the currency of
grieving is in....

casseroles and soups,
left with notes,
on the back doorstep

flowers, bright, beautiful
and fragant,
delivered by gangling, teenage boys.

awkard silences and cups
of lukewarm tea.
mumbled condolences and
too tight hugs

late night rememberances,
after,
far too many drinks

tears, laughter and
in-house jokes...
photos, stories and 
space for quiet reflection.

these things are...
the dollars and cents
of  grief for a friend

but when all is, said
and done....

i would much prefer
to be penniless,
begging on the street,
with pockets empty
and moths for friends.

the wind sings a song
of howling sadness today
catching at the corners of
the old teak farmhouse

as the sky cries in long
exclamation points
and puddles of loss
form on the ground...

we stay inside away
from the worlds pain
cocooned in warmth


the blucat a sleeping
hearth stone...
me making soup a
nd scones
to the sounds of my clan
the click of knitting needles and building blocks followed by demolition...and laughter

this is love.
this is easy,
everyday love.
under a grey and
brooding winter sky.

60,000 plus young men gone
150,000 maimed
in a war that changed the face of a nation, a world
the never again war...

so many lives changed,
so many familes, left bereft.
so many lives... just gone

today in australia,
we stop and remember.
today, 100 years past,
a war was begun.

and it is only now,
that some ,
of those young men,
out for a boy's own adventure,
are coming home.
after, lying lost,
in foreign fields
and some, now known
will slumber on....

it is a day,
of sad remembering
we pause,
then carry on.

by definition
my love affair with you
was brief

I tried to extend my passion
but alas
I am older now,
what happens
happened

I can say
it was good for me
there were indeed fireworks

and if given the choice
I would again
despoil the sanctity
of my marriage
to be with you

But these things
come along so rarely now
these blasts from the past

it was so good, I must admit
I drooled then and  even now
the remembrance of the act
leaves me wanting more

but it is not to be
once again
you breezed through town
here for just one month
of torrid, fertive,
cladestine meetings
and then you are gone

leaving nothing behind
except the taste of you
on my quivering lips

oh why!! oh why!!!!
can they not just

....put the MacRib on the standard menu...

I will wait for your next return my love
I will wait......

so?
can we start again?did you mean what you said?
where do we go from here?
do you remember ?

what colour is the sky today?wanna come n' play?
whatcha wanna do?
one cookie or two?

have we got enough money?
can we pay the rent?
do you think you can get some more overtime?
what are we going to feed the kids?

does my *** look big in this?
what, you don't have a larger size?
how much for the full make-over?

what does it take to make you smile?
please, stay with me awhile?why are you staring at me?
what can you do?

when the world's gone crazy and all you have is a smile what can a girl do?

just wait a while, be patient
just wait a while
and
if you are lucky the answers may come..... or not.

it's all
up in my head
all  these disparate threads

all these under the bedclothes
secrets
all these don't mean to be
but am what i am moments

all stuffed away in stacked suitcases
braced by not sure what you ,mean faces
all those sacred and scared places
within this wearied, wary and weirdly  warped soul

all the tattered scraps, the you are here, maps
the body slaps, the landings without *****
the god i need a nap snaps
all stacked racked and filed under
memories:
vivid, hazy, pleasant,pissant, piquant,
crazy, tearful, fearful, beerfull
and happy, sad glad mad,
**** why did i follow that there fad
bad...badass
fragile as glass
pain in the proverbial...
ask no questions ....
tell no lies
time flies....

all there bats in the belfry
cats in there pj's
no where, mayhaps be free
listening to internal dj's

dancing til dizzy
drinking slightly fizzy
alcohol.... misty tizzies,
getting bizzies...

all there, in a mixed up soup
smiling faces, put through paces
thoughtful moments, all the components
to make a life....to make a life
it's all up in my head.........
                                                roosting

we sit on the back deck in darkness. amost..... there is a rough circle of glowing embers ........from the mosquito coils and then..... two glowing cat's eyes. we.... my husband and i .....both have the scent.... of...... aeroguard... sprayed heavily on our skin. as we sit in oppressive heat...... ...waiting for the ....gasp... of a cooling.. breeze to come..... the air so moist and warm has brought forth..... ....the frogs ....and we hear......    the .....deep... throated call of the... tree frogs competing...... with the pobblebonk's... ...unique sound. ...even the cicadas..... ....have succumbed to the muggy air... and have ........gone quiet. .....all we hear in the dark is the frogs...... ...reeebert.. and ....pobbblebbBONK... amphibian lothario's crooning away..... ....as we wait for that gasp of cooling air...

reebert............



