slap on a smile.
greet the world.
don't dare think thoughts,
sad and unfurled.

make small talk.
the smaller the better.
do not think to burden
and fetter,
others with the sadness,
hidden behind,
those smiling glassy eyes.

walk the happy walk.
win the useless prize.

wave away the despair
and the complex layers
of grief.
breathe in the clean air.
if you must cry,
keep it brief.

think of all the useless
words,
that people say.
make them your mantra
against these sad and woeful days.

the future is bright,
for some if not all.

but the thing you need
remember,
most of all.
is these days too shall pass.
until then,
slap on a smile and hold fast.

sun shines overbright
bee's harvest the lavender
precursor to spring

night too cold with frost
even the owls stay in, silent
winters reminder

it will be alright
my child
it will be fine
in time

things
will go your way
sometimes
and then
somtimes
life will be difficult

but love is like water
and given tim will smooth
the roughest of edges
and when it rains it
will bring the hidden joys
to light like flowers
in the sandy dessert

it will be alright....
but for now, cry my child
and seed the new growth

he lays slumbering
tho the sun be bright

on hand grasping linen
the othe out of sight

he lays sleeping
not a care in the world

his face unfurrowed
his hair disarreyed curls

he is handsome
and beautiful too

unrazored cheeks
closed eyes of a green blue

his chest broad and deep
rises slowly in his sleep

all that mars this perfect scene
are the shuffle snores
as he dreams, little bulldozers
at busy work, chug-chug- chugging
driving me beserk

he lays sleeping, i do not
unfortunately this happens
a lot

he wakes refreshed
i wake cranky
mine is the last laugh,
the best revenge
this morning, no hanky
or panky...

Manchester weeping
inconceivable losses
for a madman's game

slap on a smile.
greet the world.
don't dare think thoughts,
sad and unfurled.

make small talk.
the smaller the better.
do not think to burden
and fetter,
others with the sadness,
hidden behind,
those smiling glassy eyes.

walk the happy walk.
win the useless prize.

wave away the despair
and the complex layers
of grief.
breathe in the clean air.
if you must cry,
keep it brief.

think of all the useless
words,
that people say.
make them your mantra
against these sad and woeful days.

the future is bright,
for some if not all.

but the thing you need
remember,
most of all.
is these days too shall pass.
until then,
slap on a smile and hold fast.

i have a wanderer's heart
always wanting to be elsewhere
a wanderers mind looking
to the next horizon...for a new and exciting view...

but alas my feet are lazy
they are settled and sodden
with the clay soil  in which
i grew
they are rooted to home and
hearth
and thus i am bound
my heart soars
my mind dreams
my feet stay firmly
placed on homeground

but one day
i will clay feet and all
travel this world...i will

the irregular rhythm
of the wood windchimes
lulls me into a sort of sleep
one where dreams are based
on worried realities yet
magnified in a daliesque manner
all bent out of shape and pooling
at my feet, in garish coloured mists
whist in the background something whispers
"tis the gloaming upon us resist, resist!"

and the chorus line of purring cats
play with prawnheads and green tree frogs

i feel myself drowning in these mists, that
smell like fresh baked chocolate cake
and i try to care,
but sleep overcomes me
and the dreams slipside away
until  i awaken
in the cooler part of the day
and recall with haziness
the heat of earlier
and the swirl of the dreams .

the cat sits, staring at me, purring,
at its feet a toy mouse,
and i smell chocolate cake,
being baked by son and husband...
all apparently  is normal
with the exception of
the irregular rhythm
of the wood windchime.

perch on stools
too high for short legs
elbows resting askew on
sawn wood table top

the smell of dill pickles
pefumong the air
we wait for the bagels
to arrive......

heaped with pastrami and onion jam
crumbling half melted sharp cheddar
dill pickles sliced acroos the top
a mountain of foodlove
on an old china plate

old time root beer floats
and a mound of serviettes
let the **** begin....
as we snarf and scoff
our way down to china

don't forget to buy
some bagels for breakfast either

an hour
and an hour,
past,
the twelve struck gong.
my eyes lie open,
my heart awakened
by the notes,
of a sad, sad song
of longing,
now,
lounging ,
in my psyche
and i see the wisps
of half-remembered
dreams fading in
the moon bright air.....
oblivious,
to my waking.
my lover slumbers on,
as i try,
to capture the words
of the sad, sad song....

i long for
             quiet
                     today,

a silence, so complete.

that,
i can not hear
my breath
whistling,
in and out
of my
genetically
imperfect lungs.

a silence, so serene

that,
i cannot
hear my
brain creaking,
as i think
thoughts,
far,
too heavy.

a silence, so magnificent

that,
i am  lost
in it's glory.

just for a heartbeat,
                                unheard.    
just for a synapse,
                               snapped.

silence

not, death, far too final.

