need to write
something
to soothe
my soul...

write now of
skies, the perfect blue
of the smell of salt
tantalising on the zephyr breeze

write to ease
a heart so tired
so mired
in daily crud
so stuck in this viscose mud

need a day
far away
from the
maddening

a day in the green
and verdant places
see no other faces
hear the stream
make it's way
from source
to sea

need a day
to follow path
to pond's
to be tickled
and embraced
by young palm fronds
to watch nature thrive
need this badly
to survive

need a day
to recover me.

I came upon Neruda today,
laying open, catching the sun
Just sitting there on the old  wooden bench

Much loved and well thumbed,
spine broken, ringed a dozen times
with tea, coffee, goodness know what..

That lugubrious face, staring sightlessly
out into, the world...

and my thoughts, drifted,  to you,
my friend, whose voice I never heard
but knew the passion of the writer,
He Pablo, was one of your heros..
and as I flicked through the beauty
of words, so emphatic and beautiful
so sublime, so masterfully crafted.

I paused and smiled, thinking of
you and he sitting on a park bench
on some other plane....
discussing words and their worth...

I left Neruda there to captivate
another mind and heart....

and went on my way...
somewhat
lighter of heart....

we as poets,
are like birds....
in the sky.
soaring against,
the backdrop of
nature's grandeur

while aloft, we espy,
beauty and sorrow
and all the stuff....
that living life makes,
and falls forgotten,
in-between the cracks,
of just.... being.

from which,
we as poets,
glean .....
words and phrases,
that cause us to,
ponder, wonder
and cogitate.

those whispers of love.
sighing, breaths and sorrows
thoughts of futures blest,
of now, i am impressed
and yester's hollow,
and yet to be put to rest.

and bring them home,
with loving care,
to nidificate....
to interweave what we
see, hear and feel... & know
into the nesting chamber
for our wordlove....
                       for our poem

never is a longish time
evermore miles longer,wider
vulnerable to repartition
everlasting in it's perpetuity
re-quiescent supine                       eternally
                                 rewound
                                   rewound

his fist clenched
his mind benched
her eyes black
her jaw slack
and bleeding

her blood red
him out of his head
the child hiding,
crying....inside dying

violence never asks
never is the answer
for the victims
it is slow death
for society a cancer

one more year
all but done
2 4 mins to spare

cold beers in hand
we sit on grass
and listen to folk band

our fingers touch
our hearts combine as
the years dwindles

the god boy dreams
with arms thrown wide
the lateness having beaten
his desire to see in the new

i think of those who
drifted of to places better
so far beyond our human touch
and to those we welcomed

the time counts down
as i stare at the sky
and wish for blessings and grace
but knowing that there
will be measures of sadness too

farewell to you 017
you were mostly good
and yes  i will
remember you kindly

the night becimes a carnival
the god boy lurches awake
and we stand hand in hand
as the new rushes to meet us

Overhead fruit bats
flying, like graceful shadows
Harbingers of night

nine lines long
this poem shall be
it is apparently poem
one thousand and one
on hello poetry
so thank you all
for reading me
and mine musings
my heart is full

moth-eaten clouds
cover the moon

the sound of a neighborhood
dinner party coming to a close
drifts by on a zephyr

light flick off in a random way
and households begin to slumber

and still I sit on the back deck
playing a drunken game
of peek-a-boo with
the man in the moon

and the waves sing glory alleluja

he lies sleeping under
the sage green sheet
on his side turned away
from me and my intrusive light

the sheet is gathers about him
like grass upon the mountain range
that peaks at shoulders and hip

at tne bead head, a tangle
of jungle vines curled and intertwined
and the sound of a bear embarking
on a short winters hibernation

at the foot, ten pebbles of varying size
attached to two size eleven boulders
of a sunbrowned material
aged by sun, surf and sand
yet on the underside
a pale pink, reminiscent
of the delicate  inside
of the finest seashell

