now is the time
when ....it all winds.....
down....
            the lights are ......
dimmed.......
    and the world....
                          settles
the world settles.....
        .....and the breathing
of the room becomes
                         ...regulated
syncopated.......... smooth...
.........broken..only by...
the whimpers of.....
medicated ....sleep sodden pain.......
...as you shift ..... as they shift....
...  the broken...bruised ..and..
battered anatomy... on slabs
of latex ...concreted.... beds..
but.... even that.... has become
a ...descant.... that..
                harmonizes.....
with the..... murmuring lyric gossip...
... of the nurses station...
.... and the brass buzzers .
...seeking....seeking...
..........relief........
answered.....­ by squeaky.....sqeeeeky
... shod percussionary..... nurses
giving ....aid....care....pills
               i lie on.... the razors... edge...
...of pain..... ....in the half light
concentrating.... on this...
assonic symphony  ....willing for it ..
......to lull me.... into a... fitfull... sleep..
but .....   . tonight it seems the ....throbbing ...robbing...
roaring.....pain  ................
....in my damaged limb...
........... and ....torn ...........flesh
...............is playing.. playing
.. a counterpoint ..to sleep...
............... havoc........
........is this night's song.....
           .......for me....
at least ...until...
the meds.... sing .......
.in my veins....and then....
.... all is........ a lullaby.....lulla .....bbye

diaphanous....
are we...
in the bigger
reality...
mere wisps of
fragility....
our thoughts...
the epitome...
of self indulgent
verbosity...
creating...
the semblence of
sodality...
in the
spinning...
duality..
of the
mediocrity
versus...
creativity
paradigm...
apparent
in all of nature's...
sublime...
totality...........

being held ransom
by,
incapabilty to form
rational thoughts.

please send help.....

apathy rising,
hope hiding behind
fear.

please send help .....soon

leave thoughts with,
drifting mind, dozing,
on the park bench.

for pick up by random person.

you are,

my beauty to behold,
my strength to grow old,
my youth blessed, de-messed,
clean clarity, clear faced best.

you are,

my light in dark stairwells,
my long lingering farewell,
my langishing sighs
and final goodbyes,
rueful, regretful, redfaced rest.

you are,

my trial and tribulation,
my awkard salutations,
my pause in transmission,
stupid, careless intermission,
flayed, flensing, flesh rending test.

you are,

my hope for brighter,
my hearts renewing delight,
my compass' new bearing,
fresh, freedoms flight
upward, ever upward
from dark nights behest.

you are,

my inside, outside, beside,

you are,

my internal, eternal guide,
my passion, my power, my pride.

you are,

looking  back at me,
from the mirrors' inside.

his tenure,
on this earth...
is done.
sad is the sky today,
as id in memory
and the fields he planted,
miss his loving care.

to his family scattered,
but loving,
the calls were made.
his only request,
reiterated to all.

please bury me,
in the shade.
i toiled my lifelong
days,
in sun and rain.
let me rest eternal,
in the shade,
of the old ghost gum.

so now he lies among
the roots of the ivory and
silver barked tree.
looking down,
on the market garden
of  lettuce, carnations
and snow peas.

and his family scattered
but loving
are hopeful
he is finally at ease....

as they stand and
remember earlier days
and grieve the loss,
of their link to the land
and think sadly but fondly
of the man who had
the greenest of hands.

when you find yourself
standing,
on the corner
of somewhere and desloate

holding a sheaf of sunbeams
whilst humming hopeful
show tunes
with a small nonedescript
black dog(you call bozo)
on a leash, lying belly up,
submisssive, at your side

that is when you have found
where recovery resides.

and when you know
way down in the abyss
inside
that you are looking at
a new way of being,
not necessarily
rose-tinted seeing.

and in that knowledge
you find the honesty
to decry...
that while, you be,
both living and visiting,
on the sunnyside.

that tho, somedays are fine,
some saltmine hard
and some too hard
to define....

