a monkey
from a barrel
once said to me,
can you appreciate
the absurdity
of a life
run on
the
collation
of wealth.
scrabbling
to find a monopoly.
not caring for
individuality
just racing
to be the last
man standing.
"numero uno"
grandstanding
with a poker face,
always having
to win the race.
hungry hippo,
grasping, grasping
all the time.
no patience for
games,
even life.
just running the board
playing chess,
all the time.
just waiting for the
mousetrap to fall,
kerplunk.
then just left  to
pick up the sticks,
to deal the cards,
for a game of  
go fish.
the mind just
boggles,
at the thought
of the frantic images wrought
by the monkey
and the mind games
he played
so i stuffed him back
in the barrel
where
he now
stays
he
and
his
bamboozling
jigsaw
puzzle
patter.

there was a time
in my life,
when my view was,
monochromaticaly blue.

the deepest darkest blue.
verging on, but not quite
black.

it was not a comforting
or calming shade.
in fact it was jagged glass
in my eyes.

it shred, rendered
my mind into shards of
bitter and hate,
it unraveled a deep, dark blue twine
and  wrapped it about my heart.
marking, marring
and restraining my hope of
remembering other shades
or hues.

i sat inside my deepest darkest blue,
with my confetti blue mind
and snippets of blue blue twine.

waiting for the deep dark
bluetide to rise and wash
away what little i had left...


instead you came,
with artists easel and brush
and painted my world
polychromatic.

with strokes of purple orange.
green, yellow and blue,
you gave me the colours to see,
deep, dark blue was only the
smallest part of my view.

little boy and little
cat blue,
roar around the hallways
during the monster hour.

the man mountain
lumbers behind
in frankestein pose
intoning
"the tickle man comes for
you....
the tickle man cometh,
to tickle your rickles,
and grasp your giggles,
and eat your toes!!!"
in his deepest basso
profundo.

momma, sits on the couch
in a zombie like pose
as she waits for the clock
to wind out the hour

and in the kitchen
the caulldron bubbles
with "brains and veins"
on the go.

the candle flame flickers
as the zephyr breeze blows
across our sunwarmed skin

we hold hands like teenagers of old
and you nuzzle gently at my shoulder

the stars brighten, as the sky darkens
from chambray to indigo
and the moon shones with mottled ivory glow

the frogs sing love songs and the lonely boobook calls
the night settles in as we make our way indoors
the candle flame splutters dies and leaves behind
a trail of smoke, taken away by the zephyr breeze
and the boobook calls again....mopoke....mopoke

open greedy mawed
thing
you follow,  berating me,

demanding more, maw, more.

can you not cease and desist?
can you not see i am trying?
can you not please be still?

demanding maw, more, maw.

your endless whining
is,
shredding my soul.
your bottomless wanting
is,
wrecking my life.
your  pitiless harrasment
is,
killing me with slow, determined intent.

demanding more, maw, more.

when will i be rid of you?
when will you  begone?
when will you fly from this
haggard nest?

demanding maw, more, maw.

i wonder,
are these the thoughts of a
magpie mother,
as she feeds a rapacious chick.

smallish birds chatter
scolding the weak winter sun
yet  glad to  see it

little cat sitting
dreaming of a bird breakfast
thwarted by windows

shaft of light, dappled
makes devious, angelic
little cat now sleeps

breakfast now broken
daily rush well underway
no cat naps for me

the disquiet...
of the morning,
awakens me....
the magpie's squabble...
the wood pigeons.... cloying...
.. cooing love song..
the raucous, cacophony... of
the kookaburras ....as they sort out .....todays..... territorial hierachy...
........... all proclaim
morning has ......broken
.......in a sleep shattering... way
but... still ...today.. i try to eke
out ......a few more winks
....a few more.... .....moments....
of.... semi-conscious bliss
oh! .......... to .....close ....my eyes
and ....dream some more...
....but no!!!..... the cat
........is having
....................none of that.....
the birds are up...
and he........ housebound....
is hungry..... hungry...***..

