in the blink of my eye
another thread frays
and breaks
the apron string one
thread smaller,
more fragile my hold
on your safe keeping

you run onto the field
oblivious to the loss.
reveling in the freedom
of running about with
an odd shaped ball.

I stand on the sideline
knowing you are small
but determined,
wishing for your blind
outrageous courage
yet knowing there will
be tears before bedtime.

the only question is,
will they be....mine
or yours?

i watch
with quiet intensity
as he, my man,
planes smooth as piece of lumber

because of the heat
he is shirt less and wears
shorts and work boots...
he is unaware of my scrutiny

long smooth strokes,
from one end of the board
to the other, create a swaying motion,
through his tanned torso
a flexing in his hips and
thighs and bunch of his
taut calfs....
but it is the rhythm and
curving of the long muscles
of his back that....has  me
entranced, and in need
of either a cold shower
or a fast and ***** session
in the bedroom.....

i choose the latter...and make my need known...

anguished, anemic, adolescents, arrayed, in a line.
apprehensively, observing the ambulance, take away
an afficiando, again, today.

bereft of energy and ability
to see......
that cutting,
while a momentary thrill.
is leaching their ability,
to be anything
but lethargic, listless and ill.

an addiction to, endorphines
angst and red blood spill.
becomes a viscous, viscious
cycle,
that daily, causes a spiral downward.

you cut, to feel,
release from pain,
blood flows,
draining you of
the nutrients and
sustenance you need,
to cope with living life,
you become,
less able to deal,
with the slights and arrows
and daily dross.
so you cut,
to deal with the loss
of the ability to cope,
you saw away,
at your skin like,
it is a mental rope.
all the whil
you lose blood the live giving force,
you lose the ability to hope
spiraling, until....
you collaspe in class... your secret revealed...

A is for  ANGER...
bright fiery red,
at the abtruse,
asininity of it all.

this book got no title
so don't dare compare it
to the others dozing on the shelf
man, the blank stare
you are reading, as stupidity, disguises heart and feelings, kaleidescope dreamings, overtures operatic.

mental fluidity.....
just workin in a different lane to yourself
savant to the art,
smart to the keys...
hit the beat....
find the real,
create the start,
just sometimes,
becomes,
the begining of the bugeoning of the being.... caged behind the stare.

memory by memory
i unfold the origami
of our friendship
until a crumpled
and lined piece
of paper lies forlorn
on the kitchen table

once an exquisite
paper crane.
now something
i wrap the vegetable
skins in.....

the rainbow lorikeet
is evidence
of a creational dichotomy
a bird of feathers,
bright and sweet
but
with a of voice
of snickering raucousness undeniable, universal proof: you can't have it all!!!

i go to the river's bend.
today,
i want my water contained.
today,
the sea too big, too wide.
today,
i need to see the other side.
today,
i watch the water flow,
from small aquifer beginings,
to great worlds sweepings.
today,
i watch and see the cycle
of life....
drift on by.....

the morning after
the night before
rises with a cold crisp sun
and sea mist rising

i shuffle out...glad i do not
need to be at work til 2.00pm
i am already wrung out
my leg still achew
and growls
and my eyes are
bleary from
crying.
hair,
a sidways birds nest
smelling of a night's sweaty tossing and turning
and the smoke from the fire dressed fashionably not,
in flannel pj's and hippo studded robe.

i can barely raise a smile.

and still,
he says he loves me
and kisses me soundly ...before  telling me he will
take Tod for Maccas
and then to kindy...
it is a male bonding day....

and i should just go back to bed.....
cause i had a rough night....
oh' and he will bring lunch home at middayish

and that is one
and one again,of a million reasons,
why i love my man
to the stars and beyond.

i have said,
goodbye to you
a thousand times, plus more
in both, small moments
and big.
when i turn,
to see your face
and then, remember you are no longer
so with smile, and a tear,
i  once again,
bid you goodbye.

it is now nigh,
on three years,
i have been saying
farewell.
all that time,
desperately missing you.
wishing i was,
saying,
hello, instead.