the grass on the upper reaches
of the moutain range, waves
as the wind sighes in and out
of the bear-cave mouth
and the plains of the lower
shift in small earthquake tremors
before settling in somulant torpor

when my man mountain sleeps ,he sleeps

the world winds down slowly tonight
coalescing into one  small house
on the cusp of something
we sit and watch the flickering
of other peoples bad news
and pray it does not become
our own

we keep in constant touch
with each other, the golden boy
sleeps with head in my lap
the father lays his hand
over mine and exerts gentle
reassuring pressure
the tuxedo kitten, sensing
our restless souls, moves from
person to person seeking
to comfort wish his two kilos
of wrinkled scrawniness

it is a time of waiting
and watching the small
screened phones, willing
them to carry positivity

it is a time of  cups
of lukewarm tea
and half eaten food
starting at sounds
and praying
to gods long losr
or forgotten

the night continues
to crawl, toward the day
the phones remain silent
we sleep in fitful dozing
snatches, with the blue glow
of reruns lighting
the huddled of  love

at 4.02 the phones buzz
and we answer,
with trepidation
the news is cautiously good
the surgery complete
the nephew, still with us

we sigh, with gratitude
as the sky begins to lighten

no more does my mother knit
half finished scarves, tea cosies
and tiny shell like booties
sit in forlorn piles
awaiting a hand that
is no longer deft
or interested

her conversation is now not
accompanied by the soft rhythmic
clicking of needles, tapping away
we are no longer halted in questions
by the phrase"just let me finish the row"

now, pattern books are filed away
wool paased on to others for their projects
groups of women no longer gather

my mothers hands lay idle and listless
in her lap, finger bent and curled
in painful submission  to age

she is some how smaller, diminished
as tho the k itting needles gave her strength
to battle to stand stoic, against the tides of misfortune
that battered the island that was her life...

my mother no longer knits
and in me that creates a sadness
that is deeper than words explain
and often as I sit with her
I long to here that rhythmic clicking
that was the back ground to my childhood

knit one purl one.....

I write to you in my mind
on beautiful crisp white parchment

I write sacred things
disguised as daily minutiae
things of magnitude only
because of mundanity

small glimpses of the vast empty
hidden in the overgrown wastelands
milestone markers to nowhere
to a land inhabited by ephemera
daliesque in it's discrepancies
in relation to the current realities

i write mile after mile of dragging letters
a breadcrumb trail eaten by carrion birds
that grow fat on both joy and misery

i am like a plough horse, in a field
overused and crumbling,  but still
i work the rows, for no one has
released me from the harness

my words are mud, on crispest snow
turned to water and frozen to rime

my words are finest gibberish

bedlamese, sublime,

vapour in a hurricane

a cry in a bottle

the salt in a tear

my words....are the ellipses
of my understanding of your life.

I write to you in my mind
and post the letters to you memory.

It is longer spring here
down at the bottom of the world
(if I were being truthful
at the very bottom of the world
spring is a mere matter of degrees)

Here in the land of Oz
we are in Autumn,
yet driving today,
the sunshining through
the last  of the clouds and
the waratahs red and vibrant
competing with the yellow
sunshine cascading drops
of the wattles , all outdone by
the bougainvilleas with their
bursts of deep, deep purple

the smell of lemon myrtle and eucalypt,
giving a zinging zest to the air
you could well believe that
nature did not get the memo...

woke up with nothing....
....stirring...in my brain.
a field unploughed.
a path yet to be trodden.

my eyes, blinking,
at the scarifiying sun.

my mouth, dry and barren

my bladder, shouting.

and my foot, fizzing
with nueralgia....
burning and itchy.
from forgetting the
medicinaltriptrap....

nope.....still got nothing.
still, quiet as a sleeping
churchmous. ....up there.....
....in the brilliance pavilion.

let me.... get back to you......

a bird,
in flight,
caught between
heaven and earth
set on outstretched wing
with radient sunset behind
now that is poetry to soothe

                          a rattled mind.

