she sneezesas the breezes
carry the pollen to her nostrils

she  is small
and somewhat frail
but  when she sneezes
she creates more than breezes
she makes a gale

and the noise is like thunder
as her lungs do the rumba
all in order  to expell
the pollen from her being

her eyes cross
and fixate
on an ephemeral state
in order to calibrate
the legnth of the ah
in her ah-choo

sometimes it is
large and elongated
sometimes small delicate statacco
and then again it may be somewhere
in between the two

and after she sneezes and gales
and wheezes...she seems stunned
by the fuss and disharmony
she created by nasal cacophony

and in her daze, the taps
her nose and says quite clearly

good old faithful....
                           .....thar she blows

two small children
bundled up like
michelan men
scramble around
the spider frame
monkey bars
their breath
little puffing billy clouds
of i think i can
as they play and race
each other to
the platform
an slide in
exuberant joy
down the red slippery slide
i smile at the ability
that most children have
to find and capture
this joy...
and savour it.

the old man that lives
in my head...
woke up today and said....

nuthin new under the sun.
at sometime son,
we all be...
fakers,
takers,
******, muck rakers.

if you think,
you above that.
then...
you must be livin,
in a window-less,
glasshouse,  son.

sitting  on,
stoneless ground
and smilin...
cause you just don't know,
how downright, dumb,
you be.....

take it from me...
we all born into sin
and we all sometimes,
still like to put
a toe tip in
and swirl it all around....

see what can be stirred
up
see what can be found...

it's what we do with that
slime
that makes a man, gentlefolk
or street-grime......

I sit amongst
people I know
people who have
the same blood
and the same
historic milestones

and yet we are so different

i feel the black sheep coat
knitting itself about me once more
high turtle neck choking me
and wool coarse, causing my soul
to itch and raise hives...

as i sit  with family
but excluded by feelings
both mine and their
I must be true
and cry mea culpa... too

when  I was younger
I ran to the end of my tether
and was held to the family tree
by mere threads  
of silken spider web loyalty

then as I aged  
I reeled myself
back to the shore
of shared mythology

only to find my time
of freedom at the
end of the line
gave me a permanent
feeling of never having
been there...

and now as they visit
the mother of us all
we sit in polite conversation
about the progeny of us
and I think that
our particular dysfunction
is more of an exclusion
of the intricate nature
of bonding and care...

we are tied loosely
this bundle of family sticks
and I fear once
the bind that ties
the love of our mother
most dear
is torn from us
even now
she is threadbare
and once that is broken

our nature of exclusion
will scatter us to the wind
.....a family tree laid bare

shadows long,
fall on pavement wet

and inside the teetering,
jenga blocks, people reside
in caves opulent and electric.

and green is a colour,
forgotten
and  bluesky,
a patchwork quilt,
seen in fractured glimpses,
on the way to and from.

flowers bright and vivid,
come delivered
and earth the thing,
we save by sitting.
in the almost, dark
for an hour a year.

shadows short,
fall on barren ground.
as city dwellers, breathe
grey air and expell
trash and detrius muck

no shadows now
just black all around
no dwellers, no sound....

perhaps we needed to sit
in the almost dark much
longer and  love the ground
on which our life is found.

sparrows, three
now four, sit
chirking,
on the cherrywood
branch....
if i were a fanciful poet,
i would suggest they gossip,
but i think it is more, base
than that.....
it appears that three, vie
for the attentions of one...
it is then, a matter of courtship...
as they bounce
and fly and sing.....
and me a ******,
...marveling.
at the ardour of the dusty fluffs of feathers
....and the uncanny joy,
their antics bring....
must be the romance,      
fluttering in the air....

walked across the dunes
to the light house to
clear my thoughts.

the windsailors were
riding the sky,
my son calls them  the teabag people.
but to me they are like those  seed pods that coast upon the
wind in search of something
beyond.

the grass soughs and if you sit
quietly enough,
you can hear the hungry cry of
the little tern chicks.
hidden in the dunes nearby.

the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots,
single grains multi-hued,
flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes,
steep slippery slide.
little metallic black ants have the herculean task,
of working this ***** for
seeds and other oddments of food.
i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb.
while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand.

