i am left
with out want
or passion.

.....spent.....

yet when lifetimes
ago,
but, just moments,

i was the eye,
of a malestrom,
caught between,
the fall of water
from the shower's head
and the waterfall
of lust,

converted into love....

as hips ******
and receded,
in waves, tidal
i became....
but a delta,
for the rushing tides
and we met,
                    as liquid.

if poetry were more like money
would it be greater
if there was no desperation
to experience or see
would poetry not be
just like blancmange or porridge
sustaining but oh so bland
if there where no joy
no love, anger, jealousy
bland, bland, bland.
poetry is a currency
or the open heart and mind
so lets us spend, and write
the spice of life....

add some sizzle
to that pan
me an my man
like it
hot and spicy

add some heat
to that beat
me an my man
like to samba

add some passion
to that kiss
my man knows me
i like it  long, **** and sultry

life is not forced...
.. .a distillation of sorrow
and yet
.....life was the greatest joy
it's own realm ...encased
but not breached....
the joy ...had it's own integrity
not touched by tragedy.

that joy, the measure
and source...spring.
....I remember sitting in rain
and blustering wind...
abiding.... and yoked... to life
this comic tradegy...within.

it is a day of sunshine,
yet i am chained
to a desk.
balancing budgets.
but oh! how the sun calls.

it whispers,
sweet, slices of
watermelon dreams,
in to my ears.
it murmurs, bubbling
brooks of tantalizingly,
****, homemade
lemon-limeade.
it talks, incessently
of mangos, eaten warm
and straight from
the skin...

it beckons me, to sin,
to walk barefoot, across
forbidden grass...
to the sand...to the sea


oh! how the
springtime sun
beckons me....

yet,
here i sit,
admist budget misery....

quiet as a mouse,
in a corner
thats me,

it is simply this,
i have nothing to say
of any great worth,
at present.

so i shall sit,
quiet in a corner
chewing on cheese,
sipping red wine,
(decadant mousy, me.)
watching the world
pass by.....
                 squeek,squeek...

when you find yourself
standing,
on the corner
of somewhere and desloate

holding a sheaf of sunbeams
whilst humming hopeful
show tunes
with a small nonedescript
black dog(you call bozo)
on a leash, lying belly up,
submisssive, at your side

that is when you have found
where recovery resides.

and when you know
way down in the abyss
inside
that you are looking at
a new way of being,
not necessarily
rose-tinted seeing.

and in that knowledge
you find the honesty
to decry...
that while, you be,
both living and visiting,
on the sunnyside.

that tho, somedays are fine,
some saltmine hard
and some too hard
to define....

despite all that
too-ing and fro-ing
all those tendril thoughts
and clouded over dark days
all the whispering
and bargaining fey things
your internal filmaker brings
to bear,
on the walls of your sanity
you will come through
with sunbeams glowing...

that is when you know...
....recovery
is the key to the lock
on a house...
                 in a suburb....
that does not have streets
named....

somewhere and desolate....

bludgeon me with reckless words
i will stand
threaten me with silence
and solitude
i will stand
berate me with vicious abandon
i will stand

in your actions you prove yourself to be a small man

i will stand
till my dying day
against this type of
pompous academic bullying
i will stand
tall against the mean minded mentality of it all

and you....

it does not matter...
to give you more space
is not worth my time
nor will i stoop
to look you in the eyes
**i will stand

Manchester weeping
inconceivable losses
for a madman's game

sadness
seeps
silently
from
beneath
her
lashes
spreading
salted
w­ater
down
her
cheeks,
sighing
she
swipes
the
offending
sorrow
aside...
smiles
­and
steps up
into
the
startling
bright
spotlight
to
sing
the
saddest
of
songs
......

just found out
today is
random acts of kindness day
although not so random
if they assign it a day....
the point being
take a chance
go a little bit out of your way
to do something kind
for some one today....
perhaps write a poem
for a fellow poet...
or take an old neighbor
some flowers
pay some one bus fare
or buy a homeless person
a muffin....
does not really matter
what you do....just
spread some kindness
around....
lord knows the world could do with it...

oh, and the bitterness
taints my toungue
and blurs my eyes

all i see, all i see
is happiness
but
not for me, not for me

and the dark inches
ever closer,  
a low growling ravenous
thing

wanting me, needing me
to sucumb, to sucumb

where has my sunshine gone.
in this bleak, drear season.
it is gone, it is gone.

and i am a lonely figure
in a crowded place
and i am desperation
running a losing race
and i am weary to the core
bruised abraided red raw.

but still i stand,
what else can one do
it is after all,
what life demands.

must have got a dud
coffee.....still nothing
brewing, nothing clicking
over.... just open prarie space....not even a cliched
tumbleweed......
........ god.... hope i have n't
lost my brain.......