was going to write,
about rain....
falling in torrents,
outside my door.

but i feel if i write,
another rain poem.
i may just drown...
in the wet wistfulness,
of it all.

then i thought to write,
about my family
and my home...
how we, while not perfect,
seem to muddle on through.

but on reflection,
that might be,
as boring to you
as it is to me...
it's been done,
to with an inch
of it's happy, humdrum
life.

i could write of past angst.
pour out my damaged soul,
like a child with a macbre
show and tell.
or i could write,
how i fought,
so very hard,
to recover my self

i could write about items,
of sentimental import,
on the **** mantle shelf.

perhaps,
i just string together,
some,
mismatched words
and call it experimental.

run some syllables,
five, seven, five, together.
claim it's a hiaku.

write a detailed description
of you,
as you sit reading
the paper,
hair unkempt,
more salt than pepper,
brow slightly furrowed,
glasses a'perch,
your battered nose

and the crisp rustling
of the paper,
the ink smudging, your fingertips and cheekbones

but all these...
words and phrases,
descriptive and thoughtful.

are really just,
redundant drivel
my mind sneezing,
syllabalitic snot....

is this repetitive...
guff and garbage.
the best i've got...
geez louise i hope not...

is as if it grew
as limb of
the gnarled
stringybark

it sat, still
so very still
grey feathers
blended to
perfection

beak ****** up
at an angle
mimicking
the broken edge
of storm damaged
branch

only when
we had passed
it gave itself
away, with slow
blink of tawny eye
then shuttered again
it returned
to it's hidden glory

nothing to see here
just us branches

'free butlers for everybody'**

yippee!! hooray!! huzzah!!

i would so love,
somebody to follow me
around all day.
doing the mudane and
boring things,
all that daily guff.
to be at my beck and call,
for just about anything at all.

but then,
if there are 'free butlers for all'

would my, butler,
not have a bulter, of his own
to order about from,
his butler throne
and so on and so forth
and if we all had butlers.
would anything, ever,
really get done?

OR, would we all be,
passing ***** laundry
about in a neverending,  
linen chain.
drinking tepid tea from each others ***** tea cups.
polishing silver for some one other than us ...
would i end up,
being a bulter to you.

my god!  

this, idea of

'free butlers for every one.'  

is spiralling,  out of control

this  factotumnal conudrum,
is going to  drive me insane.

JEEVES ! please, please be so good
as, to bring me a calming tisane.

******!!!
carkeys...
where have you gone??
this time...

i know you think,
this is a wonderful way
to pass the time.
but i am a busy woman.

and when i put you
down,
someplace,
i expect you,
to stay there.....

not grow legs,
scurry away....and hide

now....
i am going to,
close my eyes,
count to ten
and then, when,
i open them,
you just better be
sitting right there
in front of me!!!!


and that
goes for you too...
ya silly sunglasses.

somewhere......
....a man sits
legs dangling,
over the edge
of a precipice.

wrangling with
the thoughts
running rampant
within his mind.

the cool breeze
dries the tears
that fall,
as his hands
throw pebbles
and his eyes
track their fall.

and in the puddles
left by ealier rain
a chemical reaction
occurs...
a glassiene rainbow
appears to form...

as he falls,
pebble like through
the sky,
he thinks he hears
bluebirds....flying...
                  way up high...


--------------------------------
*in memory ....
for J..... who lept from The Gap. 11 years ago to day.....
may he have found his
red slippers and made his way
home...r.i.p.

Today I am
Jagged pieces of broken glass
Shattered by happenstance
Words meant in jest
Have pierced my marrow
and now I await
the world to turn again
witth tears  carressing
cheeks...

My pebble fractured
I must again wait the working
of the waters way
and become once again
Smaller in this place

This is the opposite turn
Of the waters wheel

This is the cracking
of the foundation

This is.......
                   reformation.....
                                              and
                                                      ..... reclaimation


of a damaged soul.

not to sure if the
stillness and calm
found within me today
is,
just down to the bone
weariness
or,
something a tad more
zen...
if i get a chance
i will close my eyes
and find out...

