever last night,
reading h.p. pops and wrestling
with the words.
only to find the new day at hand

so now i am sitting in a meeting of great importance.

(eyes drooping, day  dreaming,
sheep visiting- NO, don't count the ****** things, YOU FOOL!)

discusing matters of teaching and reaching decision on text,

(cotton pillows with smiles on their dials, beckon me over the fence to play with bo peeps sheep DO NOT COUNT THOSE SHEEP.)

books and performance scripts for the following  year, now is when

(sheep are such fluffy little things, you could just put your head down on their little tummies. LEAVE THE SHEEP ALONE HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU)

you make a case for new works
and differing the standard

(and there is just so many of the fuzzy little deweds, DON'T EWE DARE.  IF I HAVE TO COME OVER THERE  EWE'LL KNOW ABOUT IT!!!!!)

teaching formats

(one little sheepy, two  sheepy sleep, three little sleepy sheepy,,,,,,four llilĺlte sleeeepppyshee RIGHT!!pppy
NOW YOU HAVE DONE IT!!!! TIME FOR THE BIG GUNS)

Bo, are you with us, I know this isn't the most exciting  discusion,
but it would be helpful if you could refrain from snoring.

(TOLD EWE!!)

the potter,
made me whole.
the world broke me.
you, are the craftsman,
who put me back together.
it is your love,
purest gold, that holds
the broken shards in place
and makes me,
beautiful, beyond measure.
to the eyes of the beholder.

for me,
there is an undeniably
exquisite beauty,
in an aged face
it lies in the lines of life,
etched by angels,
as unseen cartographers.
it hides behind the crow's feet and creased frown lines. it is so apparent in the mryiad of tiny wrinkles
at the movement
of the faded red lips.
it is carried in the baggage under the eyes
and the luggage of wattle
at the throat.
it winks from slow
moving eyelids and thin arching brows.
it glows in a smile
that folds and creases
the skin like origami.
it is the beauty,
ethereal,
of a life lived,
of love found
and lost,
of hardship suffered,
and joys revealed,
of working hard each
and every day,
yet still finding time
to sing and dance
and play.
it is beauty,
created by endurance.
not manufactured
by cosmetics and pills
and machines.
it is a beauty,
so honest and true,
that it needs not
these things,
to embellish or frame,
it is the beauty,
of the years passing by, standing proud,
without fear or shame.
it is the old woman
sitting on the bus,
in the park,
having a quiet cup of tea,
it is my mother,
asleep in front of the tv.
and one day,
              i hope it will be me....

the stockings were hung
then unstrung
the gifts wrapped
then opened and scrapped

eyes open wide, at gifts given with pride
forgive us dear lord for the little white lies

I adore it, no it won't leave my side
Where can we find a place for,
this monstrosity to hide

The church bells were rung
the carols sung,
All the while thing of the traveling miles
for the holiday away in the summer sun

Dinner was baked bbqed and burped
Wine was drunk, now Uncle Albert
is dancing, just shy of naked
drunk as a skunk, Aunt Em in the throes
of the holiday funk....has declared her new teeth
have been sunk into the trilfle....of which she is
elbows in, having a rifle, through
Dad's mid nap, and we are counting down the seconds
between each snore, Mum still asking any one for any more pav
And Malcom has dissapeared to the lav

and this is the Christmas, that we have had,
and tho it sounds dorky....I am a wee bit glad....

Tommorow we box ourselves in the car
travelling, travelling o so far
and back to the bickering, backstabbing and fights
but we practise peace to all men at Christmas
as is our right....
but with da and his snoring,
we have no chance of a silent night.

