unfettered thoughts
               scattered like spilt
       coin on slippery cobbles brass, silver,and gold
                     all lie gleaming
on the steaming
               .... . ....stone.

                        small thoughts
and large
spent along the way
                 these here,now,
are the dross
        and dreck of the day.

          one by one,
                   regained and
  pocketed,
         so gently,
                    put away,
                              at rest,
                                      at last,      
                weary mind,
              and tired bone.
            all thoughts now,
                    neatly
                 tucked up
           inside of my head.

so many,
        so, so many stories....
                that remain untold

love hidden within....
                      the shy breast

justice that has yet ....
                           to unfold

joy blooming within....
                                the bud

sadness caught up in ....
                              life's tangles

a new road to forge....

            old steps to retrace....

the recogntion of hope....
   burgeoning in a new place

the light growing dim....
          or the bulb turning on

first words....last words....
and all the words....
        that lie somewhere....
                                in between

within all....
the grain of sand
that can become the pearl

as poets....
we are a voice to the world.

running on empty
all outta gas.
all outta,all outta, all outta, gas.

my daddy was a gasman,
well... he drove a petrol tanker
big shiny thing.

that's before he went away,
then my mumma, she done
worked her fingers red raw.
to keep food on the table,
and the roof overhead.

she got us up before dawn,
ready for school and then
we went with and sat,
waitimg on hard hospital chairs,
til the bus  done come and
picked us up, for school.

i was always tired, fore, i got to
school....so by the three thirty bell,
my life was a living hell.

then, we started the long traipse home.
4.5km in a straight line then,
turn left,trudge another 550 metres
and the white picket fence,
gives a welcome home grin.

everyday, i was running on empty.

all outta, all outta, all outta gas

my daddy was a gas man,
til he went away.

my daddy was a... mongerel *******
when he went away.

here sit i
a skalded-babe
at a prison-box of
metal and wood and plaster.

chained for the span
of the elf's glory passing,
i shuffle leaves of wood
from in to out.
i move the hamsterwheel forward inch by inch,
or i runabout in a
runic-neon-field,
with my cheesy,
tailess-rodent, biting
and chewing away,
for the need of budget burning yeilds.

if lucky some snail mail
may come to relieve
the electronic humdrum.
if not,... i suppose,
i can knock on the world wide, spiders-door, enter
the ether-frame...
and see the cat, playing
piano, badly in fortissimo.
or be a mouse-jockey
in the web-led rodeo

then when the elf's are done

home to hearth,
i will run,in the rover of the land.
to sit by whale road on
golden sand.

and go make fodder for
the artisan-sawdust-man and the child.
for us to eat with carrot-comb and steak-stabber
before sitting down
replete,
for a night in with the
zombie-creator.

from the teapot, blue
pours a dark rendolent brew
full of tall stories

we sit on the back deck in darkness. amost..... there is a rough circle of glowing embers ........from the mosquito coils and then..... two glowing cat's eyes. we.... my husband and i .....both have the scent.... of...... aeroguard... sprayed heavily on our skin. as we sit in oppressive heat...... ...waiting for the ....gasp... of a cooling.. breeze to come..... the air so moist and warm has brought forth..... ....the frogs ....and we hear......    the .....deep... throated call of the... tree frogs competing...... with the pobblebonk's... ...unique sound. ...even the cicadas..... ....have succumbed to the muggy air... and have ........gone quiet. .....all we hear in the dark is the frogs...... ...reeebert.. and ....pobbblebbBONK... amphibian lothario's crooning away..... ....as we wait for that gasp of cooling air...

reebert............