it is just past
the witching hour
yet still i sit
stitching my id
into the gossamer
warp and weft
of the world wide web
a signature cosseted
in anonymity...
a virtual
i was here.... i live
and write to tell the
tale of my living...
stitch by lettered
stitch i leave a quilt
to cover my world....

it's the middle of
the afternoon
on one of those warm
winter days,
that hold the promise
of summer inthe brightness
of the sun..

and we three are at the park
having swung to the sky
on the swings, gone up and slid down the slippery dip
a dozen times
and made ourselves dizzy
on the merrygoround
we now sit quietly, watching
pelicans and ducks
icecream, soft serves melt
in hands and on toungue.

when we are down here
we will go down to the jetty
and throw our bread upon
the water for ducks and pelicans to squabble over

and then home to play
in the garden....
before dinner.......
there is a simplicity
to this.....yet it deserves
to be written... for it is too beautiful an afternoon
to be forgotten

the days subsides,
with adoring colour
and the racous choral,
of retiring lorikeets.

we sit upon the deck,
cold bevvies in hand
and watch the master
painter at work,

over on the mountain range
the clouds gather.
ben, laconically states,

"storm tonight"

and yes that smell,
so wonderful,
sits heavy in the twilight air.

petrichor, heavy on the eucalypt, ****** beer,
and warm tar....
the smells of a stormy,summer afternoon.

the lightning tonight, when it came
was hidden behind the clouds
like old fashioned flashbulbs
those boxy ones, we used to steal
and setoff under the bedsheets

the rain came and went
in a windblown front
pasing through without
taking the heat from the ground
just making the evening more humid

the thunder lived up to expectations
loud and growling at the world
but brief like a dog called to heel

now it has passed out to sea
and the water drips from the leaves
and the humidity continues to rise

the god of rain
just struck his drum
once twice and then once
more.....
the sound reverberates
and cracks the clouds
then down, down
pour his minions
drop by thousand drop...
to attack the land
with grand and furious passion.....
the sky alive with water
warriors and giant rattling
spears,
of light and anger,
hurled from cloud to cloud...

we watch, entranced from
our bunker, by the sea
as this god rails at the world
with mispent futility....

for with the rising of the sun
the night storms god... day is done...

we return to life
blinking
at the changes
wrought by
time inside
one's mind

he once blue sky now
grey and dragging
against the seas rim

trees shivering at
the blast of ice
laden winds

and as we watch
the first angry
spots of the torrent
to come

we forgo coffee and cake
in preference to the cocoon
of the car as the water
sheets down from the sky

now home and cosy
with hot chocolate
mingling on the stove
we watch the continued
fury of the storm
the cats stay curled up
under the doona
hibernating til dinnertime

bright ....butterfly.......talent
.....flicking tongues
of ......allitrative illustratation
unsure..... of present improv
packaging.....puckers lips to pout and preen....
........grunge moth in hoodie
comes to sauce the play....
tounge twister fandango
...... paperlace lizards ...dreaming...days streamin by....
all the mouths....... of ritual making.......
fourth wall breaking. ..
.....accummulate the method
scribe..... to the write
........formulate the figure...
linguate the lyrical....
left..... to the pintered flighted sighs.....
.....shake the speare this night
with finger drumming colour rhythms..... reveal the reasoned might ........of the fledgling dramaturg.....
foot stomping . ...posse blighted ....... brainstorms
.  .burn limelight bright burn...
throw your fleeting..... searing glow....on these little dramatic vacations from lifes realities.....
freezeframe ......moments.....
......of luducrosity..... and. . humming allocentricity ......
....egos pay homage to floor
door and wall...
drink..... the life ....the love ........the fear
pinprick and bucket dance it ......come one ..... come all.
learn the art of the comic pratfall ...... here at the home
of drama 171 improv
. ....by the pants of your seat
and other mellowed..... dramatic.......completes

i am tangled up ........and caught out in the..... doodles on my writing pad ....lines of ink ....turning circles up..... on itself..... great loops of nothing...... but sloppy eternity..... rings ...and . ....sideways.... sloping eights and ......sloveny obese zeros i am... hung up .. on time ..at present ..small moments... . .....forty-five years...of.... fore-evers ..... and miniscule secondia.... just hung.. up... ....doodling.. wasting ...time
timing space....crazy paving
.....the forcourt.. of my
oodling.... idling brain.

the little blu cat
sits in a shaft
of sunlight

fastidiously
washing behind
little blu ears
with paws
encased
in crushed velvet

the image,
is ....sublime

Pebble in hand
on waters edge i stand
Memories of you wax and wane with
each wave that laps at my feet
i sink into the soft sand..
Tears on cheek
Smooth pebble and
jagged breathe
As i let you go again. again....again
This time I don't throw the pebble away
I drop it at my feet, and watch it tumble and turn as the waves draw it back into the ocean
I watch the colours gleam and the pebble swing this way and that like a dancer swaying to the music...
I watch this small beautiful thing be subsumed by the much larger beauty of the beach

