Plenty of time to write,
now as the doors stay closed
at the knowledge factory
and we wave goodbye
to  common sense.
Plenty of time to write,
as we keep our youngers
home and teach them
distance education
the art of befriending
from a socially
acceptable distance.
Plenty if time to write,
small shopping lists,
so one can dart
in and out of local shops
Plenty of time on our hands
as we realize that our house
may not be as large as we thought
Plenty of time to think
the thoughts we probably
should not think..but do
Plenty of information shared
but how much of social pages
armchair experting is truth .
Most importantly plenty of love
and hope and joy to be found
hidden amongst the angst.
Plenty of time to write
of this, to spread the love
and not the fear..
Plenty of time..

the state of the human heart

both, astoundingly abstract
and sumptuously surreal

born of colours kaleidescoped
by fractured fractaled emotions

painted with either abandon
or cramped contractions

framed by circumstance
guided by thought,
or thoughtlessness

hung by guilt,hope arrogance

viewed through binoculars,
keyholes, rose tinted spectacles
seen in clouds and reflections

reviewed with misunderstanding

sold for praise and cheers

gifted to uninterested or uninteresting

left to gather dust....

held tightly, torturously so
for  fear of it flying free

weighed, found wanting
yet alway needing more

when  the heart smiles
the whole body sings
when it cries,
we often look away
from it's sorrow.

we can be heartfelt
heartless, hard harted
soft of heart, heart sore
we can have a heart
overwhelmed, full of grief
overflowing with love

we need it to beat,
be strong, faithful, steady

all this: ascribed to a muscle,
inside a cage, inside a bag
working hard to keep us upright

look, at the state of it.......

puddles of sky water
lay awaiting the sun's kiss
back to cloudy homes

the afterthought of rain
lies heavy in the air tonight
the earth slowly steams
aand on the elctricity lines
the  family pink  of galahs
amuse themselves
doing 360 degree loops
on the rain slippery wires
round and round and round
with child-like glee

down tne road, the  jackos
settle in for the night
amid laughter and gossip
and much flapping of wings

i watch the geckos race up
the wall to postion themselves
under the porch light
and await the night's buffet

somewhere over near the pond
the old frog begins to sing
i am pleased to hear him
i thought we had lost him to the heat
his basso profundo love cries
follow me into the house
as the mosquitoes  begin their
bloodsucking serenades.

and the earth slowly steams

need to swim more
lengthen ma muscles
cool ma brain
float before i hit the drain

need to dive from sweat
into the cool clear deep
snap ma head back into place
sluice the grime offa my soul

float for a small eternity
take a dip to rearrange
ma dna, get in touch with
the primordial me,
osmos some salt, remember
the sea, grow some interal gills
just be just drift, with the tide
be taken not steer,
need to steep and stew and brew...

The big rain came.
The big, blessed, rain came,
just last weekend.
It was glorious:
big fat splotchy drops,
making splashable puddles
All, bringing down the temperature.

That wonderful smell of
petrichor..so deep, rich and musty

The look of a world made clean

The joy on people's faces,
such a delight to weary souls

Firefighters danced and whooped
with relief.. Farmers wept and
children gambolled about in the mud.

It has not broken the drought.
Nor put all the fires out.
But is a start...
It is: many a prayer answered.

Today the world looks
brighter, better
And the forecast is
for more rain...
                          ...Amen to that

lips pursed
tip of tongue
out, testing
air quality

head cocked
eye beaded
swivels
and back

legs windmall
forward motion
and stop with slight
over reach, stillness
achieved, basking now
under sun lamp

body glistens,
muscles settle
into contours
of tree branch

little gecko
eyes unblinking
in your cage
of glass

kindness given
kindness received
small transactions
unseen, .
but not unnoticed
are the true pennies
from heaven
tossed with love,
into the wells
of our tired hearts

