unwinding the dross
from my mind
makes things no clearer
but at least i see
the rapids before me

unpicking the stitches
from my heart,
makes it no less painful
but at least it lets
the infection out

taking the rocks
from my backpack
does make it lighter
but leaves me frozen, staring
at the signposts of my life

and how do i
get rid of the
etchings of you
off my bones
the tattoo of
your love inked
into my soul

how do i change
my essence
forever
mixed
with yours

it would be just
as easy to
paint the sky green

feet cold
even in the
thickest socks

not used to
mountain weather
years in temperate climes

have softened my ability
to suffer silently
i feel ancient as  i walk
about, muttering....
too cold, too cold

the little heater
working overtime
but doing naught
mocks me with it's
white noise rattle

hot showers are great
til you have to leave
the steamy warmth

bed is the warmest place
so we, all  are in it ...
like puppies in a box

too cold, too cold

tea leaves sit soggy, sad
forgotten  at the bottom

of the cup

leaching, bitter tannins
now, forgetting the life they led

no one willing to read their fortune
no spilling of the secrets
they never truly had

just detrius now
from dust to dustbin
the cycle of a tea leaf
long or brief,
happy or sad
a parable, in hot water

once green and lush in colour
in essence, verdent's liquid fame
once used and now just *******
every life has limit, every limit claimed
as we sup, we suffer the race of time
running through our fingers

clamouring at our mind

one day we too,
will be *******
waiting for the dust,
one day we too
shall leach our liquids
in the unforgiving  dust

the smell of used books
and years of young love
wafts through the
airconditioning

it is quiet, but not silent
with mumured questions
and conversations being
puntuated by electronics

still there are heads bent
in the pursuit of knowledge
some deep, some philosophical
some kardashianesque.

i sit in comfort, in a nook
breathing in must and thought
and ponder the quest for knowledge

the tour passes by, the guide intones;
there is over 46 kilometres of shelving
in this library, each shelf stacks six high.
just under two hundred computers
and of course access  to wifi...this is
the hub of  knowledge and should
well become your second home

i smile as i watch the bright young things
in the nook across  from me,  
devour  the knowledge of each others face
learning diversified....

god it's so cold
heart impoverished
by grief
beggar at this feast
toes like ice
head full of mice
running  the race
of larger bretheren
while chattering
glory hallelujah
my joint cry fowl
my heart yowls
at an indifferent moon
salt water slurry
cascades down my cheeks
first day of the week
already i have wandered
too, too far off the track
down the valley of bleak
beaten down, weary
blue and black
cold weather blues
blacking my brain
like foul smelling soot
from a fire with no heat
need to find  warmth
for my heart to beat
need to switch songs
not rinse lather and repeat
spare a kindness, maybe a smile
my mendicant heart
so needs a boon...
god it's so cold
alone in this room
filled with others
all just the same
all are players in
this gam of life and loss
bereft....be it's name

is as if it grew
as limb of
the gnarled
stringybark

it sat, still
so very still
grey feathers
blended to
perfection

beak ****** up
at an angle
mimicking
the broken edge
of storm damaged
branch

only when
we had passed
it gave itself
away, with slow
blink of tawny eye
then shuttered again
it returned
to it's hidden glory

nothing to see here
just us branches

sun shines overbright
bee's harvest the lavender
precursor to spring

night too cold with frost
even the owls stay in, silent
winters reminder

in the time between
sleeping and waking
my thoughts drift to you
the sky begins to turn umber-red
and tears fall softly down my cheeks
it is a deep hearted truth that you do not
appreciate  what you have until it is lost
yet the day must go on so by the time the sun
has risen, the tears have dried and i now motherless
go about the daily tasks of being a wife and mother
but just letting you know i miss you...so very much

today i am
a teacup in a tempest
fragile against the slightest wind
fine china, in a world of sticks and stones
brimming over with tears, sat far to long
dark and bitter with tanin, sour with lemon
just waiting to be drained, in one long gulp
so someone may read the dregs of me

it is the sussuration of the passion
that is etched between
the lines of your forehead
that causes my heart to beat
with quiet fervor
as i await your next move

between us
our breath mists
as we pursue passion
this  night of zero  degrees
our ardour is  summers hottest day
as the sweat cools upon  bared *******
we reach an apex our very own everest
and then become aware of the chill in the air