And I stand tears running freely as I learn another lesson about grief about letting go about being together but apart..
And through my tears I laugh...

always wishing for the best
from fingers to toes
she was optimism
clothed in black
with a fey look
in her eyes
as though
from a place
far wilder than this,
her magic drew you in
allocentricity her mantra
practised not preached
i knew her  when life
had greyed her hair
put myriad wrinkles
upon her face....but
still it is the smile
and the laugh I hear
on those days that
get me down..
my sugar plump fairy
in black hand me downs

the rain falls,
like a hymn,
upon the windows.
a song of hope,
sent from grey
and sombre sky.

given to an
adoring ground
accepted as
communion and
restoration.

listened to from within,
watched by wondering eyes,
the holiness of nature.
....beautifuly divine....

Mid-day heat beats down
Shingle-back lizard lazes
On old rotting log

Termite smorgasbord
Dinner in pink tongues reach
Warm sun lies above

and we would get up early
so early that the stars
would still sit high
in the dark night sky

we would drink milo
out of plastic cups
and eat oval arrowroot biscuits
spread thickly with butter

we would line up to go to the loo
one last time before piling into
the old car, sliding across bench seats
half our world packed into the boot

then we were off, on the old country roads
still sleepy for the first couple of towns
stopping at Jacaranda for a cup of tea
lukewarm, milky and sweet from the thermos
half a cheese sandwich each, and a fearful trip
to the draughty long drop toilet...looking for redbacks
the whole time, but only finding spinning daddy long legs

after that back into the car, for two hours of
winding our way down, the big hill,
listening for the clearnote  call of the bellbird,
watching for wallabies and wombats on the road fringe
and the bigger kangaroos, bouncing away
across the clearings...

at the bottom of the hill, Grafton a quick stop
to stretch our legs eat the cupcake,
used to bribe us into decent behavior up to that point
and another vist to the conveniences.
before the run down the coast,
past the big white resort
and into Brooms Head,
for a week of surf and sun
fish and chips, buckets of prawns,
frosty fruits and sunny boys
in tent and caravan,  
swimmers and towels,
we were tribal and free,
roaming the tideline
staying up at the campfire,
sleeping and waking
with the birds......
always such an adventure....
those idyllic days of summer

red moon rising
through flannel grey clouds
sea streaked with silver
pine trees black silhouettes

on the winow pane
brown moths paint
their lives away
and underlying it all
is the bass of a lonely treefrog
singing his heart's desire

rendolent of
stone grey gargoyle
he lies lizard flat
melded to the sun warm
cement by comfort
lassitudinally positioned
to collect sunrays

occassional movement
but as little,
as possible of that

have to say
i am awfully jealous
of that little blue cat

lingering on the edge
of a sunday morning lie in
I drowse and wander
through a forrest of
dream and thought

in my dream
I am small, the trees large
but not in a threatening way
more like that of welcoming elders

they speak in a language of comfort
there is other life, busy and invisible
bustling about, things I hear but do not see

I walk on a path meandering, touching age oldbark
gathering wisdom and strength by osmosis
giving love and hope in return, small flowers bloom
in my small footsteps, the fragrance uplifting and clean

sunlight dapples the path before me, little dics of pure joy
lead me on, to the end of the trees and into grassy dunes
covered with and abundance of coloured flowers
all with faces set toward the warmth of the mellow sun

in the distance I hear the sea, welcoming me home

the horizon is a golden line in the distance

and the birds sing glorious aria's of happiness

I awake  to the kiss of my lover
and the smell of coffee and pacakes

all is right with the world.....

the air is crisp
as i sit on the front
verandah, snuggled up
in wooly hoodie, flannel
pyjamas and ugg boots
hands wrapped around
a large mug of steaming
coffee
watching those with more
enthusiasim, than nouse
riding up the hill in bright
lycra body suits.
the weekend pelaton rides
on to  wherever.

slept in
awoke to the smell of pancakes
and the sound of little blucat purring.

sun shines through
scattered wispy clouds
is cool enough for slippers
and fluffy robe
but not yet a wood fire.

kitchen table set with
vase of camelia's bright pink
and snow white blooms
my boys busy flippin hotcakes
i pour coffee, and sit to watch....
this is my utopia.....

here i am,
cold winter,
sunday morning...high.

my drugs.....
a predawn lovefest
lots of, little boy
giggling n' smiles
bannana berry pancakes,
made by my satisfied guy.
blucat purring at my feet.

and the sun,
lazily peeking in

god i love
the sunday morning high...