Can any one spare
a penny.... or two
                     ......today

i wish I did not
have the taste of
burnt dust always
on my tongue

i wish  i could go
one day without
tears in my eyes

to turn on the tv
and not see another
burnt out bouse  or
ravaging flames

i wish i did not
have to thank
volunteer fire fighters
those who risk themselves
daily to help others

i wish i did not silently weep
for the future of this land
as it goes up in flame
as flora and fauna
become extinct
in one terrible day

i wish i could get
the burnt dust smell
out of my house,
my clothes,
my nose and mouth

but apperently, this..
this new catastrophe
is the new norm around here

twenty, twenty vision
clear insights enable to see
all the stuff coming for  me

excepting my blindspot has
grown awful big about a decades
worth of blinkers, giving me tunnel vision

but there is light, up ahead
small and bright, leading me
away from darkest night
toward daybreak
future bright

step on into the day
make of the future
what we may
twenty twenty vision
all the way

with the taste of burnt and burning on my tongue
i look out to the mountains,
hidden by haze and slow drifting smoke

it is the day we put up our tree
but this year it seems  bittersweet
there are many who have lost houses
some who have lost family
all of us have lost innocence
with regard to the wrath of fire

we carry on unpacking boxes
of tinsel and bric a brac
remembering thosee who gave us
special items, remembering christmas past

we laugh and love, easing the tension
and soon the tree is done, toto green
for our climate but cheerful and robust

this afternoon the town tree light festival begins
a parade and gathering, this year an opportunity
to thank the firefighters and their families

and another new tradition, a christmas tree
where you can leave gifts for those,
who have lost something or everything
in the fires

fires all about
sky orange
not from flame
but refracted light from
smoke so thick
you can gather it
in your hand

the flames miles away
for us but for some
on their doorstep
devouring house

ash falls like snow
and sits in drifts
up against firetruck tires

men and women
volunteer warriors
return soot black
and exhuasted
to rest before
returning
to the front

devastation
of wildlife corridors
devastion of small towns
live's lost and broken

and it is still only spring

stealing time
to pen some words
that may be
considerate  enough
to rhyme

stealing time
to sit  apace
with  myself
and muse away
a small portion of
this humid hour

stealing time
to stare at space
and watch
the dust motes
dance with
ballerina grace

stealing time
with vacant smile
as the world and
his wife, walk on by

it is  in moments
like these stolen away
that i gather the beauty
of each and every day

the smoke haze is settling
now  the landscape wears ashes like
a widows mourning dress

no longer the rage, the flames, the fire
the passionate devourer has been siated

leaving destruction as it's  rememberance

Heard today of the demise
of a couple elderly 78 and 73
caught in the malestorm
of a bushfire, unable to leave
the property they had  lived on
for more than 50 years...
they took shelter in the house
he built...only to have it become
their pyre ..they were found together
There is  poetry in this, love passion,tragedy, darkness and despair
and though these word do not come anywhere near describing the situation, it is my belief that these two people deserved some words written for them...
May they rest in peace...

rain upon roof,
gentle falls,
creating a cocoon
of humid heat
in which we sit
mesmerized by;
the soft sound of
rain upon roof.

it is the frayed string
of hope
that sustains a shattered
mind
hope floats,

a little walnut boat
set upon the darkest  of seas

hope sees the dawn in the
deepest part of the night

hope sustains
hope maintains
hope remains
hope endures

that ember of grace, that ember of grace
endures, ever-ready to be coaxed into a flame

sometimes hidden deep within
but never absent, never absent
always wanting, wishing to be found

awaiting planting in fertile soil
taking nutrients in growing,
stabilizing  fragile ground

hope is life
life is hope

hope is knowing both flower and ****,
have purpose, that of both we need
flower for joy,
**** for silent comparision

hope loves both,  gritty or beautiful  
have place within a heart willing to grow
for as it has been said before:
by poets far better than me.

you do not see the dawn,
with out the darkness
of the night...

there is something truly
enticing, about the curve
of  back, as you sit
on the edge of the bed,

lost in that moment between
being  abed and rising
that delay, whilst you decide
yay or nay, to the day.

there is a challenge in the
***** of shoulders
and the swell of good eating
that rests upon your hips

that makes me want leap into action
and draw you back
from the edgeof mundanity,
of everyday routine
and ravage you silly,
make you howl
and make you moan..