..... ...    . .pobbble........BONK
pobble BONK
...REEBERT. REeBeRT...RRREEBERT.

hey little one
i see you sitting
over there
on the fringe
of society

i see behind your
smile
to the tears pooling
in the corners
of your eyes

little one...
it is ok to be
so scared
life is a big thing
to undertake

yet you have to
take a step
and join the fray

little one
sitting quiet in
the shadows
waiting for
your spotlight,
your allocated time...
your little ray of sunshine....

little one....
i see you there
waiting to be told
but you gotta
make your own stories
and create
your own fold and creases
in the game of paper
and life's origami  leases

give it time
                 give it time
i promise you, little one
                          you will find  
                                    your way

ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation
    Against thy strength,
    Distance, and length;
Do what thou canst for alteration:
  For hearts of truest mettle         
  Absence doth join, and Time doth settle*


While she sits in her chair
vaguely following the conversation
she also drifts away in time and inclination
to care for the important things we discuss
in many ways she is beyond those cares
her decision has been made
and we but sound and fury
isee she is now more complete
and composed than of recent days
for her there is hope in the path she takes

i cannot begrudge her the choice she has made
as she said her age and medical disposition
means she is already walking that road.

but as daughters do I peer forward even now
and feel the lack of her grace in daily events
Even today as we make plans, her abscence
whilst still being here is a vast gap of darkness
that we all avoid with plattitudes and brightness

In our private hearts we do rail against the
happenstance injustice that befalls the matriarch
we struggle with the alteration to the long march home
we come together to watch as we fall apart in small
and large measures...

In our minds we pledge the best,
in our hearts we pray for speed
We know she has forever etched
herself into our bones and being
but we quietly sorrow at her growing
absence...apart from her memories
and leavingd


 *His mind hath found
    Affection’s ground
Beyond time, place, and all mortality.         
  To hearts that cannot vary
  Absence is present.

there is a door....
eight weathered, slats of wood.
each slat, about four inches wide.

the door has,
in it's upper-right quadrant,  
a small, face sized window,
with,a pale,dove-blue curtain.

this door, has been painted
purple,
the colour, difficult to describe,
tho, reminiscent of shades of
carbon paper, or gentian violet....
deep, vibrant, solid, regal,
intriguing....

the path, which leads to the
door,
is gently curved, across the lawn.

blocked sandstone,
in a mix of large and small stone,
the colours of,
clotted cream and aged parchment paper.
and on either side,
a mix of, blue lobelia and  
happy faced purple pansies.

the door handle is bronze.
large and ornate
and on closer inspection,
is in the form of a mermaid.

the letter slot, etched with
seashells and starfish

at my feet, inscribed into
the top step...
"those who don't believe,
in magic,
will....
.....never find it."* R.Dahl.

and next to this door,
set into the wall.
an exact replica, of what i have just described,
only, nine inches tall

do not know,
who lives,
behind this door....
but i am, so going to find out.

amemini,
semper amandus,
te amica mea,
ego sum amator,
est ductor noctor,
et quod suus 'peregrinos,
in hoc itinere vivendi,

siete amati,
sarai sempre,
amato tu sei il mio amore,
io sono il tuo amante,
l'amore è la nostra guida,
e noi che di pellegrini,
in questo nostro cammino
di vita.

*you are loved,
you will always be loved
you are my love
i  am your lover
love is our guide
and we it's pilgrims
on this our journey of life

running on empty
all outta gas.
all outta,all outta, all outta, gas.

my daddy was a gasman,
well... he drove a petrol tanker
big shiny thing.

that's before he went away,
then my mumma, she done
worked her fingers red raw.
to keep food on the table,
and the roof overhead.

she got us up before dawn,
ready for school and then
we went with and sat,
waitimg on hard hospital chairs,
til the bus  done come and
picked us up, for school.

i was always tired, fore, i got to
school....so by the three thirty bell,
my life was a living hell.

then, we started the long traipse home.
4.5km in a straight line then,
turn left,trudge another 550 metres
and the white picket fence,
gives a welcome home grin.

everyday, i was running on empty.

