I have lost my muse
in the hustle and hustle
of my days
I have put her aside
and now she is gone
from me..

and my writers place
is lonely and bereft
of her joy and life
a soulless room
dusty and...
well,  just .... beige and bland.


so if you see her,
my muse....
ink-stained and laden
down with words unwritten
please....let her know
I miss her terribly
and would like her
to come home....

I promise to take
better care of her
this time....I promise.

I sit here in the local laundromat
on a aluminium park bench
amongst the fish eyed dryers
and icberg washing machines
that rumble with never siated
coin fed hunger, the smell of
artificial spring and wet dog
swelling on the humid breeze

In the corner an o.d lady sits
reading a mills and boon love story
two young men  stand
leaning against the door frame,
smoking cigarettes, they look
like casual warrior guards, on their day off
all surfer dude tan and body buff
guarding the inner sanctum of local cleanliness

Another mother, you can, tell by the handbag
is playing a game on her tablet, some tinny music
wafts over, and she glances at me with apology in her eyes
I have brought nothing except my phone
on which I am writing this, and carkeys and wallet
I watch the tumble dryers tumble, and am mesmerized
by the kaleidoscope of linens,playing at being acrobats
it is warm and cozy in the evening light, a world apart

Out side on the still warm sidewalk and old dog lounges
his eyes focused on old Mrs Mills and Boon, her load finishes
and as she gets up, so does the dog, both slow and methodical
as she folds her washing the dog noses the air, comes to the doorway, where one of the young blokes offers his hand
for a pat, the dog allows the contact, but his eyes remain on the old lady as she packs her wasing into a wheeled bag,
the pair then leave, walking down the street into the dusk,
the dog's nose mere inches from the old ladies gnarled hand
and his tail wagging furiously. I fell I have witnessed something
beautiful and intimate, as they wander away...

i would, if i could write.
this in the layers of your skin
a tattoo  of my love....

you are my songline
every note, beat and pause
melody and harmony
you make my soul sing
and smile.
lover of my life
still nine years past
one look undoes me
one look and i am on
my knees
one word and i am begging
you....please
mother of my child
what an amazing thing we
made!
you think yourself fragile
but you are strong
you keep going, keep smiling
keep loving.

you are just so *******
gorgeous, all those curves
and curls, with eyes of sea blue ever changing

this year has been hard,
but we struggled through
you think i am your rock
or oak tree..
but honey it is all you.
you tie us alltoghether
with cords of sweet love
and i just need you to know
i see what you do
and i love you so very much
and everyday i hunger for
you...
have a great day..

his love of mac n' cheese
often outweighs the capacity
of his seven year old stomach
but valiantly he labours
so his love  is not lost
his belly becomes drumlike
and his visage narcoleptic
as he falls into slumber
one hand clutching the fork
the other curled protectively
around the bowl, with still
at least a third of his *****
gleaming in a viscous mountain
of golden sunshine goodness...
cooling rapidly to a solid mass
but still when we try to remove
his now completely sombulant body
he clutches his golden *****
to his chest. like a pirate
in  the story's he has been told
unfotunately the result of
this myclonic clutch
is a gluggy macaroni mess
down his front and in his crutch

so now, we have no mac'n cheese
a grumpy pirate too sleepy/ cranky to please,
a running bath and washer too
and the devon rex cat,  no longer the blue
but the tuxedo black scoffing down cheesey glue,
from the floor ...
whilst the irritable pirate is crying (read bellowing)
for more

god give me strentgh.... to  just endure

wind raucous in it's endevours tonight
circling the house in a macabre yet joyous song
and dance routine, the tree's applaud
and the small cat curls tighter in on itself

rain falls with intense passion
scrubbing the grime away
and the moon is lost in the clouds
most things tuck themselves up
and wish  for a sunny day

but the old green treefrog
is singing  lovesongs
and his rival too
bass profundo
at just past two
serenading the ladies
as the wind croons along

tonight the moon hides itself
shly peeking out
from behind ragamuffin  grey clouds

the stars are a'twinkle, twinkle
on indigo blankets
clouds dash to and fro

i gaze upon the heavens
and briefly wonder
if others elswhere also gaze

and ponder about the nature
of the sky
and the nighttime flying by

or do they sigh and
give no thought
to why the moon
                              is shy

