almost words
             eddy in the murked
corners of my mind

they lack
                clarity
                       and  purpose
they lack
               need
                    and wanting

they lie
      fooled by the worth they
think they should have
   and so.... dissapate having
               never been
formed into  words....
         never having been
more than the
                   grunts and groans
of an overtired....mind
         fecund in potential...yet
barren in time.

              almost...words
gone upon the tidal surge

your echoes die,
your voice is doused by life*

the minutiae washed away
and ground down to sand
dispersed in vesper tides

the feel of your touch
now just froth and bubble
food for fish and crablings


last words whispered on
the wind, whipped away

whilst i was busy,
making lists
and counting coins

oh to hear your shout
one last time
but no
you have left this place

and we must look to living
and leave the detrius
to the sea's forgiveness

Sho, who is strong,
is really but a tiny
thing....

always the outcast,
always thought,
to be...
somehow, wrong.

but ever,
with a smile
and a song.

no matter, what
sticks or stones,
are flung his way.
no matter, what
unkind, unthinking
words they say.

Sho Enuff, would smile,
and sing a showtune. sometimes that's
why people would,
call him a loon.

but,
Sho, knew,
something we did not.
his heart was pure
it was in theirs,
the insecurity, the rot.

Sho, was strong,
within himself,
knew he was made
from god's wealth,
of love and compassion

so took no heed,
of others and their,
trashing.

Sho Enuff was tiny
Sho Enuff was small
but Sho Enuff
was the best....
of them all.

we i was young
and perpetually broke

and equally bored
there was a place
i would go...

with towel in hand
and a bottle of red cordial,
a book to read
and reef brand coconut oil,
in a cotton shoulder bag.

i would set off down
to the beach,
a mile or so away.
filching, apples and milk
money, along the way.

once there, would find
a spot up near the dunes
and stay and read and broil
away.

breaking my sunbaking
only to go buy
"three dollars of chips
and a chiko roll"
with money purlioned
and a guilty grin...

ocassionally i would fall
asleep and wake up
lobster red....and suffer
the burn for days..
but the more you suffered
the deeper the tan..
nut brown was the desired look.. or in these days
parlance cafe au lait....

now i pay for that innocent
delight...
with checks,three monthly
on sunspots and the lurking
fear of melaloma always near ...

i am not the only one,
there is a generation,
of sun bronzed aussies.
who now pay dear,
for those earlier
ignorant years.

taken back today,
to a time of ignorant simplicity,
of sunday afternoon's fluid routine.
the venue might change,
but not often the steps;
an early bath to wash one's hair.
a take out feast of chinese for tea,
followed by chocolate icecream, in a bowl
in front of the old boxy tv.

we three, two big brothers and me.
lined up acording to age. waiting,
for walt disney and his wonderful world,
to take the tv's stage,
we would watch the play unfold.
enraptured one and all.

for mother dear,
a hour's peace,
mostly, but not always,
free and clear,
of squabbling brawls.

if we had been good,
we often times could,
cadge some extra time.
to see the bannana splits, have their funny fits
and laugh at the weird cartoon bits.

then time to brush those teeth,
and into bed to read,
quietly, for an hour.
a goodnight kiss,
and tucked in tight.
to sleep away,
the dreamless night

"we are learning to ...
fish in the river of sorrow"*
Faith Sherien

this has been a year of
hard lessons.....
of trying,
again and again,
to perfect the the cast
to catch, cleanly,
the fish of loss.

to split it open,
and seize it's innards...
the stench, the messiness,
the ichor, the guts.

to scale the skin,
rough, cutting scales,
little tear shaped discs.

to eat of the flesh....
chewing, chewing, chewing
on the hope of afterlife.

and picking the bones clean
of delicate, delectable memories....

hard lessons,
too many this year,
yet all a part,
of a fishermans journey....
down, the river of sorrow.