all outta, all outta, all outta gas

my daddy was a gas man,
til he went away.

my daddy was a... mongerel *******
when he went away.

the little blucat
surfaces from
underneath
the pile of
cat's rugs
and
old towels
shakes his head
and stretches
his creaking old bones
before going to sit beside
his food dish and scolds
the day for being so long
and bitterly cold and wet.

i wait standing at the old metal gate
my soul is tired, it has been a long Monday
then i see you run toward me
that action alone makes
my heart bloosom like
a sunflower,
all bright seeds, turning
toward you,  the sunshine
of my world

..over ....there..    ..... .. .    ...
in the fogged....corner ...     ......of my mind.... ..sits.........
a ragged girl... ..making.. knitted scarfs. ....out of archaic thoughts... of fear and darkness.. ..she knits .. on rusted steel pins....
with sinews of .... scar and ...mis-threaded ... ......thoughts of disdain...the scarfs..... great.............spiderwebb-ed ...........things designed ....not .....for warmth....but to catch ......and.. choke...and.. confound......the ....mind unwary. ...she...... the girl ragged and........unkempt .....plucks
              ......   ..   .fluff..
and ........lintcrap ........and ....feared.. ...sacred.... fuzz. ....then felts and twists it..... ......into ....straggle-taggle, tangled...... twines.......
she is .......the keeper.......... ...of the ..drives..... i.. took.... with my father.... of the nights..... stood upon ledges. .. gleaning courage to stay...or ...to leave same...     courage .....different
                           outcome....
of the ......blackouts.... and ............grey days of the words... ........
.....spoken........................
. ......................unspoken..... that stripped ....my youth... of meaning and life....
and joy... these are the ragged ...straggled......scarfs of memory....
i will not wear.... .
........  .....this is why........  ..... she.........the ragged unkempt .... relic..... of my youth .....resides..... unloved.....
in the ...back... alley..... ............corners of my mind... so that..... ninety five ...percentofthetime.........
i can forget .......
               .....she is there...

....itisthefivepercent.....
                                         like .....tonight ....when she raises her eyes...
     .... and stares me down..... that it is the time...... for the tide ....of regret to run.......... .....for a short while.....
before.. the ebb...of memory.

here sit i
a skalded-babe
at a prison-box of
metal and wood and plaster.

chained for the span
of the elf's glory passing,
i shuffle leaves of wood
from in to out.
i move the hamsterwheel forward inch by inch,
or i runabout in a
runic-neon-field,
with my cheesy,
tailess-rodent, biting
and chewing away,
for the need of budget burning yeilds.

if lucky some snail mail
may come to relieve
the electronic humdrum.
if not,... i suppose,
i can knock on the world wide, spiders-door, enter
the ether-frame...
and see the cat, playing
piano, badly in fortissimo.
or be a mouse-jockey
in the web-led rodeo

then when the elf's are done

home to hearth,
i will run,in the rover of the land.
to sit by whale road on
golden sand.

and go make fodder for
the artisan-sawdust-man and the child.
for us to eat with carrot-comb and steak-stabber
before sitting down
replete,
for a night in with the
zombie-creator.

should i take azoth
to cure my sloth

it may well make
my mind like quicksilver
send me messages from
the mouths of gods
at round about 80wpm
or will it just make my moods mecurial
and put little beads
of silver sweat acroos
my furrowed brow
with it's inherent toxicity

if i take a dose of azoth
or liquid cinnabar.
i may live fast,
but i won't live long...
my old friend paracelsus
tells me "the dose makes
the poison" and in this he
is right.

i might skip the azoth.....
and the cinnibar liquid too
go for coffee instead....
or could just succumb
to sloth and stay in bed.

this is a poem...pre thanksgiving....
and is written for a number
of people on site who will
be either alone....or find the
holiday difficult....for various reasons....
please be kind....and share the love....some are going through....hard times.

i know this lady
a friend of mine
who will sit alone on thanksgiving

to her, in many  ways
this year has been unkind
with death, sickness and
memories that bind....

she still has much to be thankful for and this she
knows....
but the table is lonesome
and the world has lost it's
glow....

at present housebound
or i know...she would go
ease the suffering of others
passing turkey and stuffing
around,
with a kind word and a smile...
for she is known to go the extra mile...