consider the bee
industrious
in manner

one wonders
if it ever crosses
their minds

to take a day off
curl up with a friend
and natter the day away

sun shines through the rain
grass is green again
the cat lies on the old verandah
re organizing the dust
into different piles

there is hope on the evening breeze
and in the trees the birds sing alleluh
the tarmac steams and the cars stream by

time in a bottle, love in your eyes
these are the last days of summer break
soon be the time to take
up the reins and load up the dross
but for now.. for now ...we laugh
and love and lose....later we can count
the bruises, cry at the heartache

now we run  through  rain

today....i took my mothers glasses to the local optometrists
they have a donation box, in which you place unused glasses
then, they are given to people in third world countries,
giving them the gift of better sight...
i have been meaning to do this for a month or so
ever since mum passed away, but it was harder than i thought
it felt too intimate to give that part of her away
but today it happened...and some day soon someone
who was pretty near blind,  given the prescription
will see the world in a whole new way
...through my mum's eyes
and there is a goodness in that..

clipped and shorn
close to breaking
the thin skin
on the wrinkly bits

words
sharp and terse
leaving marks
unseen
on the inside

criticism
meant to be constructive
but became destructive
with a turn of the shears

this baa, baa black sheep cries all the way home

my words are like ants
that an ant bully is playing with
today they wander aimlessly
trying to find the thread of sense
the trail to lead them home

we all  narrate
our own destinies
smoothing the edges of
dubious memory
so we become hero
or victim, as we see fit

we paint our words with
colour and passion
and make some areas
grey or black
shading the story,
so that our heart remains clean

it is only in the small print
foot notes, that we write
codiciles and retractions
that we give a nod to time

the nebulous truth
obfuscated  by time
and the blurred re-telling
becomes the urban legends
of our minds....

our very own fairy  tales
and once upon a times
seen through the
kaliedescope of fathertime

the puppy,collie dog
all squirm and energy
just wants to makes friends

the little devon rex
all hiss and spit
is overwhelmed
and retires
to the top of
the bookshelf

the dog tries to follow
but as we all know
dogs  cannot climb
and just pulls  books
down upon himself
with a loud clattering sound

the devon rex
becomes a dervish
racing around the room in circles
vocalizing terror and indignation

this went a whole lot differently in my head

sometimes words spoken or written
are woefully inadequate
they clutter up and make
the emotional space claustrophobic

silence can give just as much comfort

sometimes even more

here i am

9 degrees celcius
dragging bins to the curb
breath frosting clouds
feet cringing from cold earth
muttering quiet obscenities
trying not to inhale trash perrfume
looking up to see sunrise colours dance
waving to brave/stupid morning walkers
thinking early birds are overrated
hearing  the resident kookaburras laugh
thinking caffiene, caffiene,  caffiene

here i am

it is the season of soup
and tissues here.....
after two weeks of drizzling
and driving rain

each sentence is punctuated
by a sneeze or a sniffle

hoarse voices whine
and whinge beneath
doona mountains

we all look like we have
wrestled with a yeti
and lost

meanwhile the washing piles up
the bins fill with sodden germy tissues
the chemist smiles with glee,
each time we enter his store
and the tuxedo rex runs from bed to bed

from red eyes and cotton filled head
i write this seasonal report
hoping to see the end of flu season soon

thoughts upon my newly acquired orphan state.  i am fifty two and then a little more it should not matter that  i can  no longer knock and open that door to sit in the corner and quietly speak of matters small and large, joyous and bleak....it should not matter for now i am grown  with others to love a child of my own.... it should not matter  but oh how it does... it leaves me speechless, somedays and sometimes turned inside out....on a raft  alone in a sea of  thoughts.... all this in a grief so quietly my own... yet we go about the closing down of a life eighty years and more, taking things so precious to the local opportunity store... consoling ourselves with the mantra that mother loved her charities as we give away the clothes she wore.... we pack, up the unit in which she lived.....pore over the photos showing the love of the life she lived...we converse about memories and family lore...we laugh, we cry, we laugh some more....we note that the  photos we love the most are  those of her holding grandchildren  on  lap and in arm... we talk about the fierce, fierce love that would allow no lasting harm... to befall those in her care...we also talk about the fashions of clothes and  of hair....then... there are the silences so profound...... when we all realize once more she will no longer be around....at least in the physical....in our hearts she will alway be near and dear .....we pack up her rugs and chair....her cookbooks  and clutter, bed bath towels, a myriad of things  in my mind i hear her mutter... such a fuss, such a palaver!....finally all is done...
her  place a shell....empty and forlorn ...we walk out the door as we quietly mourn.....we three orphans, my brothers and me....
stand in the moonlight and stare at the sea....all thinking the same ....poor orphaned me....

