oh woe is me!!!
have pity, cruel and
heartless world.
the sky now fallen.
my sadness,
unfurled.
i sail, upon a ship
of abject misery.
i sit at the helm
and weep and cry 
and moan and mewl
til, my eyes have
run out of 
wet, n' salted fuel.

now, those who know me,
are wondering why,
me, who writes happiness.
is having a hysterical cry.
if i can but,
bring myself,
to tell you why, 
you must be generous,
of heart, and not say fie.
my big, catastrophe,
bigger than you know.
is a death, in the family...

they have lingered long
and been, a dear friend.
but this morning i went to see them and they were gone!!
and oh dear me!
what an embarassing end...
it is,sad,
beyond,sad.
i cannot tell a lie.

here its is....  in all it's badness:
MY JEANS DONE DIED
(pause now for a sobbing, dramatic.....sigh!!!)
now you have finished laughing
at me i will explain why,
this is, not a matter for disdain.....
i have/had this pair, of favourite, faded, blue,white jeans.
had them long enough,
that they had done,
the complete circle
and come back into fashion....
had them longer than,
my child, my husband, my car,
my present job. 

they knew me, so well and
so comfortable too.
i went to wear them,
this morning,
as a pick me up treat....
(cause to be honest,
been feelin kinda beat)
and lo and behold,
they fell apart, at my feet

the crotch, had frayed away
and if i had worn them,
my smalls and privates,
would be saying a cheeky, g'day....
so i am sad 
and an old friend has departed. 
but at least it happened in private  and not at work, when i farted....

i tonight, will give them, a burial, tried and true in the duster bin... and then drink to them,
with tonic and gin.
fare thee well,
my faithful, denim friend.
and consider this to be...
your heartfelt eulogy

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.

whatever.....
she threw the word
at me
with all the youthful,
disdain,
she could muster
as she flounced
out the out of my sight...


and


.....wandered away from
her talents bright light.

the sadness rolls in
like waves eroding the shore
and the tides coming in
forecast of more storms
and heavy weather
skys dismal,pewter grey
friend is dying
and the waves are
eroding  my footholds away
kingtide baby, kingtide.

does any body else remember,
the hungry jacks whopper,
when it had a big hunk of bacon,
or is it just me showing my age.

does any body else remember
when a cup of coffee,
came in just one size,
or am i just feeling old.

does any body else remember,
when chip packets were fuller
and softdrink cans were small and stout.

god i am just so freakin ancient
can some one tell me,
where i parked my dinosaur?
i can't remember!

violets nod dainty heads
dancing to the zephyr breeze

watched over by gum
and swaying willow trees.

verdant leaves all shades of green
have returned if but for a short season

and on the rocks the lizards bask
and the ants continue working.

it is the time in between
the last of the summers sun
and the first leaf fall.

it is the most gentlest time of all

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

we once made love,
on a shell and
shingle stone beach.
it was a cold,
uncomfortable affair,
of clacking, shifting.
a scratching, scrying game,
of hard, hurried, thrusting.
riding waves of tepid saltwalter
and banging, barging,
bruising ice beneath
our backs.

but we,
were new to love,
in need of intimacy
and at least,
there was no sand,

i remember, the next day
our backs and buttocks,
were pokmarked with bruises.
a karmic reminder of our
base human greed

please let me apologise
i am unable to write
well of  today's suggested
prompt, but write i must
i made a mental deal.
i am meant to
be writing a terza rima
but at present the form
is beyond me....

my creative flow is
silted up and sluggish,
mindless and murky
just muddy thoughts,
caught upon a logjam
of tired emotion.

and i feel unable to
produce,
a  credible rhyme,
let alone......
tercets with a braided
rhyming scheme.

but a deal is a deal....

to day i plod,
from dawn to dusk,
the world a beating rod

upon the broken husk,
that once, was my mind
now muddied, mush,
gouged by memories,
broken elephantine tusk.

i feel, so blind, so blind
stuttering,stumbling,
about in the dark
chased by ....

see this is the mud...
....in which
i am swimming...