the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence
of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area.
their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself
to dance charts seen in black and white films,
you would now find them mostly in antique stores.

the tide is in recess
and the terns are hunting,
mottled little sand *****
in some killer, crazy
game of tig or redrover.
where to lose is to looose!

the windsailor above is surpassed by
the big old seahawk
as he stretches his wings.
it is a comparison of true mastership,
over a poor and gaudy parody.
the hawk with practised disdain, dives,
through the breakers emerging,
with his fish dinner.

as i turn toward home.
i wonder,
was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?

you mumble and maunder
all through your afternoon
nap....
never quite still,
but not thrashing about...

and then you wake,
tired and grumpy
all sweat and stickyness

two hours of tired
and five years of sassiness
standing before me
with thunderclouds for
eyebrows....
                      you want!!!....

but what you get is
a big hug a quick dash
to the next door neighbors pool....

please god....when will this
heatwave end???

feelin lazy today,
so you get what you get,
turn the page
move on
learn from your mistakes 
be brave face your fears
footloose and fancyfree
 don't run with scissors 
smile
stay a while 
catch more flies with honey 
wrong way turn back 
a stitch in time saves nine 
when i was your age 
no rhyme or reason to it 
high road or low road 
polly want a ******* 
click, click, boom
first past the post 
i 'm just a smiling sunbeam 
barrel of monkeys 
to thine ownself be
thank you what doesn't **** you 
hand in the cookie jar 
never seen the like 
flat out like a lizard drinking 
not happy jan! 
take a bex and have a good lie down
pull your socks up!
sunshine and daffodils
 slip, slop, slap, put on a hat 
life passes by in the blink of an eye
stand up straight
chip on your shoulder
 take note 
laughter the best medicine 
*** 
brainfreeze 
kindness warms the cockles of my heart 
if you can't be nice 
you did not just say that 
umm, ahh, now you in trouble 
quiet now i am watching tv 
do not cry 
don't spray it, say it 
do not tell mum 
it was'nt me 
hava mint,
please lol
go to your room 
do not pass go
do not collect one hundred $$ 
hello 
all the world's a stage... merely players 
wanna play
go away busy 
want to come over 
can i kiss you 
push 
it's a boy 
what a whopper 
please i've seen better 
do i know you 
the dog ate my homework 
who now 
why am i here
 put your clothes on 
what goes up must come down
 life goes on 
is my *** big in this 
stop the merry-go-round
i want to get off 
whatever
i need a dollar 
tea anyone 
she had a goodlife 
sorry
how much 
every things coming up roses 
what pink pigs flying overhead 
snap, crackle, n'pop 
one sugar or two 
in case i don't see you 
good morning 
good evening and good night 
ttyl 
out
take a bow you've earned it.

so very large,
is the love,
in my heart.
as i look back,
across the years.

to the people,
who have touched
my being
and shared my fears.

all those days,
spent in a haze of  
laughter, life
and  tears.

all those friends,
found and lost in,
so many, different ways.

you all,
had a part in
shaping these,
my betterdays

it is only now as i write
these words.
i think how,
magnanimous,
you were, to care at all..

each and every one,
could have passed me by....
found a better friend,
merely said,
hello and goodbye.

but i am so,
utterly blessed.
that,
your heart,
saw my heart.

and we gave,
each other a chance,
to grow and fly.

some, just for a season,
some, forevermore.
all, sown into my being
all part of my very core.

and yet, there is still
time and space for more....

sticky tar on the soles of my shoes
the smell of meat bbqing
mixed with salt air, sunscreen, and beer

air shimmers, cats and dogs shadowy lumps
under trees and deck eaves,
old women sitting wide-legged infront of fans
children darting in and out of pools,
men in singlets or bare chested,
women in sarongs and shorts....

all waiting for the afternoon breeze,
the sun to give up and leave....
and the cool of the evening to come...

that raven,shiny feathers
of funeral black, with eye agleam
was just about the largest i have seen
caught sight of it dragging tenderized
roadkill home for dinner,

it may well  have been
a crow for it swore at me
before it went, fark, fark
whilst wrangle the possum carcass
away into the dark,  
a shadow seeking the shadows
to feast and to park it's heavy load
it's beady eye glinted in the dying
of the sun, it hopped and pranced
like it was having a ball, then dipped
it's sleek head into the pile of gore
and all my fantasies of the blackbird's geniality
are sadly to be .....nevermore

You...
To me...
Are the essence,
of the earth mother...
As you watch over your pond,
with an easy, laidback,  grace..
and help us see it grow and
chart it's every, every season.
Turtles, weeds and all...

