in times, long gone
to the books of ...
once upon memories,

she was,
a princess beautiful
and he,
a hero dashing and bold.

and they,
made adventures
of everyday things...

breakfast,
a sight to behold,
with armies,
of bread solidiers
waging an egg war
and maple bacon,
hors d' oeuvres,
breaking down,
pancake castle doors.

they,
played at history,
through out
the day,
creating mystery,
along the way
and after a dinner
of an inspirational stew.

they,
practised romance,
the whole night too.

they,
were young of heart
and wise of mind
but in one instance,
oh! so very blind.

because they,
forget one thing....
one very important thing...

they,
left the real world behind.

so now,
trapped in wonderous
fantasy....

they,
crave, with mindless,
intensity
a small glimpse,
of reality
to give balance,
to the fantasy.

that has now,
become a far less,
tantalizing thing
and is now,
more like a toturous,
slow closing...
neck ring.
stifling, all life,
causing,
no end of strife
in a world....
far less.... perfect,
than first thought,

this is the world, that
boredom wrought...
now, slowly come undone
now slowly, come undone
now slowly come, undone.

your words...
a balm...... to my
                .......careworn soul

words..... chosen
         ...with thought
                           and love
knit my radled brain....
**** the hole .......
.....in the heel of my heart

your words...
sought to save....
.. to bring life
.....seed inspiration
cease the strife...
and the pecking
       of the nagging hurt.....

your words.... water....
to my..... parched and
barren land....

....seeds of hope
and inspiration...
left in my heart grow..

...thank you ...for your kindness
and your.... courage to speak
with thought.... your words
...made my life brighter
a place.. now... a lot less... bleak.

the sun sidles off,
to it's next assignation
and the cool, nibbles
through my clothes.

still, i sit on the back deck,
waiting in wonder,
for a silver stiched sky.

right now....all shades of blue,
shimmer in the glow of the
sun's fond adieu...

this is, the time i love the best.
the betweening of sunset and twilight, mere moments
of turning ...
and then, into the break of night,
as the shadows deepen
and the scurrying things, come on myriad tiny feet.

the stars relax into their
rhythmic, beauty
the moon benign, looks upon
us all, in silence..

and behind me, the lights
flicker on...in my warm
and cosy life....

goodnight, to you,
little things,
that make your way
in the cold, dark...

                        goodnight.

today
i celebrate
the small the mundane,
the almost forgotten
the things overlooked
push aside in the busyness

the tiny rainbows captured
in drops of dew on emerald leaf

the order in a trail of ants
working toward one goal
with synergy of belief

the grace of small birds as they commute

the song of the humble bumble bee

the energy in a grasshoppers legs

the mathematics of the small cat
sleeping curled in upon himself

the reassurance of my love's heartbeat

the smell of sea and salt

the warmth of sunkissed rock

the tick of the old hallclock

the slow avalanche of sand
***** by speck
falling through my fist

coffee in my hands, toast in my belly

the smile of the small boy
from inside...beside me

today I celebrate these small things
and more

today I celebrate,  
become inebriate
on miniscule minutia

so the the big
and the overwhelming
have no say at all...

my mother throws
the wet headed mop at him,
expecting him, nimble and atheletic
to jump over it
but it hits his calf
and ankle with
a sickening crack
and he falls
like tree felled in a storm
as he hits the too long green grass
there is a wet thud, thud.

then a momentary silence
striking in it's completeness
so profound, it is almost zen like

broken by the high pitched wail
as the pain receptors in my brothers brain
kick in to high gear,he writhes on the ground
my mother hovering over him
repeating this mantra
"you were supposed to jump!
you, were supposed to jump"

he was foueteen, the local sport star
arrogant as only teenagers can be.

she would have been middle to late forties
a single parent having worked a double shift

I cannot remember his infraction,
there were;  oh, so many
but still 38 years on
I can feel the silence
so absolute....
and hear the mantra....

you were supposed to jump
                                    you were supposed to jump

does the shell empty on the sand
mourn the loss of it's former inhabitant
does the pebble in the dry creek bed
wonder if the mountain misses it
does the feather on the ground
wish fervently for just one more flight
and the seed long for light

amd have we as human forgotten
to think simply
to turn our face to the morning sun
do we longer remember
how to become one,
with nature
and learn of it's quiet grace
and acceptance of order and place.

and await joy with the expectancy
of an egg about to hatch...