despite all that
too-ing and fro-ing
all those tendril thoughts
and clouded over dark days
all the whispering
and bargaining fey things
your internal filmaker brings
to bear,
on the walls of your sanity
you will come through
with sunbeams glowing...

that is when you know...
....recovery
is the key to the lock
on a house...
                 in a suburb....
that does not have streets
named....

somewhere and desolate....

in the wake of
the Baltimore riots
I saw a picture of
a young boy
offering bottled water
to the line of shielded police
right there...is the hope
for humanity....
I commend both the boy
and his parents for their actions
there is goodness everywhere
should you want to look

tommorrow
i travel backwards
again
to the town of my sculpting

hard cold mountain edged
meeting the silent lament
of the grieving sea....

small minded mercies
given in pious charity
heart of salt, ****** fruit...
made the clarifying  fast
made the chill last....

grew the best apricots
i  ever tasted on the downside hill of the local
necropolis......
yet the single cherry in our yard....never gave a lonesome globe....

and the timber jinkers sang my soul to sleep....
rested for the days next burden.... and the hard chip-
chipping of the sculptors hand against my marble heart....

morning has broken... me
and my swirling head
....the blackbird has spoken
to me of life .....choices and
....bad breath
the cat of humble has .....
dragged me home
and left me....bedraggled.....
....upon the kitchen mat...
for the daylights bright
corusculating light
to pin me..... between the eyes
....my remedy... of coffee black
with asprin on the side...
is over glacial plain
......hangover wide
mountain..... of  roaring
rending, sounding, guilt
....top high
let the shower hot then cold
then freezing then hot......
cleanse the grit, grime
tequila lime, rime..... away
...........time to be bright
... time to be right.....
           .....and start the godamned day

two small gifts
as i head to bed
a new friend, lending
an ear and broad shoulder
a gift recieved and a burden
shifted and lifted
the second, a shaft of light
from the full moon, catching
possoms at play, on the front
lawn...snacking on stolen camelia heads.
so daintily nibbling with
tiny hands and feet
and big suprised eyes
and ears a' twitching....
and then they were gone
to the darkness again....
and i to bed ....to sleep
and slumber...

poetry calls to me
like the sky beckons a bird

i cannot but concede
to my inner being
and launch myself
with expectant hope
of a good outcome...

and then swoop
and dart with
exuberance
when
my hope
becomes miraculous
flight....
up amongst the clouds

he is still and quiet
caught in the lingering dream
the boy god, growing up
to fast, takes up  more
of the little boy bed
each day...
this year has been pivotal
giant steps, have been taken

he has learnt, apron-strings are
just cloth, there for the breaking

he has learnt, to write, read and lie
he has learnt, friendships are not forever,
but then some are.
he has learnt, there are rules,
some can be broken,
others cannot. ...at least not without consequence
he has learnt, both wonder  and dissapointment

he has learnt, so much more....the curve steep and undulating

he knows, hopefully has always known... he is loved, cherished
and holds within his heart....the capacity for greatness.

he knows, hopefully has always known, kindness costs little yet
is a rare and valuable gift to give to both friend and stranger...

the little boygod grows into his larger self.....

and we watch.....

soon he will awake, and become the whirlpool...

but for now....his mother watches  over him

and reaps....peace and joy.

two...yellow...blue,
now green...of leaf...
of grass...verdant...life
yellow sun...water...blue
now green...breathing...
rustling....soughing...sighing
bright flowered living beings....
two....yellow...blue...

they were in the corner
of the library again this morning.
not here to look for books,
but just a quiet place to look,
deeply into to one another
with eyes smoked
and fingers blind
feeling, touching, questing,
reading familar nooks.
not caring of watchers,
seeking only each other
with silent need bordering
desperation.
they read each others bodies
history, philosophy, tradgedy both greek and modern.
they braile like ******, word,
verse, and chapter whole.
eyes feasting the depth of
others soul.
one final look, one lingering embrace  and they part
with shakespearean sorrow
they close the lovers book,
bereft,
until tommorrow.

