ten thousand tears
fall to your memory
enough to water
a grove of magnolia trees

ten thousand joys
remembered there
give light and sun
to the soul, stripped bare

and as those trees
grow with light and water
we sit and revisit sorrow and joys
and contemplate, the art of bee's
to bring colour to the palest day
before leading us home
to hive and life, leaving behind
toys and strife....before we succumb
before we falter...to the melancholy
of those that remain

white posts with red eyes
flash by with driven monotony
the trees a green-grey blur
in the early morning mist.

the beat of the wipers
poens the door to
memories...
as we climb into the moutains....

spiralling sprinklers,
and hiding before tea....
a bedroom of purple,
bbqs for dinner....
lavender patches,
the home of master jack,
the old black cat....

silver hair like a curtain
to her waist...
a silver brush, always,
one hundred strokes.

the smell of tonic and gin,
russian toffees melting
on my tongue...
jam jars awaiting filling...
and
a caress,
with bony fingers,
on a young  girls cheek.
a smile gentle and knowing.
a wave by the honeysuckle
gate...

my mother was
the kitchen of our house
the place of practical, purposeful sustenance
and my father,
the useless, flapping, broken
back door,
that was ripped away one
night in a storm...
gone forevermore

my mother's father, the strong beams, hardwood,
that held us altogether,
kept the roof over our head
held out the night....

my mother's sister, the soft
places to fall, to cuddle in to
to cry and bawl...

and us the kids, all three
i hope, we were the joy
the bright, painted things
the hope for bigger,
better days....
the windows that,
allowed the sun's gentle rays.

we were the laughter,
that i know....
as we grew,
out past the rafters ....
and into ourselves.

my mother was the hearth
around,
which we all where
warmed,
my mother,
was the architect
of how the house,
was reformed...
after the storm
and gave us all a strength
of beam and a go get the world gleam.

the house, was a metaphor,
for the childhood days,
understood, more and more now,
with the passing of days.

it was only a little house,
two bedrooms, small in space, a kitchen, bathroom
and living area..
some woul call it quaint,
others run-down and dilapidated...

...but it was
a happy place....even if it
sat alone ...bar a jacaranda tree...out in the middle of
a drygrass sea...

on the outside, the paint
had peeled and the boards
had begun to warp...
the yard was dry brown
grass and dryer red dust,
the roof, corrugated tin
was dull with age....

the door, was once painted
a bright hopeful blue
but now faded like old
denim... on the verandah
two chairs a table.....and
an old cattledog....
the bell, a suprising ******...


but inside that ramshackle
house... that stood by luck
and will alone....

was a home....filled to the brim with love....
the old couple who lived there...
still held hands ....still looked
at each other with love and
longing.....still danced to the old record player most nights....
still slept wrapped in each others arms....
still bickered and fought
then made up....with a lasting passion....
still wished for, more days
together in the sun....

these are my memories
of my aunt beth and uncle
wilf.....
and the house,
they made a home....
out in the middle of nowhere....

heard this morning
the bus....
best way to cook possum
skin an gut the poss'
put in an oven bag
with some wine or verjuice
and  herbs
samphire or wattercress
and roast 'im
about the same time as ya
would a chook....
comes out beautiful and tender
ya can do it with echinda too
bit they 're not as good....
bit stringy eh!

the irregular rhythm
of the wood windchimes
lulls me into a sort of sleep
one where dreams are based
on worried realities yet
magnified in a daliesque manner
all bent out of shape and pooling
at my feet, in garish coloured mists
whist in the background something whispers
"tis the gloaming upon us resist, resist!"

and the chorus line of purring cats
play with prawnheads and green tree frogs

i feel myself drowning in these mists, that
smell like fresh baked chocolate cake
and i try to care,
but sleep overcomes me
and the dreams slipside away
until  i awaken
in the cooler part of the day
and recall with haziness
the heat of earlier
and the swirl of the dreams .

the cat sits, staring at me, purring,
at its feet a toy mouse,
and i smell chocolate cake,
being baked by son and husband...
all apparently  is normal
with the exception of
the irregular rhythm
of the wood windchime.

she stands out,
in the crowd.
it is not.
that she is,
taller or shorter,
or indeed,
particularly beautiful.

it is her,  "joy de vivre"
that, carefree love,
of life,
that draws your..
eye and heart.

she is,
youth and laughter,
a memory,
of kinder days
those that wear,
a sparkle and  smile ensemble.

she is,
the girl
everyone befriends.
she is,
the girl that is
dilligent
and always ends,
each day with
a thankful sigh.