I adore the fact, that you,
write love with an earthy lust
And you lust with an earthy abandon....


You have an intelligence,
That always expands my mind
All the way over there
on the other upside...

You and I share old friends
Writers of art,
livers of life.
those who mark....
and make the small moments large

Yet, I know you not...
but fervently wish
We could sit and pass time
Over tea or coffee..

You are one of many....
Who write voraciously
With life and passion in your pen
But so too,
You are one of the few
Who I go to read ....again and again.

So I thank you...
My very own  female
Walden...
For the lessons
of the earth, life, loving
and humbly implore you
write again and again..
Til the world stops turning...
Then....just write it's begining again...

watching the rain,
river flood,
down the steamy,
windows.
my mind jumps back...
...back to those sweet
and careless days,
of a country chilhood.

when we made boats.
of  halved walnut shells,
with toothpick masts
and fantail sails,
then sailed them
in kerbside regattas.

when marbles were worlds.
fought for,
in hand drawn,
colleseum-like circles
on  dusty driveways and paths.

when we folded and flew,
the news of the day,
on strings,
high, to the sky and beyond.

when we made castles.
of sand and mud,
we were, then,
childish royalty,
the back yard our kingdom.

as the water sheets,
down the window panes.
i hope,
these creative joys and victories,
will not be lost to my son.

in this age of technology,
where, leapads and xbox'
kindles and webgames,
tempt them,
to play in a world,
of pre-created splendour.

looking through the water,
i am reassured this will not
be the case, by the sight,
of father and son,
in yellow macs,
stomping puddles,
for the splash.

when the world,
was much younger
and i was a stupid-crazy
girl-ly-chick, enamoured
with her youth.

i drove, a sunshine,
lemon, yellow bottomed, white pith on top combi van. coyly, cloyingly named Mello Martha.

it was...surfboards and swimsuits,
egg and bacon sangers,
early morning breezes,
after a blitz at the breadbox.

before... changing into
the structured, tortured baby, bank teller blues,
in the back,doors left open.

it was... rockin, knockin,
***, on credit,
to a promised future,
alluded to, but postponed,
for the moment.

it was... bruised back and
grazed knees,
harder, deeper oh god!
oh god! please... faster, fucken frenzies,
on a saturday night.

it was....running away to nowhere,
to find myself,
then finding me,
running away from,
the self i didn't want to know.
noway, nowhere, nohow.

it was... a barrel of monkeys, a barrel of laughs,
a keg of beer,
a box of wine,
under the crowded stars.

it was.... a roadtrip,
up the coast,
midnight bonfire,
midnight munchies,
playing hunches,
exploring reefs and reefers and such.

it was...far from family
and church rules,
a friendly rebellion,
of loud, proud youth.
totally and brazenly,
uncouth
it was... wham! and m.j.
cindy and boy george's culture club ,paperlace,
billy idol and the beach boys.
sung with abandon,
at spinal tap level eleven.

it was... peaceful, quiet, sleeping grace.
insanely in love with...
i forgot his name.

it was.... the birth of bodaciously me.
all brass hair and bosoms,
wild and carefree.

it was ....so long ago,

it was... yesterday night,

when i saw... Mello Martha's identical twin,
stopped at a traffic light.
it was... sunshine and lemon, bitter and sweet,
as she sailed off, down the street.
i sat and watched,
wist, full of recollect,
far and away, from my presently minded place...
sitting in, the driver's seat,
of my mom-blue subaru.