when one thinks....
there are many like this....
many who spend the holidays
adrift....
or lost in a place...hard to find
we are thankful for this day
but don't let the celebrations
get in the way....
reach out in kindness,
and let it be known....
these people marginalized
are not alone....

there is this photo....you see
of pretty much nothing...of
nowhere....at least....
nowhere i know...

the skies are blue, with
a cotton balling of
innoccuos clouds
it seems as tho the weather
would be pleasant there.

there is a gray-blue-rock
covered track, well road, that roughly disects the photo,
beginning right in the centre at the forfront
and then wending off
to the right behind a small hill.
the track would be wide enough for a small car
or cart
but is in the picture
devoid off traffic.

as is it's smaller,
companion walking path, terraced and to the left of the road.
cut about six foot below the road persay

to the right, a spindly tree
of indeterminate species
then, stretching off to the photo's edge,
green grasses, roughly, cropped low by machine
or beast.

to the left, once again below,
the walking path,
a swathe of green
and then, an expanse of water,
loch, lake, river,
i do not know,
but it is wide and slow.
there are no,
watercraft, no birds,
to be seen.

just water,  greenery,  
a spindly tree
and the two tracks,
leading to god knows where and coming from, behind
the lense.

but right now, the ambiguity
of destination, the lonliness
of the landscape are appealing, enthralling, even.

there is a dichotomy,
in the fecund greeness of the grass,
opposed to the, apperent,
barenness of the lake.
and in the disection of the pastoral scene, by man made road, there is disruption,

there is choice.
to, cant to one side,
or the other.
there is choice to, go forth into the unkown.
or to, retrace one steps
on the road behind.

it is a photo,
that while not
bucolic in nature,
is pleasant
that is well framed,

....that is the one...
you take when you
want to finish the roll of film,
or these days fill the memory card...

why it has me,
fascinated at present is ...
it is a photo of somewhere... that is not here...
it is a photo of somewhere...
where, the possibilties are new,untried...not impossible
.......where the grass
.......is greener...where the grass is greener...where the grass is.....

I watch you
on this sultry afternoon
over under the flowering plum

back to the bark,
head bent over your
well loved acoustic,

fingers plucking,
stroking, strumming,
fondling... those strings

and I hear the notes
as they drift on the
breeze...
as I hang the bedsheets
on the washing line

the melody is
sweet, sweet seduction...
foreplay in three/four time

and I see in my mind
what those fingers...
strong, scarred and flexible
can do...
           to places sacred, tender
and oh! so divine...

followed by lips and mouth and all....
divinity sublime  and more....

life is not forced...
.. .a distillation of sorrow
and yet
.....life was the greatest joy
it's own realm ...encased
but not breached....
the joy ...had it's own integrity
not touched by tragedy.

that joy, the measure
and source...spring.
....I remember sitting in rain
and blustering wind...
abiding.... and yoked... to life
this comic tradegy...within.

bright, bright spotlight sun

showing my weakness'
to the world......

i am just days away
from turning.....
older.

and in truth,
meloncholy with it....

this year has stretched,
long and hard with
sickness, accident and death.

and my feet drag,
in self indulgent sorrow.
i should be glad,
to have survived.
i should live my time
with joy.....and  vigour.

but...the empty places
at the table
and the cards...
unsent.....sadden me.

perhaps,
this is just another sign
of the wonky biological
clock that is mine...
that now works
on peri-menopausal time
and this sorrow,
is just hormones and
little baby loves
saying farewell
as they waft
into the never to be....

i am still young,
somewhere within me
full of promise, pleasure
and passion pop...

but, the me
that groans
and creaks
and clicks
as i fall out of bed
to feed the cat...
the child, and the man
then washes the clothes
and goes off to inspire
a class of
bright young things
come home, cooks diner
writes fatuous poetry
while watching tv
before falling back
into the unmade bed

looks upon this weekends
festivities with dread...
and if honest....
would much prefer that it
all be forgotten....or kept low key.....
bah....humbug....
little grumblebug bitten me..
time for another load of washing...

belly to belly
we lay...
recently connected
and entwined
now spent....complete.

lips to lips we murmer
our gratitude...
as you slip from within,
i mourn that small loss
of contact....everytime.

our eyes meet... and speak
worlds of migration,
taken, together....
we have collided again
....and small continents
have shaken and quivered.

