.....and in between
the listening...
silence...

not strained
....but commfortable
an acknowledgement....
of a knowing love

.....and in between
the knowing...
years of ... learning
...to listen...

for the quiet times...
of knowing ....love

silence....profound
love.....aeonian.

the god boy, grows a pace
no longer small, squalling child

now showing a fierce independent streak
that causes pride and fear in equal amounts

it is hard to balance the need to learn
and the need to teach...to protect
we fail the balance regularly
yet are fortunate to have suffered
no great ..... or lasting consequence

his greatest attribute,
our greatest joy
his sunny side up,
the ability to always,
see the best
in everything.....
eventually

as we slow and grey,
he seems brighter,
more intense...
gathering colur into him
only to give it out...
in a argent radience
that is contagious...
in  it's beauty

of course,
he has his flaws
my child,
is far from perfect
like his father,
his floor is his wardrobe
and like his mother
he is prone to losing himself
in bookworlds, while mundane
chores await..

but he is both the worst and the best of us

and more importantly
he is himself....forging
and identity and entity
bourne of love and compassion

and honestly
as a mother godess
and as a father god

there is naught more
we could wont
or ask for...

so now..... you don't TREND?????
people have to pay money
to see your poem hit the front page

If that's the case,
(and i may be confused)
Save your money....if you like my work
Buy a homeless person a cup of coffee
I think I would appreciate that more.....

seven.
it was at this point
I started running
because there was no way
three more numbers
were going to get
his temper/ rage
back into the box

eleven
that was the age
that I learnt the effect
of a fast moving patella
aimed at a *******

twenty nine
the number if times
that story has been told

forty three
that's  where he caught up
with me with a crash tackle
splitting his lip and my eyebrow
in the completion of it

thirty two
the number of stitches we got
me 14, him 18

fourteen
the number if days
we where grounded
no tv, no visitors

five
the times
I have used
that manoeuvre
since then

two
the visable scars
we still have.....

Young magpies,
still grey of feather,  
attack random sticks
thinking them food,
cry out despondently
when discovering
their prey is inedible wood.
Mother magpie overseas
Scavenging expedition with
beady eyed patience...

open the book
let your tears
fall on the pages
on handwritten
love

watch the saltedwater
make pools and ponds of
your heartfelt protestations

wait to see
the paper warp
and wrinkle
in cruel parody
of lifes reality

turn the page
now smeared
and blighted
knowing nothing
remains pristine

love has alighted
on a dark horse
no longer true
to the the troth
pledged when
love was true

the ******* just
walked out on you
leaving just when
forever was in sight
on the horizon
leaving you with just this

a lethal pen.. and a womens
need for.... vengance

sorrow sings silent songs
in my heart, in my heart
while my face smiles
and responds to you

i dance the line of the shadow
on toes tipped in light
this is my life

balancing the gray with the white
my circus has monkeys
now quieting sleeping
in their cage

i have learnt to be quiet
so as not to endanger
their rage

i see the sun and feel it's warmth
i look to the light, i fight, i fight
somedays, just by standing still
i fight....

the music score is changing
slow but sure, there is joy
in my encore....

white sand
flecked with
blackend seaweed

occasionally
a smooth tumbled pebble

the smell of salt
and iodine

water, whitecapped
as far as the horizon
and beyond

and heat clear crisp heat
drawing and drying sweat
on bodies bronzing

seagulls squabbling
over chips thrown
to a zephyr breeze

and the sound of sea
making love to sand
sealife, in australia

sisephean soldier *****
roll sand into spheres

seagulls sqwauk and swoop
for skerricks of sausage rolls

shaggy dogs bark and snap
at shifting sand and seas

dolphins dive and swing
throgh wave tips in a secret synergy

and out in the depths
whales sound and sing
with solemn  voices

i sit and watch,
the dust motes dance
in the stream of sunlight

the computer hums and burbles
like and old friend, intent on
sharing the latest gossip

last years detrius of papers
and unfinished lists, new job lists
teeter in the corner....

my backside has again grown
a size too ample,
for my ergonomic  chair

my brain is lax and lazy
slow to grind into gear....

