Night, blurred lines waver
Tired eyes read denouement
Now sweet sleep beckons.

This day different to the last
by the state of the weather
The length of the journey
The words both spoken and
left unshed.

This day constant in the heart
by the warmth of  the glances
The need of the touches and
The words unspoken, whispered
and openly stated

Now we are at days end
and night  throws it's cape wide
We settle the plotline and savour
the page...
Finis this chapter,
Tommorow a new page

the waters edge
is where i stand
feet sinking slowly
in the golden sand
water is ice in a
white lace hand
salty tears from
a far off land

sun is bright
and warm is air
breeze is light
just ruffling hair

off in deeper places
dolphins play and
win races against
the curling waves

surfers sit awaiting
water graces before
leaping walking on
surf and slimline pieces
of wood and fibro foam
artfully worked into boards
of about three paces

whales swim along
the water roads
occasionally
showing age old faces
and fins and tails
in the dance of ages

birds fly high
on wind planes
dipping and diving
in order to gain
greater speed
better angles
to spear down into
water tangles
coming up with
dinner or not
spreading wings
again seeking the aloft

at waters edge
where i stand
mountians have been
broken down into sand
horizons quiver in the sun
somewhere day is starting
somewhere day is done
and still the waves seek the shore
and still the water always wants more

standing on the verge
between black and green
standing on grey gravel
the verge between
freedom and rules

behind me the cattle grid
stepping stones over
a pit filled with purple crocodiles
stepping stones between
joyful ignorance and knowledge

waiting for the big bus
peering down the road
waiting to become bigger
not knowing down the road
is just about waiting to come home

singing a little song
watching my breath
swinging my bag
all impatience and energy
waiting on the verge

listened to leonard cohen
last last night as he sang
"always, hallelujha, anthem,
in my secret life"...
and so much more in my
ear....

now, as i sit at my desk,
finely filmed in dust.
the memory, brings
a tear to my eye.

as i watch the sparrow,
alight from it's nest
and take to,
the clear blue sky.
just outside my window...

and i sit and try,
to make sense
of  month old notes,
scrawled to myself....

*"i do what i have to do..."

my words are like ants
that an ant bully is playing with
today they wander aimlessly
trying to find the thread of sense
the trail to lead them home

and then
              i opened the door
and the sunshine
             came in.... allelujah!!!

the first spring flower
brings you to mind sisterkin
hands deep in the earth

growing things your bliss
as i watched tea cup in hand
we solved all problems

there in that garden
while the fat persian cat  stood
and watched, purring

here's a thought...
most of you,
would not send
a child out into the world
without a name....
but you will a poem.

                          *is not a poem,
                      merely, the child
                          of your heart's  
                             speakings,...

feet slap
the pavement
as we walk
to the left
the sea
breaks
onto
golden sand
to our right
a group of
yummy mummies
and their
trendsetting
offspring
play

we walk briskly
with purpose
walking off
indulgences
creating
healthier
versions
of our
built
for comfort
bodies

The sun is warm
on our backs
as we chat
through our days
one awaits
her first grandchild
another speaks
of the upcoming trip
myself and one other
speak of parents in care
we all talk about our boys
both big and small

we are friends
gathered over the years
now made a twice
a week exercise group
we are the framework
of support that helps
us all stay strong
some strands slender thin
some shiiping cable thick
intertwine and hold us together

feet slap the pavement
as we move together
lioness' on the plains
proud among the
zebras and gazelles

the page remains unturned
tho the bottom corner
has been worried into a soft dog ear

it is not that the words are boring
the plot mundane, or the prose stilted
it is I who cannot read the black ink
the same words repeating in my mind

as i stare out into the garden
my ability to read is well below par
as i day dream the hours away

content to be a  warm, squishy cushion
to the tuxedo rex cat,
as he dreams panther dreams
and purrs like a Massey Ferguson

outside the window, in the hazy warmth
a dragonfly darts about the garden,
before settling with dainty precision
upon the craggy green mossed rock
at the pond's edge, a pause, a blink,
then the insect alights again

i too should be up and about....
but i am anchored by lassitude
and  three and a half kilos
of contented cat....
whose daydreams  are not
to be disturbed....