i want to taste your sleep drenched skin
and feast upon the energy kept quiet
i want wake you, make your open eyes
make your pupils dilate,
as i drink the night out of the depths of you...

but I am to slow, in my langour
i have lost the moment,
you stand and stride off
into the day
i turn and lay on my side
hoping the sun will leach
the frustration from my being

so very busy
not doing much
just living a life
on the edge of a crust

cold weather
makes  me sleep
seems I am powered
by solar rays as I reach
my latter middle aged days

but all is good, all is fine
as I pour  another wine
grab a book off the shelf
settle in and read
for my health.

here in the little wee hours
on the night so cold
my toes ache
i sit pondering
life and such
by the light
of fire and tablet

wrapped in blanket
threaded with memories
i think nonsense and ingenuity
and watch cinders fly

on the hearth the dog and cat slumber
wrapped around each other pretzel-like
defying with casual snores,
both physics and laws of natural enmity.
there is an ease to their bromance
that both confounds and humours me

behind me spreading on the couch
like slow(very slow) moving lava is
the surf god, encased in flannel and ugg
he gargles breathe like an old Harley
soon I will escort him to bed and leave
him to the embrace of his new lover
Madame Cpap...and they can share
a night of slumber in a wind tunnel
then in the morning , he is mine once more

the golden boy sleeps elsewhere tonight
having come into the season of sleepovers
he resides in a tent,  in a bedroom
half a suburb away ,oblivious to
the sound of stretching apron strings
he too shall return to me tomorrow
older and with new cultural references
to share with his increasingly
dim witted parents

for now, in the wee hours
i stare at the cinders
and see the old man as younger
and the boy as babe
as my toes ache
and my eyes leak
just a tad....

paul kelly telling yarns
in the background,
harmonica and guitar

vista: spring hopeful
as a large butterfly
scads on by

temperature a perfect mix
of balmy and zephyr breeze

on that breeze the salt and coconut
foretelling summertime glories

condensation pearls, then rolls gently
down the glass of my g&t

the remnants of a crab and prawn roll
lay on the indgo blue plate, like art abstract

a single tear slides down my cheek
as I acknowledge it is one more year

happy birthday ....dear departed you

miles mean nothing to a heart that is pure
words penned in grace, sent to ether
give heartease to the overstretched
sowing stiches of understanding
in tapestry threadbare

little suns and stars
shining bright in love and hope
from face unseen and adirondack chair
gives strength to one down, from down under
allows grief, the words needed the abilty to care
for these simple gifts, no payment required
from the heart open to care...

age screams
not so silently
back, carrying
burdens
have caused
muscle to seize

every step
measured
every movement
silent movie slow

inflamed muscles
hiss and growl
as I inch to and fro

yearn,
to be
horizontal,
alone
to
realign
but
no
off to
work
I go
......
heat pack
my solace
time my foe

you are the last of
this years frangipani bloom's
the wide green leaves
of your tree,  are already curling
grey brown upon themselves
to drop dry and rattling to the path
leaving the wrinkle of dead man's fingers
to winter alone

but you are the tree's
final salutation, one last hurrah
waxed cream and butter beauties
that you are....

summers kiss, happiness in
one bloom,  your esscense
fills the room with sunshine and grace.

now you scant few are the last
of the frangipani bliss
you are as the night grows cold.
as the days grow shorter
the last zephyrs  of  fragrance
whispering fond farewells

you are summer's last kiss
one of  gentle memories
blown about by summer's breathe

he stood leaning against the frame
neither in or out but on the threshold
partly in shadow, partly in relief
like a masters painting
all angles and shade

empty coffee cup
door ajar, lets in cool air
scented with salt air

outside of the glass
crows complain about the cold
inside coffee calls

pride wars with regret
old men march in ranks depleted
medals clink  in time to the town band
children hold grand childrens hands
then the bugler plays
and as the notes fly into silence
old men cry in defience of age
that has wearied
and remembrances of those gone before
they remember more and more
lest we forget ...
sunshines in the bluest of skies
and there is youth once more in tired eyes

stay sane
within the insanity
draw a line in the sand
make it straight, yet flexible
enough to withstand
the  rough winds of argument

watch the sand blow away
still the line remains,
a furrow on the brow.
a burning bridge
beacon to  the too dark night
burning fever, feverbright

stay strong as belief does
becomes ash and ash does
becomes sky, flying forth
as squiggles written on ephemera

stay sane, within the insanity
this brief, brief, briefest time
for once the line is
broken and sundered
and the reality cold, enters in

then the sad, sad, sadness shatters
the snowglobe world within

water on the floorboards
may be tears or not.