i am made of...
thought...
ink and pen and paper... and so much more.
scribbled phrases on diner napkins.
post it notes stuck to walls.
scrawled doggerel in bathroom pens.
phrased ideology in lined notebooks.
spinnered words on lazerprinted A4.
scraps of inklings, on ripped butcher's bags and wrappings.
condolences in funeral books.
ideas capital lettered on cards,
pinned to cork boards.
epitaphs stonemasoned
into granite blocks.
fury arranged just so,
on parchment.
newsprinted with loose blurry, black ink on broadsheets
scribed by pointed stick on
firm wet sand.
notes on heavy cards, of love
and light bright shiny stuff.
discarded sentence startings, left crumpled, lost in a bin.
loss, written with red wine on white table cloth.
art, etched on vellum anciently old, suprisingly relevent.
tapped into tablets both stone
and techview.
blue and red markers squeaked onto white boards.
daubed on canvas with a fine sable brush.
tatttoo-ed upon ones flesh.
carved into wooden school desks.
pressed into moist clay by delicate fingernails.
marked so deeply upon a soul.
chalked to cement,
to stay for...
but a short season.
written for some very, (un)important reason.
courage to speak, sing, whisper, shout, cry, laugh, observe and ponder.
this is me....
i am a word written down.. any word, any word.
i am undeniable, desirable often incomplete
always open  always waiting
for some one...
......just like you ...
to open your heart let me in
to recognize a new start
to have a play, a scribble,
doodle, pen jive. to become
alive.... to thrive,
just begin with a single letter.....then another,
go on be brave...
..........grant me liberty....

******* bug,
bled black blood.

crunching carapaces,
caught, crawling contentedly.

magpie's morning meal.

warbling, wistfully,woefully, wanting, weighty worms.

grabs, grub greedily,gulping.

magpie makes much, munch.

click, clack, clack, black beak.
famished family, finally, filled.
*****, flies.
finished, foraged feasting.

In a ceramic concave
Take one cluckfart and beat
Add a cup and a half of moojuice
mix with a whirlpool motion
Then find beaten crushedvwheat
add two cups
mix with a whirpool motion
discover sweet cyrstals add 1cup
mix with a whirlpool motion

find and turn on heatslabtop source
put metal pool on heatslabtop source
add a dab of solid yellow moojuice
allow to liqiufy

pour in a measure of whirlpool mix
to create a babylake,
add some bluejuice spheres
or some monkey smilebars
listen for sizzle, watch for bubbles
take a babylake flipper and flip
the babylake so both sides cook evenly

place babylakes on ceramic circle
and repeat the process
dab of yellow moojuice
pouring the babylake mix
so on and so forth,
until ceramic circle is full or
you run out of whirlpool mix

sit at eating tree, with ceramic circle.
if you wish, add the juice of the maple
or tears of the sour yellow leather fruit
to your share of the babylakes
and then consume......and feel
your tummy muscles  smile

it gleams
it glows
and refracts light
into rainbows
on the shadowed walls
flickering with the last fire
of this winter

this faceted crystal
lives in the amber lights
speaking of it's years underground
of the smell of peat and other organic matter
it talks of presing and pressure,
of waiting, of dormancy
of silence and solitude
of tetonic shifts, and little landslips

of the sound of pick and axe
and the rumble of machinery
the gabble of voices, the greed of man

it talks of admiration followed by
cleaving and faceting and grinding
it speaks of currencies

it speaks of love, of exicitement
and trepidation, of yearning
and of acceptance and joy

it tells of years of happiness
of washing up and of being held
in quiet embrace, it tells of nights
just like this,  sitting in front of the fire
basking in it's glow, making rainbows
on shadowed walls

random beauty
calls to my soul
so much so
that I must stop
and ponder
before
recording the whole
maginificent mess
in my musings.
a poetic thesis
in many chapters
on the visual, aural
and emotional impact
of the small mudanities
of a life lived in the mind
and in the reality of multiple roles
the words as an artform to makes
sense of the idiosyncratic intricacies
of the world....according to me...

we wear grieving, like a        
                              heavy cloak,
with a large cowl and  
                   theadbare sleeves,
it gives, some measure of
                                     warmth,
but never, quiet enough.
as we stand alone,
facing the winds,
that howl... sad,
sighing,
loss.

loss.
complete
and utter
abanbdonment.
....by design or fate,
leaves your heart, foresaken,
your soul, ***** and      
                                     ravaged.
meanwhile, the world
                  moves on, blind to,
the mad monk,
        that inhabits your mind.