dog's worn out
so are we
social buttrfly
and social bee
not our schedule,
not our cup of tea
but the golden boygod
has now discovered
the mystery of girl meets
boy ...and then runs away
only to dart back ..."wanna play"

new year new school...needs
new mates..so we opened up
the gates ...
the tuxedo rex
chose discretion, the pup
absolute valour, followed
by adoration of the...***
these little humans will
play with me,  a lot, kind....
whoopee!!!

we made nice with new faces
some wanted to play,
we be the Jones'es races
some played aloof and standoffish
those with aspiring social graces
a few came in all bluster and huff
but with first words called their own bluff
then there were those comfortable
in their skins, those who chatted
and engaged, they were not here to win,
just to meet and greet begin to know
the parent of those with whom,
their kids will grow
those who's kids come first,
those kids all running ragtag
fit to burst with energy and joy
hopefully they are the ones
that the golden god boy
chooses to team up with
for this stage of the game


but when the dust settles
and he makes his way
we will be social with who ever
cause at the end of the day
we have our friends  
made on many such days
our team is big...
if some what greyer
than when we started
his is newer, brighter
and he gets to choose
win or lose..
part of the learning

as for today, all went well
no major meltdowns
no social  hell
just a family  worn down
and tired excepting the cat
who is now inspired
the anti social thing:
to sing  to us the
"song of his people"
in an earsplitting key
and will only stop
for a sardine...or three

slipping
slowly
under
the
saltwater,
the
coolness
so  
sensual,
like
softest
silk
against
my
skin.

sloughing
off
sweat
and
days
disasters
I
sink
further
down
to
rest
on
sand,
sifting
it
through
my
fingers

rising
only
to
take
simple
breathes
I  
allow
myself
to
silently
decompress
and
my
soul
simply
sighs

he stood leaning against the frame
neither in or out but on the threshold
partly in shadow, partly in relief
like a masters painting
all angles and shade

smallish birds chatter
scolding the weak winter sun
yet  glad to  see it

little cat sitting
dreaming of a bird breakfast
thwarted by windows

shaft of light, dappled
makes devious, angelic
little cat now sleeps

breakfast now broken
daily rush well underway
no cat naps for me

at one time, for a time,
you were my greatest love
at one time, for a time,
i could not have hated you more
at one time, for a time,
i could not live without you
at one time for a time,
i wished you dead

and now I see you in the park and feel nothing
it is like passing a stranger, albeit with a haunting face
we see each other, look away and then come together
we speak with awkard grace, making the smallest of talk
before hastening away, knowing that bridge
was long made ashes and we were calling across the abyss

at one time, for a time, our hearts beat as one,
synchronous and now our tempos are so different,
the past only an offbeat echo.....heard faintly on the wind
i wish you well my erstwhile friend....my forgotton lover

soft the raindrops on my face
gentle the breeze at my back
warm the sand between my toes

soft the words you speak
gentle your lips upon my neck
warm your body next to mine


soft the sound of you sleeping
gentle my fingers upon your cheek
warm the tears that fall  on the sheets

soft the closing of the door
gentle the footseps as i leave
warm the regret that burdens my soul

warm the first steps to hell
gentle the push off the cliff
soft the mud in the gutter

the candle flame flickers
as the zephyr breeze blows
across our sunwarmed skin

we hold hands like teenagers of old
and you nuzzle gently at my shoulder

the stars brighten, as the sky darkens
from chambray to indigo
and the moon shones with mottled ivory glow

the frogs sing love songs and the lonely boobook calls
the night settles in as we make our way indoors
the candle flame splutters dies and leaves behind
a trail of smoke, taken away by the zephyr breeze
and the boobook calls again....mopoke....mopoke

