sorry joe
tried, can't write
a poem about sand....
each time i try
all that comes out is

" like sand through,the
    hourglass.....
    so are,
    the days of our lives"

huh, talk about subliminal
indoctrination....

heard this morning
the bus....
best way to cook possum
skin an gut the poss'
put in an oven bag
with some wine or verjuice
and  herbs
samphire or wattercress
and roast 'im
about the same time as ya
would a chook....
comes out beautiful and tender
ya can do it with echinda too
bit they 're not as good....
bit stringy eh!

points of dust, moted light,
coded messages,
of indecipherable love,
from the sun and this day's dieties smile.
are....
siphoned through,
the dappled, green eucalypt
to become....
shafts of godly grace,
that tickle, wrinkle
and play hide and seek,
with the contours of your
handsome face,
weekend stubbled
and lax within,
the shadows of sleep's
suburban fringe.

curled up, on your lap
your child, golden, halo haired, head,
asleep.
ear at your heart's designation,
hand anchored,
in the flannel of your shirt,
foot tucked into, your trouser pocket.

a little, love limpet,
attatched firmly, to you.

you, and the littler you lie, serene and unaware,
in the old, striped deck chair.
quiet and together in,
restful, repose.

the remains of lunch...
now just, crumbs and
sticky fodder,
for busy trails of ants
and attracting the lazy bee's of bumble, that hover and hum, above.

and book reading's are open,
unfunished, scattered on the table..... waiting for the
eventual waking...

along with the cat,
perched imperial,
and purring,
on one ant free corner
of the old and faded,
rattan chair.
he stands watch,
dotingly, over,
his dozing clowder....

this is ... the wonder of,
sunday afternoon naptime.

Just a note to those here who
Are not familar with me
I AM NOT BERYL DOV
And for those that do know me
WELL DANG!!!!You already knew that.

here i am, unidentified.
tho, i have an identity.
pictures of a cat, starfish
and sea shells,
a blurb, that shelters me well.
you know some,
some read and see more
but not all of me, far from all.

you could pass me by,
in the street,
not ever knowing who i am.

few have links to me.
most care not to
and that's ok
i am an ambiguity,
who, tinkers away with words, creating,
sounds to roll off the tongue, tickle the ear
and burrow and settle in the rooms of your mind.

as do,
you all,
do for
and
to me.

we are but, ships upon
a sea of words,
sailing blithely on.
sending semaphore greetings,
across great distances.
before traveling on.

identified only,
by monikers and pseudonyms,
remaining anonymous
except for style and nuances
that give small clues,
to the daily worlds,
we inhabit.
where the veiled secrets
do not dwell openly,
as they do here,
on bright white pages.

here i remain, here
i am unidentified,
bar for a nom de plume.
yet still, more than comfortable  with myself.

musing on pondering,

cogitating on ruminating,

postulating on speculating,

considering multiple theories,

deeming the discrepancies deniable

positing the petty presumptions,

theorizing multiple condsiderations,

apraising the mediations,

digesting the deliberations,

allowing for freefall meditation,

envisioning the expectations,

presuming the pontifications,

anticipating the asumptions,

comprehending the conclusion,

accrediting the rationalizations,

concluding the comprehesion,

spinning synaptic wheels,

hypothesizing the conjecture,

recollecting of the reminiscence,

adumbrating the prognostigcation,

concocting of the subliminate,

masticating on the cereberal machinations,

of the ocillations, in the agitatation,
apparent,
in an insomniac's maniacal brain,

reckoning not,
on the simple summation,
of the night's wayward,
mental arbitratration,


there is... just too much time,
to think....

and far too little time to write....

these are the questions
i ponder on a friday afternoon
after a few mango beers

do slugs get to volunteer to be snails or vice versa?

do you think, tadpoles grieve for their tails?

are the black and white
goldfish, aware of the colour
of their skin?

do polar bears, in captivity,
miss the ice fishing?

do lions get jealous, of how
cushy housecats get it?

why does nobody ever ask,
does my head look to big in this book?

yep..... i know ....deep

when I was small
to small to see over
the tabletop, my aunt
taught  me to make God's Food
she gave me lessons
in baking, in alchemy

I stood on stool,
so I could mix the
ginger powder,
flour and eggs in
the big old green
mixing bowl
with a big wooden
spoon, half as tall as me

I wore an apron and had
one of my poppa's hanky's
tied over my hair...