glass shards scattered everywhere
and ginger bread house lost

once the ball is broken,
it cannot be retrieved

gliitter once unfrozen
will not be tamed again.

you will find that stuff for decades
and remember the insanity again...

they made me
from a soulful longing,
a sad desperation..
of hopeful reincarnation

they made me
after a birthday celebration
once the wine was drunk
the cake eaten,
the other kids bedded down
they clambered into bed
to make a baby girl

they made me
to replace my oldest sister
born too early, too blue, too still

they made us all to replace her
but the next two, came as boys

so they made me
their last try,
a rhesus baby
requiring three months bed rest,
coming three weeks early
a girl, that solved nothing

when,
they made me
they made hope,
a fragile seed
for a family tree
gloriously completed

but it was not to be
i could not compete
against the phantom branch
whose life mere seconds long
held the potential ,
i could never have achieved

they made me,
i destroyed them....
not with intention
or malice, not with
action or word,
but by being compared
to a figment of a happy time.

by being flesh and blood
with failings and faults

they made me
they hated  me
they loved me
they made me

I love them still...

How to age....

Make a mound of small unexplained aches, with some pains added , for better texture.

Into which you add a wine bottle's worth of memories, be they joyful or not

Add a few cups of reluctance, as many as you can find

A smattering of grace

Defiance to taste...

Liberally add all those confused thoughts

and smidgen or two of:

"When I was young"

Stir with mild anger at what the world is becoming

Set aside to rise....
whilst you go into the other room,
to forget, what you went the for.

Come back and sit a spell, for no particular reason.

Pour mix into a long rectangular box,
one with two slightly clipped corners works best.

Sprinkle the top with copious amounts of bran, but no sugar.

Place into oven,whilst complaining of creaky back or knees, your choice

Cook til well and truly done...so that when poked a snore or snot is produced

Remove from oven,
Do not allow cool, you no longer have time for all that folderol

Ice with tears for those departed, and regret of things left undone ..

Enjoy the fruit of you labour as the sun sets

Drowning the taste of sawdust with a good whiskey...
...and your prescribed
cocktail of tablets...

beware the hermit crab
tucked up aslumber in  it shell
for when you pick him up to
say hello , he may
attach his pincers to your nose

beware the hippopotomus
do not dare tread on his toes
for he may just lean on you
with  little fuss,
then you are flatter
than a bread crust

beware the flamingo
with pink stalk legs
do not ever steal her eggs
for she can run you down
and peck til your blue and brown

beware the seal
the clown of the sea
If you come to close
They may kiss you
on the nose, now
while that sounds quite cute
remember fish is their fruit
and the never brush their teeth
so their kiss has it's own kapow

beware the wee small things
they need to be watched
for in their world they are Kings
and we are clod hopping giants
with no care...so of all other things
beware..be aware .

through the keyhole of your heart
i see the journey you have made
through deserts dry
and mountains ranges
you have travelled,
swimming in blue sea's
and muddy swollen rivers,
sleeping on beahces of sand
so golden it gleams, golden
in the early morning sun

you have laughed in the wilderness,
when there was no one to hear
cried alone and bereft
in cities so crowded, that no one heard
you have walked under
every phase of the  silent, lonely moon
and howled at the world,
your tears have watered
every continent
and your smile brought
warmth to many a cold fire place.

You have bartered,
your money, your life , your soul
and then bought them back for pennies, shekels and zots
only to give them away
to the next traveller
with a mendicant tale....