smooth
this pebble
worn down
by waters gentle
abrasion

so to i
worn smooth
by life's storm's
now living
a pebble's life.

all washes over me..

i went to the sea shore.on this cold winter eve

i stand with feet in cold cold
water
trouser legs rolled up to my knees
body wrapped in a chunky
hoodie
curly hair, streaming in the bitter wind.
in my hand, a pebble
in my mind, your name
i stand thinking, crying
as the wave pound in and
the wind takes my breath
i sigh and throw the pebble
as far into the breakwater
as i can..
in letting you go... i can leave

you
      walk
            naked
                  and dripping,
from
      the shower
                      
and stand,
             as i covet
                         your
                              absolute

beauty and magnificence.

ardent desire,
               raises goosebumps
on
   my skin,
             as lust
                    lights the fires.

your
     eyes,
         rake over me
                      and i am left
quivering....

we come
         together, with    
              mouths full of greed,
lips of desire,
             skin so tender....

that the touch
              of fingertips,
                   scorches and sears.

but burn, we must
             and burn, we will.

as we ravenously, take our fill

gorging,
           feasting,
                      devouring,
                      ­              desire.

this is our .....
      love's funeral pyre.
                      from which
the phoenix,
        each day arises...
             ...more incandescant.
to await...
          with longing
               fervent and asmolder
          
the next match's
                   striking to love's
                           lusterous fire.

the sharp edged
rubble
of the decimated
mud crab
lay in a pile
of shell,shards
and hollow limbs

we sat, fingers
and faces smeared
singapore curry sauce
smiling, as we raise
our beers to
still tingling lips.

simultaneously
we burp... in appreciation
big joyous burps
of yeast and curry.

we laugh....
before starting to clear
the table
of the mess...

rendolent of
stone grey gargoyle
he lies lizard flat
melded to the sun warm
cement by comfort
lassitudinally positioned
to collect sunrays

occassional movement
but as little,
as possible of that

have to say
i am awfully jealous
of that little blue cat

awakened by the purr
of the little blue cat,
seeking warmth,
on this crisp spring morning

we, the little blue cat and I
take our breakfast outside
walking across the dew damp grass
to sit at the old wooden table

he, steps high, waggling his feet
me, i step deeply into the grass
enjoying the verdant, green smell
that rises,
enjoying the brief  commune with
nature
enjoying the return to childhood

we sit, companionably, eating
he leftover roast chicken,
me, purlioned cocoa puffs,
my son's saturday treat,
that he will surely never miss

as we sit, the sounds of the world waking
drift past us.
windows opening, the snort and cough
of an early rising smoker, cars starting
the birds chat and chirk, and the plop
of the fish as the break the surface of the pond.
the garbage trucks stop and start trek up the street.

and now in the house, the radio, and kettle begin
a shower turned on, a bass voice sings, not well
but with joy.

now the day has truly begun...
one last mouthful of half remembered childhood
and then back to the daily grind
as the sun makes it's way past the low lying clouds

the blucat, chooses to stay, out watching the birds.

the scent of towels impregnated
with chlorine, mixes with petrichor
from the brief but violent storm

the mugginess still sits heavy in
the evening air as fruit bats
fly overhead, not one or two,
but tens and twenties, setting off
a mad barking frenzy among
the neighborhood dogs

twilight beckons to the darker night
and the smell of wet wood and sausages
cooking over takes the night
some one plays the guitar and the
notes drift unevenly on the breeze

houses become shadows, as the moon rises
the frogs begin to chorus and cats gossip
on the next door neighbor's garage
specteral shapes in silhouette
the sweet smell of jasmine
and honeysuckle wafts by

as we sit in the dark
awaiting the temperatures drop
anytime  now.....anytime

looking down
at the grains of
sand
encrusted upon
my tide washed feet

i pause to ponder

how much older,
and far better traveled
these tiny chips of calcified
life and mountain grit must be...

now i have been to
many places....
L.A. Paris, London,
Dunedin, Melbourne
Hong Kong, Mooloolaba
to name but a few...

but these little bits of
seadust,
have lived lives
and lost,
have travelled
to and fro....
becoming ever...
smaller as they went....

shedding of themselves
to the greater entity.
becoming
one speck among......
                              bazillions

taken beyond their lives
of solidity by swirling
currents

only to end up as sand
upon my toes.

