from the nest in the eaves
of the great house,
the little bird
could see.
a sky, blue and flannel grey,
a big ball of sun,

the tips of the tree tops,
down through the branches
and trunks
down, down, to the ground.
where they are bound
to the earth,
by knotty rope roots.

she, the little bird,
could watch the people,
hustle and bustle and
sometimes, but not often dawdle, on the street.
all chirupping and chirking
away.

she could see the horses
and the carriages, going
this and that way.
the dogs that, bark as they
play

she could see all,
the neighborhood cats
as the well-fed,
basked away the day
and the mangy old stray,
hunted for rats..
yes, she kept a close eye,
on all those sneaky cats.

but, what she liked
to watch, best,
what piqued her curiousity,
as she sat on her nest.

was the interior of the bedroom, across the way.

for in there, was a fascinating sight, of
a glamourous lady who had all manner of
wonderful things,
gloves of velvet and
lace and calfskin leather,
fans of painted paper
or finely carved wood,
corsets with whalebone stays
and finest linen underwear
buttons and baubles,
trinkets and geegaws...
strings of pearls and
glittering things..
a parasol, peach-pink satin
to shade her face from sunlight.

but for all of this...
the glamourous lady
came often undone
and sat weeping
on the window seat.

the little bird who lived
in the eaves,
did not envy the lady,
who for all her things
so pretty, was unhappy.
and who so often, grieved.

for the little bird,
knew how to be
content with her lot.
with her nest of straw,
her two little eggs.
she needed no more
than that...and a
view of the street....
so she could see
all those sneaky n' sly cats

perhaps there is a lesson
just there, in that.

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

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

walk the happy walk.
win the useless prize.

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

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

the future is bright,
for some if not all.

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

on our way home
driving through driving
rain and sleet
soft rock eighties mix
saving us from talk
Lazlo sitting in the back
lost in himself.... he has decide to travel for awhile
and is borrowing our R.V.

he closed up the house,
fostered out the indoor plants, gave the garden care
over to neighborhood friends, the carkeys too.

it has been a long battle,
and he just needs time...
that is not accountable to
anyone.
he has agreed to touch base
once or twice a week... but
other than that, he has no
plans.
l have to believe he will be okay... a good sign is he has packed his cameras and  laptop so will continue to
film and write as and when he can.

we ben and i are aching to see our boy tod....he grows
moment to moment these days

we are coming home....
driving through driving
rain.

the thought comes to mind
laz is running away from
a broken home, hoping to leave grief behind....

you are home,
hungry, tired and
disheveled.
after, a week away.

my world
is once again
complete...

my heart sighs
in quiet relief.

you
      walk
            naked
                  and dripping,
from
      the shower
                      
and stand,
             as i covet
                         your
                              absolute

beauty and magnificence.

ardent desire,
               raises goosebumps
on
   my skin,
             as lust
                    lights the fires.

your
     eyes,
         rake over me
                      and i am left
quivering....

we come
         together, with    
              mouths full of greed,
lips of desire,
             skin so tender....

that the touch
              of fingertips,
                   scorches and sears.

but burn, we must
             and burn, we will.

as we ravenously, take our fill

gorging,
           feasting,
                      devouring,
                      ­              desire.

this is our .....
      love's funeral pyre.
                      from which
the phoenix,
        each day arises...
             ...more incandescant.
to await...
          with longing
               fervent and asmolder
          
the next match's
                   striking to love's
                           lusterous fire.

god, ya gotta
love the honesty
of children

overhead
from the backseat

"your mum is fat"

"yeah but it's ok
she's  mostly happy
and i love her"

The scent of honeysuckle rests
lightly on the night breeze,
rendolent memories beguile me.

My grandparents stealing a kiss
on an old white garden seat,
his knotted fingers carressing
her weathered skin
with a tenderness that
takes her breath,
they whisper to each other
like children with a perfect secret
....long life, lived in love.

The breeze allows another,
hint of sweet nectar,
I am surrounded by the sound of bees,
wings vibrato,
greedily harvesting ambrosia,
I stand between eons,
not in fear but awe.
at the simplicity of it all.

