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

In my heart,
a road travelled, enough,
but still overgrown and walked
in pensive  solitude
leads
to a green field of stones
that looks out over white chopped seas

To here I come when my soul is
perplexed beyond belief
when my heart is torn and bruised

This is my field of ragecand grief
where I stand and howl at injustice
beat my breast at lifes inequity
and weep slow salted tears of regret

Today again I come to my field of fallen friends
and etch your name ernesto,
the ded poet, who lived a thousand lives

And I rage and rampage, and set war in my heart
against the gods who took this voice,
this warrior this talent....friend.... and father.

But all is sound and fury set to the wind
to be dispersed as froth and rain...

As my soul quiets, my tear fall softly,
thinking on your moons, your love,
for them, and you love for your life...

Too soon, for you to go...
but the words, you have given them
and us, as well are jewels, cut and faceted
treasures for the darkest of nights.

somedays I sit
on the edge of sanity
feet dangling in a ocean
of the deepest black water

somedays I stand on the edge
of reality
willing myself not to leap
into the clouds of depression
that float by

somedays I lie in bed
whispering the mantra
circling in my head

I am not here,  I am not here,
                                                    I am not here....

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

3:39 in the a.m.
                   bats call,
cat yowls,
          dogs bark,
                                 partner,
                     snorts,
            snores,
                 ...  . farts......
grandma shuffles to toilet.... .... flushes.
             baby whimpers......
..... or was that me,
         a glass of warm milk to.......................helpmesleep
a dribble.... of scotch to help        .....me sleep
                         a mix of both to help me cope
              no just breath
partner,
             snorts
                      snores
                                 farts
...............must make......
Drs appt for him.
    
  sleep
that knits the
                  ravelled sleeve?
not tonight
           for me
                I do believe.

4.19 in the a.m.
                         To thelazyboy
                 I go to doze.....
perchance ....
                   40winks more
80winks before
          dayshift specialbeautifulcrazy               ....        .....   dayshift begins..  
      DOUBLE SHOT LATTE           .                   PLEASE.               .
...already it is a long day...

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

Tis a poem
that comes from
a slow brain
today
Van Winkle
murmurings,
muttering,
postulating
creativity
as it
settles
further
further
down
into the
crevices
of wrinkled
wretched
weariness

slothlike
the words
come
like
treacle
on the
morn of the
winter solstice

synapses fire
with all the bang
of sodden gunpowder

and before you all
lays the detritus
of a mind
sans sleep
sans caffine
sans the wisdom
to read... not write

Tis a poem
orat least
the shadow of a thought
that wished, that wanted
one day, one fine day
to grow up
to become a poem....
but became this instead

you float
so lightly
upon the waters
of my soul

and when
in the sun
brightly
iridescent
do you shine

sometimes
you hide
whisper quiet

often
found though
in the strangest
of places
putting smiles
on sad faces

always in reach
for those who
extend their faith

light as feather
able to lift
the heaviest
of weights

like a smile
from a friend
or a sun shower
always welcome
especially  in
the eleventh  hour

intangible, you are
the small flame
that starts big fires....

rhuematic rumblings of a restless mind
ramble across the page
been awhile, since the muse muttered
been some time since she sashayed
dry mouth, dry wit, words bitter and unkind
all tasting of salt and sadness

yet here i am mendicant me
standing at the wall,
wailing for all to see...

once written, once a writer
once a poet... wailing

for words to align
in a semblance of song
for words to joyful, courageous, strong

waiting for the world to be coloured
other than beige
for the seed to be fruit
for the herb to be sage

til then i rumble and quietly rage

it still suprises me
how gentle his fingers
can touch and tease my skin

his mouth so insistent
to find the pulseline at my neck
raises  goosebumps along my being

the length of him finding the depth of me

his ardour and mone still fresh as when young
though now we take time before praking
and our langour is much longer
as his fingers play on my moist and
oh so satisfied skin.

as we murmur and smile and sleep
life's little surpises are wonderfully deep

ROOM. 148
(Benjamin.)

This morning,
as I showered.
I saw the face of
Genghis Khan
appear,
just fleetingly
in the suds,
as the swirled at the drainpipe
he brandished,  a grinning leer
and then was gone.

This morning,
in my coffee,
institution brewed.
There he was Van Gogh,
Vincent,  from when,
he still had an ear.
Today, blue paint,
smudged his nose.