The scent of honeysuckle rests
lightly on the night breeze,
rendolent memories beguile me.

My grandparents stealing a kiss
on an old white garden seat,
his knotted fingers carressing
her weathered skin
with a tenderness that
takes her breath,
they whisper to each other
like children with a perfect secret
....long life, lived in love.

The breeze allows another,
hint of sweet nectar,
I am surrounded by the sound of bees,
wings vibrato,
greedily harvesting ambrosia,
I stand between eons,
not in fear but awe.
at the simplicity of it all.

One more fragrant breath,

I turn to my man
and whisper,
I promise to you eons.

the shoreline at dusk,
two elderly walkers.
a weaving sandpiper.
one thousand shells,
rolling to and fro,
in foamy froth,
click-snickering, away.
me and myself.
the wind, westerly,
upon the rise
and the sun.
saying farewell.
waving an  apricot and
orange banner.
reading....all is well

if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day
but
social convention dictates,
that while taking the minutes,
of the meeting for
the arts faculty directorate,
thats NOT okay.

if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day.
but my boss says,
it might be
difficult to tell a phd student NO to a grant application,
in a bath robe festooned with purple hippos drinking tea.

if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day.
but
my husband tells me, POLITELY,
that jeggings,
are not best suited to my ruebenesque frame.

if it were up to me ....
but
apperently it's not.
.....so black pants cream shirt and vest it's to be

five pebbles
stacked on bottom step
circled with chalk of blue
culminating in an arrow
pointing toward the back yard

four pebbles stacked in the driveway
sitting on a piece of sandlewood
sharpened to a point
indicating a pathway to the back yard

at the corner of the house
three pebbles wrapped in wire
stung together, hanging off the
battered surfboard ...arced toward
the backyard

in the middle of the vege patch
a table upon which
two stacked pebbles sit
table set for breakfast
chairs with cushions
an invitation to sit

one god boy, coming with tray
from kitchen, ever so carefully
makes his way to the table
serves pancakes and syrup
juice and coffee, fruit salad
and gives his dad a single pebble
deep brown striped with white
and a small gold spot..polished to a shine,
with a hole drilled throughand leather loop

smiles, tears and bearhugs
father's day has begun...

the house is making,
noisy demands, this morning
that i feel i am, unable to meet

the microwave,
is bleating about the coffee steaming, standing, waiting,
on it's spinning table

the washing machine,
is singing a smug little jingle.
job complete. washing done,
are'nt i neat!

the dryer,
whirring, sighing, thumping,
slumping,
to a rythmn all its own.

the roomba,
is doing,
the
rhumba,
all the way
down the
hall.

the computer,
dings and sings
you have new mail.

and worst of all
the alarmclock,
has told me.
i have,
met my quota,
of snooze recalls.

so,
now,
i have to,
get up and face it all.

how i wish,
for the days,
when the
house mechanics,
went about their work,
in quiet and dutiful ways.
requiring no praise at all.

chlorophyll green,
verdent, colour me trees
freeze dry to
amber, yellow, cardinal red liquid gold, titian, xanthous, carmine, deepwine burgandy, magenta, saffron, orange, rubicant, henna, bronze and copper burnished, cracked terracotta
and then finally...
bittersweet crumpled brown
what a pallette of cold night air painting daubed on wooded canvas'
life portrayed in leaf-ed glory
all before our autumnal eyes

six slick sardines
swim through silky
ocean blue satin thoughts

chromatea cradled cranium
containing calcified continueums and coral reefs

washing wishes wonderful
on silicon sand chipped island shores
with pious palm pods
placating pontificating
poppinjays...
writing, wriggling,
morning memories...that
meander through a mountainless mind....mine
after too many mojito's on the morrow...

and the page turns,
memories sepia, brown
and frosted with time
come to light.
faint, murmuring words,
swim at the back of my mind.

summer days....spent in splendour.
balmy nights and mosquito nets.
rockpools little crab kingdoms, the smell of coconut oil and arms macadamia nut brown..