My Auntie Barb,
poured over my dry mix
hot melted butter,golden syrup
and brown sugar, with careful
hands and then briskly mixed
it through, a glorious batter
was made.

together my hands
covered by hers,
soft comfort and calluses
would pour the batter into
old rectangle loaf tins,
paper and greased,
then into an oven
to bake and spread
the scent of  ginger, cinnamon
and caramel, throughout the old
weatherboard house....

I would happily lick the spoon
and scrape every last bit of gooey batter
from the old palmolive green mixing bowl
as we waited for the baking alchemy to occur

Roughly forty minutes later,
the oven door would be opened
and loaf of gingered goodness
would appear, the kettle would be
placed on the hob to boil, tea in the ***
cups, plates and cutlery on the table
sugar,milk and butter too

Then her voice, would call
gingerbread is up, and all
would come, interrupting
footaball, a good book,
an afternoon nap,
or the tv program
nothing stopped one
coming for gingerbread

The loaf would be sliced
still warm and thick
almost overwhelming
all that warm ginger
so very exotic, then
it would be lathered
with butter, that would melt
almost on contact.....
and that was a such a feast

There was magic in that kitchen
even though I make ginger bread
the same way, something is missing
perhaps the warmth of the old oven
or some little pinch of salt or nutmeg
or perhaps the ginger has changed

Or it might be just nostalgia....
for simpler times..when my biggest
responsibility was mixing ginger bread batter

the alluvial terra firma
appreciates
the pluvial troposphere
of the lunar differentiate

siphoning all
in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous
residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world

it gives my heart ease, to sit quietly
in the corner of your room
and watch you, as you sleep...

i sit in the chair
where not so long ago
you suckled at my *******

and marvel
at how the years have passed
at how you have grown.

i used to hold your feet
in the palm of my hand
and look down
on your little baby face

now you run and play,
you are daddy's little man
and nanna's goodboy
and tom and nates bestest buddy

this is the time,
sometimes the only time,
when i have you
all to myself,
this is the time when i spend
a few moments stolen from the world
to  watch you
curled up into a little ball
this is the time
when my womb calls to me
and i sigh and say;

"he was once ours but now
he belongs to a bigger, brighter place"

this is the time
when i kiss your sleeping brow
and give you
once more into the care of the god's
and then turn and go to bed.

i wake up at 5.41
again...
curled up in my armpit
the little blucat
blusfully happy
loud rumbling purrs
assure me of that
on my other side
asleep with head
resting on my belly
my soon to be
four years old son
i lie awake
in the dark
smiling...
surrounded by love
and wait for the kookaburra's call

hurry, hurry, hurry
hush hush hush
must be quick
must be quite
but we must rush

stay in the shadows
run through the dark
don't give the game away
as we flit through the dark

keep on going til the sun rise
quiet as mice, fast as hares
away from the fighting
away from despair

to a new life, with new cares
where it is not about belief
where all are treated fair...

carry the message,
deep within your heart
we are all human
we all are the same
no matter the religion
no matter the creed
freedom a desire
love a basic need.
hurry, hurry, hurry
hush, hush,hush.

fragments from everywhere
thanks to those writers
of prose poetry and advert
jingle for the writing below
today not the writer but
compiler and editor.

..so heres the truth...
..my dreams are always..
..best served cold...
.................blood love....
the nightmare warned me...
...whistling of the wind..
.................whispers w ana..
.....of thomas the tank engine,
sunshine and sleeping bunnies...
...confide in me...
...snarcissist...
............   waiting....
...the sexiest poem ever..
.burned at the stake.....
...slay my dragon..
..good, bad, evil, mad.....
....the eyes speak louder..
..............forgotten past...
suicidal thoughts....
..my truth...
.................stickysweet...
..my conclusion...
sleepless nights......

these are the thoughts
of Clive,
the neighborhood curmudgeon...

how do i know this,
i am the imp that put them here....
in the garden, you folks
call a brain......


take this, sodding life
and it's meaningless struggle.
i set my face to this wall
and brick myself self in
to this useless stall.