so sorry to you,
as you can see.....
having......
.......a bad write day!!

time
and time
again

i awake
my soul
surprised
by the
blessings
in my life

somewhere
sometime
i must have
done something

exceptionally
wonderful
because

karma
gave
me

you..
­
and
the little
boy god

and
all the other
multitudinal
bits of
good stuff

that
make me
smile

each
and
every
day

we went shopping this morning,
then to the movies.
all the time,
the little voice in my head
was telling me,
i had forgotten
an important chore.

we were gone three, four hours.
the little voice niggling away.

got home just now
and remembered
as i opened the front gate.

forgot to lock the catflap
gus's in/outdoor.
well, by now, its far too late.

you see gus,
the little grey cat
is a collector, not a
hunter of things.

if god forbid,
he were a dog.
he would be one
of those retreivery things.

he finds and he brings,
normally to his food bowl.
so now, we are in the kitchen
and were taking stock.

one mangled penny lizard
and two other tails.
one drowned moth,
one feebly swimming still
three dazed cicadas,
one belly up and by
the sound a few more yet
to be found
a praying mantis, sans one claw
and something else,
mushed into the floor
a magpie feather,
but,(thank god) not the bird
our little grey cat,
flat out on the mat.
it has been a big morning,
no doubt about that.

he sleeps on, oblivious.
as we his minions,
clean up his mess,
as best we can.
from experience the lizards,
find their own way out.
the cicadas, we find,
when they sing
their discordant song,
reminding me, all day long
my little voice,
not ever wrong.

alright world...
give me a break
can't you see...
i've got all my ducks
in a row....
so what, if there is
a decided...
weave in their waddle...

it is true
that until
some one
has gone from you
you do not know how will
miss them...

i miss sitting quietly
with you after a day's work
tea cups in hand, savouring
the fragrance of smoky tea
and the silence that comes
from a deep sense of compainionship

I miss, coming upon you sitting on a bench
face turned toward the sun, hands spread wide
i  an act of joyful worship, a smile lighting up
your face,

I miss the itense look of concentration, as you
described a new thought or concept to others
and the loosed limbed wonder of you as you
came alive upon the stage....

the generosity of heart and spirit,
your allocentricity...

all these things i miss and more
and most days I find some new
thing that I miss...

but...
my missing you
is a living elegy

I miss most
the sound of your voice in my ear
...but I hear the echoes
that tell me....
you are stronger than this
....just breathe on through
and wait
for the sun to shine for it will, it will

back in the days.....
when i was youthful
bright longing in my eyes.

when life was
a desperate struggle
based on a whim....

i found myself at a place
edge of a valley
start of a mountain
holding back ,
whilst ....
looking forward,
balanced on the rim....
of a new horizons skin.
what to do....... what....

dive
back into the shadow
climb
up into the light.

walking...
on a tightrope
of fraying indecision
circling...
round and round.

years of making myself
dizzy...
with fury
and  
rebounded thought
pinging,slinging, stinging
doubt....
about which way
back...
forth...
back
(g)round....and (g)round
wore myself a groove,
with witless, wistful pacing.

a grave slowly shuffled out,
deeper, darker...
valley dark,
mountain light,
grey grave groove...
on the cusp between.....

mental twilight...........
had me enthralled,
everday shufflin...
till,
when...then.. somehow...
i...
ceased ......
to be me,
frightened to decide....

.........epiphany........

any whichway
was better than this.....
grinding, ground down
groove worn grave.

small steps, giant leaps.
i found grace was in
believing.....
found was in the looking,
laughter in the smiling
life was in the living.
direction was merely mindful
deception....
coralling random disposition.

for one
up
for another.....
down

purpose is a delicate
preponent,
in decsion making choices
attitude the fulcrum
on which it all approximates.......

valley dark
mountain light
both wrong
both right
take .....
a step,
a leap,
a bound,
a flight,
of fortunate fancy....
........or petulant plight.

i sit in the low afternoon
sun
the warmth of it's rays negligable, but the colours
of it's farewell glorious.