In the carpet, after
the cleaning lady had
come.
Amy Whitehouse
visited n'said,
"Rehab might have been
useful afterall."

They the faces, concerned,
and attached to bodies,
encumbered by white cloth.
Tell me, this is non-classic
pariedolia, a symptom of a larger syndrome.

And  if I wanted, to improve
my state of well being,  
that I should not
have any further....hmm
conversations...huhuh,
with the people.

I see in,
the woodgrain of the  
dining  table,
or the man in the
light's moonlike  cover,
or the chap in the door,
of the communal bathroom's
stall wall.

Yet I won't listen,
I don't trust them.

And besides, my buddy Freud
who pops up with the toast.
Told me today,  
"They don't know,
what they are,
talking about.
Not at all, not at all."
In any case,
my muses pariedoliac,
are far better
conversationalists.

With them, I have a ball!!!


ROOM 212
(Gwendolin.)

Today, I am good!

But some days.

My mind, is a battlefield
and I the maniac,
with the finger.
Hovering over the big red button.
So wanting to:
slam my hand down and end it, all.

On other days,
I barely have the energy within,
to lift my head from the
grey, black sludge,
I am drowning in.
On those days,
breathing is sisyphean task and the world is a *******
ball.
Balanced precariously,
on a weary and depressed Atlean hand,
as he drops defeated to the sand.

Then, there are the days I am so up and bright and bubbly
I am appalled and I exhuast myself with my happiness.


But truly, the worst days are,
when,
I am all this and more.
Those are the days,
that my mind becomes,
a feudal state.
Where I am foresaken
to the rage of mutiple realities, engaged in battles for prime position.
I struggle valiantly,
to hold, the bastion of sanity,  painstakenly created and found, in the smallest corner,
of my brainspace,
But they rage and rant
and roil and take,
my precious sanity,
and soil it,
in their mindless games.

And at the end,
of those days.
I am left to pick up
what is left of me
All the tattered pieces
and start all over again.

But the medication helps
smooth me out a lot, it does.

ROOM 179
(Bob.)

"Hello, do you have
a word for me?"

"Blatherskite, oh
you beautiful thing"

"Wordscore 21"

We can begin now,
I know I am not normal.
That I think differently to most.
My mind, is a mendicant,
beggarly thing.
Sitting in library corners.
It's arms held up in supplication, palms outstretched
begging alms, of dictation.
And slathering like a dog,
at a feasting table
snatching at syllables
and sentences.

I sit for hours engrossed
in thesuari
and would gleefully
stab your back multiple times
if you  carried a rare dictionare.

I am a wordaholic
words they are my
sorrowing addiction.

My scrabble tiles,
runic of my affliction.

When stressed the
smoothness
of a spelling bee
is my only solace.

I want to be very clear
I do not see my
addiction
as a affliction
adversely
affecting,
autonomy
but, the
surgeons
of the
psyche
differ,
in their
extrapolation,
of my
lexigraghical
pre occupation
apropos,
vis a vi,
my life
and functionary
state, therewith.
So my tiles and I,
stationarilary
codepend
in this spatial
reality,
until my
mind can find
a state
of equilibrium.

And to be brutally honest
with you.
I don't think that will be
soon,sooner, soonest.

as we lie sate,
in the sand.
postcoital
depression, begins.

this quickie, in
the sandhills, on
the beach.

well, while it
scratched the itch.
it left the soul,
bereft of connection.

we two just,
almost, known,
strangers,
made s.e.x.
lust,
the primary need
love,
a bystander,
at the freak show.

antipathy rises,
a dragon ravaging,
my soul.
as my co conspirator
stands, zips and staggers
away.

is the anger...
directed at him,
a rampant manniquin.
or myself,
an accepting needing
cavern.

darkness, wrapped
about in self doubt
i rise
and rearrange myself,
donning my disguise,
of carefree debutante.

i am the ultimate
partygirl.
i walk back to the
beat of the  music.
leaving behind,
one more scrap,
of my dignity.

in times, long gone
to the books of ...
once upon memories,

she was,
a princess beautiful
and he,
a hero dashing and bold.

and they,
made adventures
of everyday things...

breakfast,
a sight to behold,
with armies,
of bread solidiers
waging an egg war
and maple bacon,
hors d' oeuvres,
breaking down,
pancake castle doors.

they,
played at history,
through out
the day,
creating mystery,
along the way
and after a dinner
of an inspirational stew.

they,
practised romance,
the whole night too.