there is,
in my opinion,
nothing like,
the determination,
of  four and half kilos
of grey feline.
that wants...
to be fed at 5:37am.

the pushing
and bumfping,
the disproportinate roar,
of the basso profundo purr, in your right ear.

if still not convinced,
or just,
downright lazy
a whack with a southpaw
to the back of the head.
your attention will restore.
no you're still resisting
the charm.

then be aware,
of the flying leap & twist; landing on the midriff.

but, from years of dilligent training,
i have deduced,
the cold, wet nose, trailing across my exposed flesh,
is to best be avoided.

simply, by stumbling up,
from your rest....
and succumbing
to the mantra,
the cat knows best.....
fill the bowl,
be done with,
the furry pest.....

and hope you
can snooze for a while,
before.... you have to get up
and feed the rest....

there is,
in my opinion,
nothing like the..... determination
of a four and half kilo
of blugrey feline,
that,
wants,
to be fed ......
at 5:37am.

the pushing and bumfping the disproportinate roar
of the basso profundo purr, in your right ear,
if still not convinced
or just,
downright lazy,
a whack!!
with a southpaw
to the back of the head,
your attention will restore.

no you are,still
resisting the charm offensive.
then be aware
of the flying leap&twis;;, landing on the midriff.

but from years of dilligent training (on the part of the cat).
i have deduced....
the cold nose,
trailing across my exposed flesh is to best to be avoided.

simply by,
stumbling up from your rest
and succumbing to...
the mantra,
the cat knows best!!!
fill the bowl,
be done,(no never)
with the furry pest
and hope...
you can snooze for a while

a useless cartographer
i would be,
as all roads
my love would lead me
back to thee..
all seas
would wash upon
thy shore....
all rivers fjords
and waterways
would  be found to flow to your doorstep in a cascading
maze
meridean, ley lines,
all would be  
******* in  bows and attached to your casement windows
mountain, plains, steppes
and vales would rest
adoring, in your garden pails

so i could not
be a cartographer.....no
useless would i be.

eyelids heavy
grey day
red inked fingers
shuffling papers
words at play
bell curve unhappy
coffee cup empty
temper short
brain yelling
abort! abort!

doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block

order, orrrder,

i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793

all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel

kazoos squeak  the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.

now to business

the agenda for the day

1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.

2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.

3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.

4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.

5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being

6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.

please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.

i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.

and may the foot be with you

sloth is a sin they say,
but mayhap,
it's just busy... on a heavily
medicated day

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 opposite side of
the world
the green budded fingernails
of the frangipani unfurl
to their lush full verdancy

all the flowers stand tall
to see the sun
and open coloured arms
for a full-scented hug

the birds are all a twitter
with nursery nests
and sqeaking chirking beaks
and in the pond small rafts of gelatinous eggs are watched over by frogs

there is that wonderful
tang of warm salt and
eucalypt wafting inthe breeze

autumn for us down
under just a pleasant
memory...
here we now look forward
to the summer sun..

we have an echidna
dining on ants
in our garden

the little devon rex cat
tuxedo boy is perplexed

it is the first echidna he has seen
and tux is not sure if it is
a toy, food or a future nemisis
so is watching it from the deck,
neck stretched out so far
he has lost his wrinkles.
eyes big and nose twitching
his ears swivelling  like radar dishes

the echidna,
is placidly eating
little nose snuffling,
and spines shaking as he moves
he is done now
and makes his way
to the hole in the fence

the cat, now bold,
goes to investigate
nose to ground, but not for long.
the acridic smell of dying ants
give him cause to sneeze and sneeze
before hustling back to the safety of the deck

another lesson learnt
echindna's are no cat's toy...

....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

No man an island
yet we stand with brand
in hand, waiting
to set set alight all bridges
as we make our stand
for ourselves
over our fellow man.

We stand and watch as
killers ****, then
turn the channel
seeking the next
momentary thrill.