and again the page turns
the boys in rugby kit
me standing off to one side
head in a book...
one girl among too many older brothers
always a tagalong in handmedowns and enid blyton's famous five..

and again the page turns...
christmss hats and presents
cold chicken,salads and little baby prawns....sherry trifle
and poppajack snoring, beer still in hand...

and the page turns and turns
little windows into former lives......sometimes nostalgia
and sometimes.... just a peeping tom..

over teacup...fine porcelain..
delicately chipped....coniving eyes....scrutinised...tallying..gulliblity..naivete..desire...
wi­zened fingers...talonlike..
tattoo.....mesmerizing......
rhythms..
....­...crystal ball... occluded....
fee exchanged..... hand......
presented....lifeline..short.....
love line....broken...tarot...
offered....indecsion..
..crystal....
..­..still cloudy...gap toothed...
..contortion...cards on....
table....impaired cognative function..accedes....
fee transferred....
.....cards..shuffle..pirroette.........inverted..­.laydown misere....
palaver..delivered....twocups... happy but sad.....prince of....
.....two sheets to wind....done
in....teacup rattles......
....session.........ended..crystal ball..sphere of silence....
.......future..still..shrouded..
...wallet..lighter..­. sozzled.....
laughter...all the.......
.............fun of the fair.........

i eat the wind and sky,
as i walk along the shifting sands.
the waves roar,
profane curses,
in my left ear.
and at my feet
leave, monuments and epitaphs
of their destructive fury.
to my right the sand
sails, from the dunes
in bereft drifts
leaving the long sedge grasses sighing
heartfelt goodbyes.
i head toward the
rusted hulk,
that howls and sings
a furious duet,
with the wind.
i stand with my hands
over my ears and lean backwards,
so my spine makes contact with the derelict ship's hull. my body vibrates,
with the power
of this angry world.
and i rejoice,
in it's soulful serenade.

his fist clenched
his mind benched
her eyes black
her jaw slack
and bleeding

her blood red
him out of his head
the child hiding,
crying....inside dying

violence never asks
never is the answer
for the victims
it is slow death
for society a cancer

i am made of...
thought...
ink and pen and paper... and so much more.
scribbled phrases on diner napkins.
post it notes stuck to walls.
scrawled doggerel in bathroom pens.
phrased ideology in lined notebooks.
spinnered words on lazerprinted A4.
scraps of inklings, on ripped butcher's bags and wrappings.
condolences in funeral books.
ideas capital lettered on cards,
pinned to cork boards.
epitaphs stonemasoned
into granite blocks.
fury arranged just so,
on parchment.
newsprinted with loose blurry, black ink on broadsheets
scribed by pointed stick on
firm wet sand.
notes on heavy cards, of love
and light bright shiny stuff.
discarded sentence startings, left crumpled, lost in a bin.
loss, written with red wine on white table cloth.
art, etched on vellum anciently old, suprisingly relevent.
tapped into tablets both stone
and techview.
blue and red markers squeaked onto white boards.
daubed on canvas with a fine sable brush.
tatttoo-ed upon ones flesh.
carved into wooden school desks.
pressed into moist clay by delicate fingernails.
marked so deeply upon a soul.
chalked to cement,
to stay for...
but a short season.
written for some very, (un)important reason.
courage to speak, sing, whisper, shout, cry, laugh, observe and ponder.
this is me....
i am a word written down.. any word, any word.
i am undeniable, desirable often incomplete
always open  always waiting
for some one...
......just like you ...
to open your heart let me in
to recognize a new start
to have a play, a scribble,
doodle, pen jive. to become
alive.... to thrive,
just begin with a single letter.....then another,
go on be brave...
..........grant me liberty....

be quiet and still
small and silent
and you will see
wonderous things

these were the sage
words of my grandfather

once a month,
we would go to
a grove in the woods
and learnt the art
of  patient watching....

i remember the first time
i saw an echidna rustle by
and the slow movement
of a blue toungue lizard
moving with the sun...

rabbits and foxes
wallabies, a koala
backing down a tree

but the day that still
delights, is the day
as we sat still and quiet
butterfly's alighted
by the hundreds to
become a carpet
of pure flickering enchantment

and i knew this was life....
at it's finest....and most wonderous.....

doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block

order, orrrder,

i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793

all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel

kazoos squeak  the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.

now to business

the agenda for the day

1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.