she is,
grace, and  life's
dance personified.

she is,
one of many students,
but by god,
she is sublime,
as an actress.
as a student,
a bit flighty.
her grades,
a bit hazy.
but, she smiles
and the boys,
just swoon
and the girls,
well some
of them, swoon too,
the others, just follow
in her wake.

she is,
seemingly oblivious,
to this power,
and thus it grows,
mysteriously.
but her joy,
is pure
and unbroken.
so, like moths,
to the flame,
they gather about her.

the walker, bends,
her lycra-clad hips,
to check her addidas laces.

she has walked,
many, many miles
in this life.
all, in the pursuit,
of the, body beautiful.

and now, has the
musculsture,
of an aged chicken.
all string and rope,
under sagging skin.

she breathes deeply,
sips, from a metalic bottle
and begins,
the downward journey,
into the unenviable,
inevitablity of ageing.

she smiles and
gives me a cheery wave,
as she passes on by.

i did not dance
until i met you

it is a though
you held the key
to the music box
in my heart

now i dance with
abandon
wild and free

for the release from
that cage of inhabition

i am ever grateful

words,
do not
have to be
spoken in
a different dialect,  
to be a
foreign language,
to some one's heart.

Early this morning,
rain, hail,or shine.
They will gather in salute
to the fallen and frail.

The young soldier's body, now bowed with age unrepaired.
Yet they will stand
straight and strong
young in their minds.

And when the hymns
have been sung
and the words
"Lest We Forget"
have been spoken.

When the bugle's final note of the Last Post
is played.
Then they, who came home gather and speak
of those who,
now walk in the ranks
of the fallen,
the Jim's, Davo's and Pete's.

They raise their glasses,
high and with a tear salute, brothers of action with a small pony of beer.

And at day's end,
alone in their bedrooms, they sit remembering
again the death,
the war and the loss.

It abides within.
As the Last Post
plays them to bed.

words fall
like hapless fledglings
tossed from a cliff edged nest

with much screeching, squawking,
countless feathers lost

and then an awful thump
or hopeful, glorious flight

first love is tachycardiac love
all adrenaline, sweating palms
and stutter-stumbling sqeakings,
ungainly gropings,
when not with you, mopings
unrealistic hopings
for happy ever after endings,
breakings, bendings,
awkward mendings,
repeated leavings,
repented lovings.
heartfelt givings,
of broken hearted rendings.
lendings,
of time stolen from life
tearing, teasing,
tantalising teamings
crying, begging,
pleading strife
and then,
the metaphorical knife
cutting, slashing,
wordblow bashing,
screaming, reaming,
end to loves life.

til eventually, words fall,
like old birds leavings
to settle, unremarked upon
at the base of the tree of life.

first love's loss, is slow dying.
arrhythmia to flatline
in a multitude of laboured breaths
and long lingering sighs.
a loss of warmth,
from breast and thighs
and water copious,
falling from red rimed eyes.
sobbing, murmuring,
don't know whys?
from lips turned
toward,
bleakset skies.
as one settles firmly,
into black dog muck
no longer able to give a f▼ck.
tucked in tight to sadness,
lost all sight of former gladness,
caught up and shackled tight,
to the badness
around and around,
the carousel goes.

then,
at last,
the blessed silence,
as you die
one of many of....
                    life's little deaths

there is something
so very wrong
with this marble
when a four year old
gets into
the back seat of a car
and asks

mumma,
who is ISIS?
and why do they want to
stab us?

one thousand feathers,
a bird does not make,
less there are wings
a heart and beak
and such a deseperate
want to fly,
into the upper reaches
of the bluest, widest sky.

without these things,
it is just a pile of dreams,
lost and forgotten.

no, it seems to be,
one thousand feathers
in a pile, is a sad
and sorry thing.

sitting at the old oak table
sipping on cold redemption
thinking back to when i was
not some one else, but far less than myself...

turning memories over to
discover the fossiled  id
and the ambered ego"
damaged, dismembered,
by the time of slow, low moving sadness...
that created glacial time..


now, exploring
the barren forest,
like an inquisitive tourist
hoping to find the keys
to the locks that i left behind
whyfor i will never know...

but the former self has hidden the  relics all too well....
(and we bless them to
their  hidden eternity)

and the cages remain sound
the lack of treasure, remains
unfound.