first alarm
feet to floor
empty bladder
feed the cat
walking gear on
out the door
greet the day
tunes in the ears
wave to early morning peers complete the requisite k's back thru the door
hit the shower
wake the boys
fill the bowls
muesli,wheeties,rice bubbles
juice to glass
coffee to cups
lunch in sacks,
icebars too
help dress the toddler
second alarm
kiss the husband
wave him off
tv on for cartoon relief
dress the office worker check the bags
feed the cat again
set him free
make up applied
pack the napsack
time for another coffee
and a look at poetry spots
write a bit
third and final alarm
wash boy's face
shoes on
tv off and out the door
off to daycare and to work weekend over
new semester begun
of the weekday routine reruns

the drops of dew cling
like petulant children
to the rusty stars of
the barbed wire fence

while below the sodden
ground is scarred with
the long footed imprints
of rabbit tracks
tufts of their fur can be found on the sharp edged
sticks of the fern fronds
that have been broken
by their hurried passing.

the sun light can only
be described as dappled
as it cascades in shifting
shafts of mote filled magnificence through
the slowly shifting leaves
of the gum tree canopy

and in the distance the bellbird peals
that clear sweet noted song
that brings a smile to my lips

in the underbrush a shuffling sound arises
an animal too wary of me
most probably a wombat
but perhaps something
more exotic, a bilby or
echinda, mayhap a goanna
i am destined not to know
as the sound recedes off
to the west....

and the kookaburras call
loud and raucous overhead

i walk on following the track
by the old fence...
so very aware, that,
here in the  aussie bush.
i am the indtruder....

our love making
early this morning
was slow and exquisite
and made me think of moss
all green verdancy and
softness,
gently enveloping moistness

always close to water
the ultimate source of life
simple but enduring

green earth velveteen
a soft place to fall

but then....
it may have just been
the feel of your soft scratchy
stubble
against the tender skin of
my inner thigh

either way....
thinking on it now
arouses me....again.
again... again.....
                           moss

missing her face today
as the winter frost sets in

in my mind  i hear the gentle click
of her knitting needles,
she knitted her love with artistry
in 8 ply wool jumpers, scarves,
vests and cardìgans, all scented
with peppermint, jasmine  and rose
the handcream she used for so many years

i go to the cupboard and pùll out the last
piece of her craftsmanship,  a cardigan
in shades of blue and purple, pull it on,
wrapping my body in her love, sighing
as the tears fall from my eyes

i am missing her today....
as the winter frosts sets in

my mother is losing her words
or at least, misplacing them
(there may well be,a great pile of them, lying around
lauguishing, somewhere)
her mind is slipping,
on it's weary and
hard-work-worn cogs.

she sometimes has difficulty,
grasping new concepts,
or attatching two thoughts,
coherently together.
and sometimes the blankness behind her eyes
reaches the horizon and beyond.
(and scares the very dickens out of me)

we have lots more, doovers
and thingies and whatsits,
in the house...
and usage of these and other,
all purpose words,
that lead to subtle guessing games,
has increased manifold,
creating  conversations,
that drift, into the territories of
"remember the kid with the
doover thingies,
red....on his head.... on his head" !!!
(the boy with the beautiful
red curls and corksrew ringlets)

perhaps having been,
away and now returned....
i see this more  clearly.... whereas, whilst, living
with it daily.
....you just compensate ... and move on.

my brothers  do not want to know this.... and nor does she want them to....
they,
have busy lives.....
(note the irony lost and languishing here)

i am concerned,
and speak to both her doctor and the bluecare nurse,
who comes to  help with her abulutions and dresses the abrasions from her latest fall.

they say things like,
she is, within the healthy range for her age, 85.
however, there is marked
depreceation in certain areas.....
we need to keep an eye on her...
( and i am reminded of my old combi, sad but true)

in the meantime...
mother, no longer does the cryptic crossword, citing it as mere balderdash(these days)
and we often find the daily
incomplete...