One more fragrant breath,

I turn to my man
and whisper,
I promise to you eons.

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

the tiny rainbows captured
in drops of dew on emerald leaf

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

the grace of small birds as they commute

the song of the humble bumble bee

the energy in a grasshoppers legs

the mathematics of the small cat
sleeping curled in upon himself

the reassurance of my love's heartbeat

the smell of sea and salt

the warmth of sunkissed rock

the tick of the old hallclock

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

coffee in my hands, toast in my belly

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

today I celebrate these small things
and more

today I celebrate,  
become inebriate
on miniscule minutia

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

it is the frayed string
of hope
that sustains a shattered
mind
hope floats,

a little walnut boat
set upon the darkest  of seas

hope sees the dawn in the
deepest part of the night

hope sustains
hope maintains
hope remains
hope endures

that ember of grace, that ember of grace
endures, ever-ready to be coaxed into a flame

sometimes hidden deep within
but never absent, never absent
always wanting, wishing to be found

awaiting planting in fertile soil
taking nutrients in growing,
stabilizing  fragile ground

hope is life
life is hope

hope is knowing both flower and ****,
have purpose, that of both we need
flower for joy,
**** for silent comparision

hope loves both,  gritty or beautiful  
have place within a heart willing to grow
for as it has been said before:
by poets far better than me.

you do not see the dawn,
with out the darkness
of the night...

hope floats
on the gossamer wings
of beautiful dreams
and stings sweetly, exquistely so,
with thoughts of better things.
as you sit, quietly and cry

hope is, undeniable,
to believe you have none;
is like, holding your breath,
eventually,
you have to come undone and take....
a great gulping mouthful
of fresh air.

we all hope, we all breathe,
waiting for, something
on wings of gossamer,
to alight and  let us live anew......again.

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

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

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....

.
                                    how is it?
you only live once.
but you can die,
a thousand deaths.

                                    how is it?
i can be blinded,
by your beauty.
but beauty is
in the eye,
of the beholder.

                                    how is it?
that i live,
only for you.
but i live,
to change the world.

                                    how is it?
love is a,
battlefield.
but love is,
life's refuge.

                                    how is it?
you loom large,
in my eyes.
but you make,
the big things,
seem small.

                                    how is it?
that to you,
i am a queen.
but to me,
i am love's
fool... lost.

                                    how is it?
history repeats,
itself.
but you are,
my first truelove.

                                         how....
*how...

the length of the write....
varies with the vagaries
of the topic and  type.

the time taken,
is often time....
forsaken,
forgotten,
forgiven.
a pause,
a rest.
stolen,
from a busy life.

the inspiration,
the notion,
the intonation.
sometimes,
a slow burn....
sometimes
a conflaguration

for me,
there is no formula.
no ritua.
just a pen
and a scrap of paper.

for me,
it is a brain,
just letting go,
giving up....
word flow

flotsam and jetsam
driftin along,
caught in the framework
of  creative phenom....
and given to me,
as i wander along.

thats why
punctuation,
does not figure.
just workin,
the beauty of
the words.

stitchin rhymes with
non, appros, de rigueur.

making words dance
on sprained syllable ligaments.
******* with thoughtful
ligatures.
spread with inspirational
linaments.

not needing,
the lime light.
but wanting some
bright candle work,
for to illuminate,
the process of the precepts,
to the multitudinal few...
who see through...
the intricate footwork,
to the stumbling
fatigue underneath....

sometimes long
and wordy,
sometimes succinct
and brief

but always, always,
with purpose...

sometimes mine
but often left
up  to you...

the reader.

thats how i do.....

how is it?
that,
after all these years.
your lips
still taste of
that scrumptious
gingered pear panacotte,
the dessert we shared
on our first date.

how is it ?
after all this time.
your eyes still,
shimmer and shine
with the reflection
of the turquoise sea,
that we first swam
in together on our
second date.