...and i .....and i....and i
can retrace my steps...back
to the days ....of serenity...
and forsake the turbulance
for  the  promise of sunnier days......

sitting at the old oak table
sipping on redemption
...warm and refined....
turning....beauty over
to see....your love reflected
...

neverfull,
mama,
neverfull.
quoth the raven chick....



with a gentle nod to mr poe

tuxedo boycat
has learnt the art
of the early morning
tap slap

when one slumbers soundly
only to be rudely and roundly
awoken by the none too gentle
smack on the nose, by a catpaw
often not smelling like a rose
accompanied by a yowly growl
of a starving kitten cat
who has half a cup of chicken
kibble already awaiting in a bowl

but desires wetraw mince
and company to dine...

oh to have the confidence
in  desires like that
of a four pound kitten cat
and the knowledge
that the cute factor
far outweighs the
outrage of the human
being awoken by
the slap tap
of a kitten paw
as  long as it
comes with
a head bump
and a purr roar

the old man that lives
in my head...
woke up today and said....

nuthin new under the sun.
at sometime son,
we all be...
fakers,
takers,
******, muck rakers.

if you think,
you above that.
then...
you must be livin,
in a window-less,
glasshouse,  son.

sitting  on,
stoneless ground
and smilin...
cause you just don't know,
how downright, dumb,
you be.....

take it from me...
we all born into sin
and we all sometimes,
still like to put
a toe tip in
and swirl it all around....

see what can be stirred
up
see what can be found...

it's what we do with that
slime
that makes a man, gentlefolk
or street-grime......

another coffee,
another time.
****!!
we were the it girls,
we were sublime.

all perfect legs
and matching hair
telling all,
what was just and fair

we ruled with an iron fist,
you were **** if...
you didn't make our list.


and now we meet again today.
our high school empire,
long ago and far away.

now two mothers,
standing on the side-line,
wrapped up in chunky clothes
just to stay warm.
so very distant,
far away from, looking fine

but we are happy now.
you with your third
and me with mine,
in chatting we discover
we have both redefined sublime.

and so,
we make time for coffee.
time to share,
the path that led us,
from there to here.

there is this photo....you see
of pretty much nothing...of
nowhere....at least....
nowhere i know...

the skies are blue, with
a cotton balling of
innoccuos clouds
it seems as tho the weather
would be pleasant there.

there is a gray-blue-rock
covered track, well road, that roughly disects the photo,
beginning right in the centre at the forfront
and then wending off
to the right behind a small hill.
the track would be wide enough for a small car
or cart
but is in the picture
devoid off traffic.

as is it's smaller,
companion walking path, terraced and to the left of the road.
cut about six foot below the road persay

to the right, a spindly tree
of indeterminate species
then, stretching off to the photo's edge,
green grasses, roughly, cropped low by machine
or beast.

to the left, once again below,
the walking path,
a swathe of green
and then, an expanse of water,
loch, lake, river,
i do not know,
but it is wide and slow.
there are no,
watercraft, no birds,
to be seen.

just water,  greenery,  
a spindly tree
and the two tracks,
leading to god knows where and coming from, behind
the lense.

but right now, the ambiguity
of destination, the lonliness
of the landscape are appealing, enthralling, even.

there is a dichotomy,
in the fecund greeness of the grass,
opposed to the, apperent,
barenness of the lake.
and in the disection of the pastoral scene, by man made road, there is disruption,

there is choice.
to, cant to one side,
or the other.
there is choice to, go forth into the unkown.
or to, retrace one steps
on the road behind.

it is a photo,
that while not
bucolic in nature,
is pleasant
that is well framed,

....that is the one...
you take when you
want to finish the roll of film,
or these days fill the memory card...

why it has me,
fascinated at present is ...
it is a photo of somewhere... that is not here...
it is a photo of somewhere...
where, the possibilties are new,untried...not impossible
.......where the grass
.......is greener...where the grass is greener...where the grass is.....

no place, i would rather be.
sitting on golden sand, by sea.
once single, then dyad, now triad.
growing in love our little family.

and the sun shines down glad,
and we chase away, lingering sad
and we smile, the summer day long.
and i watch play, boy and proud dad

but in other climes, a sad song,
plays in a room where life is not long
and there is much pain
and somehow it is so, very wrong,

that some live and gain
and some who, seeded by bad grain,
are short changed, days of life
and  deseperate death reigns.


but in both places, love conquers strife
and in both places love is beautifuly rife.
love, lives hopeful and large, everywhere
because whether  long or short, we all live under damocle'an knife.....