..... ...    . .pobbble........BONK
pobble BONK
...REEBERT. REeBeRT...RRREEBERT.

got to love
a man with
a sense of humour;
our friend  mac
has come to visit,
with his
scottish terrier pup
named mcduff.
only so he can,
take him for walks
and cry out
"lead on mcduff, lead on"

today i am but,
a rude mechanical thing
a wind up toy.
plodding along with whining gears

today i am but,
a fool's pawn to swing
a mere pendulum being,
arcing between
the sun and moon

today every thing is done
purely on muscle memory.....
....my thoughts...
.... are engaged elsewhere.
the only difficulty encountered.....
....they neglected to inform me
of their intended  whereabouts

so now this is me,
a discombobulated, thingamajig
bought from Ikea, sans the allenkey, put together inexpertly, clunk-clunking
along, not right..a little bit wrong....clank- clunking on
by.

my insomnia has gifted me unexpectedly
on this pre dawn morning.
i share the beach
with a single sand plover and a large work crew of sandbubbler *****
as they work their spherical graffitti magic.

i expect if i thought long enough,
my mind may make the practical connection, between the darting and bobbing of the stiff stilt,
red, legged bird
and the hyperalert scurryings of soft shelled, orb infatuated, crustaceans.

but, i prefer to play peekaboo witb the sun,
as it peeks it's sleepy rotound rim over the rippling bedsheets of the ocean's horizon.
eyes blinking, crafting opulent dusky lavenders and apricot oranges,
that meander lazily across, the brightening skybed.

i am alone on the beach until,
the next soul comes
this is my kingdom.
i stand firm and
breathe the tang of salted lands.

there is a deep silence
in my soul,
which i take to be completeness.
with neoteric expectancy and unchained exuberance,
i turn and run along
the firm sand's, edge of the high tideline leaving fading, ephemeral footprints
behind me,
scattering the little crabworkers every
which way.
i run in rhythm with the crashing waves
and we eat up the sand
until i am spent.

i sit and watch as the riders of the wave arrive.
their lithe young frames silhouetted by sunlight,
they stand at ten feet tall.
i wave and hand my kingdom over to the knights on fibreglass coursiers.
they mount their steeds
and begin the morning's tidal hunt,
for the perfect wave

the little blucat
surfaces from
underneath
the pile of
cat's rugs
and
old towels
shakes his head
and stretches
his creaking old bones
before going to sit beside
his food dish and scolds
the day for being so long
and bitterly cold and wet.

i am just days away
from turning.....
older.

and in truth,
meloncholy with it....

this year has stretched,
long and hard with
sickness, accident and death.

and my feet drag,
in self indulgent sorrow.
i should be glad,
to have survived.
i should live my time
with joy.....and  vigour.

but...the empty places
at the table
and the cards...
unsent.....sadden me.

perhaps,
this is just another sign
of the wonky biological
clock that is mine...
that now works
on peri-menopausal time
and this sorrow,
is just hormones and
little baby loves
saying farewell
as they waft
into the never to be....

i am still young,
somewhere within me
full of promise, pleasure
and passion pop...

but, the me
that groans
and creaks
and clicks
as i fall out of bed
to feed the cat...
the child, and the man
then washes the clothes
and goes off to inspire
a class of
bright young things
come home, cooks diner
writes fatuous poetry
while watching tv
before falling back
into the unmade bed

looks upon this weekends
festivities with dread...
and if honest....
would much prefer that it
all be forgotten....or kept low key.....
bah....humbug....
little grumblebug bitten me..
time for another load of washing...

i know.....
infatuation and obsession
are... somewhat.... compulsive
in need ...and sometimes  
misunderstood
but...
it is writing me inside out
this desire to.......  speak in
ink laden syllables.....
to scribe and etch my self
on the synaspes of your brain
so that i am ever painted... in the background of your pictures
so that my words become... your
idiom and phrases
so that i appear black... and white .. in film noir or slapstick comedy
is this wrong....
is this creepy...
this need to be in your blood..
in every drawn breath..
i am not unhinged or crazy
there are other things......
but you come to me.. at unbidden times and wrest me.....
into this  sojourn
on sanities thin, thin cusp
walking.... the wire of......
ratiocination... one side... ...sapience...
...the other stupidity.....
you are not aware
of me... and you...
should not be
for i am no one......
only a thought upon
a poets page harmless....
and imagined
oh! but to be free to live
life on knife's.....
sharp and cutting edge.....