her capacity for stoicism
is diminishing hourly
as pain becomes both
insidious and barefaced

her world is now small
one specailized chair
in one room and then
those who visit, catch her
attention, but for awhile

she seems to have shrunk
curling in upon herself
like a leaf, separated
from the tree

i have watched others die,
this, this is so much more
difficult and complex
there are so many ties
some made threadbare
by years of casual use,
some still strong that will need
to be unravelled over years of memory

she once was so large,
so vibrant and strong
but pain like water
is undercutting her banks
and soon this river will pass out to sea
as her wellspring gives out

then we all will be smaller for her passing

they are so very...
small and delicate
plump and oh so pink
these little hands
with tiny nails
that rest curled
upon your breast
I watch them  unfurl
like butterfly wings

and wonder at their beauty
it wiil be a while before
they are useful to you
at present they are just
object of amazement

oh, but the newness
of them, is beguiling
to both me and you.

i was overtaken,
by a hearse,
this morning,
on my way to work.

two things, came to mind.
first,
where does a hearse go
in such a hurry....
and second,
it is always hard,
to get back in to
the workaday rhythm.
...rip... holiday mind ...rip...

seasons change slowly
so does life, you think it's
an eyeblink but no the seeds
have been in the ground germinating
for a long time sometimes a long, long time
and then thenew growth breaks through
and reaches for sunlight, growth is change
but then at the other end of the spectrum
so is decay, the breaking down of structures
the returning to the basic matter...all changes
so ergo we are in a continuim of change
are some larger than others. you would have
to answer affirmatively but are large changes
more important than the miniscule. That
question requires more thought before
giving an answer. Change is neccessary
without it there is a standstill in the cycle
and when still, we create no impact, we have
little to no power to affect the circumstances
around us....but even then when still, the
circumstances around us effect change
like wind and water upon the rockface
it may be over many many years but
change is effected and the immovable is
reduced by the action of persistance...
We cannot avoid change...so we should
try to reach for  it as does the sapling
in the forest that seeks the sun .....

baby....
i don't own you.
but .....
i  have been granted
a 99 year,
freehold lease.

between the early morning
calls of waking birds
there is a calmness

as you lie in bed,
reveling,
in the potential of the coming day....
right now, with lover asleep
beside you....
all is right and good.....

books
stacked
atop
the table
holding them down
one skinny scrawny halfcat

upon sighting me
he scramble leaps
sending
books skidding helter skelter
across the table, gathering speed
like a sideways avalache
of pens paper, coffee cups,
plates of toast, random jams and cereals
all heading for the dead drop
of Calamity Pass A.K.A the floor

god boy watching with mouth agape
as tabletop avalanche, obeying
both physics and gravity
come to an ungodly
Pollack painting end on cleanish tile floor.

on fridgetop
scrawny halfcat
stretches, shows the world
his best downward dog
and gracefully leaps to cleanish
living room floor
before departing outside...
to terrorize the grasshoppers

wind raucous in it's endevours tonight
circling the house in a macabre yet joyous song
and dance routine, the tree's applaud
and the small cat curls tighter in on itself

rain falls with intense passion
scrubbing the grime away
and the moon is lost in the clouds
most things tuck themselves up
and wish  for a sunny day

but the old green treefrog
is singing  lovesongs
and his rival too
bass profundo
at just past two
serenading the ladies
as the wind croons along

they come,
noisy and jostling,
to the first class.

their breath's
misting in,
the cold crisp air.
as they enter
and disrobe,
unwinding scarves,
removing jackets
and shoes.

to stand,
lithe, limber
and youthful before me.
ready to perform.

and i feel....
                  so...
                       ...old and tired.

as i watch them,
twist and turn,
their young bodies,
into shapes,
that are but,
a hazy memory,
for me....

and i will admit....
i am both,
downright jealous
and a little bit sad....
as the class continues.

i want to bite
down,
on the word
and tell you the absolute
and dangerous truth.

that your bitterness,
has soured your
soul.

your famed stoicsism
has fled,
and most of
what you say, has become
a whine,
reedlike and annoying.


but i clench my fist,
against my thighs
and count to 97.

because,

you are my mother

and your life,
has been,
not exceptionaly
kind,

and at eighty five,
you may well be
entitled,
to luxuriate, in your pain.

but just,
sometimes,
could you do it  a bit
more quietly.
please....