And you are home....in order to lick your wounds
in order to come to terms with those decisions
that have forshortend your allotted span
and we provide hospice and love and more
for you are our racounter,
our bard our sight
into the faraway,
the unthinkable...
the other side
you are the brave and reckless self,
we wished, we all wanted to be..

so welcome home, friend, welcome
pull up a stool and tell us a tale

as we sit in the shadows and cry at your fate

dog's worn out
so are we
social buttrfly
and social bee
not our schedule,
not our cup of tea
but the golden boygod
has now discovered
the mystery of girl meets
boy ...and then runs away
only to dart back ..."wanna play"

new year new school...needs
new mates..so we opened up
the gates ...
the tuxedo rex
chose discretion, the pup
absolute valour, followed
by adoration of the...***
these little humans will
play with me,  a lot, kind....
whoopee!!!

we made nice with new faces
some wanted to play,
we be the Jones'es races
some played aloof and standoffish
those with aspiring social graces
a few came in all bluster and huff
but with first words called their own bluff
then there were those comfortable
in their skins, those who chatted
and engaged, they were not here to win,
just to meet and greet begin to know
the parent of those with whom,
their kids will grow
those who's kids come first,
those kids all running ragtag
fit to burst with energy and joy
hopefully they are the ones
that the golden god boy
chooses to team up with
for this stage of the game


but when the dust settles
and he makes his way
we will be social with who ever
cause at the end of the day
we have our friends  
made on many such days
our team is big...
if some what greyer
than when we started
his is newer, brighter
and he gets to choose
win or lose..
part of the learning

as for today, all went well
no major meltdowns
no social  hell
just a family  worn down
and tired excepting the cat
who is now inspired
the anti social thing:
to sing  to us the
"song of his people"
in an earsplitting key
and will only stop
for a sardine...or three

mecury dreams
begetting quicksilver thoughts
enticing in shape and shine, yet
fluid through grasping hands

time meanders, with little meaning
as roses wilt on the wayside

one note sounds a gong
reverberating in the distance
drawing me forward

all the time i am hampered
by the gathering up of  past
I walk carrying a backpack
of  badly folded origami dreams

hoping oneday they will be art

tis time
said the elf in my ear
tis my time of year
unpack the baubles
the lights,
tinsel
and gear
the merryest of merry
times is near

said I to the elf
get back on tne shelf
nay get back in that box
good gosh and begorrah
calm down your striped socks
it is five  in the a.m.
December the 1st

said the elf, in my ear
I know the time
I let you sleep a whole
four hours and 59 nine minutes
over the strike of my first happy day

so now
get your great *** into gear
this is the only time  I see
the otherside of the box
after months locked down
so get it together mother dear

hang the lights
and let them twinkle
place the tree and
smell the pine needles
and the faint
odour of cat ******?
watch them as they shed
hang the baubles that sit
differently to how they
looked in your head
throw tinsel at that sucker
till it glows and shimmers
knowing that stuff gets every where
even  into the cats stomach and bed

bring on the cheer ,bring on the glee
bring out the angels, the santas, and me

start buying presents
and wrapping  them furtively
have the discussions about
what to buy for those less near
buy the cheap and nasty,  or
the  credit card dear
buy the simple or make the  stuff
or simply divert payments to next year
as if we mostly don't have
more than enough

remember those gone and those left behind
keep them close to heart and to mind
think of those with out resource or recourse
make  some adjustments in order to be kind
and give away joy to  some you don't know
could well  become their reason to stay ...not go

come on said the elf it is time we began
got to get ready, spread a little love accross
your patch of this land, don't be a grinch,
a scrooge or sadsack,  you gotta have
the big jolly-mans  back

and while we are here
conversing and such
remember  the reason
for all this fuss,
doesn't matter,
the religon, the caste
or the creed..
as this time approaches
take moments to reflect
upon this years closing
and hope with joy
and no fear
for love to conquer all
in the future year

said  I to the elf
yammering away in my ear
well said  young  chap
time to get on my good cheer

