there it was,
sitting in the
tiny rainbow room
of my brain,
you know,
my joy's broom closet,
just behind the third eye.

was an inkling,
it was just a little one,
of an effervescent poem,
written with the love of silly.
it was born from,
the smackerel of hunny
held so stickily in the bear's paw(maw).
the one that lives
on the corner,
and is always looking
for more

it became then,
a twinkling.
it was growing you see,
expanding in girth,
learning of mirth,
the art of the funny.
it was begining to be,
the notion of an idea,
all perpertual motion
and fuzzy with glee.

it bursts forth from,
the closet and into the
brain,
in a wizzing, fizzing, ball,
too hard to contain.
around and about,
it ricochetted.

trying to find
a small pocket,
of spared thought
in which to fit
and sit for a while,
to cogitate it's
self into an amusing,
musing,
of rude and unseemly
health.

but alas and alack,
it could find no berth
in the banality,
no perch for it's caprice.

wrinkling now,
with the loss
of it's earlier gleam,
it suffers from
a bout of hysteria
and screams in futility.

please, let me  be,
a thought, complete
and in context.

let me, not suffer,
the fate of being,
just a half arsed dream.

it can see, no worse fate
for an inkling,
with some gumption.
to wither and die,
as a mere
whimsical fantasy.
with, proud and lofty thoughts, passing on by,
with not nary, a glance
in the direction,
and little to no,
compassion,
for the fate of
the poor inkling.

that once ,
had delusions of granduer.
far above, it's humble station.

upon the thorny cane,
of a rose's trailing bush,
walks a lady bird.

all dressed in orange-red
n' black....
she toils in a bustling way,
to the very tip of the wood
and then after a moment's
thoughtful balancing....

she alights....
incogurously beautiful,
as she all but hovers,
in the warm rose scented air.

and then she sets her course,
for who knows where
and zig zags her way...
to over there...

happiness bumbling
along on glossy spotted wing

a little poem
of little thoughts
just waiting to be loved

a little poem
of little dreams
just waiting to be woken

a little poem
with a great big  voice
waiting to be spoken

a little poem
in a little cage
waiting to be free'd

a little poem
from little me
waiting for little you
with little hope of trending

the ache in my heart
remains undiminished
pressed down by daily need
compacted into that small blemish
that scars my soul, the tattoo of emptiness
written upon the reverse of my eyelids

this is the season of loss,
the time of letting go
yet in my heart I cannot,
I acknowledge the leaving
partake once again in the grieving,
but still I know
my heartstrings still seek yours
and now people wonder,
which lover have I lost
no lover no,no, in one sense, more indeed
but we both know if we were of Sappho's breed
we could have, no would have been each other's creed
the north south and compass complete..
but we were not born that way,
the gods at play made us for different fellows
so we became friends then sisterkin,
we were joyful for each others loves, each others success,
we were together blessed with understanding deep, deepest, over tea smoked and steeped we leapt
and climbed to highest heights
and supported each other when
we fell to the depths below...
we gave each othermgrace and kindness,
perfected the art of compassionate blindness,
and then you had to  up and go,
leaving me bereft in a way
that sees life in a far more muted way

so on that day,  the aniversary of sadness
which even if the sun shines bright,
still to me is tinted grey,
I will again take myself to a quiet place,
and drink lots of gin and a little tonic,
smile cry and become slightly, mildly histronic,
you see now three years on I just discovered
whilst your face is clear
I can hardly hear,
your voice in my head,
it is now like a whisper in my ear,
and so it appears the world,
sisterkin dear,  
is making itself abundantly clear....
you are dead,  lying dead in a box...

when the world was flat
and we were few,
we looked at stars
and made them gods

to help explain the difficult truths,
to give us some measure of understanding to those concepts
to large to be held within our hands.
to find beauty in desperate times
to watch over us...

now the world is round
and we are many
most can no longer see the stars
we look to the internet to explain truth
and concepts seem to be shrinking,
to the size of a tablet screen.
times are becoming more desperate
and we watch each other...

yet the stars are there still.
behind the smog,
beyond the city lights
they hold their sentinels gaze
their beauty is undiminished.

they,for the most part are
still enigmatic, a mystery,
to be unfolded.
and we,
for all our advancement
and trappings
are still looking up....
seeking but not truly finding.

sisephean soldier *****
roll sand into spheres

seagulls sqwauk and swoop
for skerricks of sausage rolls

shaggy dogs bark and snap
at shifting sand and seas

dolphins dive and swing
throgh wave tips in a secret synergy

and out in the depths
whales sound and sing
with solemn  voices

ten n' two past three,
my mind slips from it's
domesticated fetters,
flys free into the star stitched night..

wandering, effortlessly
to climes of restless insanity
and step-stoning away from
garnered life.....