the old man, Clive,
grumbled with a,
set and sour grin.

you...you're all pathetic,
thinking you can win.
death's the only victor...
over us, one
and sodding all.

and you can take,
your sodding...
flowers and cards
and sodding, casseroles too!!

there was,
one ray of sunshine
in my life
and now she is gone.

and she is not,
sodding around in another room,
or waiting for me up there.
she is not, in greener pastures
cause she was never..
an effin cow.

she is,
six footdown,
underground,
in a cheap wooden box,
making fodder,
for worms and beetles.
slowly, they are,
breakin her down.

and it will not be,
sodding fine
and time will not heal...
a heart smashed to smithereens.
a life torn asunder
**** me it's time,
for you pathetic
do-gooders...
to get ****** real....

no i am not,
a happy man,
and yes i am,
greiving the greatest loss.
and a ******, sausage
and bean casserole,
is not going to be,
making me believe,
that the world,
is a fair and just place...

don't you, worry about me.
i reckon i'll soon be,
leaving, my home
and my goods and chattels
and be recieving last rites,
farewells and a deep,dirt bed.

and that will be,
fine and dandy,
as long as it is,
close and handy,
to my beloved, Mandy.

what?
you're worried...
about my,
state of mind...

will ya, just *******,
haven't i
made myself clear,
i am way, too busy dying,
to pay you any attention...

this garden just going gangbuster
hey¡¡yah huzzah!!!

sun rises over
ever growing
mound of flowers
in Martin Place
where people died
and people cry
for a loss
not yet defined...

at bus stops and
railway stations
hearts heavy with sorrow
and large with compassion
ride together in a stand
against hate...

and the news stations
rerun information
and families cry in
relief and grief
and the world walks on by

in Martin Place.....
               ...... in Martin Place

found a heartstone,
while walking yesterday.
cloudywhite, quartz,
with a streak of granite gray. it was, a sad little stone.

lost,

taken from the mountain,
to which it had  belonged. cast away,
having to find somewhere, else to be,
cold to touch.
slightly, assymetrical
plump in depth.

in it's own way,
it has a beauty.

found a lonely,
little heartstone,
orphaned,yesterday.
put in in my pocket,
to give it some love
and warmth.
perhaps, if i am lucky,
it will want to stay.

i stand in the shallows
of my memory
casting a spiderweb line
back into
the earlier years,
the murky depth
of the old brain pond
looking for that
elusive memory
of when......when.......when


life was simple,
somehow, more complete
with days of sunshine
and butterfly grace
that flew on by,

when grass smelt greener
skies were blue and
there was always much to do

the future was out there, past the horizon
a thing that was too far away to ponder on

they were the days,
the beautiful days
I know I  dream of.

to recapture my youth.....

but all I can now do,
is cast about in memories
and hope to find myself
an elusive rainbow trout....

over night
an old world slips
into the reccesses,
the shadows of the mind.

and a new,
regenerate one,
begins....
with fairground brillance
it calls to us to...
climb aboard the carousel
and grasp,
the golden ring...

all stardust and spangles,
acrobatic feats in...
big clown shoes.
if brave enough,
a chance to smell,
the breath of a toothless roaring lion....
from inside the magicians
spell...

outside....
in lambent glow,
the elephants, sway slow and remember the dying of the night...

           as the years parade by                                   in a circadian flow....

be still,
           be the small silent
                                        calm

be quiet,
       be the small watching
                                        mouse

be pliant,
               be the seed
                         spinning on
                     the wind

be memory
                  be the glint in
                             the wise old
                elephant's eye

be wisdom,
                 be the paradox of
                             the monkeys
                      three

be kind,
            for kindness needs,
                               to never be
             lost or neglected

be strong,
                 be passionate,
                for the world needs
                                strength
              and compassion
in order to grow.
                

but above all,
                      be love.....
            and allow love to be...

in all it's ....
        wonderful,
          guises and capacity's

and these my son,
                are just some
    of the steps

       in being a better man.....

we all  narrate
our own destinies
smoothing the edges of
dubious memory
so we become hero
or victim, as we see fit

we paint our words with
colour and passion
and make some areas
grey or black
shading the story,
so that our heart remains clean

it is only in the small print
foot notes, that we write
codiciles and retractions
that we give a nod to time

the nebulous truth
obfuscated  by time
and the blurred re-telling
becomes the urban legends
of our minds....