sleep crumpled,
doe eyed and snuggly,
little mr just about four, climbs up into the big old bed.
his tousled, towheaded blonde curls bouncing
and plants a smearing, smooching kiss on my lips, before climbing into the middle bit of the bed,

the bubba spot.

then bestowing the same loving brand on da's lips
and wriggling like a fish,
he makes himself....
comfortable.

king of the bed

and hums himself back
to sleep.
we look at each other,
over his nodding head
and smile.

he is the gift ,
we did not know
we wanted,
but are so very glad,
we recieved
and we marvel at him daily. this bit, of you and me and god.
we doze all three,  
and the blucat beside
a knot of happiness and love,
in the big old bed.
contentment,
nestles, rich within our hearts
our minds at peace
together again.

she sits, across from me
******* the loose threads
of her genes

they are attatched to the fraying of her mind
this, it girl
who is
falling apart, before us all
an honours student,
stumbling quickly down from grace....

silence, is her cloak...
these day....
and in this desperate,
wanting,
of invisablity.
her distress cries loud enough
for all ....to watch...

tears,
fall and track,
silently down her face,
as we quest for the canker...

reponses,
monosyllabic
and non commital...
issue forth....
defiance...
her weapon of choice....

we can,
but, reiterate,
our duty of care...
and hope....
that when she falls....
it is within earshot
of one who gives a ****....

she leaves....
no more intact...
than when she entered.... and hitches,
her ragged psyche
and theadbare jeans
up over
those slim, woman-girl hips.
...as she walks, out of
my office door.

without a word
you can turn me
from my path,
leading me astray
and then another
minute, hour, day is gone.

you do one little thing
and my mind
becomes a blank canvas,
for you to draw
your funny little cartoon pictures on.

you can turn your head
and glance my way,
and i just melt
and commit with heart overwhelmed
to watching you play
and grow.

there will be a day,
far too soon,
when you will find,
my love for you,
awkward and embarassing. this i know and accept.

but for now, i can lose myself,
basking in the sunshine
of your love.
you are just
a little man right now
but you give a...
whole world of love
and a dollop of joy
and a sprinkle of hope,
in that happy, beeming, sunshine on a rainy day, smile.

you are my little, big, love

the sun is struggling to meet
it's commitments this morn
and sits low on the mountain tops
smudging the sky pink and
charcoalred as it climbs wearily into the clouded sky

in reality, nothing much wants to get out of bed
the rooster only gave
a half- hearyed crow
the kookaburra's just chuckled and then went back to bed

as for you and me still here
away from home
we snuggle down into tje warmth and take comfort
in the childfree zone..

it is too cold to do anything other...
until the sun gets it's act
together
it's snooze time ,
thanks to
the ****** cold, mountain
weather...

a lit candle
sways in the evening breeze

soft jazz mellows the muse
as i sit and ponder...

the wonder of the indigo sky
lit with shimmering wonder

and framed in wood-smoke haze
tonight, i can  well, relate to vincent
as the shimmer,
whorls and blazes
in a late summer ****
of sensual delight...

i lay  quiescent to nature's glory
as day bleeds into night...

and on the wind of salted air
honeysuckle and jasmine mingle
i sip the crisp cold mango beer
and sink further into,
the quiet beauty.

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

tree once was i
tall straight and true.
growing reaching
grasping for the blue patch of sky.

felled by men, all called Jack.
taken, stripped, naked
and beaten till no bark left on
my back.
slashed at torn shredded,
beaten to a pulp.
no way back,
to fresh air and blue sky.

flattened to skin's width,
stretched, rolled and dryed.
thirst, a memory of blue and
pearled sky.
blank without leaf or seed
barren and denied.

tattooed with wisdom deep
and scribblings inane.
cut into pages, windows
for enquiring brains.
words, that penned by
poets speak of forests
mighty,
of oaks and acorns,
growing.
places of intimate knowings.

tattooed, on my flesh,
stolen, rearranged.
reminiscent of recalling,
times of grace and falling.
book now i be.
but,
rather,
tree standing tall
and growing.