standing on the back deck
seeking a cool breeze
feeling the grain
of the old wood
beneath my feet
eyes meandering
from star to star
hearing the night birds sing
and the fish move in the pond
revelling in the serenity
still waitin on the breeze
I sip my  cold water

today....i took my mothers glasses to the local optometrists
they have a donation box, in which you place unused glasses
then, they are given to people in third world countries,
giving them the gift of better sight...
i have been meaning to do this for a month or so
ever since mum passed away, but it was harder than i thought
it felt too intimate to give that part of her away
but today it happened...and some day soon someone
who was pretty near blind,  given the prescription
will see the world in a whole new way
...through my mum's eyes
and there is a goodness in that..

green tips
are showing
all over the garden

buding lime on
stick bare branches

muscling their way
up through
red chocolate soil

peeking out
of rocky crevices

all seeking
light and warmth

chlorophyll seeking argent
hope seeking fulfillment
winter aceding to spring

age screams
not so silently
back, carrying
burdens
have caused
muscle to seize

every step
measured
every movement
silent movie slow

inflamed muscles
hiss and growl
as I inch to and fro

yearn,
to be
horizontal,
alone
to
realign
but
no
off to
work
I go
......
heat pack
my solace
time my foe

must be time
to write again,
my soul itches
to feel pen,
imprint paper
in a way meaningful

must be time to write again
my word pile is building
out the back, needs a good cleanse
and the I may well find a gem
lying there waiting to be used
some word; like allocentric,
being the opposite of egocentric,
meaning looking to support
and grow others before yourself

must be time to write again
to put thoughts down
in a pattern that may
constitute rhyme
that may take the reader
to another place or time
that may even ellicit a tear
or a smile, maybe even
make someone's bad day
better for a while

must be time to write again
if only I could order my thoughts
that tearaway from me and hide
in the deep dark woods,
must be time to corall them,
bring them to heel
must be time to write again
for to write, for me... is to feel

i still see you
sitting in the sun
holding a pale ale
up in salutation
steel grey hair
flowing
down your back
legs crossed at knee
ankle jigging
up and down
to the beat of
the music
in your head
dressed in "blacks"
with a flash of colour
this time pale lemon
in your hand
a dhurrie, self rolled,
thin and a little bent
smoking gently, the whisp
of it curling in the breeze
today your face is thoughtful
caught up in a memory that brings
the corners of  mouth up
into a wry smile.
i still see you
in the periphery
of my mind
yet when i turn
you are gone..
a memory
playing tag
with my heart

Each Day
a marathon
Unto itself

today i am
a teacup in a tempest
fragile against the slightest wind
fine china, in a world of sticks and stones
brimming over with tears, sat far to long
dark and bitter with tanin, sour with lemon
just waiting to be drained, in one long gulp
so someone may read the dregs of me

we went, that day
to your house,
with food and drink
gifts wrapped in bright paper
it was a day of celebration
all day we would remind you
that fifty was just a number

we spent, that day
gathered together on
couches and armchairs
watching the world change
as planes became weapons
and buildings became like trees
falling in a forest, peoplee became
ghost and ether on the winds

we wept, that day
for those lost
on the other side
of the world
we wept, that day
for those left behind
we wept, we weep still
when we think of the atrocities
that mankind can do in the name of gods

we left, that day
with food uneaten
presents still wrapped
heartsore and sorry
images of horror imprinted
praying for succour

we send our thoughts
out each year to those
who have suffered
to those whose family
names are remembered
with bell chimes and prayers

it was,  meant to be such a wonderful day
when we went that day to celebrate your fifty years

is my truth yours
perhaps for a nano second
when we meet in the middle
of the burning bridge
on which we stand

is my truth universal
at death, at birth
mayhaps we see
the truth the same

is my truth mine
yes and no, in so much that
the intereaction of multitudes
dilute the same, creating
ripples and waves
that create convex and concave
versions of the truth

is my truth, but a game
with out scores or winners
but continual substitions

is my truth sane
on a good day, there is
a semblance  of sincerity
on a bad day there is
a rambling tour of my reality