gotta be like
aesop and his fable
slap a moral
on the table

talk about
old slow poke
tortiose on his hike
up against a speed freak
hare' barely all there
acceleration to spare
race don't seem fair

just a joke

but then the hare/rabbit
dagnabbit!!
takes a **** of
the green
juju.....whoohoo!!!
and when he awoke

the race was done
and the slow poke
helmut headed amphibian
had won...

hare standing  around
stunned
tortiose doin the happy,
i shined your ***!!!
shell shuffle

that enoughful......

yikes!!!

this is harder than
it seems
like interpereting
dreams

better,
start again...
find a new refrain
gotta make an
original stain
gotta use my incredible brainy, brain...

bring a new flavour
new story to savour
not some tired old jam
not for this poetry slam

so here goes
follow the flow
stay in the know

don't be a facsimile
a sad printed copy
take the high road
and write a new load
of out there, boxside
originality!!!

be one with totality
up at the mountains peak
where the angels speak
to those,
who have time
to listen.

one word, one world
glows and glistens
that word be, free
that word be LOVE
and love be liberty
to a soul broken

so the morale of
the day
freely give love away
as truth,
not a carnival token

the wise old woman
(yeah that be me)
now has spoken.

done now with
her word spin
done now

gotta go do
as she say
take some action

go give a nobody
a kind reaction
some hugular compaction

be a friend
to the friendless
the possiblities
endless
let charity
have a say

go on now
be one your way

dear prince george
( and your parents too)

hope you enjoyed
our menagerie of
fauna, at Taronga Zoo.
sorry we could only give
you the, Bilby, the rabbit
come rat rodent hybrid
marsupial thingymajig.
but, you're just not old enough for a kangaroo
and koala's a bit too much
like you, mostly they eat sleep and poo. yes they
are cute and cuddly, but
they tend to wee all over
you, especially if you have a celebrity hue. and you so do!

sorry, you are n't going to
Ularu, it is a spectacularly
big rock, with much meaning and mystery.
but out there, outback, beyond the last black stump,
it is stinking hot, and dusty
to boot and there really isn't
a lot for someone under one
to do.

one last thing, sorry we disturbed you, on your day off, when you were just doing normal baby things.
unforgivable in a sense,
but then your are the flavour of the month, down here and your smiling face
and chubby arms are doing
wonders for the crown.
so smile little prince,
don't you wear a frown,
soon you will be home
and forgotten all about,
the down under clowns.

your humble convict
betterdays

airs and graces
made up faces
hide weary bones
and holey souls

plastic smiles
haven't seen you in awhile
as internal insecurity riles
the faint heart murmurs
in these desolate piles
that have run,
far too many miles


pacemakers racing,
cracking casings,
death dicing,
panic rising,
polite ruses,
for the aged muses
pacing this,
social green mile

daily shuffle, kerfuffle
as dark winds ruffle
the blue rinse perms
and only partially muffle
comments snide
about bottoms wide,
perkless *******
and unholy rests,
of these none too
permanent guests
at this palace of
mortality and malice.

end of hours
visitors gone
wilting flowers
and dinner gong
release the  nurses
put away the purses
slump and sway
end of another day
keeping the old foe
death at bay

granny nightie,
thoughts now flighty
with pins in hair and vacant stare
fervently wishing to be anywhere
wishing for some one to be there
but knowing, life's just not fair
when you've grown this old
knowing that each day is a dare
each day a gem sometimes rare
but more often gravel  
yet, better living than stone cold.
tho stone cold.....but without a care


here I stand,  I sit, I lie,
thinking dark thoughts
on the protracted art of dying.

Tis quiet
When I wake
The rest, in sleepful slumber

Not me,I partake
The bitterwine of insomnia
Sometimes, sips alone
Bare enough to fill a quill.

Sometimes, cups so deep
That one forgets the state
Called sleep, and tours
The town, called Stumble

Tonight's draught, a nip or two
Just enough, to say to you
Treasure the wakeful nights
When you sit and delight
In the quiettetude  of a house a'slumber
All loved, all safe,  and well
This is the ***** of a pilfered night
Taken from the restful isle
To watch and pray, and smile.

we sit on the back deck in darkness. amost..... there is a rough circle of glowing embers ........from the mosquito coils and then..... two glowing cat's eyes. we.... my husband and i .....both have the scent.... of...... aeroguard... sprayed heavily on our skin. as we sit in oppressive heat...... ...waiting for the ....gasp... of a cooling.. breeze to come..... the air so moist and warm has brought forth..... ....the frogs ....and we hear......    the .....deep... throated call of the... tree frogs competing...... with the pobblebonk's... ...unique sound. ...even the cicadas..... ....have succumbed to the muggy air... and have ........gone quiet. .....all we hear in the dark is the frogs...... ...reeebert.. and ....pobbblebbBONK... amphibian lothario's crooning away..... ....as we wait for that gasp of cooling air...

reebert............