how is it?
after years,
have come and gone,
you still maintain
that wonderful.... facsination,
you have with the
hollowed dimple
behind my left ear.

how is it?
that now,
as we get older in years.
you have become so
much more than
handsome.

that now, your voice
spoken to my skin,
can set my heart a trembling.

no my lover,
you do not
misconstrue
my meaning,
my desire.
but then,
my love
our secret is
that you never have.

how is it,
after all
these years.
you still love me
so.....
it is the same reason
that i love you?

that when,
we first began,
we knew,
that our days
of  searching...
had just ended.
that we,
had found a love
worth spending,
a lifetime,
crafting and sculpting it
into true and lasting
happiness.

that is how...
with that,
unwavering belief,
we remain together.
not bound,
but free of will
and full of love....
together.

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...

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

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

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

we walk the path
set before us
admitting
we walk
into the known
and comfort of
affability
just once
i would like
to
explore
new worlds
some not so bright
and beautiful..

to tresspass in
an unkown jungle
of acerberic words
and roaring truth
would be and adventure

to kayak down
the rapids of
neighborhood insanity
would be a refreshing
thrill....

but once again...
we walk politely
in single file
around the zoo...

all well manicured
all maintained
secrets locked
within gilded cages

will that be one sugar
or two...
and keep off the grass
now.....that means you...

when i want
to build a wall.
i take the stone,
formed by,
anger or hurt
from my gullet.

wash it, so it's
dark facets shine.
then place it,
in the footings,
of my insecurity.
find another and repeat
til they form a line.

using as my mortar,
pain, embarassment
and indignation in equal parts.
mixed with tears and bile.

and then, i begin again
buttering bricks and
offsetting, them.
i want, no need,
my wall to be strong.

tho i never build,
my walls too high
three or four courses,
never, no more.
i want to be able to,
step over them
and be free

i have seen those
and watch them still,
thoese who, built a high, formidable wall,
a fortress, it does become,
with them, still locked, imprisoned inside.

so i learnt to build,
walls strong, but squat
so i can,
when ready,
emerge.
righteous and graceful.

but this is my folly,
the flaw, in my scheme.
my walls, they run
*****, nilly, everywhere.
and over them i trip
**** over beam..

so now...
i must find a school
to teach me the art
and give me the tools,
of how to deconstruct a wall.
with out the haphazard use
of a wrecking ball.

let go the words
like seeds,
to the vast and
windblown
sky

let them settle,
where they may.
some may flourish,
take root and be...

a happy little flower,
a great oak tree.

some may lay dormant,
until the right season.
some may become,
a life's new reason.

some may fall
to ravening birds
some may fall
ans flourish
yet never be heard.

and sadly some may
wither and die...
without ever understanding, why....

we as poets,
truly are,
just the sowers of seeds.

to the winds....
to the sky,
let your words go,
let them fly...
to some say, adiue
see you soon.
to some goodbye.

but let them be...
borne on the wind
...to make poetry

it was pushing toward the midnight hour
here was me
struggling with words gone sour.
in to the lazee boy
i go to sit and "read".
turning on the light beside me
when looking to the ceiling
a shadow play in progress
i see...
a little bug being hugmugged
by an inky dinky foe
this little bug he fought
back he tried so....
very hard to leave the dinner table
but the inky dinky spider was more than able.....
to rug n tug the poor little thing,
into his pantry to...
marinate until spring.
so hugmugged snugrugwrapped spiderzapped
was the little bug
little mr inky dinky
was proper impressed with himself
as he confessed
to friends later at the pub that little bug
almost had me...
he had the heart of a grub.

Little words,
little thoughts
Nothing
of great import.
Not
life changing
or even life, rearranging.
Just a
whisper
in my ear.
Makes the
moment
far les drear
Gives me
comfort
Clears
the mind.
Lets me know  
we are one,
standing together,
creating life,
a forever
Just begun.
All the
little words
will run together, become a hum,
like bees in
a hive
we have a goal
making
sweet honey,
staying
alive.
Little words
Will let us thrive

the days heat
and the langour
of loves sweet makings

has left me
                    undefined
       descriptively
blurred
                ..water
puddled upon
       a
         raked...  
            .....stage
falling
       slowly
            waterfall
                       graced

into
the orchestra pit

of lassitude's blissful embrace

.............
            ........
and in the wings
my little girl self
giggles at the whimsy

as the band plays
"summertime
..... and the livin is."

sublime...