I write to you in my mind
on beautiful crisp white parchment

I write sacred things
disguised as daily minutiae
things of magnitude only
because of mundanity

small glimpses of the vast empty
hidden in the overgrown wastelands
milestone markers to nowhere
to a land inhabited by ephemera
daliesque in it's discrepancies
in relation to the current realities

i write mile after mile of dragging letters
a breadcrumb trail eaten by carrion birds
that grow fat on both joy and misery

i am like a plough horse, in a field
overused and crumbling,  but still
i work the rows, for no one has
released me from the harness

my words are mud, on crispest snow
turned to water and frozen to rime

my words are finest gibberish

bedlamese, sublime,

vapour in a hurricane

a cry in a bottle

the salt in a tear

my words....are the ellipses
of my understanding of your life.

I write to you in my mind
and post the letters to you memory.

on rock
in centre stream
I balance,ungainly

slick dark green algae
and well worn sneakers
do not provide adequate
friction, to maintain
perpendicular functions

in centre stream
on rock
I sit, hard and painfully

it is the sussuration of the passion
that is etched between
the lines of your forehead
that causes my heart to beat
with quiet fervor
as i await your next move

is as if it grew
as limb of
the gnarled
stringybark

it sat, still
so very still
grey feathers
blended to
perfection

beak ****** up
at an angle
mimicking
the broken edge
of storm damaged
branch

only when
we had passed
it gave itself
away, with slow
blink of tawny eye
then shuttered again
it returned
to it's hidden glory

nothing to see here
just us branches

new faces
eager to learn
wanting to speak
not sure, too sure
waiting for brilliance
to fall upon them like rain
holding the centre of the space
yet small within in it

older faces
casual in welcome
relaxed in attitude
creating a sense of being
larger than they once were
filling the space with  synergies

they all come in  and mingle
the very fresh,
those who are middling
and those who are beginning  
the downhill trek to the end
this is the conduit,
this dark room
that seems dingy
and broken in the day
but at night
when the grid is lit
and the mummers come to play
it is the grotto fantastic,  
filled with other beings
opposite selfs
with faces painted
and multitudinal voices
making all from naught

and I am
the gatekeeper,
paid in coins of laughter
and notes of tragedy
opening vistas
and changing lines...

all the faces
have the one thing
in common
an earnest desire
to stand up and
take the stage

so throw open the gates
let them enter, let them play

syringe push driver
medical implement
that aids in supplying drugs
a comfort measure

the pathway home
you lie in bed so small
all the freice fighting spirit
leached away, just needing rest

you ask me to ring"the boys"
let them know you aren't doing well
they ask me to set up a family meeting
to discuss the use of the push driver
all these things i do.....all the time
wanting to hide, put my hands to my ears
and cry, lalalals, not listening

but I cannot, I am the adult now....

golden crumpets
toasting under the grill
butter and amber applebox honey
waiting to be spread  and fill
those litle wells of battered goodness

warm milk and cocoa, mingling in the cup
before dancing around for a minute
in the microwave....then tap dancing
with tantalizing richness on the tongue

this is midnight snackery at it's finest
all  sweet and decadent, touched by
whimsy and eaten in the silver moonlight

then it's back to bed with honey still
on lips.....making them sweet and smackery

How to age....

Make a mound of small unexplained aches, with some pains added , for better texture.

Into which you add a wine bottle's worth of memories, be they joyful or not

Add a few cups of reluctance, as many as you can find

A smattering of grace

Defiance to taste...

Liberally add all those confused thoughts

and smidgen or two of:

"When I was young"

Stir with mild anger at what the world is becoming

Set aside to rise....
whilst you go into the other room,
to forget, what you went the for.