missing her face today
as the winter frost sets in

in my mind  i hear the gentle click
of her knitting needles,
she knitted her love with artistry
in 8 ply wool jumpers, scarves,
vests and cardìgans, all scented
with peppermint, jasmine  and rose
the handcream she used for so many years

i go to the cupboard and pùll out the last
piece of her craftsmanship,  a cardigan
in shades of blue and purple, pull it on,
wrapping my body in her love, sighing
as the tears fall from my eyes

i am missing her today....
as the winter frosts sets in

outside the window
the wind keens and roars

all the frustrations
of the world settle
within that voice,

and as it beats it's formless hands
against the the side of the house
and rattles the eaves...

small whispers of ice
sneak inside, under doors
and sigh into our bones

leaving  chills along our spines
and raising the skin in a morse
code message of  loss and sorrow

soon it will pass us over
to seek those who lack
this simple protection
and then, will share  it's misery
with a sad, sadistic joy

I am here
sitting quietly
in the corner

reading,
absorbing,
day dreaming

I am alright
well as alright
as one can be
a month and a bit
on from the death
of a parent.

There is much to do
a life to get on with.

But there is a quiet
in my soul, not harmful
or depressing, just stillness

Like waiting for a train
in a sleepy country station
it will come when it comes
until then just sit and wait
drowse in the sunshine
enjoy the view,
remember love.

Perhaps soon the train will come
and I shall return...

wrapping fine bone china
in yesterday's news

memories float like dust motes
sweeping across my mind

so many years of husbanding
the china cabinet
only for it to remain behind

her precious china
dispersed to grandbabies
now soon to be newlyweds

newsprint smeared on noritake
and wedgewood, tears on eyelashes
and the lily of the valley tea set
witness to it all...

her ring sits on the mantlepiece
worn thin on one side
that dull warm yellow
that gold sometimes takes on

i remember it cutting into my hand
as she held it tightly as we shopped
it was bright and shiny then

she used to wear it on her  longest finger
after dad left us, she left it off for awhile
and then wore it on the other hand

it was tight on her workworn hands then
she took it off again before she went into
this last home, but kept it locked in a security draw

now it sits on the mantlepiece, waiting
for me to find a safe place for it
for it is the little bit of my mother's spirit
that will one day be part of my son's  wedding ring,

tide is high
grasping at the sand
moon is low
caressing the wavetops
breeze is fresh
causing us to shiver
body is warm
suggesting we re-enter
the house is quiet
sharing our secret tryst
floor is hard
but not so much to matter
the stars are bright
but they see not, our wantoness
the night is quiet
as we contemplate, our aftermath

you are tethered here now
by just a few threads
gossamer thin
that flex and strain with
each laboured breathe

soon  the last of  them
will  fray and break
and you will be free
to float away

to see and enjoy
new vistas
to be
unencumbered
by that, that drew
you down into the dark

then untethered
you will fly to the heavens
like a bird, small against
the blue, blue sky

or perhaps more akin
to a dandelion seed
be taken by a gust of wind
to a new environ
mayhaps, a cliff top
by a shining blue sea
and there to take seed
and grow again and again
whilst the sea kisses the sand

and in the quiets times
between the ministrations
of those angels called nurse
i sit  and watch you breathe
pray for your god to bring you comfort
pray for my god to bring me strength
in this quiet love i hope i honour you
i hope i thank you for times
you watched over me and prayed

syringe push driver
medical implement
that aids in supplying drugs
a comfort measure

the pathway home
you lie in bed so small
all the freice fighting spirit
leached away, just needing rest

you ask me to ring"the boys"
let them know you aren't doing well
they ask me to set up a family meeting
to discuss the use of the push driver
all these things i do.....all the time
wanting to hide, put my hands to my ears
and cry, lalalals, not listening

but I cannot, I am the adult now....

slipping
slowly
under
the
saltwater,
the
coolness
so  
sensual,
like
softest
silk
against
my
skin.