they,
were young of heart
and wise of mind
but in one instance,
oh! so very blind.

because they,
forget one thing....
one very important thing...

they,
left the real world behind.

so now,
trapped in wonderous
fantasy....

they,
crave, with mindless,
intensity
a small glimpse,
of reality
to give balance,
to the fantasy.

that has now,
become a far less,
tantalizing thing
and is now,
more like a toturous,
slow closing...
neck ring.
stifling, all life,
causing,
no end of strife
in a world....
far less.... perfect,
than first thought,

this is the world, that
boredom wrought...
now, slowly come undone
now slowly, come undone
now slowly come, undone.

into the breach i go
no heavy footed
but on tippity toe

into the dark night i sail
in a boat shaped like a whale

into the forest  i run
with a smile and bread crumbs

the highest mountian
i will climb, only to
roll pell meel down the other side

i will walk on clouds, swim each
and every sea...i will be as magnificent
as only i can be...

i will dive with polar bears
and fly with albatross
will run with  giraffe
and stand with rhinoceros

and when i am done with this day's play
home to you i will come,
with clothes, *****, ripped and frayed...
and you will sigh and grump and say...

"little man, what did you get up to, today?"

in writing poetry...
......you are writing
intimate love letters
to the world.


you bare your heart,
soul and .....***** laundry
....for all who care to read.

but there is anonymity
in your intimacy...
and there is ..
the dispensation of .... ....absolution, acquital, emancapation.....
leading to.....
....proclamation, jubilation
and .....discovery of a .... ....different self.

when you put...
words  to paper
.....as  a poet....
you allow the world
access, to your heart
....in times of joy and sorrow
and all the mileposts
..... lying inbetween.



you

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

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

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

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

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

i shall not want,
for love today.
that smile
and smakeroo kiss,
shall see me through.

i shall not want,
for a smile today.
that cheery wave and stumble hop,
that made your floppy hat,
fly and drop back onto your curls.
will have my smile, all day unfurled.

i shall not want,
for a place to be, for,
in your heart, i will nestle
and although,
we will be apart.....
i know you too,
are secreted,
in my drumming space.

my little man ...
i do not want...
i have my desires
all answered by you
and your sire too

as the rain slides  down
the window pane
and the moondrifts from
cloud to cloud

i remember my first
flatmate...

Jerome,
who tooks his smalls
home to be washed by
his mother,
who was fastidious about
trimming his ginger...brown
beard, but not so fastidious
in cleaning the sink...
the owner of Muffin, the budgeriagar who survived
being vaccumed up once,
but not twice....
Jerome, full of gay angst
and closeted pride...
who taught me...
love is not an animal
that can be leashed
but is a thing,
of wild untamed beauty...

Jerome....who gave love
in buckets and bunches
of floppy daffodils...

i lost him as a friend, many
years past......but some nights drear and dark
he pops by....to say cheerio

today i am but,
a rude mechanical thing
a wind up toy.
plodding along with whining gears

today i am but,
a fool's pawn to swing
a mere pendulum being,
arcing between
the sun and moon

today every thing is done
purely on muscle memory.....
....my thoughts...
.... are engaged elsewhere.
the only difficulty encountered.....
....they neglected to inform me
of their intended  whereabouts

so now this is me,
a discombobulated, thingamajig
bought from Ikea, sans the allenkey, put together inexpertly, clunk-clunking
along, not right..a little bit wrong....clank- clunking on
by.

there is, lying within my soul,
an elusive dissatisfaction...
like the loss...of a red balloon,
floating up to the air...
and you, almost have a hold the string....
but then,  the balloon is not there.
it is gone.

it is like that aftertaste,
of the best meal....lobster, butter, brandy, garlic.
still tasty, on memories tongue.
but the restaurant, closed
and the recipe...long gone

it is that moment, remembered, of just we two,
of pristine blue water salty, manta rays dancing ballet and fish and coral and crab
sheer under water bliss...
but now, standing in cold winter rain....knowing,
you'll not soon know that connection  again....

it is knowing, that while
i can see your face
and hear you speak....
these are just, soundbytes, from the history we keep.

it is grief, and it comes
and it goes.....
it is sadness, wearing
the reaper's clothes.....
it is knowing, you are gone
and no-more.....

it is my late night tears,
quietly, falling to wood floor.

first things, first
before i burst,
well,thats a blessed relief !!
coulda come to grief....
so easily.

it used to be,
put the kettle on
now it's slide
the plastic pod,
of coffee magic
in the slot.