but the sad truth is,

dead is dead.

au revoir, dearheart

yet again.

tonight the moon hides itself
shly peeking out
from behind ragamuffin  grey clouds

the stars are a'twinkle, twinkle
on indigo blankets
clouds dash to and fro

i gaze upon the heavens
and briefly wonder
if others elswhere also gaze

and ponder about the nature
of the sky
and the nighttime flying by

or do they sigh and
give no thought
to why the moon
                              is shy

Cold fingers touch my
Heart as we await news of your
Condition  ....Hoping....

we return to life
blinking
at the changes
wrought by
time inside
one's mind

he once blue sky now
grey and dragging
against the seas rim

trees shivering at
the blast of ice
laden winds

and as we watch
the first angry
spots of the torrent
to come

we forgo coffee and cake
in preference to the cocoon
of the car as the water
sheets down from the sky

now home and cosy
with hot chocolate
mingling on the stove
we watch the continued
fury of the storm
the cats stay curled up
under the doona
hibernating til dinnertime

when
did the crisp,clean edge
on which
my poetic self....
balanced,
become obese and dull.

a ledge,
upon which i sit,
feet dangling
and make inane
conversations
with the pigeons
that  now
reside in my brain.
when?

one final cup of chamomile tea then to bed,
to bed, to lie drenched in sweat.
until the heat breaks
and the cool change sneaks on through.
one last sip to calm my mind.

so i can prepare
to itemize,
those **** pesky sheep.
i know them all by name now,

by dawn, i will know where they are going on their annual holidays.

rinse the cup and go to bed,
at least,
my foolish shepardess, my restless, droving, roving mind.
you will give you head,
a place to rest,
while you go on,
this  wooly,
sheep finding fact fest.

here in the little wee hours
on the night so cold
my toes ache
i sit pondering
life and such
by the light
of fire and tablet

wrapped in blanket
threaded with memories
i think nonsense and ingenuity
and watch cinders fly

on the hearth the dog and cat slumber
wrapped around each other pretzel-like
defying with casual snores,
both physics and laws of natural enmity.
there is an ease to their bromance
that both confounds and humours me

behind me spreading on the couch
like slow(very slow) moving lava is
the surf god, encased in flannel and ugg
he gargles breathe like an old Harley
soon I will escort him to bed and leave
him to the embrace of his new lover
Madame Cpap...and they can share
a night of slumber in a wind tunnel
then in the morning , he is mine once more

the golden boy sleeps elsewhere tonight
having come into the season of sleepovers
he resides in a tent,  in a bedroom
half a suburb away ,oblivious to
the sound of stretching apron strings
he too shall return to me tomorrow
older and with new cultural references
to share with his increasingly
dim witted parents

for now, in the wee hours
i stare at the cinders
and see the old man as younger
and the boy as babe
as my toes ache
and my eyes leak
just a tad....

at the present moment
my lexicology
lies midway
between
bavardage
and
toom
so for
the moment
i spare you
the
presence
of my prattle

balanced upon
the rim
of this waking firmament
the scale
dropped from
the hide of the dragon
that circles
far above the sky
orange red
and glistening yellow
it burns with fervour
bright, bright argent light
that dispells the softness
of the lingering night...

and the dragon circles
so far away....unaware
to us he has gifted
another day....

heres is the story of
Bad boy Bill...
..with slight of hand
he had the plate
with eight pieces
of skate
which he quickly ate
not that he was
a deadweight
he did share
with a mate
before he did
donate the *****
plate to the nearest
gutter grate
he was a pick pocket
that he could not debate
he had given going straight
a trial but could not cognate
the traits of the cheapskate
state that gave him too many
gates to open only to end up
at the same old checkmate
so after beating his breastplate
he went on the lam
lashed out against
the ingrate magnates
and after a spate
of flyweight burglaries
he now awaits
as a sometimes
somnambulate inmate
at the pleasure
of the  abrogate state
in a room slightly
larger that a crate
with a surly
burly bedmate.
they who dictate
think he will be
down for at least eight
he was at this news
discombobulatedly
disconsulate
But that is the fate
of those who hesitate
to choose bad over good
and manipulate the laws
of the land.