tide is high
grasping at the sand
moon is low
caressing the wavetops
breeze is fresh
causing us to shiver
body is warm
suggesting we re-enter
the house is quiet
sharing our secret tryst
floor is hard
but not so much to matter
the stars are bright
but they see not, our wantoness
the night is quiet
as we contemplate, our aftermath

shadows creep this night,
from house to house
at the edge of day light

shadows creep this night
little goblins delight
dracula's bite
dino's and frankestiens might
stomp, fuzzy werewovles bite

shadows creep this night
little ducks and fishes fight
over candy morsels
cowboys and superheroes slight
in stature, giant in dreams bright

shadows creep this night
oddities, memes and more
knock shyly at the door
candy distribution  
not a chore

shadows sleep tis night
like little dragons,
with candy treasure galore

be a poet,
if you must...
but know this,
from one who cares.

it is an addiction,
that will cause strife.

you will,
learn stuff,
you never really wanted
to know.

you will,
find pieces
of your soul,
best forgotten.

you will,
stay awake
late into the night,
trying to twist a phrase
til, it turns out just right.

there will be,
tears and much,
frustration.

at times you will,
neglect your, everyday
life.

oh there will be, angst
and fear
as you let your poems go
and see your words fly...
or plummet to the unforgiving ground.

and yes i cannot deny
there will be joy,
much euphoric joy,
as you discover
new words
with which, to toy.

so be a poet, if you must
if you have,
a liking for
garrets and starvation.
enough to offset your
word lust.

...just be original
don't be a parrot
write for you first
and then for others
strive for exquisite
excellence....
but now it is
a fragile dissapearing
thing....


it is your life
you get to choose
your own folly...

little birds
all yellow mouths
and hunger

chirp with needful bellies
keeping the olds
in frantic motion
to  silence the calamitous cries

you are the show of the day
for the half grown, well fed instinct
that sits on the other side of the window ledge
eyes wide, ears forward, poised to leap
he watches trembling, with adrenaline
filled need to hunt, years of
domestication be ******
he is tiger, you are prey

at least till the door to the
refrigerator opens.....

the cherry wood box
sits on the mantle
it is a reminder
of his love
handmade, upon a lathe
from a burl of an old sweet cherry
it is smooth as silk to touch
of a deep yellow redish hue
carved to look like the rounded back
of a cat curled in on itself, asleep
the rings once present in the tree
give the box the look of a tabby cat

inside the love notes we share
it has over time become a letterdrop
today....his note...invites me to
a night of gentle but thorough  love
my note....says...yes....please

curled in upon himself
the patched cat sleeps
tail twitching in cat dream
a little growl comes from
somewhere in the middle
and then the skin shifts
in a wrinkled wave

i open the tin of sardines
and the bundle resolves
it's self into a lanky legged
tuxedo devon rex,
all slink and stretch
eyes and ears, mouth opened
in an enormous yawn
and nose mobile seeking scent

sardine goes into bowl
nose finds sardine
mouth follows
in seconds the bowl is clean  
and a pink tongue wipes lips,
as eyes plead for more

when none is forthcoming
cat takes himself
back to basket
to sleep away
this wet afternoon

your mouth whispers,
sweet nothings,
to my skin...
i become, liquid,
in anticipation.

your tongue creates,
pathways, from mouth
to neck, to breast tips,
to *****....
i shiver, and sigh
in  gratification.

you, part my thighs
and enter my soul
and make the earth....
heaven.
i cry and weep,
in ecstatic, adulation.

but we have, just begun....

my mouth whispers,
sweet nothings,
to your skin.....

outside of the glass
crows complain about the cold
inside coffee calls

memories of hope,
reside in the glacial
crevices of heart.

she awaits the sun,
with no expectation
that it will come.

she remembers,
the days of daisy chains
and carefree love.
eons back,
across a barren plain.

she sits, on splintered
dreams
and washes her face,
with salty tears.

she waits for her life
to change,
for her ship to come
but she has never sent,
word for one.

she sows, sorrow
in her fallow fields
and harvests,
dust and fearful longings.

she is, the muse,
of those come undone
she is, mistress to those,
unraveled and unraveling

she is, loneliness incarnate.


she sits, on the cherry red
bar stool, in the corner
nursing, a  ***** martini
and waiting for her prince
she has been waiting for
a long time..... since...

NAPO WRIMO

Next month is  Poetry Month
Why not, endevour to write
a poem a day from provided prompt
Stretch yourself, find new sources of creativity.
Discover new poets, new resources,
Celebrate yourself and other poets
Check out the website:
http://www.napowrimo.net/

Early this morning,
rain, hail,or shine.
They will gather in salute
to the fallen and frail.