this was meant to be a minute,
but then i began to spin it
and the words just took a hold,
so bold so bright
thrown like torches
into the indigo night
casting shadows on the back of
the retreating blocked,
blockhead blight,
setting grass and tree alight,  
loosing  now the tight hold
of  poetblock fear
loosening the reins of rage
making the transition
into the feathered thing
that takes flight
and flys upward
on mirrored wing
to the sky,  
not tethered
but also raw
and unweathered
unlimited by time,
but destined to fall
as energy becomes
one with all,
did not touch moon ,
did not see the sun
but this minutě wordmoth
soared and swooped
before it's minute was done
And now it flutters
down to earth,
saited and pleased
to have been..
birthed, never to die
but become byte eternal,
read once twice or more..
does not matter
wordmoths
have learnt
never
try to keep score

in the wind
the blood bright red
poppies dance and bow
the bee's bustle and hustle,
from one black hearted flower
to another, little engines
revving away, as they gather
the pollen count for the day's quota
the sound is like a conversation
you can't quite hear, as you
struggle to remain asleep
on a drowsy summer sunday morning

a comforting whisper with some
notes of anxiety, the sort of conversation
that precedes  a breakfast in bed made
by child and husband, one that comes
with best intentions, tepid tea, cold eggs
and slightly singed toast, sans jam
a breakfast that you eat smilingly,
knowing, the love that flavours it
a breakfast you eat whilst watching
poppies dance and bumblebee's bustle

I wish for you my little big love
a life of soft landings
of easy struggles and
short battles

but  I know my little big love
that this will not, should not,
be the case, for if you have only
soft, easy and short, you will not
appreciate the life you live

no my little big love, my heart knows
you must sometimes fight long,
struggle with all your being
land hard and hurt, to  earn
the victory, to see the win
in all it's glory, to accept
the prize

my heart wishes you soft landings
my head tempers the wish  with wisdom
so I send you forth to live your life
this day and the next, with humour
kindness and fortitude...hoping
you you return with stories and a smile

the scent of towels impregnated
with chlorine, mixes with petrichor
from the brief but violent storm

the mugginess still sits heavy in
the evening air as fruit bats
fly overhead, not one or two,
but tens and twenties, setting off
a mad barking frenzy among
the neighborhood dogs

twilight beckons to the darker night
and the smell of wet wood and sausages
cooking over takes the night
some one plays the guitar and the
notes drift unevenly on the breeze

houses become shadows, as the moon rises
the frogs begin to chorus and cats gossip
on the next door neighbor's garage
specteral shapes in silhouette
the sweet smell of jasmine
and honeysuckle wafts by

as we sit in the dark
awaiting the temperatures drop
anytime  now.....anytime

singing songs in my head
reminding me of days
long dead, lives lived and lost
all that remains is the moss
shed from the stone rolling away
penny thoughts and diamond dreams
written on forgotten reams of parchment fine
vellum too, written when the dodo's ruled the zoo
words so divine, sieved through linen fine
stitched in dainty tapestry, told to me by a flea
given to him by a dog, barking mad, or mad barking
wisdom begining at a silly place, is still wisdom
if given from lessons learnt in strife.
life your life, in love, love your life and live

time kaliedescopes
yesterdays, nows and
tommorows jumble
in glittering jewels
hopes from earlier
become wistful dreams
hopes for later, mists
to be gathered in butterfly nets
dreams of now circle like
koi in a  pond,
hypnotic in their gliding
silent world

we stand on the precipice
waiting for echoes to return
waiting for an updraught
of heady confidence
to give us impetous
to allow us spread
our gossamer wings
we wait for the sun
to warm us, to bring the rush
of blood to our heads
so that we may jump
and soar in the yonder
so that our feet may feel
the caress of  impossibilty
and clouds can tickle our soles

we wait...