sitting at the old oak table
sipping on cold redemption
thinking back to when i was
not some one else, but far less than myself...

turning memories over to
discover the fossiled  id
and the ambered ego"
damaged, dismembered,
by the time of slow, low moving sadness...
that created glacial time..


now, exploring
the barren forest,
like an inquisitive tourist
hoping to find the keys
to the locks that i left behind
whyfor i will never know...

but the former self has hidden the  relics all too well....
(and we bless them to
their  hidden eternity)

and the cages remain sound
the lack of treasure, remains
unfound.

...and i .....and i....and i
can retrace my steps...back
to the days ....of serenity...
and forsake the turbulance
for  the  promise of sunnier days......

sitting at the old oak table
sipping on redemption
...warm and refined....
turning....beauty over
to see....your love reflected
...

one year on, one year on
and nothing differs,
yet nothing is the same

the sun come out today
as it will tomorrow
the grass grows,
the wind gusts and shakes the trees

all manner of things just carry on
all manner of things are blithley unaware


but not I,
I feel the difference, the sorrow
the spaces that can no longer
be filled...

I feel the void....a great gasping thing
that hides, waiting to catch you unawares...
and then takes the colours from the day
leaving behind a glassiene grey

one year on, one year on
and still, I turn to you to say...
but you are gone,
and now even your scent
has begun to fade away....

the rain falls,
like a hymn,
upon the windows.
a song of hope,
sent from grey
and sombre sky.

given to an
adoring ground
accepted as
communion and
restoration.

listened to from within,
watched by wondering eyes,
the holiness of nature.
....beautifuly divine....

on our after afternoon
ramble
we marvel at the beauty
of the autumn trees

their leaves show such
glory in their dying days
before they fall
and wither away....

i could give you colours
ten shades each of green,golden, amber, russet, brown.
but my words would be
a paltry insult to the wonder
of the falling crown

soon the trees will be stark
and bare.....sculptures against the blue and pewter
sky..

but my good god, you taught
them well, the art of an awe inspiring goodbye.

this is the aftermath
here
sitting in my
dinghy of fools
three passengers
only.
me, myself and i
surrounded by
useless f#cked up
baggage
rowing furiously
in circles
on a sea
of stupid.

all cause
my words
in anger
cast
you
overboard
to swim with your
personal sharks.


would it help
if i threw you
a rope made
of heartfelt
apologies.

could you then
find your way back
sorry regret by sorry
regret.

so we can row together
toward  the coast of
mutual understanding....

can we get to there,
please?

and it is,
when i am with you....
i shed all my outer coverings,
take the sledge hammer
to my walls,
drop pretence and artifice,
like beggar's rags
and stand.

my scarred and naked body,
before you.....
with beautific but battered mind  intact
and heart beaten and besieged

i stand naked before you

and you......
gather me up... and love me
with your besieged and beaten heart ,
battered but beautiful mind
and scarred and naked skin
and it is when we are together....
like this
that our weary souls entwine
and provide the love
that allows us to believe
we are both human...
                                    .... and divine.

and give strength to each
other...

small upon the wire
extruded with such effort
she swings with the wind
capturing her  stability against
the verdent green, once secure
she again  launches, like a spelunker
down into the darkness of the bush
only to reappear and leap from leaf to leaf

having constructed her main lines
the little architect, then proceeded
with absolutley no fanfare
but an audience of two,
enthralled by her
bravado and industry,
to fill out the infield of the  construct

before setting some fishing lines out
off her main points,  to sway in the breeze
she  then  strolled  back into her leafy boudoir,
one presumes to have a well earned nap,
before dinner

from the nest in the eaves
of the great house,
the little bird
could see.
a sky, blue and flannel grey,
a big ball of sun,

the tips of the tree tops,
down through the branches
and trunks
down, down, to the ground.
where they are bound
to the earth,
by knotty rope roots.