................truth..
once..... set free,
.....can cry,
joy ....or havoc
or the reams
......of the thesaurus
........in...between...

the choice.....
is in ..
...the hand of ....the scribe
and ......the heart from
which... the ink ......begins
it's.... souful journey..
...spritual....intellectual,
....intertwined....
set free...
to
touch...
another mind....

musing on pondering,

cogitating on ruminating,

postulating on speculating,

considering multiple theories,

deeming the discrepancies deniable

positing the petty presumptions,

theorizing multiple condsiderations,

apraising the mediations,

digesting the deliberations,

allowing for freefall meditation,

envisioning the expectations,

presuming the pontifications,

anticipating the asumptions,

comprehending the conclusion,

accrediting the rationalizations,

concluding the comprehesion,

spinning synaptic wheels,

hypothesizing the conjecture,

recollecting of the reminiscence,

adumbrating the prognostigcation,

concocting of the subliminate,

masticating on the cereberal machinations,

of the ocillations, in the agitatation,
apparent,
in an insomniac's maniacal brain,

reckoning not,
on the simple summation,
of the night's wayward,
mental arbitratration,


there is... just too much time,
to think....

and far too little time to write....

points of dust, moted light,
coded messages,
of indecipherable love,
from the sun and this day's dieties smile.
are....
siphoned through,
the dappled, green eucalypt
to become....
shafts of godly grace,
that tickle, wrinkle
and play hide and seek,
with the contours of your
handsome face,
weekend stubbled
and lax within,
the shadows of sleep's
suburban fringe.

curled up, on your lap
your child, golden, halo haired, head,
asleep.
ear at your heart's designation,
hand anchored,
in the flannel of your shirt,
foot tucked into, your trouser pocket.

a little, love limpet,
attatched firmly, to you.

you, and the littler you lie, serene and unaware,
in the old, striped deck chair.
quiet and together in,
restful, repose.

the remains of lunch...
now just, crumbs and
sticky fodder,
for busy trails of ants
and attracting the lazy bee's of bumble, that hover and hum, above.

and book reading's are open,
unfunished, scattered on the table..... waiting for the
eventual waking...

along with the cat,
perched imperial,
and purring,
on one ant free corner
of the old and faded,
rattan chair.
he stands watch,
dotingly, over,
his dozing clowder....

this is ... the wonder of,
sunday afternoon naptime.

little blue cat sleeps,
curled in the winter sun.
dreaming, big cat dreams,
run, gazelle, run, run, run.

what wild dreams
do you have as you
sleep away the days
til rain comes again
and unsticks the glue
around your door

whilst you are curled
up inside your nautilus
door closed to the world

do you dream of lettuce
leafy and green,
or puddles and wet grass
that tickles your foot

what do you dream
all tucked up, tight
with eyes retracted
and stomach slim.

what are the dreams
of the small snail
as he awaits, the rains

the god boy, grows a pace
no longer small, squalling child

now showing a fierce independent streak
that causes pride and fear in equal amounts

it is hard to balance the need to learn
and the need to teach...to protect
we fail the balance regularly
yet are fortunate to have suffered
no great ..... or lasting consequence

his greatest attribute,
our greatest joy
his sunny side up,
the ability to always,
see the best
in everything.....
eventually

as we slow and grey,
he seems brighter,
more intense...
gathering colur into him
only to give it out...
in a argent radience
that is contagious...
in  it's beauty

of course,
he has his flaws
my child,
is far from perfect
like his father,
his floor is his wardrobe
and like his mother
he is prone to losing himself
in bookworlds, while mundane
chores await..

but he is both the worst and the best of us

and more importantly
he is himself....forging
and identity and entity
bourne of love and compassion

and honestly
as a mother godess
and as a father god

there is naught more
we could wont
or ask for...

the air so,
crisp this morning.
there will be
no early morning swim.

but i will trek to the beach,
to watch the surfers,
young and old.
continue their love affair
with the waves and the wind.

the day is slow
the clouds barely drift
shadows lengthen
with minute pace

we sit together
and ponder life
grass grows before us,
tea brews in a cooling ***.

the cat stretches,
rolls over and
falls back into
blu-cat dreams


the world sighs....
                    such a wonderful
                                           lassitude

tis but a rusted memory
now
but once a child's pride and
beloved toy....

fire engine-red trike,
riden for miles, and miles
and across lands of
imagined adventure....

feet pumping, wind in face
bell clattering, tink-tink-tink
and screams of pure...
unadulterated JOY

now a shadow,
draped in old hessian cloth
bell silent, rust weeping
and frozen to the ground

red trike,
i ride you still
in my dreams
we still slay dragons
tho now it seems
that dragons have many
guises, many lives
and that in this life
of adultness...i am in
dragons...sometimes
not often, but sometimes win

swallomp, swallomp
HE the,  
smallsmiled, muckfrumper
swiped at his scnocklezogger

HE, must be comin down
with a squiffsquizzley...
he hoped not....