                  
                .....to the prime...

i am,
the spoon left in
the icecream bowl.
i am,
the towel on the
bathroom floor.
i am,
the toys in the cupboard
and more.
i am,
the vase with bright flowers.
i am,
the left over lasange
in the fridge.
i am,
the dinosaur doona
that snuggles your boy.
i am,
the bedhead that
watches you sleep.
i am,
the old clock
on the mantle,
wonky time i do keep.
i am,
cotton and lace knickers,
jocks and striped socks,
jumbled up in a cedar drawer.
i am,
toothbrushes and bathplugs.
i am,
the tattered, striped hall rug.
i am,
pictures of two, then three.
i am,
the couch, the oversized tv.
i am
the desk and the books.
i am
the mirror that looks
old and faded.
i am,
art projects, created
and afixed on the wall.
i am,
coffee table
and
featherstone chair,
none too stable.
i am,
walls of teak
and roof of
colourbond steel.

i am
house and home
and if i could speak,
well, it would be
downright surreal.

i am,
comfort and warmth.
i am,
refuge and rest.
i am,
old and creaking.
i am,
heaven blest.

i am,
haven,
from lifes storms.

and i am  more,
you made me
this way,
with love,
you and yours.

i can write you love poems
on parchment cream.
i can sway, and dance
through a moonless night
i can undress us both in
sweet slow torture
i can whisper loving words
in your ear
and write hot sultry nothings
on you skin,
with my burning, hungry
tongue
i can make you shiver, moan
and beg
i can stroke your manhood
til you can no longer stand
i can give you entry,
time and time again,
to my soul.
i can give you,
fast and *****
or, slow and trantric
love in so many ways,
i can take you,
to the brink, of madness
and back again.
i can keep you in my bed
for hours and days.
i can with love
unpick your seams
i can mix our essences
and make a new being
a godlet of love, hope
and daily joy.

i can and do and will do
all this....

again and again.

but sometimes all you want
is a bite of my toast a kiss and
a smile...

i can do that too...

love is...
sometimes,
complex
and
sometimes,
simple....
but mostly
it is somewhere,
in the middle.

he, perched upon,
the swing's
seat.
like
a little bird, just,
waiting,
waiting,
for some-one to,
give him a gentle push.

and then he could arc,
back and forth,
by himself,
and
fly up into the clouds.
laughing in joyful
fear,
and exuberation.

but,
until then, he perched,
waiting,
waiting.
dreaming, of  unfettered
flight.

i see you
run and leap
off the cliff-head
and plummet down

only to stretch your wings
and fly, skimming across
the white capped waves
before majestically  rising
into the endless sky

you are beyond me now
all potential and life for living
courage incarnate, dreaming large
and ineffable technicolor  dreams

yet to be broken,
or touched by brokeness
your light pure and shining

god, i envy you, but, yet
i don't want to be you...


i, too
once made that amazing leap
into nothingness
with the same grace and confidence..

but that was my journey
this is your day....your life

and icarus's all,
as you make your way
to the sun,
remember this
there is but one thing
that burns more brightly

and that thing is...

feet cold
even in the
thickest socks

not used to
mountain weather
years in temperate climes

have softened my ability
to suffer silently
i feel ancient as  i walk
about, muttering....
too cold, too cold

the little heater
working overtime
but doing naught
mocks me with it's
white noise rattle

hot showers are great
til you have to leave
the steamy warmth

bed is the warmest place
so we, all  are in it ...
like puppies in a box

too cold, too cold

If my cat could open the front door,
A lion he would be, roaming his savanah, stalking prey

If my cat could speak,
The words of wisdom would pour from his jaw,
sage advice and secrets galore.