she, the little bird,
could watch the people,
hustle and bustle and
sometimes, but not often dawdle, on the street.
all chirupping and chirking
away.

she could see the horses
and the carriages, going
this and that way.
the dogs that, bark as they
play

she could see all,
the neighborhood cats
as the well-fed,
basked away the day
and the mangy old stray,
hunted for rats..
yes, she kept a close eye,
on all those sneaky cats.

but, what she liked
to watch, best,
what piqued her curiousity,
as she sat on her nest.

was the interior of the bedroom, across the way.

for in there, was a fascinating sight, of
a glamourous lady who had all manner of
wonderful things,
gloves of velvet and
lace and calfskin leather,
fans of painted paper
or finely carved wood,
corsets with whalebone stays
and finest linen underwear
buttons and baubles,
trinkets and geegaws...
strings of pearls and
glittering things..
a parasol, peach-pink satin
to shade her face from sunlight.

but for all of this...
the glamourous lady
came often undone
and sat weeping
on the window seat.

the little bird who lived
in the eaves,
did not envy the lady,
who for all her things
so pretty, was unhappy.
and who so often, grieved.

for the little bird,
knew how to be
content with her lot.
with her nest of straw,
her two little eggs.
she needed no more
than that...and a
view of the street....
so she could see
all those sneaky n' sly cats

perhaps there is a lesson
just there, in that.

clasp these things gently,
to thy breast.
my love, my little love,
hold them gently.
tho' seldom will they bite.

feed them,
hopeful crumbs
and tidbits
of delighted joy.

do not neglect
them,
do not yet,
let them go
they are still to young,
to fledge and fly.

this world is a place
of broken things.

these dreams you have,
are the chaotic butterfly wings that will flap and flutter and bring despots down

not yet, little one,
but when you
are tall
then my child
let them
fly one day,
in  sunshine's
wonderous thrall

for now,
my little love,
treat them kindly
clasp them gently
to thy breast
and do your best,
my child,
to  ignore, the random
snows of  barren, hopelessness
as  they fall.

to make the choice, to use your words
for the betterment of others
is sometimes thought of
as  somewhat antiquated gesture

to use one's talent (which is sublime)
to draw attention to some one else's
achievements, with both grace and humour
not once or twice but time after time
is beautiful beyond my word ablitities

to do this with  such panache
to do this with absolute humility
to honour this with a joyful spirit
so as to, do this in a way
which gives the recipient, all the glory
is highest art form
it is the poetic way of chivalry
it is magnanimous beyond magnanimity

it is to my reckoning; this particular poets
way of giving, small peices of his very big heart away

it is confetti made up of admiration and love
thrown high in the sky for all to see
it is one man's ticker tape parade
that i stand on the kerb waiting for
each and every day......

what was nothing

becomes reality

it happens momentarily

a thought creates an action

which sets the heart alight.

then reason takes flight

on wings of  purported glory

we skim the stratosphere

oblivious to gravity

we soar in graceless ecstasy


until .....        until....       until..................

the grace of my heart
lies in the palms
of your hands
broken,scarred
and calloused
as they may be
it is in this thought
i know complete serenity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

lost,
adrift,
led astray,
just disappeared,
nowhere to be found,
slipped, down, between    
                                the cracks.
irretrievably, wayward.
gone... the way of flying pigs.
that qoundam, thought has
                     now...gone awry.

i carry you, with me.....
etched on my bones.
anywhere, everywhere,

i go

you are my strength, my solidity.

all

my musings, mutterings,
my sonances, my oratory
exhortations....

sing

to your, soulful simplicity.

all

my waiting,
for you to...come.... become
is, as, was,
done by groaning
or is, as, was
birthing ecstasy
no redemption, from loving
no surcease, from lustful longings

(for you are my line,
my is, as, was, will be....)

now

i lay....open....

replete....sate...

before you... beneath you...

no page unturned
no secret lies fallow
no place unplough-ed
their you are... there you be

(my again, my line, my always was, my is)

and it's you... it is you...

you are....  
letters and numbers and music and coda
it always of is you

here is us,
we be here

all  

the graphite secrets
now engraved we have
upon one another
for of the ordering of
the paper-ed hearts

and

the inordanate wonder 
of an unspent page and lucent lines of lovers worth
we write,(wrote) and write again ..... 