..... ...    . .pobbble........BONK
pobble BONK
...REEBERT. REeBeRT...RRREEBERT.

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
ya ya  mama's  out!

reading poetry fills
my soul with words
and my heart,
with light.

even the darkest poem
lights a candle.....

so for this,
                 i thank you all.....

your car is still parked
in the drive way,
your coat slung over your favourite chair,
a half read book, some caramel fudge still sits on
the small box beside.
on the hall table,sunglasses
carkeys, handbag, all sit in place
by the door your shoes,dusty
and haphazardly placed.

your fragrance still hangs,
heavy in the air.

on the sink your favourite
teacup awaits, your never again lips.

out the back, in the sunset
of this grey day,
my lover and yours sit,
beer in hand.
i stand washing and drying
dishes..over and over again.
as my heart struggles, to take in the reality
your stuff is all here......

but you have gone
away.....ahead
to that ephemeral place..... you are now, with the stars....
and we... are left with our precious memories .....
and your stuff.

in the wake of
the Baltimore riots
I saw a picture of
a young boy
offering bottled water
to the line of shielded police
right there...is the hope
for humanity....
I commend both the boy
and his parents for their actions
there is goodness everywhere
should you want to look

through the keyhole of your heart
i see the journey you have made
through deserts dry
and mountains ranges
you have travelled,
swimming in blue sea's
and muddy swollen rivers,
sleeping on beahces of sand
so golden it gleams, golden
in the early morning sun

you have laughed in the wilderness,
when there was no one to hear
cried alone and bereft
in cities so crowded, that no one heard
you have walked under
every phase of the  silent, lonely moon
and howled at the world,
your tears have watered
every continent
and your smile brought
warmth to many a cold fire place.

You have bartered,
your money, your life , your soul
and then bought them back for pennies, shekels and zots
only to give them away
to the next traveller
with a mendicant tale....

And you are home....in order to lick your wounds
in order to come to terms with those decisions
that have forshortend your allotted span
and we provide hospice and love and more
for you are our racounter,
our bard our sight
into the faraway,
the unthinkable...
the other side
you are the brave and reckless self,
we wished, we all wanted to be..

so welcome home, friend, welcome
pull up a stool and tell us a tale

as we sit in the shadows and cry at your fate

balanced upon
the rim
of this waking firmament
the scale
dropped from
the hide of the dragon
that circles
far above the sky
orange red
and glistening yellow
it burns with fervour
bright, bright argent light
that dispells the softness
of the lingering night...

and the dragon circles
so far away....unaware
to us he has gifted
another day....

walking on the beach
yesterday we picked
up a scallop shell

white to ivory on the outside
multi shades of purple within
truly a beautiful thing

once home and hearth to the scallop
or plate to the serving of he
after his demise

sometimes decorative window
on the sandcastles side
sometimes shovel to dig themoat
to turn back the tide

not often but at a pinch
a rental for a naked crab
til a better fit is found

platter for a sea bird's feast

marker for a lost wicket
in game of rounds
or beach cricket

necklace on silver thread
part of small creature roof
as the tide surges over head

if we had found two
could claim it at a bra
for small breasted
mermaid too.

once part of life, vibrant and small
eventually to, become particles
of sand, tossed about in wave
and sea.

the scallop shell,
what beauty
delicate but strong,
calcium at its finest

tideline jewel,
and a great skimming tool

we left the scallop shell
with the waves, to continue
it's journey, we gave it more days

the amber liquid
pours into the fine
porcelain bowl
swirls and settles

a few leaves dark
and sombre settle
at the bottom
and remain
unfathomable

i drink of it's heady
fragrance
the steam a line of
smoky memory
again i inhale
and again the years
fall away

the first sip
is bitter
tasting of tannin
and loss

the fine china
sings at the touch
of my tongue
and my memory
hums with words
of wisdom and friendship

i drink down to the
recumbant leaves
and the swirl the fortune
twist and tip the cup...
and read the leaves
with the same wonder
as i read the clouds...


unsuprisingly,
the leaves
speak to me of you....
as the scent of smoke and
camelia lingers on the evening breeze

a friend posed the question
there is a first world
and there is a second world,
but where do you find the
second world?

and sadly i think i know the answer.
the second world lives is
the hidden shadows of the
first.

and is populated by....

