soggy bottomed shoes
encase wrinkly tender feet

it's been raining solidly
for more than a week

the towels all smell
of mould and mildew

the carpets more mud than wool

the vegetable garden
is accsessed by canoe

and the fire just splutters
cause of the water in the flue

we have gathered a menagerie
of frogs and spiders on the
front porch, there is a sugar glider

and still it rains....and the rivers flow high
gosh what I would give to see some blue sky

hey mister museman
float an idea my way

you see my brain is tired
and the creatives gone away

hey mister museman
give my some words
to play with
on this wet and grey
old day

and I will try to
string them together
so they have
something grand to say

hey mister museman
don't turn away
need me some
jot's and tittles
to chase these blues
and black grey hues
out into the middle
of Sunshine Bay

thanks mister museman
for taking the time
to help me rhyme
and float some words
out into the stratosphere

and again it rains
this time
a slow misting drizzle
soft to the ear

it has been raining
for days now
tempestous storms
full of sound and fury

steady rain,
with rhythmic monotony

hopeful sunshowers
with optimistic rainbows

nightime gushers
overflowing the gutters

now this today
this grey day drizzle
falling into puddles
washing an already
washed  world

small, mean,of a frigid mindset
you sit on your pile of obscure knowledge
like some old decrepit dragon

where is the joy, the love


harsh words and scathing looks
you wonder why few come to sit
at your feet

where is the love, where is the joy

you are a breed dying,
simply for wont of trying
something new and different
once the golden child
now you are dressed
in dullard's clothes
and atop your pile
of worn out woes
you sit, a caricature
in a defensive pose

having lost the love,  the joy

your opinions are outdated
and put simply ...on the nose

retire gracefully...
before you are bulldozed
like an old statue
whose point and meaning
nobody knows..

your time and place
has been and gone
for god's sake
realize you are
an antiquity
and move on.....

Forest inquires:

How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
vanity,
        and choose the poem's alignment?


                                                  an­ answer forms:

this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
everybody understands
what your inquiry means

alignment -  the appropriate relative position

we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
                                                                ­                        from the Theory of Poetic Relativity

                                                   ­             i love your question;                              hold it to my nostrils,          
                                             ­             smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
                                                                ­      
 kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple   soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;

                                 answer no good, wholly insufficient?
                                        perfect.
                          as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note

                              
                            ­                        the earth has moved
                                our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
                                    time and space have appropriated our prior
                                          
relativity

when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading  

and what was


**right before has left and the center has moved again

the little black lizards
scurry away
to hide under rocks

bettles and bugs
squat inside their
carapaces
snails in their shells

the novice hunter
is out and about
large pawed
and excitable

he jumps and scitters
catching leaves
and grass heads

while the birds sit and watch

short moments
timelapses
blurred colours
and lines

feelings
just beyond
fingertips
tingling
along synapses

but amongst
all the uncertainty
the almosts and not quites

the smoky smell
of Russian Caravan Tea

and then there you are
laughing mouth open wide
cigarette in hand
grey ash on black clothes

and for a moment
it is as if you were never gone
never gone......away