i sit on the bathtub's edge
weeping
not from grief,
tho i still wear it's coarse haired, grey cardigan
but from the pain,
emenating,
from my recently reconstructed leg.

broken and pinned
in summer, to all intents and purposes healed.
it and me have been ****** into the pre winter cold snap
on the moutains,
it is so freaking cold,
my breathe splumes
before me
and my poor mangled apendage, with the livid scars, where the bone had silvered through
is protesting with
a ferocious, throbbing ache.

i have tablets, and have taken them,  but i am in here
trying to warm the air with
the water running hot from
the shower.
i cannot stand long enough to stand under the water's spray yet.

ben, sleeps still,
in the other room,
he is exhausted,
from bearing the grieved desolation that is Laz.
he could do nothing to help,
at present, no one could.
but tried so very hard.
so i leave him to sleep......

...and hope the pills kick in
soon.

given time
the edge of grief blurs
becomes a blunt thing
no longer sharp glass
cutting away at the soul
but more of a bruise
that one learns to live with

given time
every step does not
cause the dust of memory
to rise and choke the walker
bht becomes a fragrance of
day past, that  you catch when
the wind is right...

given time
the words spoken
by well meaning friends
have come true..
and seeds of a new life
sown in fields of grief
flower and give fruit

given time ...given time

he climbs aboard the bus
denying all offers of help


he rides most every day i do
he due to neccessity,
me more of a luxury,
the luxury being i can take part in
long, lightly alcohol, lubricated lunch discussions,
after  teaching class and then not having to decide
whether to drive or bus.

he is old, so very old,
each movement is both precise
and yet wavering, as he makes his way to his seat
then, as he thuds down,the bus moves off again

he rests awkwardly, the slight corkscrew in his spine
causes him to perch, more than sit,
the calves in his legs flexing constantly,
making adjustments, so he remains balanced
ever on the precipice...

yet he smiles, a wide toothy
grin, as he acknowledges
the crowd, most by name...
for that alone, he is a legend.

he is dressed in khaki shorts
double pocketed shirt,
one pocket for pens
and one for the pipe
that even unlit,
has an odour though not unpleasant,
it is slightly oppressive.

and across his chest the wide band
of the old leather satchel he carries,
often filled with books on a myriad of subjects
but sometimes empty bar an old thermos

he is the universities oldest student,
old enough to be father and grandfather
to those who teach him.
he has multiple degrees and a love of learning
yet to be assuaged, he loves the gathering of knowledge
the ****** and parry of intellectual debate

he is known as Mr Proffessor
and often has a group of his younger peers
set about him as he leads younger minds
down the oft convuluted paths of learning

but today he is an old man, on the bus.
trying to maintain his balance...
and I admire his style

mister ant,
on that rubber plant,
carrying a load of cheese souffle.

found on the ground,
fallen from dinner plate
and landed on kitchen slate,

please, do enjoy your plunder
from down under,
wooden table

we suggest it be paired,
with a reisling after airing
if your able.

we hope you enjoy your meal
for your dessert,
we have some fresh apple peel.

pick my bones
weary broken
heartsore
up
from where life has
scattered them on the floor

dust off
the grime
and salt rime
from tears shed.
regather thoughts
from whence they fled

straighten up
the bowed back

plant the semblance
of a smile upon my face

take my place,
near the end of the rat race

and put my best foot forward
even as the other foot
drags through broken glass
and the detrius of a life
lived to hard...to fast

don't look back....
just move on.....and on

somewhere....there will be
                                 some sort of comfort

till then grind your bones
on the grist of life....

taste the salt on the wind
and remember when......