(a mulling, mewling, mumuring togetherness line)

begetting
steaming, sensual, searing
metallicgraphics
filliagreed upon my bones to the isolation of the world we are lost, torn apart, asunder...

be we here, together be,

my soul

knows your love
etched upon my bones
we are never apart
we are all
we are line,
entwined together.

red moon rising
through flannel grey clouds
sea streaked with silver
pine trees black silhouettes

on the winow pane
brown moths paint
their lives away
and underlying it all
is the bass of a lonely treefrog
singing his heart's desire

it was a blood vessel,
within the brain.
that gave out....
too much thinking.
no, more likely to be,
a genetic imperfection.
undectected until now.
the brain, became flooded
and succumbed...

it was mostly painless,
if confusing...
synapses firing,
one last time.
a fireworks moment,
of
absolute brillance.
of
knowing all questions
and answers.
of
rememberance sublime.

and
then the quieting
of the soul.

the folding of the deckchair,
the closing of the book,
receding steps...
some bars,
of classical music.
the light,
being switched off.
and
the closing
of the door..
all that is left .... is darkness

and the sound of distant...
                             ...weeping

as i and my red pen,
climb and clamber,
about in the latest,
offerings,
of inked thoughts
and dead trees.

i think of,
junglegym minds
and elegant phrasings.
of eagle eyed ids
and nuanced persuasions.

i think of,
 words and worlds, aged
and then discovered
and since and again, interpreted anew.

and i wonder ......
mr shakespeare,
if you lived today.

what would be,
your world view?

must have got a dud
coffee.....still nothing
brewing, nothing clicking
over.... just open prarie space....not even a cliched
tumbleweed......
........ god.... hope i have n't
lost my brain.......

of the system
dinosaurs  at play

modify the system
dinosaurs at work

change the system
dinosaurs afraid

work the system
dinosaurs  delayed

ignore the system
dinosaurs confused

abused the system
dinosaurs confounded

abolish the system
dinosaurs extinct

create the system
dinosaurs  evolve

of the system
dinosaurs replayed

the curve of the beach
is outlined in a murky red today
the kelp has turned in the heat

on the sand the little *****
make little spheres and bubbles


where the damp meets dry
a sandcastle slowly loses form
as the wind takes it away
grain by grain


on the rocks three kids clamber
shouting and pointing poking sticks
into the pooled worlds

up on the grass, sit two old gents
and the clamour of seagulls that
are being fed skerricks of fat golden chips

i stand admist all this feet in the water
work pants rolled up, shirt tails out
breathing in the saltspray
looking to the horizon
as it begins to colour  the evening sky

at my feet swirl ribbons of red brown kelp


it has been an unseasonably hot summer

Monday morning
is singing the indigo blues

the sky is wearing
a grey duffel coat

still I gotta pay my dues
gotta get happy
gotta get happy
an pay my dues

Step into the winters day
Air so crisp and cold
Snows on the way

Somewhere they will be
Freezing today
Somewhere they will be
rubbing chilled hands together
draming of warm summer days

Inside boxes filled with red faces
they will be dreaming of faraway places
where the sand is warm underfoot
and  in the chambray sky there are no traces
of water accumulation, just an argent sun
and on the breeze exotic spices.