this is the awkward,
i don't want to be here
start to the years marathon

it is the organizing of details
the preparation of the course

it is meetings and more meetings
dull, dry, academic, with others who
are in the same boat, those who want to
change course midstream, those who want to
tread water and those who are new to the game
rowing in circles with much enthusiasm, but little boatcraft


i, at present am resting oars, knowing this is the first
of many races, knowing the course, tho set, will change
when the students arrive, it is then the rapids come into play
and it is then, my energy, is required.

til then i cruise
and drink copious amounts of caffiene
in my air conditioned office....
watching the air, take dust motes,
for a ride.

the sun streams
through the curtains
in a cat sized patch

and there we find him
this connoisseur of apricity
stretched and flat
drinking of the winter day's
meager glory

tail flicking on ocassion
and one eye open..
to the possibilty
of bacon on the run.

he is now of the age,
where he needs warm
his bones ,
before he thinks of...
completing his  yoga
and cleaning down there.

so the little blucat
has become a master
at fitting his body
into any sliver or ****
of winter sun ....

and is often found dozing.
..or as elliot claims,
contemplating the depth,
and meaning of his name....

when the world was flat
and we were few,
we looked at stars
and made them gods

to help explain the difficult truths,
to give us some measure of understanding to those concepts
to large to be held within our hands.
to find beauty in desperate times
to watch over us...

now the world is round
and we are many
most can no longer see the stars
we look to the internet to explain truth
and concepts seem to be shrinking,
to the size of a tablet screen.
times are becoming more desperate
and we watch each other...

yet the stars are there still.
behind the smog,
beyond the city lights
they hold their sentinels gaze
their beauty is undiminished.

they,for the most part are
still enigmatic, a mystery,
to be unfolded.
and we,
for all our advancement
and trappings
are still looking up....
seeking but not truly finding.

Pre dawn bird chorus
Awakening the feline
To begin dawn patrol.

in this moment
as the waves
erode the sand
beneath my feet

and the wind howls
across the white capped waves
i am serene

the future
while never stable
is ever hopeful
the past
dealt with as best
as one can

and the now
holds my hand
and watches our boy  
laughing,
as he chases sandcrabs

whatever.....
she threw the word
at me
with all the youthful,
disdain,
she could muster
as she flounced
out the out of my sight...


and


.....wandered away from
her talents bright light.

the afterthought of rain
lies heavy in the air tonight
the earth slowly steams
aand on the elctricity lines
the  family pink  of galahs
amuse themselves
doing 360 degree loops
on the rain slippery wires
round and round and round
with child-like glee

down tne road, the  jackos
settle in for the night
amid laughter and gossip
and much flapping of wings

i watch the geckos race up
the wall to postion themselves
under the porch light
and await the night's buffet

somewhere over near the pond
the old frog begins to sing
i am pleased to hear him
i thought we had lost him to the heat
his basso profundo love cries
follow me into the house
as the mosquitoes  begin their
bloodsucking serenades.

and the earth slowly steams

keyan blend
in coffee ***
                             sun smiling
                             high in sky

maramalade
of crisp muffin
                            
                          sea sparkiling
                          breeze cooling

lawn mowers
cutting green
                    
                           my boys
                          gone fishin
                        
                        
lazy sunday
has begun..

twenty minutes to write a poem
to stop and think and scribe
to create an etude, a vignette
from daily life,
minutea



teapot sits
still warm
rendolent
of terraces
of camelias
in foreign lands

crumbs sit in clusters
on the worn pine table
survivors of the toast and jam war

underneath the tuxedo cat
basks in a sliver of stainedglassgreen sunlight
hopeful of something wonderful


the clattering of the boychild
can be heard, akin to rollerblading rhino's
as he prepares for another day of learning


I sit, running fingertip around teacup lip
as I contemplate procrastination
with regard to all things domestic

outside, the world reverberates
as some one begins to cut grass
and the the Beach Boys sing Kokomo

cool air caresses my
too warm body as
I stand at the
window

watching the play of
moonlight on
seawater

fruitbats and boobooks call
across the valley
out, foraging in the
night light I see them
sweep across the sky
shapes dark and sinister
against the dusting of star glitter

behind me man and cat curl
into tighter *****, seperated by
doona  mountains

I stand letting the breeze cool
my skin, and await the
next shadows rise and fall
upon the deepening darkness
of  the summer sky

shadows long,
fall on pavement wet

and inside the teetering,
jenga blocks, people reside
in caves opulent and electric.