i still see you
sitting in the sun
holding a pale ale
up in salutation
steel grey hair
flowing
down your back
legs crossed at knee
ankle jigging
up and down
to the beat of
the music
in your head
dressed in "blacks"
with a flash of colour
this time pale lemon
in your hand
a dhurrie, self rolled,
thin and a little bent
smoking gently, the whisp
of it curling in the breeze
today your face is thoughtful
caught up in a memory that brings
the corners of  mouth up
into a wry smile.
i still see you
in the periphery
of my mind
yet when i turn
you are gone..
a memory
playing tag
with my heart

there was blood
a pinprick of it
bright red viscous
glowing with health

because of the blood
there were bandaids
two big plastic strips
colored like the flesh of
a zombie hand, placed in a cross
like the x on a treasure map
straddling the knee
of the small person
with tears in her eyes
as she retold her story

there was blood
and it hurt
but then we
had ice cream

now the blood is dried
the tears too
but still the bandaids remain
x marking the spot

words are not easy now
they turn their back an slink away
i mutter soliloquys of gibberish
hoping to entice them home
but no, they laugh  and belittle me

my muse has  taken to reading  
other poet's work and nags
about the good old days
flouncing about and swaering

there are many theories, about
this dry spell, this soon to be drought
but really all i can do is sit
out on the back deck,
watch the dustbowl
and wait for the smell
of petrichor....

wind raucous in it's endevours tonight
circling the house in a macabre yet joyous song
and dance routine, the tree's applaud
and the small cat curls tighter in on itself

rain falls with intense passion
scrubbing the grime away
and the moon is lost in the clouds
most things tuck themselves up
and wish  for a sunny day

but the old green treefrog
is singing  lovesongs
and his rival too
bass profundo
at just past two
serenading the ladies
as the wind croons along

my voice is
just dust upon the floor
swept into piles under the carpet

my art, the scribblings
of a child, with no sense
of line or colour
haphazard in it's beauty

my words, dry leaves
set to dance upon  
the winter winds
without direction or
consequence

my mind, a small seed
awaiting the glorious spring  rains
til then,  just a shell in which
my muse baby...
slumbers

i had forgotten
the rage and anguish
of a two year old boy
who is just too tired
and overwhelmed

i had forgotten
the frustation and angst
of  the mother of a two year
whose answer to every question
in a howling NOooooo

both almost in tears
i so wanted to help
but remembered
outside influence
at this juncture
is often more
of a hinderence

but still i smiled
and leant over
and whispered
in her ear...
it does get better
and yes you are
doing a great job

sometimes it helps
to be told you are
even if it feels
like you ain't

sing to me songs full of joy
songs that flood the dark
corners and crevices of my soul
with sunshine buttery and golden

sing to me of love requieted
of quests completed  with heros
homecoming to hearth and home
of reunions joyful and jovial

sing me silly songs,
full of nonsense riffs
songs that make my belly ache
from laughter, sing to make me smile
not only now, but for years to come
when i fondly remember that sillly song

sing to me, all the good and bright things
you can possibly think of, sing long
and sing loud, make the melodies dance
the boogaloo, the charleston and jive

drown out this sadness, drown out this anger
sing to me hope, sing to me love
sing me a future, full of joy
sing, sing,sing,sing,sing

i recall
with a fondness
blurred by years
the town of
my formative years

in the mountains
the heart of the table lands
dissected by a highway
it crouched, along the sides
of a shallow valley

i remember a greeness
that came from the trees
eucalypt and pine
most prominent
in my mind
and the grass that grew
lush and tall
only to be mown
each Saturday morn

i remember
churches and schools
the wide expasnses
of playing fields
and parks with
hurdygurdys and swings
i remember the pool,
that too turquoise
rectangle,
that glistened
with wet invitation
and on the highest peak
the stolid grey water  tower
lording it over all

i remember rough tarmac
under my feet, running from
light pool to light pool at dusk
and frost on picket fences
in early mornings,
like delicate sugar candy
solidier braving the early sun

our house, small on a large block
with hydrangea at the front
wisteria overtaking the fenceline
an at the back door a concrete slab
painted fire engine red,
but faded to overipe watermlon pink

poplar trees garding the back
and the smell of onions
burning on the grill
hill'*******with tennis ball
and pantyhose
standing  to silent attention


and in the forground
my brothers and clans
playing football, league
with passion and
burgeoning skill

all this comes to mind
on a cold winter's day
i may of come a long way
but my heart still
ties me to there
and the memories
make the knots