hey mister museman
float an idea my way

you see my brain is tired
and the creatives gone away

hey mister museman
give my some words
to play with
on this wet and grey
old day

and I will try to
string them together
so they have
something grand to say

hey mister museman
don't turn away
need me some
jot's and tittles
to chase these blues
and black grey hues
out into the middle
of Sunshine Bay

thanks mister museman
for taking the time
to help me rhyme
and float some words
out into the stratosphere

she sneezesas the breezes
carry the pollen to her nostrils

she  is small
and somewhat frail
but  when she sneezes
she creates more than breezes
she makes a gale

and the noise is like thunder
as her lungs do the rumba
all in order  to expell
the pollen from her being

her eyes cross
and fixate
on an ephemeral state
in order to calibrate
the legnth of the ah
in her ah-choo

sometimes it is
large and elongated
sometimes small delicate statacco
and then again it may be somewhere
in between the two

and after she sneezes and gales
and wheezes...she seems stunned
by the fuss and disharmony
she created by nasal cacophony

and in her daze, the taps
her nose and says quite clearly

good old faithful....
                           .....thar she blows

she stood
body at rest
loose of hips and arms
knees flexed slighlty
carrying her weight
with little regard

eyes toward the horizon
or at least the break of king tide waves
they call it reading the ocean

hair windswept
skin browned beyond bronze
by countless days spent
on the water,
under the argent sun

eyes a deep brown
like the skin of an acorn
and lips pursed,
as if just about to speak
or laugh at the joke
heard whispered,
on the zephyr wind

without age
this matriarch,  
of  sand and tide
she stands in the glory
of this days rising sun

as though she awaits to bless
a new world begun...

You...
To me...
Are the essence,
of the earth mother...
As you watch over your pond,
with an easy, laidback,  grace..
and help us see it grow and
chart it's every, every season.
Turtles, weeds and all...

I adore the fact, that you,
write love with an earthy lust
And you lust with an earthy abandon....


You have an intelligence,
That always expands my mind
All the way over there
on the other upside...

You and I share old friends
Writers of art,
livers of life.
those who mark....
and make the small moments large

Yet, I know you not...
but fervently wish
We could sit and pass time
Over tea or coffee..

You are one of many....
Who write voraciously
With life and passion in your pen
But so too,
You are one of the few
Who I go to read ....again and again.

So I thank you...
My very own  female
Walden...
For the lessons
of the earth, life, loving
and humbly implore you
write again and again..
Til the world stops turning...
Then....just write it's begining again...

Munster was his name,
after Herman Munster
of TV fame cause,
he was so big.
But not scary, feral big,
just double dose of cat big.

He was predominately
sleek, shiny black,
with a white bib
and crooked muzzle,
like he had his moustache
painted on in a hurry.
Oh, and he had one white paw.
Poppajack used to say,
he had been caught by God
stealing cream.

Munster was sleek, sinuous
muscle,
he rippled when he walked.
In stalk mode he was, panther incarnate.
Albeit, dressed in a tuxedo.

In cat term's he was vain,
always preening, or finding
a vantage point to show
himself off to the best photographic angle.

But just occasionly,
if we were lucky
and the butterflys
were on the wing,
he would, kitten prance
like a pixie, at the birth of spring.

He was a hunter,
not of bugs and lizards.
A ratter of renown,
he could take a bird
from it's early flight
without a care.
I once saw him, come home
and drop a rabbit,
at Poppajacks feet, before
finding the evening sun
for a well earned nap.

Munster loved Poppajack,
with dedicated flair
would follow him about
the garden, bulter-like,
dignified tail, straight and tall.
They would parade
in regal state,
to check on the vegetable serfdom.

He was not a cat of lap,
but,would sprawl over Poppa's feet like,
black satin slippers
with a purring engine beat.

Majestic Moggy Munster,  was felinetity in it's prime.

beyond tired,
beyond sleep,
far down the winding track
of insombulance
at the forked tongue place,
known as...
the insomniac's state.....

there is a gilded room
where poets do keep
their muses,
fair and unruly...

and those,
who think deep,
philosophical notions

and they wait,
with lethivian patience,
but little grace...
in the shadows,

...until invited,
by sleepless souls,
to share,
wine and cheese
and a word or two....

then, they muses all,
are delighted
to discuss, at length,
all manner of things....

and suggest
topics that,
need be,
revealed,
re-examined,
rewritten.