sloughing
off
sweat
and
days
disasters
I
sink
further
down
to
rest
on
sand,
sifting
it
through
my
fingers

rising
only
to
take
simple
breathes
I  
allow
myself
to
silently
decompress
and
my
soul
simply
sighs

a sunday afternoon
in the lingering indian summer
provides paradoxes
my husband has sat down
in the inflatable pool with icecream
to watch a game of rugby league,

the winter blankets wave gaily
out on the clothesline, dry less
than an hour after having been hung

my boy watches black ants feast
on spilt hot chocolate and marshmallows
on the too hot to stand cement path

and the tuxedo cat lays in the shallows
of the pond, fishing tadpoles unsuccsessfully

one moment ago
every thing was fine
the starter was fine
the main exceptional
the conversation whilst
not exceptional held nuggets
of interest and hints of wit.
dessert came, looked scrumptious
but before fork hit pastry
it happened
something was said,
umbrage was taken
and now we all sit,
in the middle of a ferociously cold war,
my husband caught with
forkful between bowl and mouth
gulps loudly and places fork back on plate
apart from the two combatants,
everyonehas become interested in
the state of  their shoes,
mine are in need of a polish.
and still the fury roils around.
i ask for the bill, pay our share
leaving the cash on the plate..
we are too old, too tired
to take part in what has become
some one elses public domestic

we grab some pastries to go..
and in a blink of an eye
we depart the field...
leaving the two sides blinking

he lies sleeping under
the sage green sheet
on his side turned away
from me and my intrusive light

the sheet is gathers about him
like grass upon the mountain range
that peaks at shoulders and hip

at tne bead head, a tangle
of jungle vines curled and intertwined
and the sound of a bear embarking
on a short winters hibernation

at the foot, ten pebbles of varying size
attached to two size eleven boulders
of a sunbrowned material
aged by sun, surf and sand
yet on the underside
a pale pink, reminiscent
of the delicate  inside
of the finest seashell

the grass on the upper reaches
of the moutain range, waves
as the wind sighes in and out
of the bear-cave mouth
and the plains of the lower
shift in small earthquake tremors
before settling in somulant torpor

when my man mountain sleeps ,he sleeps

groper lips speak
vowels fall forth
chipped pearls of wisdom
skitter about the ground
seeking purchase
in mud pockets
finding only dry sand
and bitter salt

******* in salt
for forty years
can do that
curdle the cream
of wisdom leaving
just the sour to spew out

but if clever you can sift
the  detrius and make
cheesecake with
chipped pearls  on top

new faces
eager to learn
wanting to speak
not sure, too sure
waiting for brilliance
to fall upon them like rain
holding the centre of the space
yet small within in it

older faces
casual in welcome
relaxed in attitude
creating a sense of being
larger than they once were
filling the space with  synergies

they all come in  and mingle
the very fresh,
those who are middling
and those who are beginning  
the downhill trek to the end
this is the conduit,
this dark room
that seems dingy
and broken in the day
but at night
when the grid is lit
and the mummers come to play
it is the grotto fantastic,  
filled with other beings
opposite selfs
with faces painted
and multitudinal voices
making all from naught

and I am
the gatekeeper,
paid in coins of laughter
and notes of tragedy
opening vistas
and changing lines...

all the faces
have the one thing
in common
an earnest desire
to stand up and
take the stage

so throw open the gates
let them enter, let them play

again the rain
this time soft gentle
soothing mist,
that makes
trembling pools
of opal
while clouds above
drift and collide
like faded bumpercars
all movement but
little co-ordination

the tuxedo kit sit on windowsill
enamoured of the sliding
drops of condensation,
his head follows
up down then up,
he reminds me of a yo-yo

tommorrow, a new day,
yesterday, history forgiven
now, a a long drink of regret
...... and anticipation

little trout upon my plate
bet your wishing that fly you ate
was not attached to fishing line

little trout in my mouth
like a bird you should've flown south
but now you are destined for my mouth

little trout in my tummy
you are so incredibly yummy


little trout I thank you
for feeding me and my crew

the lightning tonight, when it came
was hidden behind the clouds
like old fashioned flashbulbs
those boxy ones, we used to steal
and setoff under the bedsheets

the rain came and went
in a windblown front
pasing through without
taking the heat from the ground
just making the evening more humid

the thunder lived up to expectations
loud and growling at the world
but brief like a dog called to heel

now it has passed out to sea
and the water drips from the leaves
and the humidity continues to rise