Come back and sit a spell, for no particular reason.

Pour mix into a long rectangular box,
one with two slightly clipped corners works best.

Sprinkle the top with copious amounts of bran, but no sugar.

Place into oven,whilst complaining of creaky back or knees, your choice

Cook til well and truly done...so that when poked a snore or snot is produced

Remove from oven,
Do not allow cool, you no longer have time for all that folderol

Ice with tears for those departed, and regret of things left undone ..

Enjoy the fruit of you labour as the sun sets

Drowning the taste of sawdust with a good whiskey...
...and your prescribed
cocktail of tablets...

I wish for you my little big love
a life of soft landings
of easy struggles and
short battles

but  I know my little big love
that this will not, should not,
be the case, for if you have only
soft, easy and short, you will not
appreciate the life you live

no my little big love, my heart knows
you must sometimes fight long,
struggle with all your being
land hard and hurt, to  earn
the victory, to see the win
in all it's glory, to accept
the prize

my heart wishes you soft landings
my head tempers the wish  with wisdom
so I send you forth to live your life
this day and the next, with humour
kindness and fortitude...hoping
you you return with stories and a smile

green frog serenade
love a truly splendid song
if you know the words

We stood
on the driveway today
at dawn
Candles in hand,
as the boy  down the road
played The Last Post,
imperfectly but with
such a beautiful heart

We stood
on the driveway today
With rosemary
for remembrance
and red poppies too
Pinned to our chest.
as birds flew over head

We stood and  remembered
the sacrifice and courage
We stood and remembered
those who did not return
those who did but left
brothers and mates behind
Those who fell,
those who returned injured
In body or mind.

The dawns gentle light
watching over us all
as we looked to
the left and the right
to see neighbors all
Standing  in their driveways
Gifting our diggers
the respect they are due
for the service they gave
to the countries they love

We stood and gave thanks
as the last trumpet note died
and the kookaburras  called
Australia the nation stood tall

the lightning tonight, when it came
was hidden behind the clouds
like old fashioned flashbulbs
those boxy ones, we used to steal
and setoff under the bedsheets

the rain came and went
in a windblown front
pasing through without
taking the heat from the ground
just making the evening more humid

the thunder lived up to expectations
loud and growling at the world
but brief like a dog called to heel

now it has passed out to sea
and the water drips from the leaves
and the humidity continues to rise

groper lips speak
vowels fall forth
chipped pearls of wisdom
skitter about the ground
seeking purchase
in mud pockets
finding only dry sand
and bitter salt

******* in salt
for forty years
can do that
curdle the cream
of wisdom leaving
just the sour to spew out

but if clever you can sift
the  detrius and make
cheesecake with
chipped pearls  on top

raindrop reflecting
stand of eucalyptus trees
nature is sublime

words sing a song
a sonnet in my brain
yet my pentameter
is not iambic
more of a wild refrain

as they tumble jumble
bump and grind
it is difficult to
give them their
proper place in line

they all knock and clamor
to be the first in line
ain't but  one of them
that wish to be left behind

so no precise flow, no couplets
not a lot rhyme....even less rhythm
in my writ.....this time

sometimes i can plant
my words in neat little rows
water and **** them til poetry grows
sometimes i put a big seed of thought
suspended over a water glass and
wait til it grows roots
in it's search for love
and meaning

sometimes i just scatter
thoughts to the wind
leave them lie where they fall
and go off and begin other tasks
forgetting  those seeds
til come one day, when
i take a wrong turn
and walk that way
to find a field of riotous colour,
flowers upon flowers
no need for the distinction
of pretty over ****

today i write a torrent a river
that floods with flotsom, jetsom
and other.....
and as these words rush
to the sea, they cry
glory allelui....
i am free....i am free

tommorrow, a new day,
yesterday, history forgiven
now, a a long drink of regret
...... and anticipation

fires all about
sky orange
not from flame
but refracted light from
smoke so thick
you can gather it
in your hand