lost the romance,
but i forgive,
as the coffee smell,
heaven scent
tickles, teases,
swirls and curls
in the predawn air

my nose hairs steam
and crema....crema
oh my giddy aunt!!!
i love the grind
of the bein' bean
my especial, expresso
blend
my bestest, favouritist, morning friend.
come to mamma's lips.
today....
is it gulps,
or dainty sips.
nectar in, either way
pulse begins, pupils dilate
lookin like another
beautiful day

i enter,
entranced,by the aboreal entrance of the lush and
verdant place,
in which you
choose to exsist
the mist, smelling of
earl grey tea and
ginger cakes.
beckons,
me forward,
thru the curlique trees,
with lemon and limedrop
leaves
and drifting clouds of,
bright sunshine flowers.
in my wake my footprints
become little ponds with
goldfish toes.
ahead, i see you,
all shades of green
swinging,
lacksadaisically
to and fro...
in a hammock,
on a hummock,
between two aged, sandlewood trees
and in your hand,
you hold an island
of purple sand,
and polka dotted,
umbrella trees.
at your feet,
a crooked street
of pastel, pixie condo's
all curves and swerves,
with mushroom roofs
and teardrop windows.
your voice,
like that, of a finely,
strung cello
sings songs of welcome
to my jubilant heart
and i stop and think
you are a curious fellow.
i sit myself down,
with care
for the pixies fair
and soon fall asleep
to the lullaby of the aforementioned cello....
...alas when i awake
your no longer there
and i wonder if
you were,
just the aftereffects
of too much cake....


.....but wait
did i just hear
a pixie,
giggle,
a smiggle
up there,
behind my left ear.


...i so hope
              that i did....
                                don't you?

in my nightmare,
i walk across plain,gibberous
of melted blue grey glass.

in my nightmare,
the voices of the
four winds whisper,
words fetid and foul,
of love lost
and left behind.

in my nightmare,
the sun scowls
and rips the water
right from my lips.

and i walk on feet,
of bones stripped bare.

and i search,
horizon to horizon
but see only,
blind hope mirages,
fading away.

and my voice echoes,
in my calamitous mind,
calling names of kin and kind.

and my skin sloughs from
my flesh, to sizzle on the ground.

and inside,
the cage,
of xylophone ribs.
a wizened walnut heart
no longer beating,
to ordered time.

and my skull,
now, a hollow drum
of rattling, mutton-headed thoughts,
constantly bleating.

in my nightmare,
i am laid bare
and found wanting, needing,
longing.

in my nightmare,
you are not there.

in my nightmare
there is...
no one else, anywhere.

in my nightmare
i am alone
        all alone....
                      and that,
    scares, the **** out of me!

it is
important
to see
both sides
of the story

sometimes
you need to
step back
to take
the bigger
picture in

sometimes
you need to
leani in
to see the
real, reality

we can all
stand on the
mountain
and proclaim
our views

but very few
stand in the
valleys
and join the
rescue crews

it used to be
a neighbor
was a friend
(mostly)
on whom
one could
depend
for a cup
of sugar
to stand
by you
if payday
was late
or
heaven
forbid
if the worst
happened
they would
be part of
the recovery
team
pitching in
til you
recovered
your steam.

now
we are
strangers
with doors
barred
against
the world
living in
insular
pockets

barely aware
of those
who live
beside
atop
or below...


be brave
people
lean in
knock on
a new door
let society
begin

learn a different story,
share your own
create a village
expand your home

plant a garden
to feed a crowd
sit on the steps
with a book
read out loud
look after
the old
learn their
wisdom
look after
the young
feed their
curiosity
swap recipes
and meals too
create a village
within your city
one run on love
with compassion
not pity

this is hard
but simple
as well
begins
with words
and courage
no magic spell

be brave
see both
the large
and small
lean in
to lean out
to grow tall
then climb
up atop
the mountain
and see it all
the hustle
and bustle
of community
make that
the real
reality

weather: wild and brooding,
seas, roaring and bruising
the coast.
rain, bucketing down and flash flooding, about.
trees, going side ways,
three doors down, red gum
uprooted, narrowly missed the house, garden shed obliterated.

it appears that winter has
saved it's fury for it's last gasp, this year....