HE just HATED visiting the
Tristlings they POKED
cold, fizzfiginflers in awkward places,
like under your
spiztigwungle
and down your
floppleplagger
and then, gives you,
two mattmuttertrogs,
to have instead of dinner
and says....
you should feel prankyfilck,
by coddleslidiggetty.

but in the meantime....
no more,
squiggl-ing, dibbl-ing,
pivbabl-ong or tonggypaffle.

HE, the smallsmiled, muckfrumper,
tapped his stotching,
three times,
spun on the toes of his
zibdinkers
and wished for
luck and good health.
it was too good a stonkploffli
day to have a, mickering,
sqiffsquizzley.

swomple, swomple,swomp...

oh' where did those days go
those enid blyton days
when my greatest wish
was to be jo, from the famous five....

those long and glorious
summerdays....
of sunshine and youth.

when bikes and fresh air
whipping past your face,
was way more....
important,
than winning the ratrace.

when the local creek
was the multiplex,
with so many different worlds on show ....
at each
new bend of the
winding, water slow.

when life was a beach
and living was carefree..

those days of watermelon
slices and orange icee's
backyard cricket....
belt it over the fence
for a six and out!!!

bbq'd sausages,
smothered in onions
and tomato sauce....
slapped on a slice,
of good white bread,
sufficed as dinner.

with a salad of course,
(if quick the salad could
be served surreptisiouly to
the local wildlife with a slip
and tilt of the paper plate)
if lucky, strawberries and
icecream to follow.

oh' those were the days,
simpler than most...
when the biggest
difficulty
was in ,cadging
one more hour,
before sleeping at night.
one more chapter,
(perhaps, even two)
of adventuring
with the famous five,
before sleeping....
under the security
of  youth...

a creative entity,
kept far too busy,
unraveling the enigma,
unwrapping the riddle,
of the mystery novel,
that is living life....
euphorically, emphatically,
whilst furiously rowing,
in ever dwindling circles,
a slow-leaking dinghy,
on life's
idiosyncrasea....

that kind sir
just about sums up
the story of me....

bullet bitten
coffee smelt
road been beaten
ducks in a row
pigs grounded
box shredded
roses smelt
chewing the elephant
as we speak
no looking back
dusting the cowbwebs
offa the shelf
and the tigers in my eyeline now me and my betterself gonna take a timeout
talk about my life
got the box list here
love check,check,check
life double check
home check
health check
wow !!!
all silver and gold affirmitive wealth
so now i can,
kick back,
relax and grow
disgracefully old.
jeez i just love
this new
self management gig .....lol

up on the hills
the sheep graze
moving in wooly clouds
from green to green

if the wind blows the right way
you can hear their contented
baa-ing conversation.

down closer the duck pond is
teeming ducks all trying for the
bread and pellets, thrown by
a little girl in bright pink hooded
parka, mother standing beside

on the breeze, the smell  of fresh scones baking.

in my hand, tea milky and sweet.

on my mind,  the flavour
of jam, i will eat with those
oven warm scones.

saturday afternoon,
visiting old friends.
helps remind me life is good.

these are the thoughts
of Clive,
the neighborhood curmudgeon...

how do i know this,
i am the imp that put them here....
in the garden, you folks
call a brain......


take this, sodding life
and it's meaningless struggle.
i set my face to this wall
and brick myself self in
to this useless stall.

the old man, Clive,
grumbled with a,
set and sour grin.

you...you're all pathetic,
thinking you can win.
death's the only victor...
over us, one
and sodding all.

and you can take,
your sodding...
flowers and cards
and sodding, casseroles too!!

there was,
one ray of sunshine
in my life
and now she is gone.

and she is not,
sodding around in another room,
or waiting for me up there.
she is not, in greener pastures
cause she was never..
an effin cow.