2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.

3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.

4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.

5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being

6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.

please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.

i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.

and may the foot be with you

******* bug,
bled black blood.

crunching carapaces,
caught, crawling contentedly.

magpie's morning meal.

warbling, wistfully,woefully, wanting, weighty worms.

grabs, grub greedily,gulping.

magpie makes much, munch.

click, clack, clack, black beak.
famished family, finally, filled.
*****, flies.
finished, foraged feasting.

perched,
on a tendril whisp,
of a synaptic vine.
the half formed
thought,
chirped and chirked,
as it chipped away
at the ovipidal embrace of  
sleepy, slothfulness....
sublime.

it wanted freedom,
to fly and sing....
no longer,
sleeping or,
being held within...
no longer,
hiding away
from the sun.
no longer,
fearful of becoming...
undone.
influencing,
nada and no-one.

just happy to be,
a small, but clear...
clarion call.

now, standing strong
singing out it's
life embracing, life renewing
song.....
this thought, now has,
substance ....
bright coloured wings
and pride....
in the joy, it brings.
it has grace and grattitude.
a name so wonderful....
to go with,
this bright and energetic
attitude...

meet my new, paridigm...
all bursting with love.

his name..... brio

and he is the bringer
of my new zest, zing
and vivacity......

black mussels de-bearded, shine
water, yeast-beer, hops
combine enticingly with
ginger, chilli, lime
and much garlic.
simmer, then....
gorge!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the night is
                  still
                     dark
                       quiet
there is a distinct
                           chill
                             breathe
                            gently steams
from my mouth
                      seen only in the
light of a poets tablet.

the first bird is yet to wake
i am alone in my early mornings prowl.

too cold for the little grey cat
and too early for the human companions, they all remain
abide... cozied up and asleep

as i search the dark cold              
                                          nigh­t
for meaning.

in the distance the kookaburra cackle and chuckle
            dawn has come...

a friend posed the question
there is a first world
and there is a second world,
but where do you find the
second world?

and sadly i think i know the answer.
the second world lives is
the hidden shadows of the
first.

and is populated by....

.....those who live in the shells
of architect designed houses, with no power running
water,

..or worse live in cars or
couchsurf.

....it is those  pensioners who
exsist on tinned cat food
and  teabags re-used  
seven times.

....old people who wear their entire wardrobe in the winter
cold.

....children with bad teeth and chronic health issues
un-attended because they
can't afford a doctor

...it is the man,
who died the other day.
hit by a train,
while his children watched,
retrieving some dropped groceries,
he got from,
a food drive van.
...it was the first food
they would have had in 48hrs,
the child stated for reporters.

this .....
is the second world!!!
right here ....
mostly hidden from sight
not even reminded by sad
tv ads
only when abject utter tragedy
happens
do we see a glimpse
of the second worlder's
desperate plight.

my husband, my lover
the man i hold dear...
you know the one
the sports zombie
who dress's so fine.

sauntered out to the back
deck and asked
"beer or wine"
as he is the chef of,
this evenings decline.

now, here is the conundrum
that often,plagues my mind.
wine, tonight, is not really, my palates delight
but beer, tho tasty and thirst quenching,
expands my quarters hind
and leads to wrenching and
writhing in midweek training or at least coniving
of how to be released from
exercise captivity

which way to go,
a cheeky pinot griggio
or a robust boutique beer.
which way, crisp chardonay
or mango ,belgium wheat,
micro-brewed  pilsner.

oh, for the days
of the cask or the
slab of vic bitter.
when the biggest
problem was how
to drink fast enough,
to gather a blast.

the man mountain,
has become impatient.

....now i need to
make a decision.

so,with a women's precision,
i state with a smile,
wide and then wider.
"i'll have one of those
apple-pear ciders"