and green is a colour,
forgotten
and  bluesky,
a patchwork quilt,
seen in fractured glimpses,
on the way to and from.

flowers bright and vivid,
come delivered
and earth the thing,
we save by sitting.
in the almost, dark
for an hour a year.

shadows short,
fall on barren ground.
as city dwellers, breathe
grey air and expell
trash and detrius muck

no shadows now
just black all around
no dwellers, no sound....

perhaps we needed to sit
in the almost dark much
longer and  love the ground
on which our life is found.

shadows creep this night,
from house to house
at the edge of day light

shadows creep this night
little goblins delight
dracula's bite
dino's and frankestiens might
stomp, fuzzy werewovles bite

shadows creep this night
little ducks and fishes fight
over candy morsels
cowboys and superheroes slight
in stature, giant in dreams bright

shadows creep this night
oddities, memes and more
knock shyly at the door
candy distribution  
not a chore

shadows sleep tis night
like little dragons,
with candy treasure galore

into the gloaming
you dance, with small
uncertain steps

the music dims
heard mostly
inside your mind

the swing band plays
as you sway
between uncertainty
and the nineteen fifties

when you danced all night
in patent leather pumps
with stockings saved for
the occassion

glowing with youth
and the energy that
falling love brings

now these memories
burn bright as your
life light dims
and your dance partner
the kind young nurse

as down the hall
in the mood
plays on some ones
radio

fingertips,
twitch itch and burn
with need

need to touch
torch-hot flesh
to feel, white-hot soul
ooze through thin-skin membrane

toungetips rake softlips
stealing murmurings
of heart and head
leaving desire
simmering  there instead

yearnings, deeper delvings
desperate dionysion delusions
draining staining steaming seeming
never ending mind bending soul rending ***

stealing silent sombulent kissses
of fearful guilty farewell
trip tip-toeing doors silently closing
need hosing, shamful moseying away
from who the....what the...oh hell!

fingertips tapping drumming
hunover mind blown but still hummin
no excuse away from home and lonely
awaiting the bill, cash only,
cause credit be evidence of crime of illicit time

now despondent knowing heart-sore
bad to the bone core, never wash away rime
dang, stuffed up to one's own detriment
balancing on earth-quaking, slip-sliding
no-place, nowhere to be hiding, mudsliding firmament
thinking deep, dark, stark stupidity rules
now just me the jester and the fools
all counting the cost and consequence
of one night, tispy cheap drunk nasty, nasty  thrill

lets just see
what the soothesayer
says he saw
in his silly  but soggy sanguinity
should he have seen,
the step, so slippery
that brought him to
this soap opera scene... seventeen stitches,
sore chin, not suffering...
too much silly,syrupy
stuff pumped in.
do you think the
soothsayer will see,
a sore and sorry sunday
for himself...
or will he be sadly
oblivious to the obviously, 
vaccuous summation
of the unpredictability of it...
seen here by one and all.

got caught up in blue ink
fever last night,
reading h.p. pops and wrestling
with the words.
only to find the new day at hand

so now i am sitting in a meeting of great importance.

(eyes drooping, day  dreaming,
sheep visiting- NO, don't count the ****** things, YOU FOOL!)

discusing matters of teaching and reaching decision on text,

(cotton pillows with smiles on their dials, beckon me over the fence to play with bo peeps sheep DO NOT COUNT THOSE SHEEP.)

books and performance scripts for the following  year, now is when

(sheep are such fluffy little things, you could just put your head down on their little tummies. LEAVE THE SHEEP ALONE HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU)

you make a case for new works
and differing the standard

(and there is just so many of the fuzzy little deweds, DON'T EWE DARE.  IF I HAVE TO COME OVER THERE  EWE'LL KNOW ABOUT IT!!!!!)

teaching formats

(one little sheepy, two  sheepy sleep, three little sleepy sheepy,,,,,,four llilĺlte sleeeepppyshee RIGHT!!pppy
NOW YOU HAVE DONE IT!!!! TIME FOR THE BIG GUNS)

Bo, are you with us, I know this isn't the most exciting  discusion,
but it would be helpful if you could refrain from snoring.