time to get the wellies on...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

stretch and crack
unkink your morning back
bend and sway
blood rush to your head today
rise and stretch
showing way to much flesh
and pivot,and pivot,and pivot
those hips
and shut, and shut, and shut,
those lips
star jumps.... ground shakes
push ups.... heart aches
burpees .... desire to ***
and bend and bend and bend
please end, please end, oh god, please end

feel the burn
gotta be someone elses turn
match the beat
c'mon i am out on my feet
no pain no gain
gain i am trying to lose
lets work to beat the clock
lets work not to beat the ****
with a sweaty coin filled sock

okay time to warm down
fall down best thing i have
heard all morning  trainer ****

beneath the daily noise
is the quiet sighing me
floating on a current
of poetic alchemy

i convert the grind
and bustle
into
calm serenity
and post the golden lies
on here, for prosperity.

and then with bluebottle
ink and jellyfish grace
i float away...
to write the insanity of another day..
leaving but a trace
of saltwater tears
in my chosen place...

i am but one leaf
not important me
i just gather a little sun
and a few breaths
when it rains, a catch
a drop or two.
one leaf, not important me
but as a part of community
as part of a tree...i help
the world ....i run the world

i am just a leaf,
lying, dying on the ground
not important me
just decaying rotting
fibourous bit of dead tree
not important ******* me

but as community
as mulch and compost
i help  protect the tree
and i help feed the world

dayumn!!
i am leaf
and
i amaze me....

two small children
bundled up like
michelan men
scramble around
the spider frame
monkey bars
their breath
little puffing billy clouds
of i think i can
as they play and race
each other to
the platform
an slide in
exuberant joy
down the red slippery slide
i smile at the ability
that most children have
to find and capture
this joy...
and savour it.

as i and my red pen,
climb and clamber,
about in the latest,
offerings,
of inked thoughts
and dead trees.

i think of,
junglegym minds
and elegant phrasings.
of eagle eyed ids
and nuanced persuasions.

i think of,
 words and worlds, aged
and then discovered
and since and again, interpreted anew.

and i wonder ......
mr shakespeare,
if you lived today.

what would be,
your world view?

lost,
adrift,
led astray,
just disappeared,
nowhere to be found,
slipped, down, between    
                                the cracks.
irretrievably, wayward.
gone... the way of flying pigs.
that qoundam, thought has
                     now...gone awry.

there it was,
sitting in the
tiny rainbow room
of my brain,
you know,
my joy's broom closet,
just behind the third eye.

was an inkling,
it was just a little one,
of an effervescent poem,
written with the love of silly.
it was born from,
the smackerel of hunny
held so stickily in the bear's paw(maw).
the one that lives
on the corner,
and is always looking
for more

it became then,
a twinkling.
it was growing you see,
expanding in girth,
learning of mirth,
the art of the funny.
it was begining to be,
the notion of an idea,
all perpertual motion
and fuzzy with glee.

it bursts forth from,
the closet and into the
brain,
in a wizzing, fizzing, ball,
too hard to contain.
around and about,
it ricochetted.

trying to find
a small pocket,
of spared thought
in which to fit
and sit for a while,
to cogitate it's
self into an amusing,
musing,
of rude and unseemly
health.

but alas and alack,
it could find no berth
in the banality,
no perch for it's caprice.

wrinkling now,
with the loss
of it's earlier gleam,
it suffers from
a bout of hysteria
and screams in futility.

please, let me  be,
a thought, complete
and in context.

let me, not suffer,
the fate of being,
just a half arsed dream.

it can see, no worse fate
for an inkling,
with some gumption.
to wither and die,
as a mere
whimsical fantasy.
with, proud and lofty thoughts, passing on by,
with not nary, a glance
in the direction,
and little to no,
compassion,
for the fate of
the poor inkling.

that once ,
had delusions of granduer.
far above, it's humble station.

just a moments grace
from the rushing roaring
in my brain.
just a little surcease,
a second's truce
between voice in and sane.
i just need to change my focus,
to blankly stare,
for the smallest while not to care.

to have a twinkling and a wink,
to re-adjust the mindset.

to re-sing the refrain,
to desist the cratering battle,
to lay in fields quiet,
to release the burgeoning
strain.

to hear the epiphanies call,
sweet and clear.
to understand life's meaning.
to balance fear and longing,
couarage and strength.
to walk my passage willingly,
all of it's undetermined length.
one quiet moment,
is all i need right now,
in order to adjust my wavering stride.
that and the knowing,
you will walk beside.