in the lilac bush, still holding
green, the bluewrens chitter,
gossip, chirk and flirt away..
as they dart and flicker from twig to twig.
i think what a bluegreen end to a greyblack day....

and the sun shines,orange
and peach and the horizon
takes that lavender hue.

as the sky fades to deepest
blue.... my thoughts my friend, settle on you...
farewell my sunny friend
                                    farewell.

there is something so lovely
about the ignorance of one's youth

the time when bliss is your
paramour,
and age your best friend.
when life is a promise to be
fufilled,
with all things,
wonderfully crystalized and distilled.
that brief shining era,
when all is gold
and you keep forever,
what you behold.
when indeterminate of color or creed,
you make friends with
curious ease.

it is the time before,
you learn how,
to bleed,
to mourn,
to grieve,

the time before,
the era of discovery,
that within you
and all others,
there is an ocean of tears,
a hurtling freight train of fears,
an everest of desire,
a krakatoa of rage,

it is the time before,
you are forced to turn the page,
on stories half written,
on dreams denied,
the time before,
you can translate the trillion meanings of sighs,  
the time when, regrets begin to collect you,
the time when, worries begin to tatter and rent
the fabric of your soul.

youth, it is the vibrantly
hued years.
after the warm fuzziness of childhood cuddles.
and before the comfortable grace of adulthood.
it is passion and fumbling and finding and fueding and ecstasy of knowing,
it is mistakes and victories, woes and triumphs,
it is needing and it is bliss.
it is horrible angst and it is loveless loneliness,
it is what cow!
it is is'nt he lovely!
it is standing out in a crowd.
it is standing alone in a crowd.
it is  knowing everything,
needing no more lessons.
and it is ignorance,
blind with no descretion
it is hating your mum,
it is wanting your mum.

there is something quite lovely
about the ignorance of one's
youth...

             .......when the world
is there to be  conquered....

it's gonna be a slow day
my brain remains in bed
i am operating, all manner
of heavy machinery,
with an empty head.

the sky outside is grey
but not forlorn,
but it is making for a
slow moving morn.

my baby boy,
is sleeping still
my hubby has become
a tv sports zombie dill
and speaks in yawns and grunts
demanding a  headache pill

we all seem slow,
like treacle,
dripping off,
an ice cold spoon
perhaps i am just in
coffee and toast denial

but someone little,
is gonna, wake up soon.
then the world might
kick up a gear.
that is my, very,
rational fear.

but until then,
any which way
you want to slice it
this morning is just drifting,
caught up in a slow-mo eddy
and we all are just being dragged  along

on a wet morning
at the university

the library is full
of  people in need  of
a place to dry out...

in the quad, people
rushing from here to there
the bins full of dead and dying umbrellas

and in the library
the smell of wet dog
and wool pervades the air

the barista's
at the coffee shop
do really well

the classes are smaller
they also have that smell

and at some time you will
hear a fire bell
set off by,
someone sneaking
a smoke inside.....
then evacuation
and all hell
if you are in the block
forced outside...

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

the morning has dawned
achingly bright
the clouds of yesterday
blown away in the night
after leaving.....
just a dusting of spherical
pearls on leaf and grass tips

the wind just now a breeze
giving the sea a herd of
white horses  to cross
the blue- green plain
and play tag with the sailor
in racing boats.

i stand inside, with the warmth of the fire at my
back , cup of tea steaming
in my hands...and make plans for this promising
winter's day...

full well knowing, in an hour
the vista could change....
thus are, the vagaries of life.