i ate
my weight
ten times over ten

all green leaves.

now i encase
my fat body's face
in chrysalis
and
become, soupy,
torturous bliss
awaiting wing-ed
grace.

i awake
and crack the
membrane
crawl dishrag damp
out into summer's
kind light
and slowly
spread my wings.

please,
do not think
me vain.

but as i await
my wings to dry
and the glorious dust
to set.
i wonder at the ironic beauty,
that i, the fat catterpillar,
has become,so fine
and delicate,
an exquisite pallete upon
the canvas sky....

i take flight and find
freedom....
is a state mind
that flits upon the wind
and knows,
dfrom the beginning
             beauty is always
                            from within.

when the tongues of snakes
flicker in your words.

when the day is darker
in my mind,
than the greying of the clouds

when sighs sing, melancholy
refrains.

then from you I am gone....

into a world asunder
a city of  labyrinth alleyways
that lead all to a fountain
of water tainted,
by memories unkind.

it is there,
there you will find
the bare bones of me.
sitting, drinking
at the fountain head,
drinking rememberances
of days gone by,
days desperate, diluted
with desire of a better hope.

if poetry were more like money
would it be greater
if there was no desperation
to experience or see
would poetry not be
just like blancmange or porridge
sustaining but oh so bland
if there where no joy
no love, anger, jealousy
bland, bland, bland.
poetry is a currency
or the open heart and mind
so lets us spend, and write
the spice of life....

just a minute
to jot something
profound

mere seconds
to create
something
that
reverberates
resounds

uber meaningful
deep as the ocean
spiky and fierce
to create a commotion

nothing lame
keep it sane
wake up
the inert brain

love is
like water
to a starving soul
it replenishes
make growth
make whole

so the bodohggedies
danced their dance
under the soogothle tree
and in their minds
they sang sigines
of  depopple lines
and made the world
fleaegopple

then the caturnaps
made jackgnondle pies
and recited zungundes
of yeesterways and
told gobnibbittts
imogabble lies
to make them
flabhouter away

and when the great day
of Ubuinaqa was almost done
the teopssangwars
gave chant to the
promise of Gosbingilia
in formal
Datulach ligalibilate
and all Phfidugimea
around sat and listened to
the haquisalical sound,
sighing with
mneuss and saeszfedi

some nights
the world is just
against you....

in the mood
to get funky,
with the hunky
carpenter.....

got the bed warm
and the naked form,
working it's cold night,
warm bed magic.

when the cold nose
of a cold cat
runs up my back....

absolutely tragic

I jumped
when I should have
******...
and now the night
is ....static....

and all the joy
the carpenter has
is attached to
a bag of frozen peas.

a poets heart...
so very far,
outside
of my,
whitebread imagination.

sun and earth,
to, two, little moons.

a man, true,
who has made mistakes,
but owns them
and then pushes on through.

a craftsman,
of a passionate poems
and substantial verse.

no idol, no god
just a man,
who deals in words.

a poet,
a heart,
a pen,
some paper,
builder, of a universe.

the inklings creep
in the  black indigo
depths of this dark
moon ridden night

they ooze over, down,
around the furniture of
this shadowless room

eye cannot see them

but heart knows

they are there watching,
waiting, dripping
blackness on the carpet

there is
no where
to hide
on a night
like this
one may
fight
but most
succumb
thinking
nothing's
amiss

the inklings come
and brood on nights like
this

the inklings come and come
and come.