i am tangled up ........and caught out in the..... doodles on my writing pad ....lines of ink ....turning circles up..... on itself..... great loops of nothing...... but sloppy eternity..... rings ...and . ....sideways.... sloping eights and ......sloveny obese zeros i am... hung up .. on time ..at present ..small moments... . .....forty-five years...of.... fore-evers ..... and miniscule secondia.... just hung.. up... ....doodling.. wasting ...time
timing space....crazy paving
.....the forcourt.. of my
oodling.... idling brain.

it's all
up in my head
all  these disparate threads

all these under the bedclothes
secrets
all these don't mean to be
but am what i am moments

all stuffed away in stacked suitcases
braced by not sure what you ,mean faces
all those sacred and scared places
within this wearied, wary and weirdly  warped soul

all the tattered scraps, the you are here, maps
the body slaps, the landings without *****
the god i need a nap snaps
all stacked racked and filed under
memories:
vivid, hazy, pleasant,pissant, piquant,
crazy, tearful, fearful, beerfull
and happy, sad glad mad,
**** why did i follow that there fad
bad...badass
fragile as glass
pain in the proverbial...
ask no questions ....
tell no lies
time flies....

all there bats in the belfry
cats in there pj's
no where, mayhaps be free
listening to internal dj's

dancing til dizzy
drinking slightly fizzy
alcohol.... misty tizzies,
getting bizzies...

all there, in a mixed up soup
smiling faces, put through paces
thoughtful moments, all the components
to make a life....to make a life
it's all up in my head.........
                                                roosting

******!!!
carkeys...
where have you gone??
this time...

i know you think,
this is a wonderful way
to pass the time.
but i am a busy woman.

and when i put you
down,
someplace,
i expect you,
to stay there.....

not grow legs,
scurry away....and hide

now....
i am going to,
close my eyes,
count to ten
and then, when,
i open them,
you just better be
sitting right there
in front of me!!!!


and that
goes for you too...
ya silly sunglasses.

world, expect not to much
from me today ....no great song...today...i will just hum
along ....to other's music...

world ask not to much
from me .....no great tree
of wisdom....just perhaps
one sage leaf.....

today world i will not ask
much of you.....a little sun....some exercise...and love...a smile or two...and some blessed quietude....

and when we come to the
sunset.....we can both know
that not all days have to be
big adventures.....
some days can just be small
walks......  on well worn paths.....and there is much in
that.

i want my day,
today,
to be applegreen.
the grannysmith kind,
of apple, big, luscious, beautiful,
sweet but ****...

polished, bright and shining.
just waiting, tempting me,
to take a great crunching
bite.....

and chew, thoughtfully, thoroughly,
extracting all the juice
and goodness.
allowing it to nourish my
body and soul...
eating right down to the core
and seeds....
leaving just the inedible
bits behind.....
to compost and decay.

the day ends with a shower
rain falls through a golden sunset
and the rainbow stretches out past the waves
another *** of gold given to the deep blue water
i breathe in the smell of rain as a gather damp washing
to hang under the verandah's eaves
the cat watches from the window
meowing for his dinner
the rain feels cool on my face

i'm feeling a just little to
the left of sane today,
don't quite know what it is.
but it feels a little like
that itchy spot in the middle of your back.
you know the one ya just can't reach to scratch.

the day started good..
now a smidge of paranoid and pinch of misunderstood is make making me feel
less than i should
if i had to colour me right now,
it would be a deep grey, indigo blue.
perhaps....
i am just getting a dose of manflu(strange as i am a woman-girl).
but no it's more than that.

i feel rundown, runover, squashed flat.
bummed out busted and outright flustered
yeah adding a dash of that. now i am on a roll down a hill going fast.

nothing of import has happened to make me feel this way.
no arguement, cross words, crisis or dilemma has crossed my path today.

i am out of step,
stomping on toes,
counting to ten,
to save someones nose,
from my tense and tightly clenched fist.

the way that i'm feeling
one of two things could happen.
every body else could...
shuffle to the left a little
to align with me (yeah like thats gonna happen).