silence

in all it's
              profound,
                             simplicity.

one moment ago
every thing was fine
the starter was fine
the main exceptional
the conversation whilst
not exceptional held nuggets
of interest and hints of wit.
dessert came, looked scrumptious
but before fork hit pastry
it happened
something was said,
umbrage was taken
and now we all sit,
in the middle of a ferociously cold war,
my husband caught with
forkful between bowl and mouth
gulps loudly and places fork back on plate
apart from the two combatants,
everyonehas become interested in
the state of  their shoes,
mine are in need of a polish.
and still the fury roils around.
i ask for the bill, pay our share
leaving the cash on the plate..
we are too old, too tired
to take part in what has become
some one elses public domestic

we grab some pastries to go..
and in a blink of an eye
we depart the field...
leaving the two sides blinking

the small bird
calls to the too
long absent sun

all fluff and feathers
voice strident chirking
demanding audience

oh! to have the confidence
to rule the orb of life
as a handful of bones
and a little yellow beak

size don't matter
to him at all.......

i bit my cheek
and then the
blood,
salted
the caramel
i was chewing.

it is these
small things,
a poet notices....
and wishes,
to make memorable.

If i could make a poem
of this day.
It would be quiet
still and contemplative.

It would talk of
calm acceptance,
of things unchangeble.

It would mention colours,
grey, green and snippets of blue.

It would allude to the
opinion,
that sometimes, we just
have to wait,
until the skies clear
and then tommorrows path
lies set out before us.

It would whisper of hope,
faith and walking unsighted, blindfolded, through our lives.

It would sigh and politely
state, that time is fleeting
and we must begin,
to take care
of precious moments.

It would silently wrap me
up in warmth and love
and kiss my lips in adoration.

I find i don't need to make
a poem of this day.

For that i have you
my love.

i would, if i could write.
this in the layers of your skin
a tattoo  of my love....

you are my songline
every note, beat and pause
melody and harmony
you make my soul sing
and smile.
lover of my life
still nine years past
one look undoes me
one look and i am on
my knees
one word and i am begging
you....please
mother of my child
what an amazing thing we
made!
you think yourself fragile
but you are strong
you keep going, keep smiling
keep loving.

you are just so *******
gorgeous, all those curves
and curls, with eyes of sea blue ever changing

this year has been hard,
but we struggled through
you think i am your rock
or oak tree..
but honey it is all you.
you tie us alltoghether
with cords of sweet love
and i just need you to know
i see what you do
and i love you so very much
and everyday i hunger for
you...
have a great day..

i woke up today,
to find:
my husband still loves and
desires me,
my child still thinks, i am
wonderful,
my cat thinks, i control
the weather and is grateful
i made the sun shine.
i have a job i adore
and  it allows me to play
and in playing ignite
the creativity in young
and bright souls,
i still fit comfortably into
last years spring clothes,
i, with my husband own our
own home and are finacially
secure,
i and my family, are all
happy and healthy,
i am surrounded by friends
who value my worth
and whose worth and love, is of inestimable value to me,
i still love and desire my husband... and think my child wonderful,

and that,
some number of people, read my poetry
and enjoy it.....

i thank the gods,
for all of the above.....
but if honest,
the last is but icing
on the best tasting,
chocolate cake....
that is the rest of my life....

empty coffee cup
door ajar, lets in cool air
scented with salt air

chasing his tail
to the point of dizziness
before running the race track
defined only in his head

streaking past in a doppler like blur
all scrabble and drift on the hallway turn
ending with a clumping thumping fullstop
into his bed/sack/bed....and then two blinks
and asleep,  limp like a ragdoll.

this is the nightly ritual

again the rain
this time soft gentle
soothing mist,
that makes
trembling pools
of opal
while clouds above
drift and collide
like faded bumpercars
all movement but
little co-ordination

the tuxedo kit sit on windowsill
enamoured of the sliding
drops of condensation,
his head follows
up down then up,
he reminds me of a yo-yo

looked for my
poet in residence
this morning...
all i could find
was a badly scrawled
note
that said,
gone, need me, some
me time.
back whenever.

when i stop for a moment
during this busy day
my mind always wanders
off to think of you...

and in these pleasant moments of which
there are far too few
i am to be found dreamily
gazing back to a sky blue day

and as i awake from these
moments of unadultered bliss
i am often wont to sigh
and blow a secret ,
kiss...your way...

i had forgotten
the rage and anguish
of a two year old boy
who is just too tired
and overwhelmed

i had forgotten
the frustation and angst
of  the mother of a two year
whose answer to every question
in a howling NOooooo

both almost in tears
i so wanted to help
but remembered
outside influence
at this juncture
is often more
of a hinderence

but still i smiled
and leant over
and whispered
in her ear...
it does get better
and yes you are
doing a great job

sometimes it helps
to be told you are
even if it feels
like you ain't

leapfrog, crawlfrog
sitting frogs,  snogging frogs
frogs, frogs, frogs
making pollywogs

sudden downpour
rainfall and now we have been
stopped by froggy urban sprawl

all over the road, expanding
the tadpole nation
every frog hop jumping
to their station.