Tis a poem
that comes from
a slow brain
today
Van Winkle
murmurings,
muttering,
postulating
creativity
as it
settles
further
further
down
into the
crevices
of wrinkled
wretched
weariness

slothlike
the words
come
like
treacle
on the
morn of the
winter solstice

synapses fire
with all the bang
of sodden gunpowder

and before you all
lays the detritus
of a mind
sans sleep
sans caffine
sans the wisdom
to read... not write

Tis a poem
orat least
the shadow of a thought
that wished, that wanted
one day, one fine day
to grow up
to become a poem....
but became this instead

my mind returns
more often now

to those simpler days

when to seek a thrill
was to ride a bike
no handed down a steep hill

where to while away hours
you lay on your back
and counted clouds

friendships were made and sealed
by the fine art of daisy chain production

when others worried about important things
and we spent our dollars on lollies and chips

the time when all wars were fought in one day
then forgotten and forsaken for the next day's adventure

when you went to bed pleasantly tired
and slept with no sword hanging
over your head....

my mind returns
with a fondness
for those carefree days
those moments caught
in the amber of my memory

and sighs, longingly
before coming back
to the here and now
of adulthood.

cold air sifts through
the window, to climb
my unprotected spine

last night's storm
still drips erractically
from gutters and leaves

I turn to you seeking
warmth and passion
only to find empty sheets
and a lingering scent
of sandalwood.

rising to dance
on a cold wooden floor
I seek you out...

finding you, pyjamified
in the garden, checking
your babies.....
for storm damage.

I put the kettle on
and await your report...

Autumn has arrived.

there are a few things,
that are truly,
unforgetable....
your smile,
my friend, is one of them.

always wishing for the best
from fingers to toes
she was optimism
clothed in black
with a fey look
in her eyes
as though
from a place
far wilder than this,
her magic drew you in
allocentricity her mantra
practised not preached
i knew her  when life
had greyed her hair
put myriad wrinkles
upon her face....but
still it is the smile
and the laugh I hear
on those days that
get me down..
my sugar plump fairy
in black hand me downs

wind rattling the windows
while rain drenches all

blucat prowling
checking window and doors

the small boy snuggles
and listens to dreams

mothers and father
play scrabble, by candlight

the storm has won,
the electricity has gone

and now lights up
the clouded sky

the amber liquid
pours into the fine
porcelain bowl
swirls and settles

a few leaves dark
and sombre settle
at the bottom
and remain
unfathomable

i drink of it's heady
fragrance
the steam a line of
smoky memory
again i inhale
and again the years
fall away

the first sip
is bitter
tasting of tannin
and loss

the fine china
sings at the touch
of my tongue
and my memory
hums with words
of wisdom and friendship

i drink down to the
recumbant leaves
and the swirl the fortune
twist and tip the cup...
and read the leaves
with the same wonder
as i read the clouds...


unsuprisingly,
the leaves
speak to me of you....
as the scent of smoke and
camelia lingers on the evening breeze

the pond asymetrical
mirrored the old oak tree
in perfect symmetry

the stillness of
the autumn day,
chambrey blue sky,
fairy floss, fluffed, whiteclouds
drifting along, lazy and dryeyed
people strolling by wrapped in scarves and coats.

all in conterpoint
to the stillness of the pond
and the old oak tree
caught staring,
lovingly, longingly
at each other.

what is hope?
if not,
a tube of unopened
crazy, glitter glue,
you will use ......
to stick your dreams in place

there is a softness
to this,
the third day
the sibilant rain drifts
down,
to blur the world's
definition,
and soften the crust
to a malleable mire.

i sit outside on,
the front verandah ,
in woolen jumper
and watch the horizon
dissapate and the waves
become tired and grey.
after three days,
there is, no fury,
left in them.

the steam, arising from
my cup,
mingles with humid,
misty bretheren
and the birds cry
mournful.

plate, the treefrog,
revels in the rain.
his bass profundo
decrying the need for
waterlove.

all else looks for shelter
in the soft indistinct frame
of three days of rain.