....it finds the scurrying creatures,
hovel featured and scrawny
eyes ......beggars @ the feast.
tired of the hide-away life...
wanting just a moment's grace.... a smidge of light...
pickpockets of slumber's ease.
abram, palliard, mendicant.
all asking for alms to ease their plight...

all.... wanting succour in the dead of night.
.....yet, at this time,as the darklight,
thinks and hopes desperately for dawn...

....i find my mind poor.. ....careworn and a cupboard bare and paltry...

...so again my night's thoughts . ..wend their way home hungry and sad....
black and grey wraiths,
of thoughts...... i never really had....

the crow calls
his mournful dirge
once twice thrice

early this morning
when the sky is  still
grey twilight
and his song of sadness
seeps in past the window frame,
to alight in my heart


today, you
would have been
fifty five...
and there was to be
a massive party
fifty five a glorious age
you said you were going
to retire.... see the world
but i could not see that
you who loved her job so....

but all of that,
immaterial now.
it is just past six months
since you died...
lung cancer...
metatasized to the brain
****** filthy cigarettes

i will raise a glass to you
my friend.....
probably more than one
some in joy and some in tears....

and the crow calls
again and again.....

day 43
28000 miles out
isolation no longer imagined
small specks floating, floating.
outside the window... space
and so very distant
home...
blues, greens, brown
almost perfect, almost
the marble of earth ....
plaything of gods
                             and mere mortals.

it is just past
the witching hour
yet still i sit
stitching my id
into the gossamer
warp and weft
of the world wide web
a signature cosseted
in anonymity...
a virtual
i was here.... i live
and write to tell the
tale of my living...
stitch by lettered
stitch i leave a quilt
to cover my world....

airs and graces
made up faces
hide weary bones
and holey souls

plastic smiles
haven't seen you in awhile
as internal insecurity riles
the faint heart murmurs
in these desolate piles
that have run,
far too many miles


pacemakers racing,
cracking casings,
death dicing,
panic rising,
polite ruses,
for the aged muses
pacing this,
social green mile

daily shuffle, kerfuffle
as dark winds ruffle
the blue rinse perms
and only partially muffle
comments snide
about bottoms wide,
perkless *******
and unholy rests,
of these none too
permanent guests
at this palace of
mortality and malice.

end of hours
visitors gone
wilting flowers
and dinner gong
release the  nurses
put away the purses
slump and sway
end of another day
keeping the old foe
death at bay

granny nightie,
thoughts now flighty
with pins in hair and vacant stare
fervently wishing to be anywhere
wishing for some one to be there
but knowing, life's just not fair
when you've grown this old
knowing that each day is a dare
each day a gem sometimes rare
but more often gravel  
yet, better living than stone cold.
tho stone cold.....but without a care


here I stand,  I sit, I lie,
thinking dark thoughts
on the protracted art of dying.

surrounded by silence
only the slowblink
of the blucat eyes
in the stgyian gloom
of the overcast night
sleep eludes, sleep eludes

small smiles on the sleeping
godboys face
slack relaxed exhuastion
from the father, man mountain, hibernating bear.

single sips of chamomile
tisane....sit in silence
no gain in scrapping against
insomnia.. better to succumb
to calm evening solitude
sleep will come, sleep will
come

so now..... you don't TREND?????
people have to pay money
to see your poem hit the front page

If that's the case,
(and i may be confused)
Save your money....if you like my work
Buy a homeless person a cup of coffee
I think I would appreciate that more.....