Pebble in hand
on waters edge i stand
Memories of you wax and wane with
each wave that laps at my feet
i sink into the soft sand..
Tears on cheek
Smooth pebble and
jagged breathe
As i let you go again. again....again
This time I don't throw the pebble away
I drop it at my feet, and watch it tumble and turn as the waves draw it back into the ocean
I watch the colours gleam and the pebble swing this way and that like a dancer swaying to the music...
I watch this small beautiful thing be subsumed by the much larger beauty of the beach

And I stand tears running freely as I learn another lesson about grief about letting go about being together but apart..
And through my tears I laugh...

she writes despair,
from her womb.
in thick menstrual red.
...a dirge of lost potential.

lamentations of longing,
need and want for a child
sear her face and mind....

again a false start,
hope....stands expectant at
the starting line.....
only to falter and fall,
time after time.

she hates,
this carriage, that does not,
well do the job
she hates,
those who can, with apparent ease.
who do not mis,
but have,
the joyous moments,
of that first squalling cry...

but mostly,
she longs for
the next time,
she can try....
til then,
sadness prevails

beyond tired,
beyond sleep,
far down the winding track
of insombulance
at the forked tongue place,
known as...
the insomniac's state.....

there is a gilded room
where poets do keep
their muses,
fair and unruly...

and those,
who think deep,
philosophical notions

and they wait,
with lethivian patience,
but little grace...
in the shadows,

...until invited,
by sleepless souls,
to share,
wine and cheese
and a word or two....

then, they muses all,
are delighted
to discuss, at length,
all manner of things....

and suggest
topics that,
need be,
revealed,
re-examined,
rewritten.

....and to talk about,
how,
to make readers,
smitten with the words,
you have enscribed,
the ideas you extault
and extoll,
the emotion you extract
from your very soul.

but when the dawn breaks
they, the muses all,
take their words
wrapped up
in scrap paper
and off to bed they crawl..

leaving you, the scribe
dark shadowed of eye
to cope with the agnst
of it all....

fickle hearted beings...
one and all....
       but oh, how i crave
their company...

in the cool clear air
of the mountain night,
as the stars glimmer,
with long ago exploded light.

i let go....
the woman,
of ninety three years
i let go...
the friends
who had shorter lives...
i let go...
those whose burdens, i bear.

i leave my salt upon
the dust.

and seed memories
to the wind....

knowing...tommorrow...
i will be desperate...
to find them,
again.

small but fierce
comes to mind

three feet and a bit
of restless energy

hair so blonde and fine
it resembles spun cotton

eyes deep blue

and a mouth that moves
non-stop, with questions,
observations and affirmations

the thinness of her is that
that happens with a growth spurt

she walks trippingly, the line
between grace and gawkiness

she brings with her curiousity,
positivity and  a huge bouquet
of daisy's

my heart leaps, when she smiles
this little bit of strangeness

so used to the male child
the feminine is unfamilar

the small arms encircle me
and squeeze love into my soul

and the laughter, that tinkles
from her lips lights up the room

she is come, she is come

stand me up
dust me off
wind my key
and set me off

i am your
clockwork
heart

and i will beat
for you
when your not strong

pay an extra ten dollars

and i will play this song....
*(insert song name here)

two poets,
came together,
after, much word love,
they had a vocabulary.
bought a tortoiseshell
thesuarus...and a golden pen
then, lived,
in a self written chapbook..
deliriously happy.

forever, amen

rhuematic rumblings of a restless mind
ramble across the page
been awhile, since the muse muttered
been some time since she sashayed
dry mouth, dry wit, words bitter and unkind
all tasting of salt and sadness

yet here i am mendicant me
standing at the wall,
wailing for all to see...

once written, once a writer
once a poet... wailing

for words to align
in a semblance of song
for words to joyful, courageous, strong

waiting for the world to be coloured
other than beige
for the seed to be fruit
for the herb to be sage

til then i rumble and quietly rage

his love of mac n' cheese
often outweighs the capacity
of his seven year old stomach
but valiantly he labours
so his love  is not lost
his belly becomes drumlike
and his visage narcoleptic
as he falls into slumber
one hand clutching the fork
the other curled protectively
around the bowl, with still
at least a third of his *****
gleaming in a viscous mountain
of golden sunshine goodness...
cooling rapidly to a solid mass
but still when we try to remove
his now completely sombulant body
he clutches his golden *****
to his chest. like a pirate
in  the story's he has been told
unfotunately the result of
this myclonic clutch
is a gluggy macaroni mess
down his front and in his crutch