....or if thats just a hassle your going to need to:
step aside as my progress,
is now furious
and my wake is wide.

make your choice
my toes are a tappin
i no longer
have time for this lip flappin....

....boom thar she blows!!!!

belly to belly
we lay...
recently connected
and entwined
now spent....complete.

lips to lips we murmer
our gratitude...
as you slip from within,
i mourn that small loss
of contact....everytime.

our eyes meet... and speak
worlds of migration,
taken, together....
we have collided again
....and small continents
have shaken and quivered.

lassitude overcomes,
the earlier...longitudinal
display....
and the mountain, sleeps
as the valley cleft.....watches.
we lay...
belly to belly...replete

my mother handed out
love in admonishments
about clean shoes and brushed teeth
to try our best and not to bleat about a life hard and oft incomplete....it is only now after years of growing
in understand it is not because she was hard, uncaring  but that she was as fragile as spun glass
so much already taken stolen by this world...her mother while in her teens
first love taken by vietnam
war machine, first child, daughter a few days old...and then three live children, later husband taken by gambling and a woman she considered a friend.
those simple words became
hard to say....to admit love
was to have it ripped away.
so she taught herself, this terse morse of words imbued with love..take a jumper... have you got your books all double entendre
just in care not risque
with love bespoke....
as children we learnt to find the deeper meaning
to parse conversations
for love...sifted by despair...

we learnt well, the art of doublespeak....

One more to add to the collection
Piled up in stacks
of memories ,
good, bad, indifferent.
They loom large like a hoarders playground..
Teetering on the edge of remembrance,
Akin to a child arcing  on the up curve of a swing in motion all joy and suspense...

The oldest of days
So compressed and worn they have become mere scraps
Postcards withe messages written
In ink  faded, jaded
Like ether riding a zephyr  they pass through your mind to tiny whirlwinds from days left behind.

This day different from any other, as are they al, closes now awaiting it's
place upon a pile
All so tall now
It was a gooday another one of love, laughter  action and rest, commonplace by many standards..

But we have  learnt
to take each day and polish it like gem.

And accept it as a blessing ..

Before resting
in order to walk
into yet another day

it is time my friend
to put my thoughts
on paper...
to write you

what my tongue denies
what my heart screams
in the middle of the night

it is time to speak in
the words etched upon
my bones
to give light to this
seed with in my soul

even as the ink blots the paper
my fears rise, and my courage quivers
to give this entity the substance
of words

is to give it the power
of freedom or destruction
but I am weary, so weary
from carrying its burden
through this long peroid
of gestation, I am beyond
beyond trying to carry
this thing with grace
and have now become
a lumbering leviathan
treading heavily through
each day,not evolving
or creating, just barely exsisting

So, if it be freedom,
there will be relief
if it be destruction
there will be release

No more dallying,
No more delay

You left, You died

leaving us behind
no recompense
no answers
just a ***** room
and unpaid bills
You, You, walked
out of life,

without
finishing the conversation
without
any explanation
without
care for others
without
thought for self

You told us nothing
You hid your hurt
till it was to late
till...it..was..too..too late

And tho
I WILL LOVE YOU
til the end of my days

Now,  I  hate....

I hate you are not here
I hate that I did not see
I hate that you did not ask
I hate the incompleteness
of it all

So my friend, I write
this to you...
then make it into
a paper boat
that I set on
the waters
before
lighting
it afire
in
the hopes
it will
bring
freedom

the art of mercy,
is not a hard thing,
to learn...

like pontilism,
you start...
with one small dot,
one act of kindness,
a smile, a word, a change
of heart,
to this add more,
build a picture of caritas....
shaded with compassion
and thoughtful deeds.

paint then, a new canvas
using, broad strokes of time
and heartfelt tears....
be magmanimous,
with colour,
care and altruism,
be bold and brave
with actions,
that come from
your need,
to see this world
as a legacy of love....

then, when you have mastered that,
take up your pencil
and draw,
in fine lined, forbearance and clemency,
a self portrait of forgiveness,
for we all need mercy....
and reminders,
to be of a heart most merciful...