I enter the small town coffee shop
desperate for caffiene
                           and a moment's respite

and I find it is to another era
I have come, hot and flustered

I look at the menu,
scratched in chalk on dusty board.
No artistic rendering  here
just a list of good honest food,
humble, but a smidgen dear

I order coffee, latte,
with cold milk on the side,
to which the large lady server
looks at me her head cocked to askew
and states, in a flat australian drawl,
that brings billabongs and jumbucks to mind...

Darl, I can make it tepid if ya wants,
or I cans put ya cold milk on the side
but I gotta charge ya extra..
for ya mouthful of chilled moo juice
smiling, lips thin and wide

I replied I'll still take the milk on the side
and one of those little peach cakes
if you don't mind.

She gave me a price and I complied,
thinking unto myself,
the moojuice, must originate
up on heaven's side and
cure all ills, ward off chills
and give only ....
joyous thoughts whilst one imbibes.

I sat at some old farm wifes table
worn down and grooved.
Come to town to shine in this caffiene shrine
rubbing my finger agin the edge
awaiting the latte and cold milk...
on the side....

Watching me from the prized corner table
three old dears.....
With stacked mahjong tiles, and swivelling ears

and on the floor crawling with gay abandon
two small children, in tandem,
they wandered amid the tables
on uneven floors the colour of slate,
deep dark wood, tongue  and groove...
that had seen to much walking, to much talking,
the tongues have slipped and the groove all but broken

As I await the cow to moo, the beans to grow
my heart slows a beat..I let go..
and see the joy, of a fella and a good cuppa,
two old friends caught up in a natter.
and the mahjong queens, realease the tiles
old friend and foes, in an a company of smiles

The cake comes, presented with due grace.
Two  pink half moons of light sponge
in a thin jelly and coconut case,
caught in a lover's kiss of delectable cream

and I understand now,
the cow is an angel,
a veritable dream,
to be loved and cosseted,
the moojuice... of moojuices
the mother of creams...

And now for caffiene...
well go figure...they know their beans

Refreshed and renewed I arise and I leave
but not before buying more moojuice
                                                      an­d moocream...

the metal teeth
of this year's counting,
gnash and groan,
grating slowly through...
the final hours
before, their midnight demise.

the world takes one
last look,
one more reprise....

like the overbearing actor,
one more accolade,
one more encore,
dear friends, hold me in
your heart.... once more
before i am "resting" forever

old and weary,
the day stumbles
to his wake
of a billion chemical fireflies
dancing in the night
as the adoring public sighs

and rockets blast with
daring might.
people sing refrains of
old lang syne,

a blurting, blurring drunken delight..
a bachanal of intimate sharing of iresolute promises that are,
sealed with a ***** kiss

then... old man is gone...
and in his place
a fresh hopeful face
begins tick-ticking along...

poems, poetry, words
are but mirages, today
wavering,
on a distant horizon
nebulous, yet so enticing

and i,
the thirsty traveller,
caught out,
hatless,
in the sandy dessert...

the cool air of the morning awakens me,
bird's bustle and gossip in the first rays,
of a new turn around,
the sun.

tears pool and nestle,
at the bridge of my nose, thick with emotion
left from a dream.
devoid of details,
but rich in sorrow,

a hungering feral sorrow.
that still lingers,
licking at the corners
of my mind.

i feel a discordance
with myself, sighing to expell this thing prowling, my breathe,
catches on a sob.

the kookaburra's laugh, jarringly close
and then further away.

i wipe at these tears, unbidden, unshed
and turn?
to find my grounding,
my steadfastness,
my hearts ease watching,
he draws me to him,
his lips,smoothing
my furrowed brow,
his hands creating an intensity, that is ours alone.

we make,
sweetness and beauty,
joy and oblivion, before falling asleep once more.