....and to talk about,
how,
to make readers,
smitten with the words,
you have enscribed,
the ideas you extault
and extoll,
the emotion you extract
from your very soul.

but when the dawn breaks
they, the muses all,
take their words
wrapped up
in scrap paper
and off to bed they crawl..

leaving you, the scribe
dark shadowed of eye
to cope with the agnst
of it all....

fickle hearted beings...
one and all....
       but oh, how i crave
their company...

here in the little wee hours
on the night so cold
my toes ache
i sit pondering
life and such
by the light
of fire and tablet

wrapped in blanket
threaded with memories
i think nonsense and ingenuity
and watch cinders fly

on the hearth the dog and cat slumber
wrapped around each other pretzel-like
defying with casual snores,
both physics and laws of natural enmity.
there is an ease to their bromance
that both confounds and humours me

behind me spreading on the couch
like slow(very slow) moving lava is
the surf god, encased in flannel and ugg
he gargles breathe like an old Harley
soon I will escort him to bed and leave
him to the embrace of his new lover
Madame Cpap...and they can share
a night of slumber in a wind tunnel
then in the morning , he is mine once more

the golden boy sleeps elsewhere tonight
having come into the season of sleepovers
he resides in a tent,  in a bedroom
half a suburb away ,oblivious to
the sound of stretching apron strings
he too shall return to me tomorrow
older and with new cultural references
to share with his increasingly
dim witted parents

for now, in the wee hours
i stare at the cinders
and see the old man as younger
and the boy as babe
as my toes ache
and my eyes leak
just a tad....

in church old
draughty, cold
listen to sermon told
twenty times or more
even the vicar sounds bored

seats long oaken planks
window stained glass,
beautiful,
but,
drear on this dark
and cloudy, autumn morn..

does god really live here
in this dismal place
or does he choose to live
in a heart filled  with grace.
i suppose if omniscient the answer
is both.....

must be time
to write again,
my soul itches
to feel pen,
imprint paper
in a way meaningful

must be time to write again
my word pile is building
out the back, needs a good cleanse
and the I may well find a gem
lying there waiting to be used
some word; like allocentric,
being the opposite of egocentric,
meaning looking to support
and grow others before yourself

must be time to write again
to put thoughts down
in a pattern that may
constitute rhyme
that may take the reader
to another place or time
that may even ellicit a tear
or a smile, maybe even
make someone's bad day
better for a while

must be time to write again
if only I could order my thoughts
that tearaway from me and hide
in the deep dark woods,
must be time to corall them,
bring them to heel
must be time to write again
for to write, for me... is to feel

incandesence...
                     muted...
by the ravages of time.

sitting oh, so, carefully,
                               darned,
                      designer clothes.

still hauntingly beautiful,
                                          but...
more haunted,
                     by beauty lost....

elegenty arrayed,
                      trying to hide,
sun blemished,            
                   wrinkled, skin...
                                        away..
behind a mask,
            ..of make up
                         and geneality,
                      expertly applied

conversely,
doing more to display,
                              than deny,
the decades of living,
that had sailed....
                        blithely on by.

mutton....
            dressed as lamb
and mutton...
                 led to the slaughter
as she awaits,
             the loving embrace,
of her exquisitely beautiful...          
                                   daughter.

and while she does not...
                                 begrude
her daughter beauty....

she despises herself
              and the world she
                                   inhabits...
the world in which
                             beauty
is the beginning,
                         the middle
                              and the end.

i am a somewhat simple soul.
i find happiness in most everything,
a glimmer of hope,
a glint of a smile.

i aknowledge the great sadness anger and despair, that is the happy coins opposite bling.
have tossed and lost,
many times.