then take your palette,
and new found skills
and become
an artist....
of the street,
teaching, giving showing mercy
at every turn or bus-stop,
every street corner....
under bridges, in tall towers
scrawl mercy, on walls
and sidewalks....
paint the town....
                   paint the town.....

the art of mercy....
               is simply,
                             beautiful,
               to behold,
                             at work,
               it changes,
                           just about,
               everything......
for the better...

the wind sings a song
of howling sadness today
catching at the corners of
the old teak farmhouse

as the sky cries in long
exclamation points
and puddles of loss
form on the ground...

we stay inside away
from the worlds pain
cocooned in warmth


the blucat a sleeping
hearth stone...
me making soup a
nd scones
to the sounds of my clan
the click of knitting needles and building blocks followed by demolition...and laughter

this is love.
this is easy,
everyday love.
under a grey and
brooding winter sky.

outside the wind howls
and gnaws at the corners
of the old wooden house

inside the fire roars
and eats the trees memories
in hot flickering bites

we sit at the kitchen  table
with mugs of steaming goodness
and chatter about the news

unthinking of those
who cower in windswept corners
cold to the bone,
remembering a forgotten warmth
of heart, soul and body....

the wind  howls,
my heart aches
at my own government's  
stupidity....

and the cold reamain cold
and the homeless numbers grow....
and compassion becomes a useless word
like the mewling of a kitten

..over ....there..    ..... .. .    ...
in the fogged....corner ...     ......of my mind.... ..sits.........
a ragged girl... ..making.. knitted scarfs. ....out of archaic thoughts... of fear and darkness.. ..she knits .. on rusted steel pins....
with sinews of .... scar and ...mis-threaded ... ......thoughts of disdain...the scarfs..... great.............spiderwebb-ed ...........things designed ....not .....for warmth....but to catch ......and.. choke...and.. confound......the ....mind unwary. ...she...... the girl ragged and........unkempt .....plucks
              ......   ..   .fluff..
and ........lintcrap ........and ....feared.. ...sacred.... fuzz. ....then felts and twists it..... ......into ....straggle-taggle, tangled...... twines.......
she is .......the keeper.......... ...of the ..drives..... i.. took.... with my father.... of the nights..... stood upon ledges. .. gleaning courage to stay...or ...to leave same...     courage .....different
                           outcome....
of the ......blackouts.... and ............grey days of the words... ........
.....spoken........................
. ......................unspoken..... that stripped ....my youth... of meaning and life....
and joy... these are the ragged ...straggled......scarfs of memory....
i will not wear.... .
........  .....this is why........  ..... she.........the ragged unkempt .... relic..... of my youth .....resides..... unloved.....
in the ...back... alley..... ............corners of my mind... so that..... ninety five ...percentofthetime.........
i can forget .......
               .....she is there...

....itisthefivepercent.....
                                         like .....tonight ....when she raises her eyes...
     .... and stares me down..... that it is the time...... for the tide ....of regret to run.......... .....for a short while.....
before.. the ebb...of memory.

life is not forced...
.. .a distillation of sorrow
and yet
.....life was the greatest joy
it's own realm ...encased
but not breached....
the joy ...had it's own integrity
not touched by tragedy.

that joy, the measure
and source...spring.
....I remember sitting in rain
and blustering wind...
abiding.... and yoked... to life
this comic tradegy...within.

this is a poem...pre thanksgiving....
and is written for a number
of people on site who will
be either alone....or find the
holiday difficult....for various reasons....
please be kind....and share the love....some are going through....hard times.

i know this lady
a friend of mine
who will sit alone on thanksgiving

to her, in many  ways
this year has been unkind
with death, sickness and
memories that bind....

she still has much to be thankful for and this she
knows....
but the table is lonesome
and the world has lost it's
glow....

at present housebound
or i know...she would go
ease the suffering of others
passing turkey and stuffing
around,
with a kind word and a smile...
for she is known to go the extra mile...