our very own fairy  tales
and once upon a times
seen through the
kaliedescope of fathertime

small blue cat
curls up on himself
back to the world

content to
dream big cat's dream
safari

where he is
lion tiger leopord
extraordinaire.

he mreowls,
twitches and then starts,
hunting prey,

takes time, stealth
and skill patience, too
as he sleeps,

he stalks, stares,
the little blue cat.
dreaming still.

i am left
with out want
or passion.

.....spent.....

yet when lifetimes
ago,
but, just moments,

i was the eye,
of a malestrom,
caught between,
the fall of water
from the shower's head
and the waterfall
of lust,

converted into love....

as hips ******
and receded,
in waves, tidal
i became....
but a delta,
for the rushing tides
and we met,
                    as liquid.

as i walk past
the almost god of wrinkly
things and his new apprentice,
lying wrapped about each
other, in food filled plumpness, lying sate,
in the morning sun....

i can not but help ponder,
a house cat,
loved through and through, is probably,
one of the highest levels
of reincarnation......

when we have people come visit.
i find myself saying, normally, somewhere
within the first half hour.

the following,
in one form or another;
let me explain about the cat. no he is not unwell,
nor does he have a skin condition.
thats the way they come, devon rex's.

yes i know,
they look like
little *** bellied men,
who having been,
startled by the ringing,
of the front doorbell.
have grabbed their
wife's tatty chennile bathrobe,
but then have not,
tied the sash,
so now show,
an almost, indecent
amount of wrinkly flesh.

yes" their fur is so soft, like down,
except for the front paws they are like crushed velvet gloves.

no i am sorry,
he is not a climb up
and snuggle into your lap cat he is a more of a,
stare at you, weigh you up,
find you wanting,
until it's all becomes,
sort of awkward cat.
if he does happen
to approve  -
and in all honesty,
he probably won't.

i don't want to get your hopes up,
but if he does,
you will be presented,
with a token,
it may be a lizard or a bug
or moth, but pencils, a sock and pet ***** have also been gifted.

yes, he is unusual
but that is
the beauty of the breed
and the beauty of the Gus,cat.

dagger beak
and garnet eyes
feathers stolen
from the stormy seas
scalded legs
and gawping mouth

tis
the gull come
to call
with mouth a
begging, shrieking gape
alerting  
the whole **** clan
to clamour and fight
for the measliest of bites

once proud fishing birds
are now just feathered,
scroungers, grifters, ****..

now awake....
this morning is
.. .brittle
grass crunches,
beneath slippered feet.
newspaper, slick and cold.
in the bird bath,
a clingwrapping of ice.
the cat, stiff legged and
complaining for the
internal sun...
grumpyboys in doonas,
eating porridge and
watching animated things.
sun just playing catchup.
shadows now, stubbornly long and windows fogged
with warm breath.

autumn....
slipsliding into winter...
on brittle morning's ice.

and the sun is
warming the long
muscles in my back

and the beer is cold
and ****** on my lips

and the smell of onions
caramelizing  with steaks
on a pop-fizzing bbq
is  tickling my nostrils

and  my soul is unfurling
it's wing...there is a hope
of the joy of spring
in this friday afternoon air

a butterball sun,
sits low in the
morning sky.

as the weekend peloton, whizzes on by and down
the hill.

in the council's headland park precinct,
the illegal nomads,
are being rousted
and evicted from, their overnight, purlioned and picturesque views.

the early fishermen,
in their dinghies,
dot the teal sea and
the sail boats,
are racing out further,
white sails, against blue sky.

in our pond,
the koi leap in a frenzy,
trying to catch,
the itty, bitty, midgey bugs.
and the old blue tongue,
comes out to settle on his
rough log .

the bees work tirelessly,
from flower to flower.
as the blue wrens,
gossip and preen,
in their lilac bower

the dragon flies dart
about in distraction.
while over at
the milkwood patch,
you can see the caterpillars,
are busy decimating,
leaf after leaf.