lassitude overcomes,
the earlier...longitudinal
display....
and the mountain, sleeps
as the valley cleft.....watches.
we lay...
belly to belly...replete

i want my day,
today,
to be applegreen.
the grannysmith kind,
of apple, big, luscious, beautiful,
sweet but ****...

polished, bright and shining.
just waiting, tempting me,
to take a great crunching
bite.....

and chew, thoughtfully, thoroughly,
extracting all the juice
and goodness.
allowing it to nourish my
body and soul...
eating right down to the core
and seeds....
leaving just the inedible
bits behind.....
to compost and decay.

from the teapot, blue
pours a dark rendolent brew
full of tall stories

the sun shines,
on your little golden-head.

as you and the blucat,
hunt lizards, in the garden.

i sit on the step and watch.
my happines,
overflows
and fills the world,
with a rose-tinted glow.

on the desk,
lies a mountain of words.
peaks and valleys
of thought,
tortured or crafted,
into a landscape.

sometimes rich
and sometimes barren

i and my trusty pen,
Red,
must find trails and pathways,
again and again....

with just coffee and biscuits,
on which to survive.
we must criss cross
these foothills and
mountain peaks.

we search for,
inspired thought
and new ground broken.

i am pilgrim...once again.

the sea mist,
slurs
in drunken lisps.
off the white wave lips
and the wind
takes
the salt an' chinese whispers
away
to the mountain ridge
to meet the clouds
the sea roars it
denial
of all the gossip
sent
and pounds the sand
in frustration...
thus
begins this
discordant day...
forecast  
to end with stormy tantrums.

i think,
my favourite
picture of you,
sue, is the one,
i took, on a whim

it's of you, sitting,
in your back garden.

under the glorious
magnolia tree

it was in bloom
and a carpet of
cream blossoms
were at your feet.
a few scattered,
on the table
and extra seat.
one had fallen,
haphazardley,
in your hair.

you were sat,
in a relaxed, but
thoughtful pose.

the lines upon
your face relaxed,
your body, slack
and comfortable.

one hand holding
a cup of tea.
the other, absently
massaging, the
strawberry blonde
fur, of the big blob
of the cat you loved
so dear.

next to you a pile
of marking,
weighted down,
with a garden trowel
and a scattering of pens.

some herbs and fresh
carrots on the tabletop.

and in the corner
of the frame, lazlo
pointing to the sky.

yes, this is my favourite.

you, all dressed,
in studio black
and that lucious,
steel grey hair.
set against,
the  cream and green
backdrop of
the magnolia tree.


i hope,
you get to see,
those magnificent blooms.
one last time,
my friend.

seventeen slimey slugs,
lay drunk and dying,
in the beer bath.
but not before,
their skullduggery,
had been done,in amongst the lettuce and silverbeet.
now made lacework,
by the snipping of slug teeth.

on the breakfast table
placed carelessly
with great love
in an old busted
coffee mug
a handpicked bunch
of  fresh peonies
still damp and dewy
pale pastel linensilk flowers
crumpled and beguiling
beside, a note
my love is but a garden
that blooms for you..
each and everyday.

world, expect not to much
from me today ....no great song...today...i will just hum
along ....to other's music...

world ask not to much
from me .....no great tree
of wisdom....just perhaps
one sage leaf.....

today world i will not ask
much of you.....a little sun....some exercise...and love...a smile or two...and some blessed quietude....

and when we come to the
sunset.....we can both know
that not all days have to be
big adventures.....
some days can just be small
walks......  on well worn paths.....and there is much in
that.

my insomnia has gifted me unexpectedly
on this pre dawn morning.
i share the beach
with a single sand plover and a large work crew of sandbubbler *****
as they work their spherical graffitti magic.

i expect if i thought long enough,
my mind may make the practical connection, between the darting and bobbing of the stiff stilt,
red, legged bird
and the hyperalert scurryings of soft shelled, orb infatuated, crustaceans.

but, i prefer to play peekaboo witb the sun,
as it peeks it's sleepy rotound rim over the rippling bedsheets of the ocean's horizon.
eyes blinking, crafting opulent dusky lavenders and apricot oranges,
that meander lazily across, the brightening skybed.

i am alone on the beach until,
the next soul comes
this is my kingdom.
i stand firm and
breathe the tang of salted lands.