when one thinks....
there are many like this....
many who spend the holidays
adrift....
or lost in a place...hard to find
we are thankful for this day
but don't let the celebrations
get in the way....
reach out in kindness,
and let it be known....
these people marginalized
are not alone....

the moon
clothed in pearl grey clouds
sits high upon the sky
as the tides sings an ode
to it's beauty


the air still,
then zephyrous
dances with dust and motes
in the street lamps reflection

dampness sizzles and steams
on old tar roads, puddles erupt
as cars swing  on through
dragon lights on high beam
veering off into the night

we sit, drinks in hand
as small things pitter
and patter about
and listen to the deepening
of the warm summer night

you were my yesteryear.
when you ruled,
as the pop-**** queen,
atheletic and cool.

me,i was one of the
weird, vibe tribe.
theatre mad, and
a library hound.
you barely knew,
i was around.

but we lived in,
a small, small town
and you,
dated my brother
so you only, iced me gently.

it was surreal,
truly dali-esque.
to see you today...
i would not,
have known
you....
so faded, grey..and overblown.

we have all got older,
but the years,
have...
mugged you
and left
you beaten, battered
and low...

you tell me
you were done,
with living,
about two husbands ago.


and now just plod
through, each day,
willing the dark grey
to swallow you whole.
staying, living only for
your son Tim.
you say all this,
while ,
heavily, perspiring,
pure gin.

you cry and the tears,
run down the cracks
in your leathered,
over-sunned skin
and down to pool,
on your blowsy breast,
clad in ***** pink polar fleece.

my heart, curls in pity,
for you have fallen far.
as you sit and drink,
gifted coffee, talk about
when you were the star,
the brightest, prettiest,
flame by far.

and as i leave you,
sitting, dejected and depressed.
there is a little, heartfelt shame, in the fact,
that throughout
our untimely meeting,
i could not recall your name.

It saddens me
No end
that due to
HARSH WORDS
and unremitting lies
I have lost a friend
Screamingnighthog
was and hopefully
will be again,
a poet who supported
and helped grow many
writers, with generous comments
And an open and welcoming heart

I do not believe he is perfect,
But nor do I believe he;
MASQUERADED as beryl dov
or anyone else for that matter!

I  write this hoping others join
with me in supporting him and
letting him know he is APPRECIATED
and  not in order to denegrate anyone else.

I miss his poetry....

elephants have memories
long,
to my way of thinking,
that must be hell!

imagine, remembering
in detail,
fine and complete.

the days of your life.
beginning at number one,
when all slippery,
slimed and mucked,
you were forcibly expelled,
into a world, of hard knocks.


image, each stumbling step
as you grew,
each slur,
each pointed arrow flung your way,

first fall, first hit, first miss
first kiss and all the desperation, set between.

and then,
you hit your teens.
emotionally bruised and battered
and running for the bell
placing 563rd  in the
contest of popularity.
trying new styles of clothes, dreams and personalities.
hormones raging, momma texing, paging,
virginity flexing
and all the other
****** bluff...guff....stuff
..."hell yeah i can never get enough"

finally you get to remember,
the grown up stuff.
projects due, bills to pay,
finding somewhere half decent to stay, grocery lists,
other people constantly ******,
in a it's all your fault kinda way.
deadlines,
diminishing lifelines, standing in unemployment lines,
waiting to pay a fine lines,
playing mine or yours in
your divorce foray.
and honest to god,
thats just the day to day
k-rap.
living low and *****
until the next pay comes along.

ok, there would be,
indeed some,
remembered joys,
some flowers,
among the weeds.
but thats mere fodder
and seeds,
for a better poem .....
written on a better day.

so finally you are old.
you are so, over it!
all creak and cracks, pills,
bad backs and bengay..

not to mention, the teeth
that sit in water glass smiling away,
all night.
on the table bedside.
that my friend, is just not right.

you are counting down the days, the hours...
watching.....home and away.

til one day,
you make the mortal coil's end...
and your shift is done and dusted.
bucket kicked,
daisies planted,
dirt kissed....
                  .....recalled.

all that.... and ba-jillion more
memories looking for time
on the elephant's mammoth mind - memory  dancefloor.

i lie quiescent
listening to the conversations of bees

and the roar of butterflies as they
begin the chaotic whirlwinds
of strife

this is a moment....of nothingness

when my eyes are closed to the rat race

when the green green grass..