These are the dreams of the red faced
and blue handed masses that ride the buses
in this crisp winter morn
.....looking for a scrap of chambray,
in the cold flannel grey of this Monday

happy little snapdragons
i love  the faces i see
standing in rows
like little solider boys
at play
all knowing the joke
but not sharing the secret

you smile and wag your dragon heads
but not your earthbound tails.

you are an endless delight to me...

first things, first
before i burst,
well,thats a blessed relief !!
coulda come to grief....
so easily.

it used to be,
put the kettle on
now it's slide
the plastic pod,
of coffee magic
in the slot.

lost the romance,
but i forgive,
as the coffee smell,
heaven scent
tickles, teases,
swirls and curls
in the predawn air

my nose hairs steam
and crema....crema
oh my giddy aunt!!!
i love the grind
of the bein' bean
my especial, expresso
blend
my bestest, favouritist, morning friend.
come to mamma's lips.
today....
is it gulps,
or dainty sips.
nectar in, either way
pulse begins, pupils dilate
lookin like another
beautiful day

it's a dan fogleberg sort
of day....
smooth and full of wist
as we do mundane things

full of odd jobs and kisses
in quiet moments
dusting off of yesterdays
and longings for tommorrows
fingers to fingers
and smiles promising
more....
sunshine through gentle rain
falling in love once more again
yeah it is definitely a
dan fogleberg sort of day....

sins of omission,
are piled up
mountain high.
led to by a road,
cobbled with
pride and self gain.

and my unknowing
self plies this road,
daily, to place the
newest coins upon
the peak.

and my knowing self
sits, at it's base.
awaiting the avalanche
to fall.

hey mister museman
float an idea my way

you see my brain is tired
and the creatives gone away

hey mister museman
give my some words
to play with
on this wet and grey
old day

and I will try to
string them together
so they have
something grand to say

hey mister museman
don't turn away
need me some
jot's and tittles
to chase these blues
and black grey hues
out into the middle
of Sunshine Bay

thanks mister museman
for taking the time
to help me rhyme
and float some words
out into the stratosphere

samsonian hair litters the ground
the man I married looks
different shorn
like a raggedy sheepman
all naked and forlorn
head all baldy and bumpy
his curly locks
carefully sealed into a bag

feet cold
even in the
thickest socks

not used to
mountain weather
years in temperate climes

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

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

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

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

too cold, too cold

hi
not a poem
just a quick note
to let the person
who suggested
a change to my poem
"tommorrow"
i am not being rude
just can't accsess
you advice via
my device
it just dissappears
have msg'd the
deveolper
but you may want to
send a message, message
in the interim
and thanks
for your interest
in my work
cheers
bd.

another postcard came,
sent from the hollowman.

bright, happy pictures
on the front.
and terse, inked messages
on the back.
"am ok" or "doin fine"
"still here"
&  "i am living my life"

anger and grief,
etched in each
& every  penstroke.

he, rings ben,
& they talk,
like lovers , in hushed
& secretive tones,
for long periods of time.

but he won't speak to me.
ben says,
he says, it is still .....
too hard, to fresh & raw
....and i remind him,
to much of her...
(she has a name,
i say angrily)

but, really,
i don't know,
what to do with that.....
any more than i know
what to do with.....
the boxes, stacked,
in our garage.
your bequest to me,
the residue of your life.

each time i open
one to unpack.....
i add,
a cupful of salty tears,
before resealing it....
god!  
it might be years,
before i get them done.

and i know,
this is not so much,
about his all encompassing grief,
or the tidal heft of mine.

as much,
as it is about,
my need to make,
things, better and smooth and fine.

you,
in your much missed
wisdom,
once said,
"we are the sisters sisyphus'.
me, i am wanting to be,
glue,
always, holding things together,
often, way past, their prime.

and you,
you, want to take,
a jagged pebble
and work and polish it,
till smooth as a marble...

but really,
both these things,
are tasks never done....

and in the end,
the world has it's way..... things, lives,
come apart and shatter
and we are left,
to begin again, again....

so, sue for you
and  in your memory...

to laz,the hollowman
i give his mispent anger
and recieve his postcards
and hope that time will heal.

as to, the gift of your boxes.
i seed my salted love...
they will be there,
when i am ready
and the tide is right.

and i let the world have
it's way...
in hope you are smiling down from above....

and i think you are...
this weeks message,
    
                               "got a dog"

ten words, to sum up
this magnificent morning
                      
                      feels...mise­rly