the flames miles away
for us but for some
on their doorstep
devouring house

ash falls like snow
and sits in drifts
up against firetruck tires

men and women
volunteer warriors
return soot black
and exhuasted
to rest before
returning
to the front

devastation
of wildlife corridors
devastion of small towns
live's lost and broken

and it is still only spring

through the keyhole of your heart
i see the journey you have made
through deserts dry
and mountains ranges
you have travelled,
swimming in blue sea's
and muddy swollen rivers,
sleeping on beahces of sand
so golden it gleams, golden
in the early morning sun

you have laughed in the wilderness,
when there was no one to hear
cried alone and bereft
in cities so crowded, that no one heard
you have walked under
every phase of the  silent, lonely moon
and howled at the world,
your tears have watered
every continent
and your smile brought
warmth to many a cold fire place.

You have bartered,
your money, your life , your soul
and then bought them back for pennies, shekels and zots
only to give them away
to the next traveller
with a mendicant tale....

And you are home....in order to lick your wounds
in order to come to terms with those decisions
that have forshortend your allotted span
and we provide hospice and love and more
for you are our racounter,
our bard our sight
into the faraway,
the unthinkable...
the other side
you are the brave and reckless self,
we wished, we all wanted to be..

so welcome home, friend, welcome
pull up a stool and tell us a tale

as we sit in the shadows and cry at your fate

twenty, twenty vision
clear insights enable to see
all the stuff coming for  me

excepting my blindspot has
grown awful big about a decades
worth of blinkers, giving me tunnel vision

but there is light, up ahead
small and bright, leading me
away from darkest night
toward daybreak
future bright

step on into the day
make of the future
what we may
twenty twenty vision
all the way

thoughts upon my newly acquired orphan state.  i am fifty two and then a little more it should not matter that  i can  no longer knock and open that door to sit in the corner and quietly speak of matters small and large, joyous and bleak....it should not matter for now i am grown  with others to love a child of my own.... it should not matter  but oh how it does... it leaves me speechless, somedays and sometimes turned inside out....on a raft  alone in a sea of  thoughts.... all this in a grief so quietly my own... yet we go about the closing down of a life eighty years and more, taking things so precious to the local opportunity store... consoling ourselves with the mantra that mother loved her charities as we give away the clothes she wore.... we pack, up the unit in which she lived.....pore over the photos showing the love of the life she lived...we converse about memories and family lore...we laugh, we cry, we laugh some more....we note that the  photos we love the most are  those of her holding grandchildren  on  lap and in arm... we talk about the fierce, fierce love that would allow no lasting harm... to befall those in her care...we also talk about the fashions of clothes and  of hair....then... there are the silences so profound...... when we all realize once more she will no longer be around....at least in the physical....in our hearts she will alway be near and dear .....we pack up her rugs and chair....her cookbooks  and clutter, bed bath towels, a myriad of things  in my mind i hear her mutter... such a fuss, such a palaver!....finally all is done...
her  place a shell....empty and forlorn ...we walk out the door as we quietly mourn.....we three orphans, my brothers and me....
stand in the moonlight and stare at the sea....all thinking the same ....poor orphaned me....

there is something truly
enticing, about the curve
of  back, as you sit
on the edge of the bed,

lost in that moment between
being  abed and rising
that delay, whilst you decide
yay or nay, to the day.

there is a challenge in the
***** of shoulders
and the swell of good eating
that rests upon your hips

that makes me want leap into action
and draw you back
from the edgeof mundanity,
of everyday routine
and ravage you silly,
make you howl
and make you moan..

i want to taste your sleep drenched skin
and feast upon the energy kept quiet
i want wake you, make your open eyes
make your pupils dilate,
as i drink the night out of the depths of you...

but I am to slow, in my langour
i have lost the moment,
you stand and stride off
into the day
i turn and lay on my side
hoping the sun will leach
the frustration from my being