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this little poem
                        a pilgrim of
letters and words
                         my mind
zestings and oils
                          sent forth
to add my flavour
                          to the world
and now my thoughts
                  bubbling & boiling
to mingle with yours
                    with excitement
making a new world view
              just to serve & enjoy

on days like this
long and not really
profitable

i detour down to the
sea....before i go home

and sit fully clothed
on the sand
looking at the last rays
of the faltering sun

and wait for the sound
of the tide
and the smell of the salted
breeze
take the frustations of
the day away....

i throw pebbles into
the waves
naming the problems
they represent, in my head
give them over to the power
of the waves and sand.

and then when i am
sound of mind
and refreshed in spirit

i journey on home
with a smile on my face
and the smell of the sea
lingering in my hair.

These are the days
when a small boy
lying face down
at the waters edge
not asleep,
not playing,

but dead....

is photographed,
is spoken of in strident tones,
is lost to his family, to his potential,
is to become a beacon for greater  humanity.


These are the days,
when as a mother;

I weep as I watch the news,
I hug my son, just a little harder,
I rage against those with power,
but little compassion.
I thank god for my families safety.

I think....what is this world coming too.....

That I mourn for us all.

i suppose,
i must, i must, i must,
go forth, go forth,go forth,
into this brave day.

but know this, truly,
i crave, i crave, i crave,
to stay, to stay, to stay,
alone, here away from,

the maddening crowd,
at play, at play, at play,
too loud, too loud, too loud,
for my disconcordant mind.

if i had
my way, my way, my way,
i would hide,
away,away away,
over there
with books, with books,
with books
and uninterrupted solitude.

but my lot is such,
that a hermit,
i am not!
nor most days,
want to be.

but,today, today,today,

the words penned above
make up my mind's
clockwork soliloquy.

please let me hide
my face, my face, my face.
in this peaceful
place, place, place,
just til i catch my,
breath, breath, breath.

in class
she hangs back
unsure of herself
a wallflower
yet to bloom
into beauty

she is delicate
and nervous
hugging the walls
watching, learning waiting

and then one day
she blooms
in artistic beauty
still delicate
but more assured
her voice, a whisper
we all lean forward
to hear.
body lithe
and so expressive
all are mesmerised

the wallflower,
now an exquisite rose

in a xebec,
we sail...
seas,
of turqoise, teal
and cerulean blues...
with horses white and alabaster,
galloping in wavelets,
beside,
the creaking mahogany,
hand caulked hull.
the brass once shining bright
is now speckled,
by the salt of posiedon's
briny brow

above the masts.
one two and three,  
hold the lanteen sails,
set free, in a flurry
of canvas hysteria.
full and billowing,
now,
they propel us,
gently onward.

you and i recline,
undecorously,
on a plethora,
of bright morrocan cushions.
like bees,
busily rummaging,
among the flower petals.

as the sun sings the days
lullaby,
in the east,
in notes of tangerine and  buttercup yellow.

i think,
with years of sunday school,
indoctrinated guilt....

there is a small wavering
line between......
                              deceit
and kindness....

as i tell my aging mother....

she looks fine.

we have stopped,
for coffee and to leave Tod
with friends.

the comfort of their arms
open to our need is
immeasurable.

we walk down to the lake
and the quiet beauty soothes

the waterdragons, with the
scurrying, play brings a smile, as do the ***** wagtails with their
come-hither look-at-me
i'm better than, fred astaire, dance.

but beneath it all,
lies the quicksand of sadness
waiting to grasp at our feet again and again...

we must continue on,
leaving our boy in good hands, we go ......

hot,still,torpid air
made stagnant,
by stifling, sultry heat.

we sit shattered,
sapped, silent,
on the back deck,
drinking beer,
sweating salt water.

watching the distant
scrubfire smoke, feed
into the heavy,
green-black storm clouds
on the mountain's ridge.

the cat shifts, with the rays
of broken sunlight, a grey shadow,
on the teak deck.

my son cries listlessly
and then returns to his nap.
the sound of sport and
energy drifts, distorted
from nana's anexxe.

we sit effete
on the back deck,
drinking beer,
quiescent in anticipation
of rain

i just have to make it
to the end of this week
and then they are on
five weeks of exams
and semester break....

i can do this.....