on days like this
long and not really
profitable

i detour down to the
sea....before i go home

and sit fully clothed
on the sand
looking at the last rays
of the faltering sun

and wait for the sound
of the tide
and the smell of the salted
breeze
take the frustations of
the day away....

i throw pebbles into
the waves
naming the problems
they represent, in my head
give them over to the power
of the waves and sand.

and then when i am
sound of mind
and refreshed in spirit

i journey on home
with a smile on my face
and the smell of the sea
lingering in my hair.

o, come let us go....
to where the sidewalk ends
and verdant green grass beckons....

lets us dust the cement shimmer,
from our soul
and swim in water's clear,crystal, cleansing blue.

we will turn our back
to the city,
with it's loud
demanding voice
and listen for the whisper
of god's natural voice

as he speaks, in the wind, through the trees and
as he murmur's love, via the song of the bee's

we will forget,
the colour grey, and remember, the glory of
the rainbows spectrum.

we will shed,
our adult snakeskins
and become
the innocence of our
child within.

so come with me... i pray,
to where the sidewalk ends

hold my hand.. it will be grand.
as we step off.....
into the long forgotten land.

somedays it is an effort
to turn one's face to the sun

somedays all you want is to flee to hide one'self away

somedays the grey seeps in
under doorways and through window frames
and floods the barriers
of my soul

most days i am less than whole but then are'nt we all

but some days i am more
hole...deep dark and cavernous..... and far less than me.

somedays i am about an inch
and a quarter away from
insane.


and i be knowing....
     ....this is one of those days

it was, just one step.
not looking the right way,
at the right time.

a screaming hissing dragon
sound...
and then kaput!
i was down among the dead.

sitting in a room,
walls bloodred,
and decorated, tickertape style,
with all the things,
i'd left unsaid.

there was one window,
through which i saw...
what my life could have been.
if not, for an, unlucky draw.

there was no door.
and the floor was tiled,
in regrets and tears.
the light, filtered through,
a crystal chandelier,
of my fears.

i no longer sleep or wake.
but yet, am suspended
in this nightmare state.

and every afternoon,
at, four seventy five
the red eyed god.
checks that i breathe.

and always, he says
just before he leaves.

if you, had looked both
ways,
this would not have
happened,
you would have seen the bus, that left you, squished and flattened

and that,
is when it registers,
once more....
this is hell.... i am dead
and here forever....

and the red eyed god,
laughs and says,

are n't you clever!!!

he then leaves.

and  i remain,
wishing i could,
replay that moment
again
when i step down,
off the curb
in front of a bus.
going to some
unknown suburb.

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

quiet the night,
calm the heart,
sleepy the baby,
gentle the man,
soft the guitar,
done the dishes,
good the book,
warm the breeze,
bright the stars,
kissed the brow,
somnulant the child,
dreaming the dreams,
watched the moon,
held the hand,
drank the wine,
intense the look,
long the kiss,
delicate the caress,
soft the bed,
crazy the ***,
satiated the longing,
forever the love,
deep the sleep,
rested the soul

there is something so lovely
about the ignorance of one's youth

the time when bliss is your
paramour,
and age your best friend.
when life is a promise to be
fufilled,
with all things,
wonderfully crystalized and distilled.
that brief shining era,
when all is gold
and you keep forever,
what you behold.
when indeterminate of color or creed,
you make friends with
curious ease.

it is the time before,
you learn how,
to bleed,
to mourn,
to grieve,

the time before,
the era of discovery,
that within you
and all others,
there is an ocean of tears,
a hurtling freight train of fears,
an everest of desire,
a krakatoa of rage,

it is the time before,
you are forced to turn the page,
on stories half written,
on dreams denied,
the time before,
you can translate the trillion meanings of sighs,  
the time when, regrets begin to collect you,
the time when, worries begin to tatter and rent
the fabric of your soul.

youth, it is the vibrantly
hued years.
after the warm fuzziness of childhood cuddles.
and before the comfortable grace of adulthood.
it is passion and fumbling and finding and fueding and ecstasy of knowing,
it is mistakes and victories, woes and triumphs,
it is needing and it is bliss.
it is horrible angst and it is loveless loneliness,
it is what cow!
it is is'nt he lovely!
it is standing out in a crowd.
it is standing alone in a crowd.
it is  knowing everything,
needing no more lessons.
and it is ignorance,
blind with no descretion
it is hating your mum,
it is wanting your mum.

there is something quite lovely
about the ignorance of one's
youth...

             .......when the world
is there to be  conquered....

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...