my first job,
i think i was about seven
was to do my grandfathers washing,
every saturday  morning.
we had chores at home and got an allowance.
but this was a way to supplement it.

so every saturday,
i would ride across town, with my brothers and...

spray preen on stains,
scrub collars with solvol
measure out omo powders
then wait ten minutes
oftenat this time,
i would play with the cat, munster, who was my,
self-designated foreman.

then to start,
water and omo, into
the machine, an old twin tub
drop in the first load,
wait for it to process,
sitting on the laundry step, reading the latest book....
CS Lewis' Narnian series or Enid Blytons Famous Five.

you could only read,
at this point,
because after the first load had stopped washing,
it was into the spinner
and then it was,
a juggle of washing, spinning, filling water levels and getting the wet washing into the basket, without, dropping any.

now,  i was still,
to short to hang out
the washing, on the hills hoist,
but i would call for my assistant, Aunty Barb
and off we would go down to the line .... she would hang...
but i would hand
items and pegs up to her.

once all the washing was done, all that was left was,
one final rinse,
of the machine with
lemon pin-o-cleen,
a wipe with a dry cloth
and my labours were done.

time for a cup of tea,
a peice of gingerbread
and payment of  wages $3.50- $5.00
depending on the size
of the wash.

Sadness pervades my soul
Like cold winter air
Seeping under the doorways

Slowly I succumb
to mental hypothermia

Hoping soon the sun
will come

But fearing it will not.....

my slipshod heart
creaks along
i was taught
to make
the best of things

but waiting for
some one to die
is no song

my myocardium
is imperfecta,
apparently...
won't last too long

used to be,
not a problem.
but now age
is catching up
with me.

sad thing is
i am only twenty four

hard thing is want to live more

so like a ghoul
i wait for someone....
hopefully not a mate
to make some sort of
fatal mistake....

cannot lie...sometimes
would be easier
to just lay down and die...

but it is my life's
designate
to sit on this
sad razors edge
and wait

wandering the almost deserted beach
linen slacks turned up to
the knees and a flowing
shirt that flags out behind her.
hat in hand she stoops and rifles through the firm tideline sand and deftly flicks her treasure into a plastic blue bucket.  her feet shift to accomodate the salt water wavelets that play tag
with her manicured toes.
she glances sideways at the sea
judging time and tide
as she gathers her bucket
of pipis
destined for the dinner table.

so the stars are hiding
tonight...

perhaps they make a deal
with the clouds,
so every now and then,
they can kick back,
drink a beer and go
to the movies....

it must be hard,
to keep your twinkle, sparkly
night, after night, after night,

everybody....
even the heavenly ones deserve some....
                        down-time.

am i right or am i right!!!!

it is a small thing
like sand in my shoe
this grief that wears
away my soul

but it is there always
in small moments
of wanting
in words lost to the
unhearing ear
in laughter that echos
thin in empty air

i still see you everywhere
but you are a year gone
from here...

your scent fades upon
your clothes....
your voice dims within
my mind.....
but your kindness remains
forever stitched within
my heart...
and your smile, before
my eyes,

it is a small thing
this grief within
my soul...
like sand in my shoes
both pleasant and wearing

in the moist dank
hours, of this
rainy night.
the shadow
cat-blue,
has sought, the
high planes of
the house
and can now be
found, only
by glaring
lantern eyes.
we search
and find
him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.

musing on pondering,

cogitating on ruminating,

postulating on speculating,

considering multiple theories,

deeming the discrepancies deniable

positing the petty presumptions,

theorizing multiple condsiderations,

apraising the mediations,

digesting the deliberation,

allowing for  freefall meditation,

envisioning the expectations,

presuming the pontifications,

anticipating the asumptions,

comprehending the conclusion,

accrediting the rationalizations,

concluding the comprehesion,

spinning synaptic wheels,

hypothesizing the conjecture,

recollecting of the reminiscence,

adumbrating the prognostigcation,

concocting of the subliminate,

masticating on the cereberal machinations, of the ocillations,
in the agitatation, apparent in insomniac's maniacal  brain,

reckoning not,
                   on the simple summation,
of the  night's  wayward,
                       mental arbitratration,
i have way too much time
                                          to think...