the small dog
attached to the long lead
has a tail that is blurred
with happiness
as he wanders through
the market village
tongue lolling
nose questing the air
for the myriad of  scents
he is happy curiosity
in a brindle coat

i watch amused at his vigour
as i drink from an enamel mug
holding a wonderful local bean coffee
eat warm coconut mango muffins
and ponder the purchase
of some artisan glass jewllery

my boys having scoffed their muffins
are off to see the woodworkers
the golden child hoping
to add to his collection
of wooden puzzles
his father to chat with
other lovers of woodgrains

we will meet later
after i have bought, applebox honey
collected by dave the beekeeper
portabella mushrooms the size of saucers,
to make stuffed fetta mushies for dinner
and all the other green and organic vege
i can find.  some prawns and a mud crab.
lunch tomorrow,  olive bread, olive tappenade
stuffed olives, some goodies for the biccie tin

and some of these coffee beans....

the dog raises it's leg against the canvas
of the tent down the pathway
before carrying on....
oblivious

as the oak is always the acorn,
so the poem is always the word,
no matter, how decimated       the tree,
no matter, how faded
the word,

inside resides, the tree, awaiting  the catalyst.
inside resides, the poem,
awaiting the esprit.


always, the essence remains,
embedded...  
always, is the outcome, foreshadowed...
etched in, by a code,
known, only in it's base intricacy by one...
the creator.

the house is making,
noisy demands, this morning
that i feel i am, unable to meet

the microwave,
is bleating about the coffee steaming, standing, waiting,
on it's spinning table

the washing machine,
is singing a smug little jingle.
job complete. washing done,
are'nt i neat!

the dryer,
whirring, sighing, thumping,
slumping,
to a rythmn all its own.

the roomba,
is doing,
the
rhumba,
all the way
down the
hall.

the computer,
dings and sings
you have new mail.

and worst of all
the alarmclock,
has told me.
i have,
met my quota,
of snooze recalls.

so,
now,
i have to,
get up and face it all.

how i wish,
for the days,
when the
house mechanics,
went about their work,
in quiet and dutiful ways.
requiring no praise at all.

clasp these things gently,
to thy breast.
my love, my little love,
hold them gently.
tho' seldom will they bite.

feed them,
hopeful crumbs
and tidbits
of delighted joy.

do not neglect
them,
do not yet,
let them go
they are still to young,
to fledge and fly.

this world is a place
of broken things.

these dreams you have,
are the chaotic butterfly wings that will flap and flutter and bring despots down

not yet, little one,
but when you
are tall
then my child
let them
fly one day,
in  sunshine's
wonderous thrall

for now,
my little love,
treat them kindly
clasp them gently
to thy breast
and do your best,
my child,
to  ignore, the random
snows of  barren, hopelessness
as  they fall.

straight line
turns to squiggle
as tired mind
turns to slush

weary soul
begins to wobble
as happiness
fades to grey

and in the twilight gloaming
paces the dog, black
with eyes a' gleaming
mouth a' drooling
and  dinner on his mind..

torchlight
follows the squiggle,
brings warmth and sunshine
slush becomes liquid
fluidity comes to mind
and the wobble is centrifugal
seperates the grist and the grind
gives surety to the tired and weary mind

torchlight comes from kisses
murmered words always kind
not breadcrumbs but shining pebbles
to my hansel and gretal state of mind

forrest large, big wolf lurking
pebbles help me find
home and hearth and kin
that gives grace to the
rebelnheart and mind
that oft makes me blind
and lost and a'wandering
in the squiggle......

one final cup of chamomile tea then to bed,
to bed, to lie drenched in sweat.
until the heat breaks
and the cool change sneaks on through.
one last sip to calm my mind.

so i can prepare
to itemize,
those **** pesky sheep.
i know them all by name now,

by dawn, i will know where they are going on their annual holidays.

rinse the cup and go to bed,
at least,
my foolish shepardess, my restless, droving, roving mind.
you will give you head,
a place to rest,
while you go on,
this  wooly,
sheep finding fact fest.