......subsumes me

and i am peripherally,
at one with myself.

mother to all,
mother to none.

i hear the ants
tunneling beneath
and the bugs flying above

the earth speaks and moves

and i listen...

the sky smiles,
the tides greet the moon

and I am but one small heartbeat

                                                 ...............among millions

a calcium carapace,
sits upon the mantle's shelf. dreaming of the sea,
craving water and salinity.

pretty trinket ivory white,
a  plump smooth bubble with cafe au lait dotted curve, leading to,
sensuous convex lip,
scintillating burnt caramel
hue.

what lived in such a
palace of the sea.
what graced the interior hall.
did it wonder,
at the beauty of it's home,

or did it only see,
the weight of the walls, pressing in.

does the palace discarded
on the shelf dream,
of saltwater
and former self.

or is it an inamate relic,
of an unregarded time,
with out measured reason, unresonating thought, unrimed.

does it know
                 it is
                 beauty sublime.

ten thousand joys,
both small and big,
sit behind my lips,
in the crinkled crowsfeet
corners of my eyes
and fizz, fizz, fizz....
like sherberted,
fireworks,
within my brain.

ten thousand sorrows,
curve my spine,
scratch at my heart,
and sit as,
tears unshed...
in brimming dams,
behind my eyes.

ten thousand hopes
rush like oxygen
along ...
the arteries and veins.

ten thousand wrong decisions,
grind at my joints...
and make my knees,
click and pop,
in this muggy weather.

ten thousand right decisions
stare back at me
from your eyes
so like mine....

and make me...
count the joys,
forget the sorrows,
live the hopes....
and strive..
to make the best decisions
i can....
and forgive those that,
i have stuffed up...

ten thousand...
i love you's,
will never be enough.

here i am,
cold winter,
sunday morning...high.

my drugs.....
a predawn lovefest
lots of, little boy
giggling n' smiles
bannana berry pancakes,
made by my satisfied guy.
blucat purring at my feet.

and the sun,
lazily peeking in

god i love
the sunday morning high...

these things I know to be true...

behind the clouds,
the sky is blue.

if the grass is greener over there;
on the other side of the fence...
then someone is wasting water
in this drought.

if everyone is keeping up with
the jones's .
why are they so unhappy?

two wrongs don't make a right,
but four lefts make a square.

the sun will come out tomorrow,
but so may the clouds...

life is full of schmucks,
but if you're in luck.
the  schmuck you marry
may have some bucks.

there is, true love
there is, higher ground
there is forgivness.
you can find useful things
in the lost and found.
chocolate can be good for you.
you have to feed your soul.
and yes all that glitters
is definitely not gold.

there is no true way,
to grow old gracefully.
so make the best of it.
count each and every day
as a bonus....
                   for that is what it is!!!

i wait standing at the old metal gate
my soul is tired, it has been a long Monday
then i see you run toward me
that action alone makes
my heart bloosom like
a sunflower,
all bright seeds, turning
toward you,  the sunshine
of my world

should i take azoth
to cure my sloth

it may well make
my mind like quicksilver
send me messages from
the mouths of gods
at round about 80wpm
or will it just make my moods mecurial
and put little beads
of silver sweat acroos
my furrowed brow
with it's inherent toxicity

if i take a dose of azoth
or liquid cinnabar.
i may live fast,
but i won't live long...
my old friend paracelsus
tells me "the dose makes
the poison" and in this he
is right.

i might skip the azoth.....
and the cinnibar liquid too
go for coffee instead....
or could just succumb
to sloth and stay in bed.

i think,
my favourite
picture of you,
sue, is the one,
i took, on a whim

it's of you, sitting,
in your back garden.

under the glorious
magnolia tree

it was in bloom
and a carpet of
cream blossoms
were at your feet.
a few scattered,
on the table
and extra seat.
one had fallen,
haphazardley,
in your hair.