Less and less we involve
ourselves with others
in a meaningful way
we are more likely
to be engaged in
digital play
as we die
a little more
each solitary day

If it sounds
like I am preaching
it is because  I am

More to myself
than others
but then again
perhaps I am reaching
to you and others like
to those who understand

the carillion is a ringing
that, the sounds of bells
are stealing up upon us
as we ignore calamity to play,
tetris and zombie clan

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.**

we the poets of consciousness,  
are the translators ....
of the thoughtless thoughts
and long lost creeds

we are the heart that cries
as this world bleeds
from razors cuts
by the many thousands,

we are the recorders of the deeds
both small and large
important an seemingly insignificant.

scribes and libraians we be both
noting written word and oral oath
we partake, we give to all
but at our best we are the accord
of action and thought, deed and word

so that we reflect upon
ourseleves and others
the joy, the hate,
the hurt, the succour
the wonderment and ease,
the love and loving care
we make the hard easier to bear
we make the horrible, we make crazy
we have the ability to make the hard person care
those in despair hope...those at the end of themself
reach once more for the dangling rope

we are the fabric, the paper
on which this world is printed
we are the old gold coin
and the newly minted

we are islands with bridges between
we are understanding,
between commoner and queen

we are those who stand ready
to extinguish harmful flame
yet we are those to set hearts alight
we are those who call others
away from the game
and into the heart of the heart
into cognizant frames

we are listeners
and bell ringers both
we refine the languages
we create the quotes

we are the fresh morning
we are the new start....

the puppy,collie dog
all squirm and energy
just wants to makes friends

the little devon rex
all hiss and spit
is overwhelmed
and retires
to the top of
the bookshelf

the dog tries to follow
but as we all know
dogs  cannot climb
and just pulls  books
down upon himself
with a loud clattering sound

the devon rex
becomes a dervish
racing around the room in circles
vocalizing terror and indignation

this went a whole lot differently in my head

when the world,
was much younger
and i was a stupid-crazy
girl-ly-chick, enamoured
with her youth.

i drove, a sunshine,
lemon, yellow bottomed, white pith on top combi van. coyly, cloyingly named Mello Martha.

it was...surfboards and swimsuits,
egg and bacon sangers,
early morning breezes,
after a blitz at the breadbox.

before... changing into
the structured, tortured baby, bank teller blues,
in the back,doors left open.

it was... rockin, knockin,
***, on credit,
to a promised future,
alluded to, but postponed,
for the moment.

it was... bruised back and
grazed knees,
harder, deeper oh god!
oh god! please... faster, fucken frenzies,
on a saturday night.

it was....running away to nowhere,
to find myself,
then finding me,
running away from,
the self i didn't want to know.
noway, nowhere, nohow.

it was... a barrel of monkeys, a barrel of laughs,
a keg of beer,
a box of wine,
under the crowded stars.

it was.... a roadtrip,
up the coast,
midnight bonfire,
midnight munchies,
playing hunches,
exploring reefs and reefers and such.

it was...far from family
and church rules,
a friendly rebellion,
of loud, proud youth.
totally and brazenly,
uncouth
it was... wham! and m.j.
cindy and boy george's culture club ,paperlace,
billy idol and the beach boys.
sung with abandon,
at spinal tap level eleven.

it was... peaceful, quiet, sleeping grace.
insanely in love with...
i forgot his name.

it was.... the birth of bodaciously me.
all brass hair and bosoms,
wild and carefree.

it was ....so long ago,

it was... yesterday night,

when i saw... Mello Martha's identical twin,
stopped at a traffic light.
it was... sunshine and lemon, bitter and sweet,
as she sailed off, down the street.
i sat and watched,
wist, full of recollect,
far and away, from my presently minded place...
sitting in, the driver's seat,
of my mom-blue subaru.

the scent of lemon zest
reminds me of my grandad
both sunny and sharp

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

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

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

sitting on the steps
gorging on  watermelon
spitting out the pips

kookaburras laugh
a shepards delight sunset
the cicadas sing

evening star rise
and now the gloaming begins
time to head inside

Mendicant women
Harangues  passers  by
For dollar or two

Sitting small, hunched
Near the department
store door
Hoping for some grace

i see, in the black
studio cave of creativity.....

gangling, disinterested youth.
metamorph...
into mecurial, liquid madness...

fluid, upon the stage,
they fly, toward the lights.
moths, to a burning moon.

momentary flashes,
of. god's humour,
in flight across
the mechanical sun's
gelled brightness.

and then the curtain falls.
and they drift back,
into their former selves,
inarticalate, but secretly
smiling.

we went out for dinner
just to a pub. used to serve
great chicken parma's
just you and me, a quick meal, nothing fancy

well i suppose it was eight,
nine years ago, i last ate there
gone upmarket, in that hipster way.... beers named by frustrated poets, drinks
made in jars and mixologists
charging bottle prices for a glass of boutique wine,mead or perry.
no table for two, just large communal tables, with cold
hard metal stools, that made
ben, tickle his ears with his knees.
one bluetounged beer and
pickled piper perry later
sans $23.00aud later...
we decided Macca's infront
of the motel telly would do just fine...