so now, we have no mac'n cheese
a grumpy pirate too sleepy/ cranky to please,
a running bath and washer too
and the devon rex cat,  no longer the blue
but the tuxedo black scoffing down cheesey glue,
from the floor ...
whilst the irritable pirate is crying (read bellowing)
for more

god give me strentgh.... to  just endure

frosted
lawn
freezing

toetips
through
sheepskin
uggboots

but
st­ill
we
prance
dance

leaving
tracks
in
the
delicate
purity

of
this
cold
unexpected
mid-winter
morning
gift

the boy,
trails a piece
of brown twine,
with paper tied loosely,
to one end, around the dry green brown lawn.
it is for the little
grey, blue cat, to chase
and pounce upon,
a game, they never tire of.

the father,
tends to the flowerbeds,
with copious trips of
the watering can.
the water restrictions
forbid the use of the hose, and the plants must drink
to survive.
whilst to-ing, back and forth, from tap to plant,
he keeps an eye
on the boy as he plays.

the mother,
sits on the front steps
and watches all,
with cool drink in hand.
she has just finished, preparing the night's repast and has left it
simmering, gently
on the stove.
she takes this moment,
to escape the kitchens heat and sits in the cool sea breeze.
taking immense joy, in watching the afternoon, wind down in such a restful way.
the cat,
pounces on the string
pulling it gently from the boys grasp.

the family
laughs at his rolling,
pawing antics, as he, truimphs in his catch.

before picking up
the cat and boy
and walking inside,
to the smell of chicken curry, green but mild.

today
i sit in mendicant's pose
on
the corner of
webster and roget

please
some one throw some words
my way....

soggy bottomed shoes
encase wrinkly tender feet

it's been raining solidly
for more than a week

the towels all smell
of mould and mildew

the carpets more mud than wool

the vegetable garden
is accsessed by canoe

and the fire just splutters
cause of the water in the flue

we have gathered a menagerie
of frogs and spiders on the
front porch, there is a sugar glider

and still it rains....and the rivers flow high
gosh what I would give to see some blue sky

somewhere......
....a man sits
legs dangling,
over the edge
of a precipice.

wrangling with
the thoughts
running rampant
within his mind.

the cool breeze
dries the tears
that fall,
as his hands
throw pebbles
and his eyes
track their fall.

and in the puddles
left by ealier rain
a chemical reaction
occurs...
a glassiene rainbow
appears to form...

as he falls,
pebble like through
the sky,
he thinks he hears
bluebirds....flying...
                  way up high...


--------------------------------
*in memory ....
for J..... who lept from The Gap. 11 years ago to day.....
may he have found his
red slippers and made his way
home...r.i.p.

did you know?
did you hear?
what's the go?

chinese whispers,
cost us dear.

at the water cooler,
in the dark,
murmuring inanities
in the park.

gossip, gossip,
word of the day.

such and such's,
significant other
has run away.

there once was a time,
when her face was unlined.

her hands,unseamed
and uncalloused.

her eyes, bright and unclouded.

her *******, perky and full.

her back straight,
her stomach, tight and naturally, slightly concave.

and she had legs, that turned heads and a walk,
that created many,
a wolf whistle.

but then,

she had a life,

left her youth behind,

married,
badly, as time would tell.

had four children,
watched one die.

discovered,
she had married,
a selfish, gamblin man.

got a job
and then a second,
just, to feed her clan.

watched the love die.

then, watched him leave
with a resigned ,
yet  a relieved sigh.

raised,
two rambunctious boys
and a sickly, stubborn girl.

then, watched them leave.
launched them,
succesfully,
into the world...

now, the years,
have gone, bye the bye.

and with,aching back and teary eyes, she shuffles on
toward her demise.

with the memory of
times long gone,

and the echoes
of wolf-whistling guys,
legs long and lean
and her unlined face
with, eye catching smile.
giving her a sense of
inner grace....
that plays upon
her lined and crumpled face.

as she relives her youth
in her memories
as she finds that wonderous place, when once she was young.....and oh so beautiful.