but now with joy,
i declare these things,
below, today,
are my happy fare:

a lover's kiss brushed across my sleeping brow, a grimy face,
two muddy little hands
and a satisfied grin.
the smell of muffins
baking in a tin.
the rhythmic click, clacking of knitting,
from the nanexxe exuding.
the smile of a gerberer,
the purr of cat,
the flight of ladybird,
the look of my bloke,
in a pork pie hat.

giggling, tickling, wriggling, boys watching cartoons. little girls, in pink tutus
with a lack of poise.
fine art,
a good turn of phrase.
me singing off key,
out of tune,
bass booming,
to my favourite song.
skip-trip dancing, along.

chocolate, coffee,
tea with dear friends.

o me, o my,
my list never ends,
so many things,
on my list,
so many things,
i have missed
but i must begone
to live my list
and wander on.

i find that in my pursuit of happiness i am often tackled by it.....
....that is the joy in this game of life i love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

everyday, i was running on empty.

all outta, all outta, all outta gas

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

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

my first job,
i think i was about seven
was to do my grandfathers washing,
every saturday  morning.
we had chores at home and got an allowance.
but this was a way to supplement it.

so every saturday,
i would ride across town, with my brothers and...

spray preen on stains,
scrub collars with solvol
measure out omo powders
then wait ten minutes
oftenat this time,
i would play with the cat, munster, who was my,
self-designated foreman.

then to start,
water and omo, into
the machine, an old twin tub
drop in the first load,
wait for it to process,
sitting on the laundry step, reading the latest book....
CS Lewis' Narnian series or Enid Blytons Famous Five.

you could only read,
at this point,
because after the first load had stopped washing,
it was into the spinner
and then it was,
a juggle of washing, spinning, filling water levels and getting the wet washing into the basket, without, dropping any.

now,  i was still,
to short to hang out
the washing, on the hills hoist,
but i would call for my assistant, Aunty Barb
and off we would go down to the line .... she would hang...
but i would hand
items and pegs up to her.

once all the washing was done, all that was left was,
one final rinse,
of the machine with
lemon pin-o-cleen,
a wipe with a dry cloth
and my labours were done.

time for a cup of tea,
a peice of gingerbread
and payment of  wages $3.50- $5.00
depending on the size
of the wash.

we bought our tickets
and now take our place
on the flying ship of fools
denying rules...
and rising into clouded skies

four days in the big smoked
town with grit and dust
in every breath
going to turn cement beige
into dappled rainbow red

see some shows...
get over or underfed ....
sleep in ...1000 other peoples bed...
aquarium, Lunatic Park and zoo...
museum a  must, halls of old things,
covered in aged dust
but only interested
to see  thebreally old dino poo

ride on a train....go insane
in peak hour traffic...
buy extra stuff on
credit-instamatic.
watch buskers be
musical and dramatic.

swim in the harbour
not thinking of sharks
in the dark deep water

flap our wings,  see what the waiter
feed the ducks in the big city pond.
see old aunts of which we are fond

fly on home....
and take a two day
recuperation holiday...
before singing
the workday blues...

my left foot,
is the one,
that now drags
yet my right breast
is the one
that has begun to sag
it's just a matter of balance
you see.

i have what i want...
and
sometimes more
yet
still i whinge
and whine, like a bore.

i am loved and blest
with husband, child,
a cat and, the rest.

but still somedays
i know...
i have failed life's little
tests

and somedays
i am way, way,
short on zest.

they tell me
i am,
peri menopausal
and that may well explain ....some of the above.

my hair is graying
and my waist ....
best not mention,
my waist(overound).

and to be honest
there are days,
i feel like i am fraying
around the edges.

but not,
going to complain
at least,
not loudly
for that may give
the impression
i'm vain....
and really i'm not...

i am just a....
middle aged mother
slowly....losing the plot.