neverfull,
mama,
neverfull.
quoth the raven chick....



with a gentle nod to mr poe

somedays I sit
on the edge of sanity
feet dangling in a ocean
of the deepest black water

somedays I stand on the edge
of reality
willing myself not to leap
into the clouds of depression
that float by

somedays I lie in bed
whispering the mantra
circling in my head

I am not here,  I am not here,
                                                    I am not here....

once i met a man
with a broken wing
a voice of a nightingale
but sad shynesss was his song.

he would sing only when
alone...
yet the beauty of his song
would carry on the wind..
and the earth would stop to listen...

after time his wing healed
he went about his daily chores....the song he sang
forgotten....

the wind howled....and the world went on, but lesser for
the loss of the momentary angelic pause....
the song was lost....and so the beauty too....

but the man had a bumper
crop of apples and pears to make to ciderand perry  that year....the year he was broken.

24,720,437.
(give or take a few)
minutes in my life.
the number is profound,

but it's not that easy
to break a life down.
i'm sure there's a calculation, that covers the basics bits work, eating, sleeping, abultions.

but, to bring the moments
to the minutes,
thats a vastly different thing.

how do you count the moments of brillance
that burn bright,
on the horizon beyond and before.

those moments of pure kindness,
or blind and ****** ignorance
that elicit change.
the joy of the moment,
the rage of a second,
the hours borrowed
in worry never
yet to be repaid.

how many minutes
wasted or not fully tasted, devoured to quickly.
those seconds we fumble,
in awkward silences
or those we waste
wanting more.
then the hours of breast beating or simply bleating

are they lesser in importance,
than, the days
lost in thought,
or in grief,
time spent,
begging for relief
from a heart so, so, sore.

remember the weeks
we sent packing,
the fox or the bear,
or the lion and the tiger from fear's flimsy, fragile door.

months of not belonging, then, the longing
and finally the lounging
and laughing,
when tickled to our core.

the tock of the clock
when we are too cold,
or too hot or just not...
quite right.
time that keeps ticking, while,
we are sticking our noses where they are not wanted.

time spent watching
from afar,
minutes of small talk,
hours of deep and meaningful,
days of young love,
months of expectancy,
years of togetherness, decades of love.
a delineation of seperateness,
eons, immemorial
of eternity.

these are the times,
of my minutes,
my moments of grace,
i want these,
ciphered into,
the fabric of time.

'free butlers for everybody'**

yippee!! hooray!! huzzah!!

i would so love,
somebody to follow me
around all day.
doing the mudane and
boring things,
all that daily guff.
to be at my beck and call,
for just about anything at all.

but then,
if there are 'free butlers for all'

would my, butler,
not have a bulter, of his own
to order about from,
his butler throne
and so on and so forth
and if we all had butlers.
would anything, ever,
really get done?

OR, would we all be,
passing ***** laundry
about in a neverending,  
linen chain.
drinking tepid tea from each others ***** tea cups.
polishing silver for some one other than us ...
would i end up,
being a bulter to you.

my god!  

this, idea of

'free butlers for every one.'  

is spiralling,  out of control

this  factotumnal conudrum,
is going to  drive me insane.

JEEVES ! please, please be so good
as, to bring me a calming tisane.

what is life?
if not a jigsaw puzzle,
without the box.
waiting....
to be put together...

i awake
an inexplixable sadness
welling from my sleep
laden eyes.

with cup of tea
warm in hands
i sit watching
the night give
up it's children
to the brimming
dawn.

and sigh
sadness
from the
innermost
secrets
of myself.

as tears
fall
unchecked
from my
eyes.

there is a leak
                    in the roof
            of our house
                 no doubt
                   caused by,
   the winds of the past week.