(TOLD EWE!!)

diaphanous....
are we...
in the bigger
reality...
mere wisps of
fragility....
our thoughts...
the epitome...
of self indulgent
verbosity...
creating...
the semblence of
sodality...
in the
spinning...
duality..
of the
mediocrity
versus...
creativity
paradigm...
apparent
in all of nature's...
sublime...
totality...........

monsoonal like heat
saps the strength
from my bones
one day into the new year
and i am weary beyond belief

sitting on the back step
a beer sweating itself
slippery in my hand
thinking sandwiches
and fruit salad
may well be our dinner
if i could be bothered
i don't think any one
is hungry anyway

the humidity creates
stickiness, so that flesh
melds together, i would
shower but it would
be my fourth today

and the beach is closed
due to a shark sighting
so i sit and ponder
as my beer warms
and the back
of my knees sweat
little puddles


thunder rumbles
and i hope that soon
a storm  will break
at least then we will
be able to sleep tonight

sheesh it is  hot.....

this old teak farmhouse creaks this morning.
like an old woman settling into her favourite chair.
we will need to paint again soon,
the coastal wind abraids
her seascape blueskin
and the sun, bleaches it
to a faded blue grey.

she has seen so much,
when they first cleared
the land on the rise of the cliff.

she was the only house for miles and she watched
the farmer's cows stand placid accepting of the buffeting wind as they chewed their cud.

she watched the slow encroachment of the town on her fertile red loamed pastures.
as tall white ghost gums and norfolk pine trees,
gave way to squat ugly houses and box like apartments.
stacking families atop families.
she saw horse tracks
turn to black ribbons of rock and tar,
the neighing clopping rhythm
become buzzing booming honking discord.

she watched families,
come and go,
loving, living, dying and all the life and strife in between.

she is solid still,
she was built to withstand, man's mark upon the everchanging land.

she is our patch of love now, we have the upkeep of her care.
but inside her snug old walls we known she carries
the tales of times long past and will with time keep
our families secrets just as well,
we are but passing through she as creaky as she is,
will be here standing, watching after we have moved on.

she is all but
gone from me now

sitting quietly in her chair
a mix of memories
and medications

she used to be fierce
and bigger
than her four foot nine inch frame

but now bones and flesh
fall and curve in
gnarling hands and feet
making  her skin
look and feel like a letter
read a thousand times

her voice once so rich and strong
once full of opinion and humour
is now but wind
sighing through ever present pain

I miss the quickness
of her wit the most,

But I miss the mothering more.

Time has reversed our roles
and the decisions are all mine now...

She has out of sheer weariness,
having battled so long, for so hard

aceded her will
to the slow walk of dementia


She sits quietly in her chair
memories gathered
about her, as her companions

Some days it is like I am not here
and others,
she is not there

The days we meet
in passing....
or for a a good while
are gifts that shine bright
at least, in my saddened mind

On the other days,
I hope and pray...
she finds herself
amongst friends
in happy times...

as she wanders slowly away from us

we once made love,
on a shell and
shingle stone beach.
it was a cold,
uncomfortable affair,
of clacking, shifting.
a scratching, scrying game,
of hard, hurried, thrusting.
riding waves of tepid saltwalter
and banging, barging,
bruising ice beneath
our backs.

but we,
were new to love,
in need of intimacy
and at least,
there was no sand,

i remember, the next day
our backs and buttocks,
were pokmarked with bruises.
a karmic reminder of our
base human greed

some days i write
rafts and barks,
kayaks and corricles.

some days, a mere log,
set hopefully upon the water.

some days, dories and yachts
pinnaces, sloops, ketches and tugboats

on rare occassions,
great two and three masted ships,
schooners and galleons
filled with treasure..

more often scows, punts
and barges,
work man like and useful,
but not alway pretty

all painstakingly,
crafted...
with planks of words
nailed together with punctuation...
and caulked, with my soul...
sanded down by thought
polished, oiled and varnished,
with love...

then i set my sails,
my inspiration,
to the mast of poetry

and push off....
into the great white yonder....
hoping my xebec...my catarmaran, my dinghy...
my log...
will find a fellow waterman....
sailing, on this...
the ocean of words.

Sho, who is strong,
is really but a tiny
thing....

always the outcast,
always thought,
to be...
somehow, wrong.

but ever,
with a smile
and a song.

no matter, what
sticks or stones,
are flung his way.
no matter, what
unkind, unthinking
words they say.

Sho Enuff, would smile,
and sing a showtune. sometimes that's
why people would,
call him a loon.

but,
Sho, knew,
something we did not.
his heart was pure
it was in theirs,
the insecurity, the rot.