i sit on the porch,
coffee in hand.
newspaper forgotten
on the side table.
slowly taking this beauty all in.

as the aroma of eggs, bacon and pancakes, drift from within.

worthless words
fall from my mouth
to beat like moths
at the dim light bulb of your brain

we at present speak
different languages
and have no desire
to find a translator

we circle each other
and watch understanding
whirlpool down the drain

for the wont of kindness
we expire, we declaim
not my fault, as we take new aim

this is not a dual,
life at ten paces
not a race
no one wins
no gold for first place

this is life, and living
gritty bits and all
this is the big wide world
where all are destined,
to fail and fall

this is how you get up
not how you fell down

this is the world of world weary
and the panache of wearing
a truly battered crown

this is the sticking point
the stinking, smoking left-over joint
the left behind,  the neverminds

this is your day
and yes...
you can live it your way

but you need to know
there are consequences
things that go bump in the night
things that in later years
you strive to make right
things that affect the trajectory
of your haphazard flight.

live your life!
live it free....
but sunshine,
in my class...
if you don' t hand
in your assignments
you heading for disaster
and this is the word.... from
the red ink master.

there is something
so very wrong
with this marble
when a four year old
gets into
the back seat of a car
and asks

mumma,
who is ISIS?
and why do they want to
stab us?

for some reason,
unnown yet
i am sitting here
hot coffee in hand
transfixed by the
memory of a day
lifetimes ago.....

when i took a wrong turn
seeking a small town... and
a cobbler of  soft leather shoes...
instead i found myself
on a bush track, far too
narrow to turn my combi
van around
forced to travel on...
getting further and further
along

until, abruptly the track widened
and the most gorgeous vista
appeared
green grass, sedges and spinfex in waves,
led down to a billabong, eucalypt gums,
ghost and red,
large in size and old in years
dotted the irregular,
ameboic shape

and the water,
so clear, so clear, so clear
reflecting the cloud dusted sky,

to one side the face of a gorge, ochre red rusted
crazed weith black cracks
and green whiskery growths,
on which rock wallabies fed.
unafraid of the big lemoned
wedged combi, who sat
monolithically in their environs.

as  i disembarked,
up from the grass thicket, one thousand and one (i counted) budgerigars alight and took to the wing,
in a swirling mass of
god's whimsical glory.
the sound, a deafening
chirk-chatter and whoosh
as they, in sychron,
wheeled and turned flew over my head and back into  the bush.

needless to say, i never bothered to buy those soft
leather shoes.....

the argent sun,
has chased away
the piccaninny dawn
and is now lazily,
racing the clouds
to the apex of
the bright blue sky.

the dew is drying
on the grass
and the blucat
is seeking his first
triumph over his
lizard foes.

we sit on the back deck
eating a simple breakfast
cereal and toast.
while surveying
the burgeoning wealth
of our vegie garden.
tall shoots of corn,
and tomato vines,
laden with fruit,
just begining to blush red.
lettuce protected,
within their plastic tube forts
and carrots with their wavy
heads....
and overlaying all,
the smell of citrus,
both lemon and lime.
then, the heady fragrance
of the papaya trees
and the passion fruit vines...

we acknowledge,
with thankful hearts,
we  live in a little corner
of eden....
borrowed for a time....

then to break our reverie, the blucat,
drops a squirming skink, tailess,
on the top step
a murps his triumph...
and the kookaburras laugh
.......long and loud

if only
lonely elephants
could
just write postcards
seeking love
then their memories
would be kind
and no longer
would they roam
they if they found
love could set up homes
and live life of sedentary pleasure
would it no be interesting to see
elephants learning the art of
smoking bee's
this could happen, could become truth
only if  we educate minds
to think in abstract lines
and learn to think as
lonely elephants do.

only then and only if...

" I found one Mummy!!!"
says my  just about four
year old boy.

We are on our town green
at the, combined churches Easter Egg Hunt.
This is Tod's first big egg hunt and he does n't quite
seem to have the hang of it.

Tod my boy, who now sits with his plastic egg.  
Happy as can be!!!

"Honey don't you want to go find some more ?"

"Can I ?"

"Why don't you go find one for Nanna & Da."

So off he goes, just about quivering with excitement,
Dad trailing protectively behind.