           now
                  the rains
       are coming in.....
                      one drippity
                 drop
                       at
                          time

we put a bucket under it, at
                    first,
            splosh, splosh
                    but
now have replaced it with a
              glass bowl
                  plink
              plink,plink
                plinkety
                  plink

  tommorow my husband
    will climb up and fix
                the roof

until then, we will listen to
                  the rain's
                      song

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

happiness is a game of courage
intricate in it's strategies
straight forward in it's goal

it does'na matter  if you play
with stick and ball or pen and paper
this game requires the strength of your heart
and sometimess the loss of your mind

you score according to your own gradient
some, the best players find happiness
in the small wee things, the rest of us overlook.
some search for the big score, whilst overlooking
the small golden fragments scattered about...

you can see those who are winning,
for when you look into their eyes
there is contentment, that is after all
the much sought after prize...

are ye winning today......

going to try counting poems,
thoughts, things....

one....singular...seperate
     alone......
but are we really
.......in my head....there are
so many other voices...alive
and dead....providing...insight
.....opinion......pathways....
derisi­on....
they are all up there in the penut gallery...generations
back......family friends...people i read about in a book...peoples....whose book i read....oprah and the self help gang.....that dude on utube...and the talking cat.....
all in there...waiting with baited breath...all with two cents or more..sometime a whole dollar, even if it is a day late...
my own personal cheersquad,muppet show
critics, have a go,quit while your ahead, be a hero, your nothing but a zero, live life till your dead, don't run with scissors, take a break,c'mon get happy
all this and more...rolling
round my head...like abag of loose marbles....
so not.... one....singular...seperate
           alone.....

more ..... many ..... lots
               legion

             vying for
15minutes on the throne

my granfather cultivated
beefsteak  and ox heart tomatoes

great big red things
bigger than his
gnarled and ropy fist

smelling of acid and
sun shine and deep rich
goodness

he would sit at the table
and seperate the seeds
out of the pink granular flesh
like a surgeon
and they would sit  like pink red sago
on cut pieces of yesterdays news
set upon the window ledge
gross yet compelling
there they dried out
in the sun
and were sorted for planting
some discarded as not good enough
some set aside for the "prize winning" bed
the plot of soil that got the best sun
the best compost, and some watered concoction
that smelt of things dead and rotting

I once asked what made a good tomato seed
his reply," you just know girlie....
you know the ones that are going to be great"

tomato growing was serious business to my grandpa

we wear grieving, like a        
                              heavy cloak,
with a large cowl and  
                   theadbare sleeves,
it gives, some measure of
                                     warmth,
but never, quiet enough.
as we stand alone,
facing the winds,
that howl... sad,
sighing,
loss.

loss.
complete
and utter
abanbdonment.
....by design or fate,
leaves your heart, foresaken,
your soul, ***** and      
                                     ravaged.
meanwhile, the world
                  moves on, blind to,
the mad monk,
        that inhabits your mind.

would i could
i would write you
a new beginning
a new once upon a time
a lifetime of joy and fullfillment
with a smattering
of sorrows for seasoning
small dissapointment
to measure victories against

would i could
i would erase all of this
put salve on the black dog's
bites
make fair the injustice
of  your loss
give you the hours, days,
years,
ripped from your hands...

have words that would
fill the empty spaces
in you...the hollowman

but i am not a diety,
just a friend, who holds
your crying body...
and claims to understand

would i could
i would turn back time
to before the hollowing
began....
and take more care
of the lives we lived
when we lived
back there

.......would i could.....would...

my rhythm, which has never
been good
is decidedly off today
running up to catch myself
fumbling with words
not knowing what to say...
this is so.... one of those days

my brain overworked....and underslept....struggles to
make connections...and
mifires hapharzardly....

i  lucky that it is a day practical theatre classes
and most of my faux pas
are absorbed as cleverness in making a some what obscure point....

but this run of luck, can only
last so long....i must find time to recoup....some lost sleep...or the afternoon
could be a disaster of comedic proportions...

a quick lunch and forty winks, is the approved course.
one more theatresports class
and then i can set sail....