sun breaking the horizon
in a golden orange hue
promising another
unseasonably warm
winters day

i stand in your doorway
catching those last moments
of small boy dreams
the liitle tuxedo cat
creating eternity at my feet
his motor putt-purring away

in the kitchen eggs are scrambling
and coffee is being poured into large cups
by the aging surfer dude, who has already
been down to commune with the sea

i call to wake you and as your eyes open
you smile, the cat abandons me
to sail into your arms a frenzy of love
and whiskers, you laugh and laugh

today...is going to be a good day

we i was young
and perpetually broke

and equally bored
there was a place
i would go...

with towel in hand
and a bottle of red cordial,
a book to read
and reef brand coconut oil,
in a cotton shoulder bag.

i would set off down
to the beach,
a mile or so away.
filching, apples and milk
money, along the way.

once there, would find
a spot up near the dunes
and stay and read and broil
away.

breaking my sunbaking
only to go buy
"three dollars of chips
and a chiko roll"
with money purlioned
and a guilty grin...

ocassionally i would fall
asleep and wake up
lobster red....and suffer
the burn for days..
but the more you suffered
the deeper the tan..
nut brown was the desired look.. or in these days
parlance cafe au lait....

now i pay for that innocent
delight...
with checks,three monthly
on sunspots and the lurking
fear of melaloma always near ...

i am not the only one,
there is a generation,
of sun bronzed aussies.
who now pay dear,
for those earlier
ignorant years.

seasons change slowly
so does life, you think it's
an eyeblink but no the seeds
have been in the ground germinating
for a long time sometimes a long, long time
and then thenew growth breaks through
and reaches for sunlight, growth is change
but then at the other end of the spectrum
so is decay, the breaking down of structures
the returning to the basic matter...all changes
so ergo we are in a continuim of change
are some larger than others. you would have
to answer affirmatively but are large changes
more important than the miniscule. That
question requires more thought before
giving an answer. Change is neccessary
without it there is a standstill in the cycle
and when still, we create no impact, we have
little to no power to affect the circumstances
around us....but even then when still, the
circumstances around us effect change
like wind and water upon the rockface
it may be over many many years but
change is effected and the immovable is
reduced by the action of persistance...
We cannot avoid change...so we should
try to reach for  it as does the sapling
in the forest that seeks the sun .....

i wait standing at the old metal gate
my soul is tired, it has been a long Monday
then i see you run toward me
that action alone makes
my heart bloosom like
a sunflower,
all bright seeds, turning
toward you,  the sunshine
of my world

today,
this morn,
the sun shines through.

all the doom and gloom
may conspire and gather
at my back.

but,
today,
this morn,
the sun shines through.

and in it's argent glow,
we will love and play
and dare to know,
joy, unfettered.

because,
today,
this morn,
the sun shines through.

and
bears with it,
the great hope,
of a, better yet
tommorrow.

It saddens me
No end
that due to
HARSH WORDS
and unremitting lies
I have lost a friend
Screamingnighthog
was and hopefully
will be again,
a poet who supported
and helped grow many
writers, with generous comments
And an open and welcoming heart

I do not believe he is perfect,
But nor do I believe he;
MASQUERADED as beryl dov
or anyone else for that matter!

I  write this hoping others join
with me in supporting him and
letting him know he is APPRECIATED
and  not in order to denegrate anyone else.

I miss his poetry....

paul kelly telling yarns
in the background,
harmonica and guitar

vista: spring hopeful
as a large butterfly
scads on by

temperature a perfect mix
of balmy and zephyr breeze

on that breeze the salt and coconut
foretelling summertime glories

condensation pearls, then rolls gently
down the glass of my g&t

the remnants of a crab and prawn roll
lay on the indgo blue plate, like art abstract

a single tear slides down my cheek
as I acknowledge it is one more year

happy birthday ....dear departed you

one beaded drop of sweat, traverses the canyons
and ridges of his,
finely muscled back
slow ..quick.. slow
in rhythm with his .....
scintillating movement
i am transfixed,
by the little bead's progress
hesitant to portend
it's destination,
as it wends it's way downward.
i want to halt...
the glistening jewel's journey with the tip of my tongue.....cat-like,
lapping at smooth milk
but that would be.....




........a bit weird.....
i expect the young god cycling, before me in
the spin class may think me odd
if i leapt forward and licked his salty back....

...but an old girl can dream!

my
fascination
is
today
with
the
not
quite
seen
those
flickerings
in
the
periphery
visual
line
the
ye­t
to
be
thought
half
formed
nebulous
inklings
mind
wrinklings
the
words
balancing
precariously
on
the
tip
of
the
to­ngue
the
song
of
joy
or
sorrow
yet
unsung
the
dance
step
stagnati­ng
in
the
toe-tap
the
poem
waiting
to
be
found
in
the
shadow
of
t­he
corner
of
almost
and
rhyme
these
are
the
things
that
fascinate­
that
whittle
and
while
away
at
my
precious
time