the small meaness of it
shocked me,  really in
this day and age
you would think
we had worked our way
past this sort of petty thinking

but no, apperently there are still
social neanderthals out there
who, when seeing some one different
have to poke fun at them,

before i could voice my outrage
at their actions my boy came
to the defense of his friend
standing up and calmly saying
difference is good, if we were all bullies
like you...then the world would be horrible
then taking the hand of his friend
he turned his back on the instigators
and walked back over to me

never have i been prouder

my mother is always right!!!
whether it be,
framed in the short or long.
took me nigh, on forty years
of being down-right wrong,
to finally get it right,
when my child came along.
so now  it so happens,
that  oftentimes,
i am wrong and i am right.
sometimes makes it,
a tad
difficult to sleep at night.

but as mother's always do
i'll just muddle on thru..

i have an ongoing
love affair
with words
that roll around your
mouth

luscious, langourous
lilliputitian letters

sensual syllables
slick- sliding off
the tongue

ecstatic explosions,
erupting, erogenously
exciting, eager exclaimations,
of enraptured exualtations

organic, original orientations
of teeth and tongue
producing oodles,
of apogeic anomolies

my affair
accomplishes much
for little

it is you see
just a not so secret love
of letter, line, jot and tittle.

a casting eye upon a word
and i am set rushing
down a path
reserved for those
with terms, descriptive,
and names.
that in themselves,
decry
wordlove.

lexicographers and bibliophiles
phoneologists, linguists, polygots,
jonguluers, wordsmiths scribes
poets.

all possess this
heartstringed
tangled knot,
spiderwebbed
feeling,
for words.
which, we then,
endevour to spin,
into inkstained beauty,
to ensare
ourselves ...and others.

the ache in my heart
remains undiminished
pressed down by daily need
compacted into that small blemish
that scars my soul, the tattoo of emptiness
written upon the reverse of my eyelids

this is the season of loss,
the time of letting go
yet in my heart I cannot,
I acknowledge the leaving
partake once again in the grieving,
but still I know
my heartstrings still seek yours
and now people wonder,
which lover have I lost
no lover no,no, in one sense, more indeed
but we both know if we were of Sappho's breed
we could have, no would have been each other's creed
the north south and compass complete..
but we were not born that way,
the gods at play made us for different fellows
so we became friends then sisterkin,
we were joyful for each others loves, each others success,
we were together blessed with understanding deep, deepest, over tea smoked and steeped we leapt
and climbed to highest heights
and supported each other when
we fell to the depths below...
we gave each othermgrace and kindness,
perfected the art of compassionate blindness,
and then you had to  up and go,
leaving me bereft in a way
that sees life in a far more muted way

so on that day,  the aniversary of sadness
which even if the sun shines bright,
still to me is tinted grey,
I will again take myself to a quiet place,
and drink lots of gin and a little tonic,
smile cry and become slightly, mildly histronic,
you see now three years on I just discovered
whilst your face is clear
I can hardly hear,
your voice in my head,
it is now like a whisper in my ear,
and so it appears the world,
sisterkin dear,  
is making itself abundantly clear....
you are dead,  lying dead in a box...

tis but a rusted memory
now
but once a child's pride and
beloved toy....

fire engine-red trike,
riden for miles, and miles
and across lands of
imagined adventure....

feet pumping, wind in face
bell clattering, tink-tink-tink
and screams of pure...
unadulterated JOY

now a shadow,
draped in old hessian cloth
bell silent, rust weeping
and frozen to the ground

red trike,
i ride you still
in my dreams
we still slay dragons
tho now it seems
that dragons have many
guises, many lives
and that in this life
of adultness...i am in
dragons...sometimes
not often, but sometimes win

apparently...
i have ...been told
i write organically
....from the soul.

spending my words
on healing...
on feeling.... empathy
....and seeding thoughts
sublime...

i am not sure... if ...this
is indeed...what i do..

it is what i feel,
i recieve.... from the
majority of you...