there is a deep silence
in my soul,
which i take to be completeness.
with neoteric expectancy and unchained exuberance,
i turn and run along
the firm sand's, edge of the high tideline leaving fading, ephemeral footprints
behind me,
scattering the little crabworkers every
which way.
i run in rhythm with the crashing waves
and we eat up the sand
until i am spent.

i sit and watch as the riders of the wave arrive.
their lithe young frames silhouetted by sunlight,
they stand at ten feet tall.
i wave and hand my kingdom over to the knights on fibreglass coursiers.
they mount their steeds
and begin the morning's tidal hunt,
for the perfect wave

It saddens me
No end
that due to
HARSH WORDS
and unremitting lies
I have lost a friend
Screamingnighthog
was and hopefully
will be again,
a poet who supported
and helped grow many
writers, with generous comments
And an open and welcoming heart

I do not believe he is perfect,
But nor do I believe he;
MASQUERADED as beryl dov
or anyone else for that matter!

I  write this hoping others join
with me in supporting him and
letting him know he is APPRECIATED
and  not in order to denegrate anyone else.

I miss his poetry....

in the corner of my left eye
i feel the blooming  of
a migraine begin
occluding all reason

nailing pain to my brain
and causing civility to flee before the tornado wrath
of assualted sysnapses
time becomes distorted
like algea in a summer pond
the verdancy of the ache
looks pretty
yet underneath i suffocate

the time of darkness
begins...
to bloom like a carrion flower....

it is time my friend
to put my thoughts
on paper...
to write you

what my tongue denies
what my heart screams
in the middle of the night

it is time to speak in
the words etched upon
my bones
to give light to this
seed with in my soul

even as the ink blots the paper
my fears rise, and my courage quivers
to give this entity the substance
of words

is to give it the power
of freedom or destruction
but I am weary, so weary
from carrying its burden
through this long peroid
of gestation, I am beyond
beyond trying to carry
this thing with grace
and have now become
a lumbering leviathan
treading heavily through
each day,not evolving
or creating, just barely exsisting

So, if it be freedom,
there will be relief
if it be destruction
there will be release

No more dallying,
No more delay

You left, You died

leaving us behind
no recompense
no answers
just a ***** room
and unpaid bills
You, You, walked
out of life,

without
finishing the conversation
without
any explanation
without
care for others
without
thought for self

You told us nothing
You hid your hurt
till it was to late
till...it..was..too..too late

And tho
I WILL LOVE YOU
til the end of my days

Now,  I  hate....

I hate you are not here
I hate that I did not see
I hate that you did not ask
I hate the incompleteness
of it all

So my friend, I write
this to you...
then make it into
a paper boat
that I set on
the waters
before
lighting
it afire
in
the hopes
it will
bring
freedom

in the cold puddles
concentric rings play tag
with the sky flannelled in
shades of grey, soft from
the wind and granite from
the anger of shouted thunder
arguments, the tree's shake
losing what little cover
they have left and stand
stark naked and dripping
on the muddy floor.
the river flows high and
unchecked vomiting brown
bile and wreckage out into
the sea, only for it to become
a puzzle of detrius on the beaches edge
leaving junkheaps and carcasses for
treasure hunters to find....
and still the puddles play
tag with the cold and weeping sky

you were my yesteryear.
when you ruled,
as the pop-**** queen,
atheletic and cool.

me,i was one of the
weird, vibe tribe.
theatre mad, and
a library hound.
you barely knew,
i was around.

but we lived in,
a small, small town
and you,
dated my brother
so you only, iced me gently.

it was surreal,
truly dali-esque.
to see you today...
i would not,
have known
you....
so faded, grey..and overblown.

we have all got older,
but the years,
have...
mugged you
and left
you beaten, battered
and low...

you tell me
you were done,
with living,
about two husbands ago.


and now just plod
through, each day,
willing the dark grey
to swallow you whole.
staying, living only for
your son Tim.
you say all this,
while ,
heavily, perspiring,
pure gin.

you cry and the tears,
run down the cracks
in your leathered,
over-sunned skin
and down to pool,
on your blowsy breast,
clad in ***** pink polar fleece.

my heart, curls in pity,
for you have fallen far.
as you sit and drink,
gifted coffee, talk about
when you were the star,
the brightest, prettiest,
flame by far.

and as i leave you,
sitting, dejected and depressed.
there is a little, heartfelt shame, in the fact,
that throughout
our untimely meeting,
i could not recall your name.