Sho, was strong,
within himself,
knew he was made
from god's wealth,
of love and compassion

so took no heed,
of others and their,
trashing.

Sho Enuff was tiny
Sho Enuff was small
but Sho Enuff
was the best....
of them all.

lists, hustle, bustle
no parking and a cranky
little one....
white knuckled derby
on cart with shonky wheels

dodging packers, shelf stackers
and half the universe(ity)
hungry, tired need to be fed
stuck behind an old couple
could not be worse

no checkout chicks
just the self serve aisle
****** going to be here
for a long slow while

home at last
take the freezer bags in
the rest left in the car
until we break the fast
lasagne in the micro
"someone's momma made it"(???)
bag of salad on the side
so we get some green
"okay troops dig in"

finally all unpacked
stored and ordered
now for my reward
ten minutes of poetry
and a big block of
chocolate sin.

the shoreline at dusk,
two elderly walkers.
a weaving sandpiper.
one thousand shells,
rolling to and fro,
in foamy froth,
click-snickering, away.
me and myself.
the wind, westerly,
upon the rise
and the sun.
saying farewell.
waving an  apricot and
orange banner.
reading....all is well

clipped and shorn
close to breaking
the thin skin
on the wrinkly bits

words
sharp and terse
leaving marks
unseen
on the inside

criticism
meant to be constructive
but became destructive
with a turn of the shears

this baa, baa black sheep cries all the way home

writing life on the upbeat
no mean feat
when riding pell mell
down to bowels of hell
on a harley fatboy
bought as look at me ploy
with a kooky sidecar
of sarcastic sidebar
talking of friends
my god  are
we are all just lemmings
to mediocracy in the end

raindrop reflecting
stand of eucalyptus trees
nature is sublime

on a twig  so fine
bumble bee sits, wings quiet
worker on a break

little words
with big meanings
shared over coffee
and toast

beginning the day
with sunshine, love
and ginger lime butter

it is the simple things
it is....the simple things
i love....

singing love songs
to one he will not meet
living pipe dreams
he can not complete

how can I make him
understand the gland
required was removed
whilst he snored

tux the cat,
singing love songs
to a lonely moon
like a flippin loon

unthinkingly
                     i wrote you a
christmas card....
it was not until i went to address it....i remembered
                    you are dead

it is now going on nine months
    ...      .....since ....    .. .....

but still i find you
                    just about
                          everywhere

and now.... what am i to do with this **** christmas card....
          sisterkin....i miss you...

wind rattling the windows
while rain drenches all

blucat prowling
checking window and doors

the small boy snuggles
and listens to dreams

mothers and father
play scrabble, by candlight

the storm has won,
the electricity has gone

and now lights up
the clouded sky

the small bird
calls to the too
long absent sun

all fluff and feathers
voice strident chirking
demanding audience

oh! to have the confidence
to rule the orb of life
as a handful of bones
and a little yellow beak

size don't matter
to him at all.......

upon your skin
the tears fallen from brooding clouds
tastes of warm and wetness

upon your skin
the specks of sanded down mountains
tastes of salt and rust

upon your skin
flecked grass shaved from the meadows beard
tastes of goodness and hope

upon your skin
water rivuleted from the salted realm
tastes of iodine and mystery

upon your skin
timbers tamed, taken,
taste of cedarsap and history fallen


upon your skin
my tongue  tastes
these wonderous thing

i am but a beggar at a feast.......

SLAM down the words
like a slap of your hand
upon a wooden table

SPEAK the utterances
of your broken heart

SLAM  your anger into my face
with the fistful of furious syllables

SCREAM your defiance to the world indifferent
to the magnaminity
of your none to silent pain

SLAM down tequila shots
one, two, three,
redifing absplute clarity

SLAM  your body into
mine repeatedly
mistake realease for
ECSTASY...

SLAM  the door as you go
and leave, all the while preparing for the next girl the next show...

SLAM  me into a box, and
bury me,
my time is up, my words
are just crushed up dust....

SLAM the gates of heaven
in my face...done too much
bad to die with grace

SLAM DUNK my b'ball ****,
my whole life, just a dribbling farce

SLAM  me down to hell...
let me roast a good long time

SLAM...that now ends
this redonkulous rhyme...