He comes back with four more eggs, so five in total.

One for Nanna,
One for Mummy,
One for Da
and one for me.

We ask, the obvious,
Tod, who is the last one for?...

It's for her,
he says pointing to a lady, sitting alone,on a park bench
watching the children play.
She is a complete stranger,
to us,  and looks a little bedraggled, not a street person, or drunk, just beyond caring.

"Why her ?"  We ask, just a tad alarmed,(Stranger danger and all that.)
because, " She is all alone and sad, with no eggs
and everybody should have eggs on Easter.

Gobsmacked much!!!.....
Our little man saw to the heart of it.
While we looked at the shell.

We took the egg over to, Anne, for that was her name and asked, if she would join us for a picnic lunch of fish and chips.
It turned out she was travelling through and had broken down .... was stuck till early next week(until her car was fixed) and was missing easter with her family. She had come to the
park, to see children play
on Easter Sunday morn.

As we parted later, with address's exchanged.
She leant over and said in my ear.
"You've done well, such a thoughtful little fellow."

I just beamed through my
welling tears.

Then she walked away.
and Tod gave her his cheery little wave.

disparate thoughts


                     clash

  with butterfly brillance


     resulting in


neonic cymbal synapsual
           clarity

reverberating
          reverberating
                  ­ reverberating
      in my brain

the outcome
                 this inkstain

somedays

  karma is a *****,
     wearing six inch stillettos

and she's dying to dance...
                                    the tango

so today....

    i choose, to step aside
      and let her have her way.

dance on down
            dance on down...

They sit
on the riverbank
on rickety stool
or upturned buckets
elbows resting on knees
hand on rod or simple reel

they sit, they wait
they contemplate
and cogitate

hats on heads
with scrapes and muck and holes
old sandshoes
that have long forgotten
the words white and tennis
shorts or trousers
that sit comfortbably on the hips
and old threadbare shirts

they sit, they stare
into the bright river wake
they take breathes of air
they of the ambience intake

about them is a calm
a stillness, a balm
and tho flys hover
and create bother
there is grace
as they swat
and bat them off
their face

even when they hook
a catch, there is a rhythm
to the fight, of reel and splash
as the duel, to bring the hunted
to heel, be it snagged boot
or that night's meal

they sit,  they stand
rod and reel in hand
and thake a punt
on the aquarian hunt

with net and esky
and can of bait
they sit, they wait
and the world
revolves slowly
to them, there is
something sacred
something holy
about the time spent
on the riverbank

catching fish
catching up to oneself
time given to repent
relinquish, replenish
to reinvent, a soul

they sit, they wait
they contemplate
they consecrate

simple things to holy


these old men who fish
on the riverbanks

an ol man river
watches and  gently
smiles

the night that
max wore his wolf suit
he swore the lycans came
and while he
hid under the bed

they prowled and growled
and howled out his name

but he stayed put
in the furthest corner
of gloom,
paralysed ....
by a feeling of
utter doom

he knew,
he was no wolf.
just boofy bloke wearing
the suit for a goof...

and as to being a hairy
werewolf...
all full of
bloodlust  and scare
he knew his head,
his heart, his soul
would not, could not,
go there....

he was if anything,
an aurilophile....
and would have worn
a cat suit....
but they, the shop of freak.

did not have any in his style,
that, being of the male
persausion.....
they had kitty
and pussycat suits
for all sorts of occasions

they had just rented,
the last tiger
and the lions had
all.... long gone.

so he got stuck
with the wolf
and thought, at the time...

what could go wrong....

now in the hours of
one, two and three...
as the lycan prowled
and yodeled love songs
he knew full well,

what could go wrong...

max and his suit
trembled.along....
waiting for the sunrise
and the light of the day
to make this dogfest,
of a nightmare,

go far far away....

then, in the bright noonday sun
he would go out to the park.

and find a stray dog
give him the suit....
or at least hide it under
a log....

then to the pub,
to down many beers,
put an acholic fence,
between
him and his fears

send the last night,
on down the stream
of all those other
fog filled...
and fuzzy freaken
dreams...

where he was a dog,
a cat or a fly.....
or where he slipped....
off a tigtrope so high

and fell with a splat....