you leave me
alone.....
       to contemplate

and
all i can do
is
..........think of you

time apart
is ......
           anticipation
of
when we.......
can next
             be together....

they wait for godot....
                 i long for you....
this love
          so  unexpected
so....new
          
   my prayer......
                i hope  
we... possess...the stamina
to see it through.

putting words together
scarring paper
is just that
if there is no heart
surrendered to the art

we need not write in blood
but must stir the blood within
engage the soul,
release the paradigm.
nurture the word,
play with the rhyme

there,
lies the difference
between the poet
and the scribe.

so...
this is it!!!
we have reached,
the epoch!
and now busy,
ourselves,
buying souvenirs
and taking selfies.

what next...
if this is the age of,
best "whatever" ever!!!
where do we go from here?
after ever ... is done,
(remember the reality is,
ever is never really done!)

well i suppose we
'mose well pack ourselves,
into the best pine boxes,
ever made and return,
into the soupy oblivion
from whence we came.

with less than a whimper,
more of an apathetic sigh.
as we watch the best ever
epoch slide on by...

there is, a swarm of
bumble bees
making, a hive of
lucsious, loveliness
in my  honeycombed
brain.
they bring, with them,
golden pollens and
nectared ambrosia.
from many places,
exotic and plain
and this,
these, very words.
are the sweet honey,
mumurings,
they produce.

straight line
turns to squiggle
as tired mind
turns to slush

weary soul
begins to wobble
as happiness
fades to grey

and in the twilight gloaming
paces the dog, black
with eyes a' gleaming
mouth a' drooling
and  dinner on his mind..

torchlight
follows the squiggle,
brings warmth and sunshine
slush becomes liquid
fluidity comes to mind
and the wobble is centrifugal
seperates the grist and the grind
gives surety to the tired and weary mind

torchlight comes from kisses
murmered words always kind
not breadcrumbs but shining pebbles
to my hansel and gretal state of mind

forrest large, big wolf lurking
pebbles help me find
home and hearth and kin
that gives grace to the
rebelnheart and mind
that oft makes me blind
and lost and a'wandering
in the squiggle......

what is fate?
if not, the hindsight
of hope and circumstance..
combined to form....
life's wibbly-wobbly jello....

i see you
run and leap
off the cliff-head
and plummet down

only to stretch your wings
and fly, skimming across
the white capped waves
before majestically  rising
into the endless sky

you are beyond me now
all potential and life for living
courage incarnate, dreaming large
and ineffable technicolor  dreams

yet to be broken,
or touched by brokeness
your light pure and shining

god, i envy you, but, yet
i don't want to be you...


i, too
once made that amazing leap
into nothingness
with the same grace and confidence..

but that was my journey
this is your day....your life

and icarus's all,
as you make your way
to the sun,
remember this
there is but one thing
that burns more brightly

and that thing is...

maria,
a woman, unknown to me
sits some where grieving
battered and beaten down
by the heaviest of burdens.

her loss, unimaginable,

but i see, many hands
lifting her up, into the sight
of gods.

many hearts ache,
many people pray
many people write

lifting her up, into the hands
of gods

i add my words of consolation
my paltry words
from a world away

know you are loved,
dear lady and though
it is inconcievable the burden, the loss,
you carry

you will be lifted up by love
into the sight of gods
this day

writer's block
again the white washed
wall just there...

curving quickly over head
like an igloo
taking creative reasoning,
stealing words and making
lost, not found the joy of creativity...

but i will fight back,
****! diddley i will
with my trusty pen
as sword....
graffiti- ing gibberish
on it's smug white washed
face...
(salmon scraping against the upward curve of the sward like steamships bumping in the old dockyard...talk to me of joy life procreation....)
marring, scarring, scribbling
away... taking back words and wordplay....
i will not be defeated,
i will not stay in this cocoon
bland and grey....
if i write hard and long
if i doodle long and short
i will see the light dawn
on a new creative day.
so watch me scribe away...
creating portholes in my cocoon
writing words to make the
block a boon....