uncle toad needs you

all the little froglets
stand up and take your
place in the human
eradication
we are small, we are cute
and soon we will be many
and our conflagration will bear fruit
the ribbet will roar
the pobblebonk will rise
watch out humans, watch out flies
time you realise...the frogs are coming
looking out for more...it is written
in our sacred lore...we are the future

the smell of used books
and years of young love
wafts through the
airconditioning

it is quiet, but not silent
with mumured questions
and conversations being
puntuated by electronics

still there are heads bent
in the pursuit of knowledge
some deep, some philosophical
some kardashianesque.

i sit in comfort, in a nook
breathing in must and thought
and ponder the quest for knowledge

the tour passes by, the guide intones;
there is over 46 kilometres of shelving
in this library, each shelf stacks six high.
just under two hundred computers
and of course access  to wifi...this is
the hub of  knowledge and should
well become your second home

i smile as i watch the bright young things
in the nook across  from me,  
devour  the knowledge of each others face
learning diversified....

despair  and hope
both seeded within us
each and everyone
as is love and hate
anger too

they are there...
we would be incomplete
without them

so it becomes
a matter of  choice

which seeds
do we nuture
which saplings
do we prune

what do we
allow to flower
and fruit

you are the gardener
you get to choose...

but as you are learning
every choice has consequence
both for you and others...

my voice is
just dust upon the floor
swept into piles under the carpet

my art, the scribblings
of a child, with no sense
of line or colour
haphazard in it's beauty

my words, dry leaves
set to dance upon  
the winter winds
without direction or
consequence

my mind, a small seed
awaiting the glorious spring  rains
til then,  just a shell in which
my muse baby...
slumbers

oh, and the bitterness
taints my toungue
and blurs my eyes

all i see, all i see
is happiness
but
not for me, not for me

and the dark inches
ever closer,  
a low growling ravenous
thing

wanting me, needing me
to sucumb, to sucumb

where has my sunshine gone.
in this bleak, drear season.
it is gone, it is gone.

and i am a lonely figure
in a crowded place
and i am desperation
running a losing race
and i am weary to the core
bruised abraided red raw.

but still i stand,
what else can one do
it is after all,
what life demands.

you are the last of
this years frangipani bloom's
the wide green leaves
of your tree,  are already curling
grey brown upon themselves
to drop dry and rattling to the path
leaving the wrinkle of dead man's fingers
to winter alone

but you are the tree's
final salutation, one last hurrah
waxed cream and butter beauties
that you are....

summers kiss, happiness in
one bloom,  your esscense
fills the room with sunshine and grace.

now you scant few are the last
of the frangipani bliss
you are as the night grows cold.
as the days grow shorter
the last zephyrs  of  fragrance
whispering fond farewells

you are summer's last kiss
one of  gentle memories
blown about by summer's breathe

a sunday afternoon
in the lingering indian summer
provides paradoxes
my husband has sat down
in the inflatable pool with icecream
to watch a game of rugby league,

the winter blankets wave gaily
out on the clothesline, dry less
than an hour after having been hung

my boy watches black ants feast
on spilt hot chocolate and marshmallows
on the too hot to stand cement path

and the tuxedo cat lays in the shallows
of the pond, fishing tadpoles unsuccsessfully

sometimes words spoken or written
are woefully inadequate
they clutter up and make
the emotional space claustrophobic

silence can give just as much comfort

sometimes even more

one thousand feathers,
a bird does not make,
less there are wings
a heart and beak
and such a deseperate
want to fly,
into the upper reaches
of the bluest, widest sky.

without these things,
it is just a pile of dreams,
lost and forgotten.

no, it seems to be,
one thousand feathers
in a pile, is a sad
and sorry thing.

the imaginings
of the lonely heart

wander within this page
and beyond.
sent like beacon lights

out into the darknes
of the heart's distress

out across the waves
seeking another life,
another living

seeking connection,
a return other than
plaintive echoes reply

into the dark
the deep, deep, dark

a butterfly
of heartstrings
and hope,
sent out
into a hurricane

and somewhere
there sits a soul,
weaving a net
of love and lonliness
awaiting a battered
but hopeful butterfly

not to sure if the
stillness and calm
found within me today
is,
just down to the bone
weariness
or,
something a tad more
zen...
if i get a chance
i will close my eyes
and find out...

The sound of cars
Streaming through puddles
Competes with rain rattling
On the old tin roof

Underneath that roof
We listen to the percussion
of the log fire as it consumes
twig and tree.