The young soldier's body, now bowed with age unrepaired.
Yet they will stand
straight and strong
young in their minds.

And when the hymns
have been sung
and the words
"Lest We Forget"
have been spoken.

When the bugle's final note of the Last Post
is played.
Then they, who came home gather and speak
of those who,
now walk in the ranks
of the fallen,
the Jim's, Davo's and Pete's.

They raise their glasses,
high and with a tear salute, brothers of action with a small pony of beer.

And at day's end,
alone in their bedrooms, they sit remembering
again the death,
the war and the loss.

It abides within.
As the Last Post
plays them to bed.

today,
the little blucat...
dreams in hard edges
and of un-catch-able mice
and growls as he sleeps
under the old blanket.

the puppy,collie dog
all squirm and energy
just wants to makes friends

the little devon rex
all hiss and spit
is overwhelmed
and retires
to the top of
the bookshelf

the dog tries to follow
but as we all know
dogs  cannot climb
and just pulls  books
down upon himself
with a loud clattering sound

the devon rex
becomes a dervish
racing around the room in circles
vocalizing terror and indignation

this went a whole lot differently in my head

sometimes
you just have to let
your yesterdays
fall behind
and into the abyss....
sometimes

the leaf no longer drips
out side my window
the sky has for the moment
stopped it's weeping,
maybe the moon got it some
hokey pokey ice cream,

it is cold enough, the puddle pools
of  water have little lace doily edges
and the hibiscus bushes are frosted

the weatherman states we are having
an unseasonable cold snap....
this is the first time the tuxedo rex
has seen frost...he is beyond freaked
and has gone into the linen ccupboard
to seek solace and warm, we find him
curled up under the guest towels

the paths are icy, as well my bottom knows
this is not a drill, we don't normally get this
cold here and frankly we are under prepared

we have towels covering every hangable surface
the dryer running constantly, the fire is eating wood
at an alarming rate...and the wifi has become unstable

and now the leaf is dripping again...

do we remember what the sun does...Do we???

i shall not want,
for love today.
that smile
and smakeroo kiss,
shall see me through.

i shall not want,
for a smile today.
that cheery wave and stumble hop,
that made your floppy hat,
fly and drop back onto your curls.
will have my smile, all day unfurled.

i shall not want,
for a place to be, for,
in your heart, i will nestle
and although,
we will be apart.....
i know you too,
are secreted,
in my drumming space.

my little man ...
i do not want...
i have my desires
all answered by you
and your sire too

so very busy
not doing much
just living a life
on the edge of a crust

cold weather
makes  me sleep
seems I am powered
by solar rays as I reach
my latter middle aged days

but all is good, all is fine
as I pour  another wine
grab a book off the shelf
settle in and read
for my health.

i know
i am beautiful
i feel it in my heart
express it through my art
and catch that self same
knowledge
when i gaze into my lover's
eyes

thus i have no need for
mirror's and their petty lies.

i know i am original
a masterpiece of anatomy
the placement of my
***** ******* and thighs
won't ever be the same
as yours,or hers, or his,
but i love the way i am made
and in that acceptance
of the makers mark
i feel that i am wise

thus i have no need for mirrors and their petty lies

i am original
i am beautiful
i am wise
i am a women
not prepare to
compromise
her love for self
by listening to lies.

nine lives he had
that little blucat
the first he spent
as a kitten playing
on a mat he was
pretty ok with that
the second he spent
on a plane in the air
he really thought that
wasn't exactly fair
the third he found
his feet his feet in
cold hilly place
but heat was provided
and cuddles too
life four he threw away
escaping and then
climbing a tree
and losing his footing
too far from the ground
that was scary and painful
life number five he spent
it's years slow, looking
for the sun in summer
and in winter the doona
the sixth was all about food
and thefriendship
of his human things
by year seven
he was slowing down
no longer chasing mice
or feathered fare
by eight he just wanted
to lay down and sleep
be stroked by gentle hands
and purr as they ruffled
his fur
his ninth life was difficult
for all to contemplate
he tried so hard to stay
but in the end needed
to be at one with
his forebears
to join the family tree

nine lives he had
he used them all
living a life
that was in
no way small

it's one of those days....
when you wake,
with the birds singing,
the sun shining,
everything washed clean,
by the previous nights storm.

your little one standing,
by your bedside, smiling,
holding the purring cat.