you were sat,
in a relaxed, but
thoughtful pose.

the lines upon
your face relaxed,
your body, slack
and comfortable.

one hand holding
a cup of tea.
the other, absently
massaging, the
strawberry blonde
fur, of the big blob
of the cat you loved
so dear.

next to you a pile
of marking,
weighted down,
with a garden trowel
and a scattering of pens.

some herbs and fresh
carrots on the tabletop.

and in the corner
of the frame, lazlo
pointing to the sky.

yes, this is my favourite.

you, all dressed,
in studio black
and that lucious,
steel grey hair.
set against,
the  cream and green
backdrop of
the magnolia tree.


i hope,
you get to see,
those magnificent blooms.
one last time,
my friend.

let us speak in tones.....
                                hushed......
of mountains and molehills. 
benchmarked by tape measures,
underscored, with
concerned....
                     apprehension.

for now it is time,
to masticate the elephant
and the roaring lion too.
with silver plated forks
and knifes undulled....
                                 with use.

slap down your....
                            grievance
on the noritake dinnerware
and partition....
                       the proportion,

dissect the angst,
and delicately place,
the rage,
between your bloodless lips. 
to sit ashlike on your.....        
                       scathing tongue.

we will drink....
                             once more,
one last time, one sip of,
your aged bitterbile wine,
in leaden crystal goblets.
smile at your witticisms,
however, humdrum...
                            and malign.

and then,when the elephant,
is but ivory and leather. 

and the king of beasts,
now, but a tattered rug....
                     upon your floor.

we shall cry....
                          jubilee, jubilee, cry freedom. 
our indenture is finally done.
emancipation now has come.

and we will run.......
                           we will run.

it is then,we will be.....
                          looking at life, 
with kaleidescope eyes.
fitted with lenses of love, joy,  
and liberty, crystalized.....      
                                        within.

we will be,dancing......
                            the fandango,
with robust, rebellious gusto
and singing glory....
                         hallelujah riffs.

and o' there will be......
laughter and big broad      
                                       smiles.

and o' there will be ....
                                   hugging

and much comfort shared.

and the door will be ...
                                         open...

for anyone......

to come sit and chatter...
                          on for a while.

heaven on earth.......
                    heaven on earth...

i am,
the spoon left in
the icecream bowl.
i am,
the towel on the
bathroom floor.
i am,
the toys in the cupboard
and more.
i am,
the vase with bright flowers.
i am,
the left over lasange
in the fridge.
i am,
the dinosaur doona
that snuggles your boy.
i am,
the bedhead that
watches you sleep.
i am,
the old clock
on the mantle,
wonky time i do keep.
i am,
cotton and lace knickers,
jocks and striped socks,
jumbled up in a cedar drawer.
i am,
toothbrushes and bathplugs.
i am,
the tattered, striped hall rug.
i am,
pictures of two, then three.
i am,
the couch, the oversized tv.
i am
the desk and the books.
i am
the mirror that looks
old and faded.
i am,
art projects, created
and afixed on the wall.
i am,
coffee table
and
featherstone chair,
none too stable.
i am,
walls of teak
and roof of
colourbond steel.

i am
house and home
and if i could speak,
well, it would be
downright surreal.

i am,
comfort and warmth.
i am,
refuge and rest.
i am,
old and creaking.
i am,
heaven blest.

i am,
haven,
from lifes storms.

and i am  more,
you made me
this way,
with love,
you and yours.

i am not whole
or complete.
tho as previously
noted,
i am serene
with that fact.
at least for the present
factor of time.

i am damaged.
in body and mind,
but then i rely on
the indisputable truth.
we are all in a state
of decline...

my life,
more full,
than empty.

i now walk with
a slight limp.

my mind,
more order,
than chaos.

my black dog
lies asleep.

i have learnt,
to be happy,
with the blessings,
that have blown my way.

and accept that perfection,
is a waste of precious time.

i am not whole
or complete.....
but mostly....
i am better than fine.