of strawberry jam
to be scraped up from the
sidewalk and into
a jar.....

that was the worst dream
the worst by far.....

so eventually  max,
walked into the bar
ordered a beer,
strolled around for a bit
then sat in the corner......
all naked as a jay.....
or a ***.

cause in all,
the dreaming and scheming.
he had forgot one thing,

to put on some clothes.

so now, the whole
world had,
had a view of both
the front and the rear,
fishing tackle and gear...
and
it was them,
that had something to fear,
for the sight of,
the above
mentioned junk....
had put all who had seen it
into a funk....

for max's **** was a foul mouthed punk....
and as for his ar$e...
a right royal farce

some one had to say...
with courage
so as to save the day...
max ......
for god's sake
and that of my poor sainted
granny....
take this table cloth
and cover your man-*****
then,
take the other
and cover your ***'s face....
you makin my pub
a down right disgrace....

max,
smiling sheepishly,
did as was said
and apologised profusely,
for having lost his head
... and normal,
day to day attire...
took a six pack,
for the road, on the slate
....and went on home
and back to bed...
to meet,
with drunken bravado,
his all hallows fate.....

walking through water
today,
so grey, and humid.
a sea mist earlier,
when the cool of
the night,
danced with cloud,
shrouded sunlight.
a dawn,
vienesse water waltz, delight.

now, just muggy,
like a warm, wet blanket.
making... thought
making...thinking
                        ...soggy
making everything
                       ....soggy
...soggy... soggy..

walking through water,
not wading, walking!!!

when, requisite pains reside
in the heart of the poet.
awaiting release by the gaoloring, racontuer or racontuese reclining, scornfully, within.

it is then, it happens so,
upon the granting of  the id's manumission.
memories, maudlin or immeritous
are rescinded from the bitter, saltfaced mine,
of personal history..

when such are finally granted jubilation,
given proprietary parole,
on, the nib of a pen.

they then, take time,
as of now,
as in the present tense,
to, relieve themselves, copiously, onto to paper....
leaving only an inkstained
jumble of letters,
for you,(those left to toil)
to decipher, as you may.

before on the run for freedom's wind
they go....
like..... lemmings off a cliff.

zeitgeist
yuppiedoms

xanthic
whatsits

vibrate
unabashedly

toot­hsome
salutations

requiring
qualifications

pernickety
officiald­om

nagging
malestroms

leaving
kindness

jaundiced
imoliated

**­rrendous
gargoyles

feign
empathy

disastrous
calamity

boodles
a­tonement

let us speak in tones, hushed,
of mountains and molehills.
benchmarked by
tape measures,
underscored, with concerned apprehension.

for now it is time,
to masticate the elephant
and the roaring lion too.
with silver plated forks and knifes undulled with use.
slap down your grievance on the noritake dinnerware
and partition the proportion, dissect the angst,
and delicately place the rage, between your bloodless lips.
to sit,
ashlike on your scathing tongue.
we will drink,
your aged bitterbile wine,
in leaden crystal goblets.
smile at your witticisms,
however,
humdrum and malign.

and when the elephant,
is but ivory and leather.
and the king of beasts,
but a tattered rug,
upon your floor.

we shall cry jubilee, jubilee,
cry freedom.
our indenture is done.
emancipation now has come.
and we will run, we will run.


it is then,
we will be,
looking at life,
with kaleidescope eyes.
fitted with lenses of love, joy,   and liberty, crystalized within.

we will be,
dancing the fandango,
with robust, rebellious gusto
and singing glory, hallelujah riffs.

and o' there will be laughter
and big broad smiles.
and o' there will be hugging
and much comfort shared.
and the door will be open,
for anyone to come sit
and chatter on for a while.
heaven on earth,
heaven on earth.

so many,
        so, so many stories....
                that remain untold

love hidden within....
                      the shy breast

justice that has yet ....
                           to unfold

joy blooming within....
                                the bud

sadness caught up in ....
                              life's tangles

a new road to forge....

            old steps to retrace....

the recogntion of hope....
   burgeoning in a new place

the light growing dim....
          or the bulb turning on

first words....last words....
and all the words....
        that lie somewhere....
                                in between

within all....
the grain of sand
that can become the pearl

as poets....
we are a voice to the world.