she is,
six footdown,
underground,
in a cheap wooden box,
making fodder,
for worms and beetles.
slowly, they are,
breakin her down.

and it will not be,
sodding fine
and time will not heal...
a heart smashed to smithereens.
a life torn asunder
**** me it's time,
for you pathetic
do-gooders...
to get ****** real....

no i am not,
a happy man,
and yes i am,
greiving the greatest loss.
and a ******, sausage
and bean casserole,
is not going to be,
making me believe,
that the world,
is a fair and just place...

don't you, worry about me.
i reckon i'll soon be,
leaving, my home
and my goods and chattels
and be recieving last rites,
farewells and a deep,dirt bed.

and that will be,
fine and dandy,
as long as it is,
close and handy,
to my beloved, Mandy.

what?
you're worried...
about my,
state of mind...

will ya, just *******,
haven't i
made myself clear,
i am way, too busy dying,
to pay you any attention...

this garden just going gangbuster
hey¡¡yah huzzah!!!

arrowing words,
whispering lips,
shotgun words,
freudian slips,

words as weapons.
cutting delicate hearts.
****** syllables.
bruising brains.

what power we wield,
not ever knowing,
the cost.
less often gain,
more often at great cost.

but, for the moment
of retention,
between,
careless thinking
and hurtful speakings,
push the pause.
because,
the words that have slain.
mayhaps be the ones lodged
within your brain.

somewhere beyond
my ego...
lies the poet
who writes for,
the love of the sound,
of pen scribbling thoughts
upon fine lined paper.

the writer,
who devles into
the murk of the
morass of thoughts
rowing across the swamps
of the disordered mind.

the scribe,
who takes photographs
with words
deftly framing light and shade to produce
thought provoking images
so good, yet,
so hard to define.

the racounter,
who can spin a tall tale
on the edge of a dusty dime.

the truthseeker, soothsayer
not afraid to speak,
even when speaking
is condsidered a crime.

the jonguleur,
who plays with words
of six syllables or more, keeping them flowing, creating rhythm and rhyme.

somewhere...the earth mother lies
distilling truth into jots
and tittles
and sowing them into
lines...

somewhere...beyond
my ego...somewhere

i wake up at 5.41
again...
curled up in my armpit
the little blucat
blusfully happy
loud rumbling purrs
assure me of that
on my other side
asleep with head
resting on my belly
my soon to be
four years old son
i lie awake
in the dark
smiling...
surrounded by love
and wait for the kookaburra's call

here i am, unidentified.
tho, i have an identity.
pictures of a cat, starfish
and sea shells,
a blurb, that shelters me well.
you know some,
some read and see more
but not all of me, far from all.

you could pass me by,
in the street,
not ever knowing who i am.

few have links to me.
most care not to
and that's ok
i am an ambiguity,
who, tinkers away with words, creating,
sounds to roll off the tongue, tickle the ear
and burrow and settle in the rooms of your mind.

as do,
you all,
do for
and
to me.

we are but, ships upon
a sea of words,
sailing blithely on.
sending semaphore greetings,
across great distances.
before traveling on.

identified only,
by monikers and pseudonyms,
remaining anonymous
except for style and nuances
that give small clues,
to the daily worlds,
we inhabit.
where the veiled secrets
do not dwell openly,
as they do here,
on bright white pages.

here i remain, here
i am unidentified,
bar for a nom de plume.
yet still, more than comfortable  with myself.

the walker, bends,
her lycra-clad hips,
to check her addidas laces.

she has walked,
many, many miles
in this life.
all, in the pursuit,
of the, body beautiful.

and now, has the
musculsture,
of an aged chicken.
all string and rope,
under sagging skin.

she breathes deeply,
sips, from a metalic bottle
and begins,
the downward journey,
into the unenviable,
inevitablity of ageing.

she smiles and
gives me a cheery wave,
as she passes on by.

bone...
clicking..
fine china flicking..
cracking, shattering..
greenstick fracture..
stalk, greengrass  waving, growing, changing, cutdown
fine inscision, muscle, mulch
resow, regrow meld together
memories flow, memories flow
bone
clicking, aching, rasping,
shaking
back bone pointing, picking
etching time.
line by line...
until the callous grows