The purr of the cat  stretched
out in basking bliss
Competes with the snore
of the man asleep with book
resting upon his chest

And from down the hallway
the soundtrack of a young man
defeating armies and building
empires.

All this I hear as I break from marking essays and take a sip
of lukewarm Earl Grey tea..

In the kitchen, dinner is roasting
away in the oven..with the not so small pup standing hungry guard.

By the door coats, boots, scarfs and facemasks await our after dinner walk..half an hour around the neighborhood, then back into  the house. This is our lock down life...

random beauty
calls to my soul
so much so
that I must stop
and ponder
before
recording the whole
maginificent mess
in my musings.
a poetic thesis
in many chapters
on the visual, aural
and emotional impact
of the small mudanities
of a life lived in the mind
and in the reality of multiple roles
the words as an artform to makes
sense of the idiosyncratic intricacies
of the world....according to me...

I would tell you...
everything is fine,
you would believe me

I would tell you happiness is mine
and you would smile and believe me

I would spin tales of love and laughter
I would show photos of us all together
You would look and laugh and say
you are so lucky...believing me

I would lie baldfaced and fingers crossed
I would make sure you believed me
Then I could for a time, believe myself

You would ask to got to coffee,
to sit awhile and catch up

That is why I no longer call, my friend
I am not that good a liar
But you would belive me....
                                For a long time I believed myself.......

words,
do not
have to be
spoken in
a different dialect,  
to be a
foreign language,
to some one's heart.

paul kelly telling yarns
in the background,
harmonica and guitar

vista: spring hopeful
as a large butterfly
scads on by

temperature a perfect mix
of balmy and zephyr breeze

on that breeze the salt and coconut
foretelling summertime glories

condensation pearls, then rolls gently
down the glass of my g&t

the remnants of a crab and prawn roll
lay on the indgo blue plate, like art abstract

a single tear slides down my cheek
as I acknowledge it is one more year

happy birthday ....dear departed you

**** on the tongue
like citrus sour drops
my words made you blink
made you think and grimace

they wre meant too
too long have people fed
you pap and honey
leaving you siated
and dozy, porridge
for brains, will get you
nowhere

time to wake up
time to taste the wind
and  live....

pepper, ginger, chilli
feed your slack soul
chew on life, gristle and all

life is a banquet
                    **** it....partake

Tis the bad gateway boogie
The records spinning round
Can hardly get a foot in
Hardly make a sound.
Trying really hard  to make a comeback tour
But you all know it's been 6 months or more
But you need to know
I'm kicking
Heels and toes.
..hoping to check in
Seeing how it goes

Not sure if you will see this

But if you do know those Bad Gateway Boogies

Has me singing the blues

sorrow sings silent songs
in my heart, in my heart
while my face smiles
and responds to you

i dance the line of the shadow
on toes tipped in light
this is my life

balancing the gray with the white
my circus has monkeys
now quieting sleeping
in their cage

i have learnt to be quiet
so as not to endanger
their rage

i see the sun and feel it's warmth
i look to the light, i fight, i fight
somedays, just by standing still
i fight....

the music score is changing
slow but sure, there is joy
in my encore....

small thing you are
yet you bring light
to the room

take age from old faces
bring back years and memories
left behind in days long past

small bundle of love
accepting all, no matter
the condition, full of joy
wonder and an insaitable curiousity

it is a balm to the tired,
to the saddened, to see
the simplicity of the exchange
love for love, even if only a brief fling

i thank you and yours, for this day
this hour of escape, you truly are
a blessing to behold....

moths blatter against the 40 watt light of
the midnight sun, the softest of deaths,
all need, wings and fairy dust, in the dawns light
become their requiem, the dustpan their hearse
as they become tidbits for the hungry koi sharks

the whales
have started to come
gliding past with a wave
or tail breach.
occasionally they breach
thier entire bodies in the air
even if only for a moment

we are blasè about it
joking about the tourist boats
that race to be near the tails and fins
but really when the season is running
on a good day you can see three or more
so many more than when I first came here
then I kept a log of fins tails and breachings
now it is like when you see your neighbor
mowing the lawn you smile to acknowledge it
but still continue on with your day

and on some level I think the whale prefer that
cause when you think about it, would you want
some group of gawkers chasing you down
when you went up the coast for a romantic holiday

was a time when
hills were mountains
rivers small trickling streams
towering trees, dormant seeds

was a time when
skies were clear of smoke
seas plentiful of whales and fish
the planets skin unmarked by greed

was a time when
life was hard but some how simpler
when you knew your neighbor, perhaps
even the whole block or town
when kids played til twilight and came
home to doors unlocked and books to read

when the most you borrowed with out great thought
was a cup of sugar or the neighbors saw
was a time, when courtesy was a given
and kindness was common

was a time....there was a time....almost a lifetime ago