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

there is,
in my opinion,
nothing like the..... determination
of a four and half kilo
of blugrey feline,
that,
wants,
to be fed ......
at 5:37am.

the pushing and bumfping the disproportinate roar
of the basso profundo purr, in your right ear,
if still not convinced
or just,
downright lazy,
a whack!!
with a southpaw
to the back of the head,
your attention will restore.

no you are,still
resisting the charm offensive.
then be aware
of the flying leap&twis;;, landing on the midriff.

but from years of dilligent training (on the part of the cat).
i have deduced....
the cold nose,
trailing across my exposed flesh is to best to be avoided.

simply by,
stumbling up from your rest
and succumbing to...
the mantra,
the cat knows best!!!
fill the bowl,
be done,(no never)
with the furry pest
and hope...
you can snooze for a while

heart, encompasses, soul
acorn & oak my life,my loves
blessed by days better & free
you both a treasure given me.

by the way ...don't forget to
feed the cat...

add some sizzle
to that pan
me an my man
like it
hot and spicy

add some heat
to that beat
me an my man
like to samba

add some passion
to that kiss
my man knows me
i like it  long, **** and sultry

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...

black
the sky above so far reaching,
but disinclined
to become involved
in petty disputes
that night.

red
glowing the fire of sugar cane cleansing,
smoke thick,
billowing greasily

black
clouds covering
angry thoughts,
brought to bear
in closed fists.
beating sense into her
until,

red
flowed down
cheek and chin
absorbed by skin
and hair
and the little

black
dress he bought
for her to wear,
with

red
stilletto high,high heels. lipstick too for pouty lips,
now

black
and blue.

red
her thoughts as she lay beaten, but not
broken on the warm

black
asphalt tar, leaching

red
the cigarette end
showed
as slowly she stood,
fixated

black
the hilt of the knife protruding from the white dress-shirt

red
the lifeblood spreading

black
dress walking to

red
porsche,

his last view .....
              ........fading to

black.

little words
with big meanings
shared over coffee
and toast

beginning the day
with sunshine, love
and ginger lime butter

it is the simple things
it is....the simple things
i love....

the urge to question
impossiblities
comes strongly to me
now...

i stare into the water glass
wondering how the water
feels about it's temporary
confinment....

i wonder what cats dream
about....and if they think us sane....

i wonder in the male praying
mantis goes willingly, or unknowingly, to his orgiastic
death.

i wonder why i spend time
wondering why.

i wonder whether the fountain head anticipates
the freedom of the see...

i wonder if the echinda's rattling spines keep with
awake when trying to nap.

i wonder why, you chose me.....

step             off
down
         into
      blood red dust
                                    of
rusted dreamed
                    thoughts
     of steeled determintation
bought                  low by
                    times patient tick

word drought

                     poems        
                                      carcassed    ­      
                about   around
            where here
where                 ....ether

wade through and wade through
this vacant unloved space
           to sit under              
                                             ­                              the  ego skeleton tree
     here to listen
                     to the
    brain bone leavings
                  rattle and sough
in memorie's
             faint primative breeze
       as we  ......await the
..muse...all     monsooning..
  .. soothing         rain  
                                  fall
to come ... festooned....
         with the petrichor
                           fragrance of wild word blossoms and
              newly wrought  
                     thought blooms
until        then
                       i sit drooling,
driveled,
        words into shifting dust
destined to
              fly                     and
     flicker away
        on the
              next worlds sigh

fare well  good bye  adieu
               namaste

till again
              i await
              the soft feathered bliss
         kiss of rain

my mother was
the kitchen of our house
the place of practical, purposeful sustenance
and my father,
the useless, flapping, broken
back door,
that was ripped away one
night in a storm...
gone forevermore

my mother's father, the strong beams, hardwood,
that held us altogether,
kept the roof over our head
held out the night....

my mother's sister, the soft
places to fall, to cuddle in to
to cry and bawl...

and us the kids, all three
i hope, we were the joy
the bright, painted things
the hope for bigger,
better days....
the windows that,
allowed the sun's gentle rays.

we were the laughter,
that i know....
as we grew,
out past the rafters ....
and into ourselves.

my mother was the hearth
around,
which we all where
warmed,
my mother,
was the architect
of how the house,
was reformed...
after the storm
and gave us all a strength
of beam and a go get the world gleam.

the house, was a metaphor,
for the childhood days,
understood, more and more now,
with the passing of days.

the small dog
attached to the long lead
has a tail that is blurred
with happiness
as he wanders through
the market village
tongue lolling
nose questing the air
for the myriad of  scents
he is happy curiosity
in a brindle coat

i watch amused at his vigour
as i drink from an enamel mug
holding a wonderful local bean coffee
eat warm coconut mango muffins
and ponder the purchase
of some artisan glass jewllery

my boys having scoffed their muffins
are off to see the woodworkers
the golden child hoping
to add to his collection
of wooden puzzles
his father to chat with
other lovers of woodgrains

we will meet later
after i have bought, applebox honey
collected by dave the beekeeper
portabella mushrooms the size of saucers,
to make stuffed fetta mushies for dinner
and all the other green and organic vege
i can find.  some prawns and a mud crab.
lunch tomorrow,  olive bread, olive tappenade
stuffed olives, some goodies for the biccie tin

and some of these coffee beans....