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

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

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

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

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

Cold fingers touch my
Heart as we await news of your
Condition  ....Hoping....

miles mean nothing to a heart that is pure
words penned in grace, sent to ether
give heartease to the overstretched
sowing stiches of understanding
in tapestry threadbare

little suns and stars
shining bright in love and hope
from face unseen and adirondack chair
gives strength to one down, from down under
allows grief, the words needed the abilty to care
for these simple gifts, no payment required
from the heart open to care...

milk thick
with clotted cream
not conversant
with homogenization
sat it a sqaut blue
earthenware jug
in the coolness
of the foodsafe
with the pan of water
cold from being ice
below, the soothing drip
part of the melody
of the old kitchen
along with the slap of dough
on the slice of marble
cut from mountainside
in a counrty old and
across a sea of troubles
tibits of sweetness
handed down
for consumption
dough and flour dusted hands
leave imprints on cheeks
and warmth in hearts
in the oven thick ginger bread
rises bringing hunger
to stomachs already full
as women talkand bake
and solve the problems
of the world, banished now
we sit on the step, out the back,
the sun warm on our faces
waiting, waiting, waiting
for a slice of gingerbread
hot from the oven
and a glass of
cold, fresh, creamy milk

words swim, now
like minnows,
against a tide.

sleep beckons, now
like warm autumn leaves,
with a clover scented  breeze.

dreams invite me, now
the thought,of soft cotton
pillows, excites me now.

now i have, a need to be,
sombulant and snoring,
no longer poring and
pining
over,
so many  poetry lines,
so many poetic thoughts,
so  exquisitely fine.

now i must, allow,
the words to recede.
and succumb to the body's need.

so to bed i must, now.

for tomorrow,
again i read,
diversity in talent

but the same,
in overall breed.

g'nite poets
and thank you,
for narrating
the wonder of
my dreams.

it is the little things
that consume me...
the daily minutea
that others miss...
or deem discardable.
it is these.....
small moments
i am drawn to..
that.. i focus on......
as the big picture sails by
piccolo thoughts
and lilliputian dreams...
.... engage me.
encouraging me to ..
flights of fancy....  
expansive in expression...
....snatches of conversation
half finished gestures.....
are bread and butter
.... sustaining me.
...tiny bits of tree twiglet,
when they grow...
what stories could they tell.
a christmas stamp stuck to the
cement pavement...
i would hate to pay
the postage on sending that package.
always...and always
in the back of my mind....
the sea....
full of teeming....
tiny floaty things for me...
to inadeaquately... describe
and love... i write love  well....
then there are....
.... the familys forgotten moments
...gathered by my quill
we..... as poets... are life's truest horder's .....inscribing life on sky and tree.....
we see and hold....
....and feel and scry.
the minikens... of all .....mankind
with little.. splot, spotches..? of inkspots ..joined to form a line.
of words to open hearts...
..and free encumbered mind

one leaf
sits upon
the ground
blown here
from afar,
as it is lies in
the deep
darkness
of the
concrete jungle
there are
no trees
nearby
just
this leaf
dusky green
smooth and waxy
to the touch
and smelling
of the weekend

mesmerized by minutiae
am now a mermaid
on the mainland
mindlessly milling about
without
control of musclebound legs
both manacled and free

minor mishaps and major setbacks
mirror the inside maniacal mentality
currently managing me

making frankenstienish manners
a mockery of the model citizen
I purport to be...

mild dyslexia, myopia, melancholy
hormonal changes,  missing ******
mindless weeping....throwing spanners
and all manners of fits
.....not to mention drooping bits....

madness beckons, second...seconds
each day an adventure in
crazed endocrinematic revelry

so tired and weary,
living the life of bleary wide eyed misery

good news though...
those in the know
say it only lasts
for three to five years

menopause.....give three flippin cheers

mercy...please

big, bright ole moon
on the rise tonight
turning red, being blue
butter and cheese
on a dark indigo plate

only problem being
that the god's in their
gluttony and disregard
have dropped
the clouded napkins
over the cheese platter

so we here, hear about
the beauty of the dish
but only here the clatter
of the cutlery and feel
the overflow from the dishwasher

some nights
the world is just
against you....

in the mood
to get funky,
with the hunky
carpenter.....

