scintillant bodies flicker
blink and fade in a  darkness
beaming in charcol waves

indigo trees rustle and sway
in tribal dance, as the sea
beats out the metre
on the hard packed sand

on the wing, dark birds
cry lust, death and desolation
and mice write wills and testements
on dry dust paths, before signing
them with a squeak of suprise

in the creek, the platypus rises
and subsides with a quiet splash
surprised by a large form drinking

the frogs write and sing deep bass  arias
with the cicadas and crickets providing chorus
and amongst it all a high pitched perping
from what beast, I cannot recall

we pass now from summer warmth
to the crisp catching cold of autunm nights
darker for the rain cloud weather
making the moon an erethal wreath
if seen at all...

out off the coast a patch of luminous blue
gives of wonder as bio luminescence
holds a small patch of sea in it's thrall

in the morning more leaves
will colour, fade and fall,
the circle continues
from day to day...
                        simply heeding nature's call

wandering into the sun room
with a small question
I find my boys in repose

the acorn, lies across two beanbags
as though he had just
finished a marathon and collapsed
for want of air all legs and arms
with a fringe of needs to be cut soon hair
affordung his face privacy
he glows with youth and promise

my oak, rests sprawled in the old mamasan
hairy legs akimbo, one deck shoe on, one half off
he has sat on one hand, wedging in between cushions
the other dangles off the chair's rim, long fingers hanging
his shirt has ridden up to show tanned trim stomach
with a surfer's bleached snail trail leading to a darker hairline
his mouth slightly open as he dreams his bulldozer dreams
his hair long and now slightly thinning  curls in the humidity
he has not shaved for days and
his stubble a dusting of silver and gold
his lips are a tad dry, but still so inviting

I turn and leave them in repose
my question forgotten

lingering on the edge
of a sunday morning lie in
I drowse and wander
through a forrest of
dream and thought

in my dream
I am small, the trees large
but not in a threatening way
more like that of welcoming elders

they speak in a language of comfort
there is other life, busy and invisible
bustling about, things I hear but do not see

I walk on a path meandering, touching age oldbark
gathering wisdom and strength by osmosis
giving love and hope in return, small flowers bloom
in my small footsteps, the fragrance uplifting and clean

sunlight dapples the path before me, little dics of pure joy
lead me on, to the end of the trees and into grassy dunes
covered with and abundance of coloured flowers
all with faces set toward the warmth of the mellow sun

in the distance I hear the sea, welcoming me home

the horizon is a golden line in the distance

and the birds sing glorious aria's of happiness

I awake  to the kiss of my lover
and the smell of coffee and pacakes

all is right with the world.....

after walking (for my health)
I sat on the old wooden bench
in the park (mostly to regain my breath)
and watched the world for a while...

it was pleasant, the sun warmed my face
my muscles felt good (not overused at all)
as I sat I was joined by a duck,  
who took an interest in the soles
of my walking shoes
(is it not decadent that we possess shoes  for walking)
the duck proceeded to give me a foot massage of sorts
before settling in to lean against my ankle
and we watched the world pass by

I stayed much longer than I should have
not wanting to disturb the duck
and now as I write, I feel a stiffness in my calves
(but  i cannot begrudge myself
the quiet wonder of the afternoon
spent in companionship  with a duck)

NAPO WRIMO

Next month is  Poetry Month
Why not, endevour to write
a poem a day from provided prompt
Stretch yourself, find new sources of creativity.
Discover new poets, new resources,
Celebrate yourself and other poets
Check out the website:
http://www.napowrimo.net/

seven.
it was at this point
I started running
because there was no way
three more numbers
were going to get
his temper/ rage
back into the box

eleven
that was the age
that I learnt the effect
of a fast moving patella
aimed at a *******

twenty nine
the number if times
that story has been told

forty three
that's  where he caught up
with me with a crash tackle
splitting his lip and my eyebrow
in the completion of it

thirty two
the number of stitches we got
me 14, him 18

fourteen
the number if days
we where grounded
no tv, no visitors

five
the times
I have used
that manoeuvre
since then

two
the visable scars
we still have.....

as i drive to work today
i see the detruis of thebig rain
piled up on the kerbs

great heaps of garden trash
leaves and broken trees

and in front of me a council
team with a log chipper
pulls up at one of the larger heaps
and begins to decimate it
bough by bough, it rumbles
through the mechanism
that cuts it down to mulch
and throws it into
the back of a following trailer

whilst the practical part of
my soul applauds their productivity
the whimsical nature loving earthmother
cries..for the birds and possums that
just lost the family ranch