your partners voice,
whispering... i love you
and his body shouting
...i want you,
as he leans, into your back.

it's one of those days,
where all is well,
with world....

and all you want to do
is SCREAM....
                   blue ******....

the lazy boy recliner
a soft green suede
the colour reminiscent
of hay grass a day or so
after cutting

rubbed to a shine
on the armrest grips
stil peachfluff soft
at the back

her place of comfort and rest
her throne after a hard day
her craft nook, library
and front row seat to
film and sporting events

it was a gift given by
three grateful children
on her retirement
after years as a single parent
working eight hour days
and then coming home to mother
three unruly creative, bickering children
it was a thank you for so many things

all her grandchildren have been
told stories, sung to, snuggled, loved
in that old lazy boy.....
the oldest is now  twenty five

it has her smell of lanolin and roses
apple shampoo and eucalyptus  drops
peppermint knee rub....it has been imbued
with these scents and the memories that they carry

it is of no use now, she has gone upmarket,
in the nursing home she has a tapestry lift chair
that helps her sit and stand, it smells of antiseptic spray

I cannot bear to part with the old green lazy boy
it has too much of my mother in it's seams
somedays there is more of her is in that old chair
than there is in the woman that sits in the tapestry one

for now green  chair sits in my office, gathering books

.....and in between
the listening...
silence...

not strained
....but commfortable
an acknowledgement....
of a knowing love

.....and in between
the knowing...
years of ... learning
...to listen...

for the quiet times...
of knowing ....love

silence....profound
love.....aeonian.

beware the hermit crab
tucked up aslumber in  it shell
for when you pick him up to
say hello , he may
attach his pincers to your nose

beware the hippopotomus
do not dare tread on his toes
for he may just lean on you
with  little fuss,
then you are flatter
than a bread crust

beware the flamingo
with pink stalk legs
do not ever steal her eggs
for she can run you down
and peck til your blue and brown

beware the seal
the clown of the sea
If you come to close
They may kiss you
on the nose, now
while that sounds quite cute
remember fish is their fruit
and the never brush their teeth
so their kiss has it's own kapow

beware the wee small things
they need to be watched
for in their world they are Kings
and we are clod hopping giants
with no care...so of all other things
beware..be aware .

seven.
it was at this point
I started running
because there was no way
three more numbers
were going to get
his temper/ rage
back into the box

eleven
that was the age
that I learnt the effect
of a fast moving patella
aimed at a *******

twenty nine
the number if times
that story has been told

forty three
that's  where he caught up
with me with a crash tackle
splitting his lip and my eyebrow
in the completion of it

thirty two
the number of stitches we got
me 14, him 18

fourteen
the number if days
we where grounded
no tv, no visitors

five
the times
I have used
that manoeuvre
since then

two
the visable scars
we still have.....

the balloons escaped the party
danced briefly on the wind
before being caught  in the
tendril grasps of the oak tree twigs

for a moment it looked like
the balloons all bright festive colours
were trying to lift the old tree
from the gloom of the grey winter day

but then the wind changed it's mind
and the strings untangled, the balloons
flew off toward the sea
and the tree settled back into a grumpy
acceptance of it's place in the word

as the children climbed up into
it's woody branches for a rough hug

the tip of my toe
kisses the edge of the door
causing it to swing closed
displacing the motes of dust
so that they dance with abandon
in the shafts of light
and the smell of old books
rises with them, that smell
that takes me to so many places
and  I smile as  I remember
all the friends I made with
make believe faces.

how they shaped and moulded me
those writers of old, how they made me
curious and bold, taught me to question
what I was told, entertained  me not once
but ten- fold ten, way back when, I was a child
bright but shy, my paper bound friends
gave me a reason why. and sometimes how
to turn the page and find the next chapter

the dust settles and the fragrance diminishes
but the smile remains....remembering the,
then, sitting in the now....watching my friends all
taking their bow....before fading back into
the recesses of my  mind..

¤ i borrow a snippet of a thought from ezra pound
and repurpose it...
to make a mothers plea...

..is it not time for us,
to remember how....
"to be men.... not destroyers"

so that we can give
a world .....
somewhat intact,
to those in the  following generations

is it not time....again

this bird
sings loud
and  joyous

unaware of gilded bars
they joy is in the song
not the space of singing

this bird is a big voice
in a little world
of another's making

acidic
tomatoes
sunshine's fruit
sliced thinly
on crusty
olive bread
bursting now
on my tongue
simply
taking me
to heaven