...when i write
the thoughts just
flow...
i do not sit and ponder
and construct....
....mostly .....i do not ....reconsider
but.. often leave the
punctuating marks....
to just before i deliver

i mostly.... do not capitalize
and is because it breaks
the flow...and then when
done....
well if honesty does now speak.....
i suppose it is my laziness
that keeps my poems in
the lower case...

i write... what is ...at that point me....
.. a reaction to what i feel
and see...
and i write.... to play...with words and thoughts.....
to have a voice.... to have
say...
but.... mostly and most importantly... i try to write
each and every day...

it is my... small voice
..in this ..crowded place.
it is me....
just happy to be....
...addicted .....to poetry..

outta step,
outta time
throwin out
misdirected rhyme
need a nap na.ya.
nanna need a slap
spittin poetry crime 101
betta than no one
just a face
with em t space
where da thoughts reside
splitin definitives
deselectin prime words
just to be
downright freakin absurd walkin out now
off to pout
cause my mind
just curdled cream
from a cranky cow
                     .......moo hoo hoo

Not a poem
as such
more a reminder
or indeed
a heads up
NapoWrimo begins
April 1

A challenge  of sorts
a month of  poetry
ideas, prompts, explorationof styles
a fuse waiting to be lit

you are the match

why not strike the fuse
and watch the fireworks fly.....

from the rust,red soil,
the nastursiums come.

first as tendrils, spiderlike
then, the little, disc umbrella leaves.

green and expectant,
in the sub-tropical,
late,winter sun.

and soon the riotous ladies,
come with skirts of colours
bold and joyous
resplendent in the party wear

then, they will run and skip
in rampant dance,
over rocks, tree stumps
climbing up the old fence.

with pepper in their tongues
and cheerful smiles.

they are one of summer's, most happy boons...
and soon and soon,
they come,
from the rust red soil
                               they come...

scintillant bodies flicker
blink and fade in a  darkness
beaming in charcol waves

indigo trees rustle and sway
in tribal dance, as the sea
beats out the metre
on the hard packed sand

on the wing, dark birds
cry lust, death and desolation
and mice write wills and testements
on dry dust paths, before signing
them with a squeak of suprise

in the creek, the platypus rises
and subsides with a quiet splash
surprised by a large form drinking

the frogs write and sing deep bass  arias
with the cicadas and crickets providing chorus
and amongst it all a high pitched perping
from what beast, I cannot recall

we pass now from summer warmth
to the crisp catching cold of autunm nights
darker for the rain cloud weather
making the moon an erethal wreath
if seen at all...

out off the coast a patch of luminous blue
gives of wonder as bio luminescence
holds a small patch of sea in it's thrall

in the morning more leaves
will colour, fade and fall,
the circle continues
from day to day...
                        simply heeding nature's call

there is a mote
of dust,
in my eye

it comes from
the dust bunny's ***.

i caught him, copulating
under the couch,
with two odd socks,
while the lego man watched.

he, in guilty panic,
shook and shed,
his lint everywhere....

and
i caught this bit
with my eye
the rest i collected
with my nose...

my rhythm, which has never
been good
is decidedly off today
running up to catch myself
fumbling with words
not knowing what to say...
this is so.... one of those days

my brain overworked....and underslept....struggles to
make connections...and
mifires hapharzardly....

i  lucky that it is a day practical theatre classes
and most of my faux pas
are absorbed as cleverness in making a some what obscure point....

but this run of luck, can only
last so long....i must find time to recoup....some lost sleep...or the afternoon
could be a disaster of comedic proportions...

a quick lunch and forty winks, is the approved course.
one more theatresports class
and then i can set sail....

need to swim more
lengthen ma muscles
cool ma brain
float before i hit the drain

need to dive from sweat
into the cool clear deep
snap ma head back into place
sluice the grime offa my soul

float for a small eternity
take a dip to rearrange
ma dna, get in touch with
the primordial me,
osmos some salt, remember
the sea, grow some interal gills
just be just drift, with the tide
be taken not steer,
need to steep and stew and brew...