on a twig  so fine
bumble bee sits, wings quiet
worker on a break

raindrop reflecting
stand of eucalyptus trees
nature is sublime

I write to you in my mind
on beautiful crisp white parchment

I write sacred things
disguised as daily minutiae
things of magnitude only
because of mundanity

small glimpses of the vast empty
hidden in the overgrown wastelands
milestone markers to nowhere
to a land inhabited by ephemera
daliesque in it's discrepancies
in relation to the current realities

i write mile after mile of dragging letters
a breadcrumb trail eaten by carrion birds
that grow fat on both joy and misery

i am like a plough horse, in a field
overused and crumbling,  but still
i work the rows, for no one has
released me from the harness

my words are mud, on crispest snow
turned to water and frozen to rime

my words are finest gibberish

bedlamese, sublime,

vapour in a hurricane

a cry in a bottle

the salt in a tear

my words....are the ellipses
of my understanding of your life.

I write to you in my mind
and post the letters to you memory.

the page remains unturned
tho the bottom corner
has been worried into a soft dog ear

it is not that the words are boring
the plot mundane, or the prose stilted
it is I who cannot read the black ink
the same words repeating in my mind

as i stare out into the garden
my ability to read is well below par
as i day dream the hours away

content to be a  warm, squishy cushion
to the tuxedo rex cat,
as he dreams panther dreams
and purrs like a Massey Ferguson

outside the window, in the hazy warmth
a dragonfly darts about the garden,
before settling with dainty precision
upon the craggy green mossed rock
at the pond's edge, a pause, a blink,
then the insect alights again

i too should be up and about....
but i am anchored by lassitude
and  three and a half kilos
of contented cat....
whose daydreams  are not
to be disturbed....

that raven,shiny feathers
of funeral black, with eye agleam
was just about the largest i have seen
caught sight of it dragging tenderized
roadkill home for dinner,

it may well  have been
a crow for it swore at me
before it went, fark, fark
whilst wrangle the possum carcass
away into the dark,  
a shadow seeking the shadows
to feast and to park it's heavy load
it's beady eye glinted in the dying
of the sun, it hopped and pranced
like it was having a ball, then dipped
it's sleek head into the pile of gore
and all my fantasies of the blackbird's geniality
are sadly to be .....nevermore

big, bright ole moon
on the rise tonight
turning red, being blue
butter and cheese
on a dark indigo plate

only problem being
that the god's in their
gluttony and disregard
have dropped
the clouded napkins
over the cheese platter

so we here, hear about
the beauty of the dish
but only here the clatter
of the cutlery and feel
the overflow from the dishwasher

when I was small
to small to see over
the tabletop, my aunt
taught  me to make God's Food
she gave me lessons
in baking, in alchemy

I stood on stool,
so I could mix the
ginger powder,
flour and eggs in
the big old green
mixing bowl
with a big wooden
spoon, half as tall as me

I wore an apron and had
one of my poppa's hanky's
tied over my hair...

My Auntie Barb,
poured over my dry mix
hot melted butter,golden syrup
and brown sugar, with careful
hands and then briskly mixed
it through, a glorious batter
was made.

together my hands
covered by hers,
soft comfort and calluses
would pour the batter into
old rectangle loaf tins,
paper and greased,
then into an oven
to bake and spread
the scent of  ginger, cinnamon
and caramel, throughout the old
weatherboard house....

I would happily lick the spoon
and scrape every last bit of gooey batter
from the old palmolive green mixing bowl
as we waited for the baking alchemy to occur

Roughly forty minutes later,
the oven door would be opened
and loaf of gingered goodness
would appear, the kettle would be
placed on the hob to boil, tea in the ***
cups, plates and cutlery on the table
sugar,milk and butter too

Then her voice, would call
gingerbread is up, and all
would come, interrupting
footaball, a good book,
an afternoon nap,
or the tv program
nothing stopped one
coming for gingerbread

The loaf would be sliced
still warm and thick
almost overwhelming
all that warm ginger
so very exotic, then
it would be lathered
with butter, that would melt
almost on contact.....
and that was a such a feast

There was magic in that kitchen
even though I make ginger bread
the same way, something is missing
perhaps the warmth of the old oven
or some little pinch of salt or nutmeg
or perhaps the ginger has changed

Or it might be just nostalgia....
for simpler times..when my biggest
responsibility was mixing ginger bread batter