we sit at the edge of
vespertide
listening to the chorale
of evensong
this day's opus almost done
now tapering off in
slow melodious decrescendo..
it is the gloaming
and the final flurry of light
glimmers on the horizon

now the night becomes
the diva,
the first star has been wished upon,
the first sattelite too.
and the bass note of the cicadas
builds to a *****, needful hum...

lights go on in little square
patches, and the smell
of barbeque fragrances
the summer night air

under the streetlights
the moths come to dance
a dare each other to touch
the midnight sun...

and in our garden
the rustle of the
tame gone feral
rabbit "bellamy"
has begun...

a hulking grey white
shadow now he lollops
toward the tasty green
carrot-tops...
until the sound of pounding
feet causes him to freeze
considering his position
bellamy chooses discretion
over valour and departs with haste

the wind now has a coolness to it
and the grass grows damp about us
by still we sit enamoured of the changing
slow and quiet about us
the seas whisper secrets
and the birds settle in for the night
excepting those who hunt on silent wings

the stars begin to pop
bright white on the darkening sky
and the crescent moon smile with
a sideways grin...

it is now the darker things come
owls on the wing
spiders to reknit there webs
the big bass frog to sing his song
and the small blood seeker
come with whinging wings

now we must give the night
it's privacy, as we walk inside,
from the pond a series of sounds
means the frog has found dinner
hopefuuly a mosiquito buffet

the vesper tide hath turned
the night is now come.....

life.
four
letters,
but an
awfully
big
word.

love.
even
bigger,
a word
both
gigantic
and
minute.

live.
being
the
biggest,
broadest,
open to
enterpretation.
but
still
a looming,
largeness
to
behold.


live,
love,
life.


together,
a
mantra
for
a way
to be
large
among
the
small.

tallest
of the
tall.

broad
and
encompassing,
of one
and all.

live,
love,
life,

we all
fall,
sprawl.
but
rise up.

stand
and
fall,
learn,
to
learn,
from
it all.

love,
life.
live,
life.
live,
love.

such a voice....
quieted, but never stilled
the world has.... one less
phenom.....
one less laureate....

we as poet's .....have lost a mother
a keen eyed woman....that could speak to souls...
....make the caged... fly
her voice soft, or strident
knew my heart....led me forth...
gave me countless fresh starts....

is now at rest... but echoing
still... and forever.....
and the bird still sings.....
a beautiful song..

god bless ...maya....god bless

I have lost my muse
in the hustle and hustle
of my days
I have put her aside
and now she is gone
from me..

and my writers place
is lonely and bereft
of her joy and life
a soulless room
dusty and...
well,  just .... beige and bland.


so if you see her,
my muse....
ink-stained and laden
down with words unwritten
please....let her know
I miss her terribly
and would like her
to come home....

I promise to take
better care of her
this time....I promise.

there was a time
in my life,
when my view was,
monochromaticaly blue.

the deepest darkest blue.
verging on, but not quite
black.

it was not a comforting
or calming shade.
in fact it was jagged glass
in my eyes.

it shred, rendered
my mind into shards of
bitter and hate,
it unraveled a deep, dark blue twine
and  wrapped it about my heart.
marking, marring
and restraining my hope of
remembering other shades
or hues.

i sat inside my deepest darkest blue,
with my confetti blue mind
and snippets of blue blue twine.

waiting for the deep dark
bluetide to rise and wash
away what little i had left...


instead you came,
with artists easel and brush
and painted my world
polychromatic.

with strokes of purple orange.
green, yellow and blue,
you gave me the colours to see,
deep, dark blue was only the
smallest part of my view.

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

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

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

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

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

in the distance I hear the sea, welcoming me home

the horizon is a golden line in the distance

and the birds sing glorious aria's of happiness

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

all is right with the world.....

and underneath your skin
lies a heart no longer beating

and you lay
cold and still

and you ask
of me questions
with lips tinged blue

to which
there are no
answers


i know not why
and where to now

i know there is sorrow

i know we move on somehow...

but underneath your skin
your heart has finished
it's toil.....

it is okay...old friend
you can rest now.