got the bed warm
and the naked form,
working it's cold night,
warm bed magic.

when the cold nose
of a cold cat
runs up my back....

absolutely tragic

I jumped
when I should have
******...
and now the night
is ....static....

and all the joy
the carpenter has
is attached to
a bag of frozen peas.

this missive of love
scrawled upon the ether
little seeds like mustard or dandelion
spread upon the wind hoping above hope
to find landfall in hearts cracked asunder

this missive of love
humble but true
as love is and always should be
needs love too grow strong and big

it may not be much
but if added to
will compound upon itself
stand tall and become not shy
this missive of love must come
from both you and I
it must not be scared to whisper it's name
to those broken, shattered,
or under great strain

this missive of love, should be
like rain to parched ground
this missive of love should
be able to speak all languages
go all place, be scared not
of religion or races
should not hide it's face
nor be proud, but always,
always allow grace and time
to be it's partners

this missive of love is easy to write of
but the hardest of all to partake of
but it is now needed more and more
by those who have hearts burdened
and torn by the actions of zealots,
maddened and inflamed... men
and women who know not
this missive's name

this missive is my response
to this horror,this shame
this blight upon the world
in varying God's name

so as I sit and watch the sun rise
I send out this missive
to those that suffer
and those that grieve
to those that are so weary
that they wish only to leave
to those who seemingly stand alone
and those whose voices cry into the night
to men and women weeping this night
and to those who see no end to their plight

I send love and forgiveness
the ability to see,
the goodin the world
I send  the ability to  just be...

from this heart full of kindness
I send compassion and grace
I send hope and the stubborness
required to look this world
in it's face and see not the hurt
the grime, the commonplace
but to look beyond and see
the good, the beautiful, the need
for us, to grow the seeds of greatness

this missive of love, is small
and may if ignored
make no difference at all
but if taken in and given space
it may well be a fresh start
a turning of degrees
toward the world as a better place
the ideology is lofty and illogical
but let us try here at the coal face
to change the axis from hate to love

her hands
once strong
and beautiful

now frozen
into gnarled
and sculpted
tree roots

by arthritis

all bent
and knobbed
aching joints

thier skin
marred with
wrinkles
and spots

stretched
taut over
aches
sagging
inbetween

nails
kept
trim

her hands
almost
but not quite
useless

is that
how
she feels
within.

in the time between
sleeping and waking
my thoughts drift to you
the sky begins to turn umber-red
and tears fall softly down my cheeks
it is a deep hearted truth that you do not
appreciate  what you have until it is lost
yet the day must go on so by the time the sun
has risen, the tears have dried and i now motherless
go about the daily tasks of being a wife and mother
but just letting you know i miss you...so very much

these things I know to be true...

behind the clouds,
the sky is blue.

if the grass is greener over there;
on the other side of the fence...
then someone is wasting water
in this drought.

if everyone is keeping up with
the jones's .
why are they so unhappy?

two wrongs don't make a right,
but four lefts make a square.

the sun will come out tomorrow,
but so may the clouds...

life is full of schmucks,
but if you're in luck.
the  schmuck you marry
may have some bucks.

there is, true love
there is, higher ground
there is forgivness.
you can find useful things
in the lost and found.
chocolate can be good for you.
you have to feed your soul.
and yes all that glitters
is definitely not gold.

there is no true way,
to grow old gracefully.
so make the best of it.
count each and every day
as a bonus....
                   for that is what it is!!!

the momentum
of this thing......
is beyond us now.

it has it's own life,
feckless and free.
always rushing foward,
without thought...
to cost or methodology.

is is madness, uncontained
an unbridled and ferocious thing,
racing, raging  across the plains of inner sanity,
howling at reality.
running in circles
and raising,
a dust storm,
of desire
and deniability.

this thing,
wants not moss
or memory it wants....
passion and creativity.
the pouring out,
of the still waters,
that come from the
stagnant ponds and lakes,
of  unloved corners,
in  distant hearts.

this momentous
and puissant, calamity,
desires only,
to live and die briefly,
ever so brightly....
in a conglomeration
of magnificent,
twinkling junctures......
like fireworks set,
on and against
the indigo night skies..
all heat and glory
all colour and bang
all inspiration and reaction.

and then, when
the momentum,
slows and dwindles....
is finally spent.
it will, as always, lie down
and quietly cease to be....
leaving as an aftertaste,
both sweet and acrid bitter...
just a vague feeling
of nostalgic irrationality.