the art of mercy,
is not a hard thing,
to learn...

like pontilism,
you start...
with one small dot,
one act of kindness,
a smile, a word, a change
of heart,
to this add more,
build a picture of caritas....
shaded with compassion
and thoughtful deeds.

paint then, a new canvas
using, broad strokes of time
and heartfelt tears....
be magmanimous,
with colour,
care and altruism,
be bold and brave
with actions,
that come from
your need,
to see this world
as a legacy of love....

then, when you have mastered that,
take up your pencil
and draw,
in fine lined, forbearance and clemency,
a self portrait of forgiveness,
for we all need mercy....
and reminders,
to be of a heart most merciful...

then take your palette,
and new found skills
and become
an artist....
of the street,
teaching, giving showing mercy
at every turn or bus-stop,
every street corner....
under bridges, in tall towers
scrawl mercy, on walls
and sidewalks....
paint the town....
                   paint the town.....

the art of mercy....
               is simply,
                             beautiful,
               to behold,
                             at work,
               it changes,
                           just about,
               everything......
for the better...

elephants have memories
long,
to my way of thinking,
that must be hell!

imagine, remembering
in detail,
fine and complete.

the days of your life.
beginning at number one,
when all slippery,
slimed and mucked,
you were forcibly expelled,
into a world, of hard knocks.


image, each stumbling step
as you grew,
each slur,
each pointed arrow flung your way,

first fall, first hit, first miss
first kiss and all the desperation, set between.

and then,
you hit your teens.
emotionally bruised and battered
and running for the bell
placing 563rd  in the
contest of popularity.
trying new styles of clothes, dreams and personalities.
hormones raging, momma texing, paging,
virginity flexing
and all the other
****** bluff...guff....stuff
..."hell yeah i can never get enough"

finally you get to remember,
the grown up stuff.
projects due, bills to pay,
finding somewhere half decent to stay, grocery lists,
other people constantly ******,
in a it's all your fault kinda way.
deadlines,
diminishing lifelines, standing in unemployment lines,
waiting to pay a fine lines,
playing mine or yours in
your divorce foray.
and honest to god,
thats just the day to day
k-rap.
living low and *****
until the next pay comes along.

ok, there would be,
indeed some,
remembered joys,
some flowers,
among the weeds.
but thats mere fodder
and seeds,
for a better poem .....
written on a better day.

so finally you are old.
you are so, over it!
all creak and cracks, pills,
bad backs and bengay..

not to mention, the teeth
that sit in water glass smiling away,
all night.
on the table bedside.
that my friend, is just not right.

you are counting down the days, the hours...
watching.....home and away.

til one day,
you make the mortal coil's end...
and your shift is done and dusted.
bucket kicked,
daisies planted,
dirt kissed....
                  .....recalled.

all that.... and ba-jillion more
memories looking for time
on the elephant's mammoth mind - memory  dancefloor.

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....
                             once more,
one last time, one sip of,
your aged bitterbile wine,
in leaden crystal goblets.
smile at your witticisms,
however, humdrum...
                            and malign.

and then,when the elephant,
is but ivory and leather. 

and the king of beasts,
now, but a tattered rug....
                     upon your floor.

we shall cry....
                          jubilee, jubilee, cry freedom. 
our indenture is finally 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...

perched on the cusp of disaster
looking down into oblivion
but sit we here, safe and sound
in our box of bulletproof glass

watching fireworks explode
and planting landmines
of despair in the land of the free
and sometimes fair

spouting words into air
of greatness and fear
ignoring the lost and scared
counting down the hours
til we can count the money
from over on the otherside
of the world this long ago
stopped being funny

now I can see some say
stop throwing stones
cause your houses is glass too
and your place has lost it's happy day glo

and I say back...yes this is true
we dropped the crystal ball
and are picking up a thousand pieces
and looking for some super glue

but for the moment lets get back to you
perched there, on the edge of disaster
looking down the throat
of a beast ravenous,
with the ethics of a goat
wanting to create some mythical wall
and some mythical moat

his maw cavernous
his need and greed ravenous
down here whilst playing at jigsaw
we watch the polotical beast bloat
and we  kneel and pray,
that his speech is just rhetoric
and this world don't fall
into war .....
as he cries wolf speak words
of the morally bankrupt
and compassionate poor
and his words of greatness
grate and draw, tears of sadness
from those cleaning up the gore