If my cat could open the fridge door.
He would in heaven be,
a gourmand in a tatty fur coat.

If my cat could empty his own litter box .....
I would be ever so grateful, ever, ever so grateful.

it is in these last few
moments of my day
when the house is quiet
and my boys,
big and small...are asleep.
when all the daily
chores are done
and it is time for,
one last cup of tea...

i often sit,
silently by the big,
bay windows and watch
the moonlight dance,
upon a silvered sea.

and see the owl,
swoop down and take a small mouse morsel,
from the ground.

or watch the possums scamper down,
to steal the petals from
a flower and delicately, nibble away...

it is in these,
silent moments.
that i pinch myself....
and sigh in relief...
that i am not some,
poor sad woman. ....dreaming
of this beautiful life
i am so blessed, to be living....

then i check my baby boy,
once more....
kissing his little head...
and slide into my bed,
to curl myself about,
the man i am enamoured of.

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

It would talk of
calm acceptance,
of things unchangeble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For that i have you
my love.

sometimes i forget
the beauty of my life
when struggling with
issues
when locked into gear
when busy is only my
morning cup and the rest of the day frantic
when weary and fatigued
my socks and shoes
i forget that there are colours beyond black, blue
and beige.

and then you come knocking
on my hearts door...with
a bunch of red,orange yellow and pink gerberers
and a goofy smile.

and i remember my soul
and the goodness within..
and i remember your soul
and the goodness within
and then i look at the world
and love the beauty,
and the tragedy too.

and i smile ......
at the potential
of the world
within all it's craziness
and me within it
within all my craziness

and i think, time to get on
with it.... no one else can

I guess...
it is too late,
to become a gymnast.
too late to get up
before the sparrows rise,
take myself to the gym
and hurl my slim, svelte, sleek
gymnast's body about on apparatus

too late to tape my ankles and feet.
too late to slip into shiny unitards.
too late to covet trophies and medals.

I know...
it is too late....
my knees tell me so...
every morning!

I guess...
it is too late,
to become an astronaut,
to encapsulte myself
in a small rocket.
shoot myself into
the stratosphere
and look down in awe
upon the blue planet.

too late to deal with training.
too late to get myself fitted
for the baggy astro suit.
too late to be given the bubble mask.
too late to feel the awkward gracefulness of no gravity.

I know....
it is too late...
my knees tell me so
each and every morning...


thank goodness...
it is not too late,
to be able to dream.
to forget arthritic knees,
in delirious early morning dreams.

to believe these things are beautiful.
to know hope and glory, even if only
in the moments when you are yet to
awake to this days humble grind.
to live other lives..... if only..... momentarily.


I guess....
and I hope....
there will always be...
time space for that.

I know there will
my knees tell me so.....

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

sitting in the sun,
with double-shot latte,
cooling in my hand.

i watch, a gangling youth, barely yet, a man.
fold his heart,
into a paperboat
and set it sail,
on the sea of  love.

destined for a young
maiden's land.....

he sails forth,
on the winds of hope
and mooning, soulful  looks.

she oblivious,
to his approach.
engrossed, in the book
at hand....

will they meet...
their hearts entwine,
will fates allow...
this sea of love is large...
will they love...
this, i will not, ever know.
...they, are not students of mine..

just two,
of  several thousand,
...that sit in the sun and dream...

but that moment,
when he...launched
his ship of hope
and lust...of the wanting,
youthful kind...
....o, my lord... that look....
love caught...in the,
totality, of it's prime.

hot,still,torpid air
made stagnant,
by stifling, sultry heat.

we sit shattered,
sapped, silent,
on the back deck,
drinking beer,
sweating salt water.

watching the distant
scrubfire smoke, feed
into the heavy,
green-black storm clouds
on the mountain's ridge.

the cat shifts, with the rays
of broken sunlight, a grey shadow,
on the teak deck.

my son cries listlessly
and then returns to his nap.
the sound of sport and
energy drifts, distorted
from nana's anexxe.

we sit effete
on the back deck,
drinking beer,
quiescent in anticipation
of rain

Another year passes.
with fireworks and
beach bonfire
The smell of  saltwater
and champagne
My partners arms about me
Watching my son running with sparklers leaving a trail of white light behind him
I reflect on that
year  just past
as mostly good but a little dark 8
in places
and hope for better
in the up coming one

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

Last week...