the dog raises it's leg against the canvas
of the tent down the pathway
before carrying on....
oblivious

is it in learning,
the art
of contemplation,
that we become
poets ?

or is it,
because,
we have become
poets,
that we learn,
to contemplate
life....

in all it's varied hues.

i will need,
to think further
upon this....

...and then,
get back to you.

little man,
you are, skipping stones,
across the millpond,
of your mother's heart.

you are not a monkey
in the jungle
or a superhero in flight
you are breakable,
not undestructable...
and we are not always
there when you jump...

as much as i would like to be

she sat staring
into the creases
of the night
matt black
as it folded
over her

no stars
nor moon
came to give
her light

so she sat
and stared into
into the
unrequited gloom

for she knew
in her deepest soul
that from that stygian black
it would come once more

to stare at her
and see the faults
she held at bay
by mere force
of memory

if she blinked
it would sidle in
and stare and drool
and grin that lavicious
all knowing grin

so she sat and stared
into the black
hoping and praying
that the black
did not stare back

to the stones,
i poured their water ration,
but they seemed to,
be imitating ducks
and off their backs,
it rolled.

i spoke loudly,
to the clouds,
that hovered,
overhead
but they just scowled
and turned their
faces to the sun.

so, my next endevour,
is to re-arrange,
the sand dunes.
i think, that will be fun.

so set off i must,
with my bucket
and *****,
for it will
only ever get
finished,
once i
have begun.

i love these few moments
of the morning....
when the house bustles
but in essence..i am
alone...
the boys are still sleeping
but restless...
the house creaks and groans
as i prepare for the day
supervised by the blue cat's
eyes as he sits at the window and calls for a bird rollcall...

this is our time...
sandwiches made...
magpies called to order
we sit is companionable silence...
watching the neigborhood
awake and catch up to us
the early risers....

today...will be a good day...

just a moments grace
from the rushing roaring
in my brain.
just a little surcease,
a second's truce
between voice in and sane.
i just need to change my focus,
to blankly stare,
for the smallest while not to care.

to have a twinkling and a wink,
to re-adjust the mindset.

to re-sing the refrain,
to desist the cratering battle,
to lay in fields quiet,
to release the burgeoning
strain.

to hear the epiphanies call,
sweet and clear.
to understand life's meaning.
to balance fear and longing,
couarage and strength.
to walk my passage willingly,
all of it's undetermined length.
one quiet moment,
is all i need right now,
in order to adjust my wavering stride.
that and the knowing,
you will walk beside.

And this day is long
longer than the accumulation
of it's hours

dragging slow booted feet
through muggy, treacle air

grey despondent skies
sigh salubriously overhead

and on the horizon  the days end
shimmers just out of reach

a mirage, an illusory insult
to the mind struggling with
five more hours...

behind this desk
                      in this heat.
this ****** interminable heat!!!

i did not dance
until i met you

it is a though
you held the key
to the music box
in my heart

now i dance with
abandon
wild and free

for the release from
that cage of inhabition

i am ever grateful

it is you....
i love,
not because
of your looks,
tho many a head they turn

it is you ....
i love
not because
of the beauty of your blue green eyes,
tho many a time they have
raked my body
and left me,
naked and wanting.

it is you....
i love
not because of your hands
so gentle and strong
they,
that make works of art.

it is you i love
not because of your
generous heart
that gives with no thought
of cost or recall.

it is you....
i love
because you...
first saw me
and came through
the labarynthine traps 
and minefields...
to my frightened heart

you came...
took me by the hand,
and led me
to my
betterdays
it is you....it is you

upon the waters
i threw my bread
only to watch
the fish and ducks
gobble it up.....

i gave my pearls to the swine
and they pawned for quick cash

i set my words on  a butterflys wing
only to see it fly into the windscreen
of a fast moving truck....

so today..i find a room empty
and bare....walk into the middle
and sit quietly there
waiting for the world to spin
and afford me the smallest
of wins...

this morning,
i take my coffee
on the front porch
and in the argent rays
of a cheery, winter sun.

i watch, the young birds,
learn,
the art and politics,
of perching on the wire.

the manouvering required
to keep,the heirachy entire.
the cheering, chirping refrain, undertaken, to remain in the game.

all lessons to be learnt
if to gain
a place within the
highwire elite echelon
of local birds of fame.

caught between the dust motes
spinning lazily in the sun's rays
is that moment of time
that we all wish we could
have time again.....
                         ....and again

If my cat could open the front door,
A lion he would be, roaming his savanah, stalking prey

If my cat could speak,
The words of wisdom would pour from his jaw,
sage advice and secrets galore.

If my cat could open the fridge door.
He would in heaven be,
a gourmand in a tatty fur coat.

If my cat could empty his own litter box .....
I would be ever so grateful, ever, ever so grateful.

can't sleep,
tried to count sheep,
but the little buggers won't jump the fence.

can't sleep,
tried counting sheep,
but the pesky little critters, are to busy eating,
to jump the fence.

can't sleep,
busy trying to count sheep but the little f^ckers won't stay still.

can't sleep,
feel like i might have mentioned this before, counting sheep is a feckless chore,
but one i must try once more,
either that... or..
eat the leftover
curried lamb pie.

tidbits of joy,
scraps of silliness,
ladles of laughter,
a micron of mutiny,
a heap of a heart, golden and true
and a pinch of perpetuity.
blend together.

and  walla!

my  baby's smile

cats entwined,
in skin-fur pile
on the cool tile floor.

thock, thock...thock.
15 love
from tennis on tv

cold beer...and  
cheese n' onion chips

hot muggy air...
sweat, settling on skin

as the storm rumbles
in the distance.

10.11pm Tuesday Jan. 2015

heatwave....continues

moth-eaten clouds
cover the moon

the sound of a neighborhood
dinner party coming to a close
drifts by on a zephyr

light flick off in a random way
and households begin to slumber

and still I sit on the back deck
playing a drunken game
of peek-a-boo with
the man in the moon

and the waves sing glory alleluja

In a ceramic concave
Take one cluckfart and beat
Add a cup and a half of moojuice
mix with a whirlpool motion
Then find beaten crushedvwheat
add two cups
mix with a whirpool motion
discover sweet cyrstals add 1cup
mix with a whirlpool motion

find and turn on heatslabtop source
put metal pool on heatslabtop source
add a dab of solid yellow moojuice
allow to liqiufy

pour in a measure of whirlpool mix
to create a babylake,
add some bluejuice spheres
or some monkey smilebars
listen for sizzle, watch for bubbles
take a babylake flipper and flip
the babylake so both sides cook evenly

place babylakes on ceramic circle
and repeat the process
dab of yellow moojuice
pouring the babylake mix
so on and so forth,
until ceramic circle is full or
you run out of whirlpool mix

sit at eating tree, with ceramic circle.
if you wish, add the juice of the maple
or tears of the sour yellow leather fruit
to your share of the babylakes
and then consume......and feel
your tummy muscles  smile

to be a speciman in a jar
inspected from all angles
not freedom,
no hopeful view
inspected for your shape,
your feelings, your i.q.

to tip and tap scream and
yell for help to free oneself,

to pace cyclically while the beat of
your innerclock ticks your
precious time away.

to watch the watchers,

hear them whispering,
gossiping, laughing,
pointing at you,

curled feotally, as far as
possible from the incessant
view.

to want one thing,
but have another.

to desire,
to emire oneself
in a,
crooked point of
view.

to be confused, restrained
by sundered synapse,
or
fixated on rythmn, numbers,
rhymes in order to get through.

to be  black ink stickmen,
in
an ink black room,
with a black dog,
chasing you....
growling out doom.

to be living a hell private
and encompassing while,
working  in uniform
oh so neat.

we are one and all,
the specimans,
incomplete.

the glass jar is there,
for
all who stumble in defeat.

....to be a speciman
in a jar
judged for ....



is a living death,
a soundless living hell

a far cry from heaven,
more an automated shell
walking, moving, talking,
exsisting.....
             in a jar...
                        ..... on a shelf.

and infinity loops
on round again
just to clip me
over the back
of the head
with memories
mostly benign
yet one or two malign
just an esoteric, reminder
that i may hold the reins
however the horse, going pell-mell,
down the side of the hill is
travelling independently.....