Last week, I lost my alarm clock
with it's murp and bop and purr

I had this clock for twelve long years
through feast and famine....
joy and sorrow....
crazy days and long dark nights....

For the most part it was a reliable clock
waking me morning after morning
with love and honest hunger...ready
for the day to commence
Although it often  stutter started,
through the daylights savings changes
and sometimes felt the same way I did
about cold frosty mornings
but it was a good clock...
a good, good clock,
inbuilt with joy and warmth
and a persistence. ..
that made me face the dark days
and love the days of sunlight and nonsense

All the recharging it ever needed
was love and sunshine
the occasional scratch under the chin
and a full food bowl, whenever requested

Last week, I lost my alarm clock,
with it's murp and bop and purr

This week...for the first time... in a long time
I can sleep in.....
and I don't much care for that... at all....
                                                                       ...at all.

High tide ebbs away
Leaving surprised immigrants
In temporary accommodations.
Awaiting the next surge out.

along the lace-edged surf
I walk looking for message bottles
but today the sea is silent

there is, a swarm of
bumble bees
making, a hive of
lucsious, loveliness
in my  honeycombed
brain.
they bring, with them,
golden pollens and
nectared ambrosia.
from many places,
exotic and plain
and this,
these, very words.
are the sweet honey,
mumurings,
they produce.

table grain
worn to
soft smooth flannel
under many hands
bleached, bleached
to opaque memories
of tree

stories held within
each cell
birds at nest
leaves in flight
each year
slow deaths
new lifes

now repository
of tableware
keeper of daily cares
slab of timber
dressed and washed
bleached, bleached
still somewhere within
the memories stir
of breeze and rain
the touch of feather and fur

tea ring stained,
and portwine blurred
babies teeth marks
gnawed into wood...

taken from place to place
granfa's table, time for grace
grace and memory
clear the table time for tea

do I remember these things clearly
or is this just fantasy

table grain
worn to
soft smooth flannel
under many hands
bleached, bleached
to opaque memories
of tree

stories held within
each cell
birds at nest
leaves in flight
each year
slow deaths
new lifes

now repository
of tableware
keeper of daily cares
slab of timber
dressed and washed
bleached, bleached
still somewhere within
the memories stir
of breeze and rain
the touch of feather and fur

tea ring stained,
and portwine blurred
babies teeth marks
gnawed into wood...

taken from place to place
granfa's table, time for grace
grace and memory
clear the table time for tea

do I remember these things clearly
or is this just an ingrained fantasy

i have an obsession,
at present
with the concept
of
ink to paper.

the embodiment of
imbuing fibreous materials with tinted liquid,
by way of sharp pointed etching,
in flurries of creative osmosis,
to create,
imprinted strokeplay
is to me fascinating.

perhaps i need to practise
the art of calligraphy,
but my penmanship,
the epitome of
the word illegable,
makes that thought
a quixotic notion.
not worth pursuing,
unless this is my
opportunity to
tilt at windmalls.

it may end badly.
but so what,
sometimes,
that is the fun of finding
out the parameters of
ones limitations.

back to ink
and paper
told you
i was obsessed

brain to ink
ink to paper
paper to eyes
eyes to soul
soul to sky
sky to rain
rain to tree
tree to mill
mill to paper
paper to poet
poet to brain
brain to ink
ink to paper

the inklings creep
in the  black indigo
depths of this dark
moon ridden night

they ooze over, down,
around the furniture of
this shadowless room

eye cannot see them

but heart knows

they are there watching,
waiting, dripping
blackness on the carpet

there is
no where
to hide
on a night
like this
one may
fight
but most
succumb
thinking
nothing's
amiss

the inklings come
and brood on nights like
this

the inklings come and come
and come.