.....those who live in the shells
of architect designed houses, with no power running
water,

..or worse live in cars or
couchsurf.

....it is those  pensioners who
exsist on tinned cat food
and  teabags re-used  
seven times.

....old people who wear their entire wardrobe in the winter
cold.

....children with bad teeth and chronic health issues
un-attended because they
can't afford a doctor

...it is the man,
who died the other day.
hit by a train,
while his children watched,
retrieving some dropped groceries,
he got from,
a food drive van.
...it was the first food
they would have had in 48hrs,
the child stated for reporters.

this .....
is the second world!!!
right here ....
mostly hidden from sight
not even reminded by sad
tv ads
only when abject utter tragedy
happens
do we see a glimpse
of the second worlder's
desperate plight.

sometimes when i
contemplate the art
of grocery shopping

i yearn for much simpler
days

when butter was just butter
and no one knew the harm
that it could do..

those days when you did n't
worry about milk
simply because it was
delivered in clinking glass
bottles right to your door

when you knew the butcher
who cut up the cow
and you knew that the pork
sausages came from the pig.

and when your mum
sent you to get the fish
she sent you with a clean
pottery dish

those day of yore
when fifty cents would
buy a coke some chips
a sherbet bomb and more.

but those day are long gone
and i must move on

so again when i shop
tommorrow
i will stand in front of the
twenty brands of margerine
spreads and butter
and endevour not to mutter
about the fact
that butter is still, just butter.

this cup of tea before me is
fragrant grace, in liquid form
moments of thought, betwixt moments of action
the license to gather wool
to ponder questions both big and small

this cup of tea holds
memories, lists, dreams,
to much sugar
the work of may hands
ties that bind, to family
to friends and associates
ribbonroads of love that lead
back to those who have gone before
the drip ends of soggy biscuits
strength to carry on...
the calm within the storm

this simple cup of tea can
make a sad day bearable
a long meeting acceptable
a car ride an adventure
a picnic delightful
a long night, shorter
an awkward conversation easier
a bad cake more palatable
a good cake exquisite
a stolen moment precious

this cup of tea
made from leaf tips,
water and heat
is but a simple tisane
that can help cure
a multitude of  ills
this cup of tea
is humble but mighty

this cup of tea
is exactly  what
I needed right now...

taken back today,
to a time of ignorant simplicity,
of sunday afternoon's fluid routine.
the venue might change,
but not often the steps;
an early bath to wash one's hair.
a take out feast of chinese for tea,
followed by chocolate icecream, in a bowl
in front of the old boxy tv.

we three, two big brothers and me.
lined up acording to age. waiting,
for walt disney and his wonderful world,
to take the tv's stage,
we would watch the play unfold.
enraptured one and all.

for mother dear,
a hour's peace,
mostly, but not always,
free and clear,
of squabbling brawls.

if we had been good,
we often times could,
cadge some extra time.
to see the bannana splits, have their funny fits
and laugh at the weird cartoon bits.

then time to brush those teeth,
and into bed to read,
quietly, for an hour.
a goodnight kiss,
and tucked in tight.
to sleep away,
the dreamless night

the lazy boy recliner
a soft green suede
the colour reminiscent
of hay grass a day or so
after cutting

rubbed to a shine
on the armrest grips
stil peachfluff soft
at the back

her place of comfort and rest
her throne after a hard day
her craft nook, library
and front row seat to
film and sporting events

it was a gift given by
three grateful children
on her retirement
after years as a single parent
working eight hour days
and then coming home to mother
three unruly creative, bickering children
it was a thank you for so many things

all her grandchildren have been
told stories, sung to, snuggled, loved
in that old lazy boy.....
the oldest is now  twenty five

it has her smell of lanolin and roses
apple shampoo and eucalyptus  drops
peppermint knee rub....it has been imbued
with these scents and the memories that they carry

it is of no use now, she has gone upmarket,
in the nursing home she has a tapestry lift chair
that helps her sit and stand, it smells of antiseptic spray

I cannot bear to part with the old green lazy boy
it has too much of my mother in it's seams
somedays there is more of her is in that old chair
than there is in the woman that sits in the tapestry one

for now green  chair sits in my office, gathering books

i come home
to
a mexican standdoff
of
sorts

on the inside
of
the window
the
little blucat
with
firebrush tail
and
arched back

facing off against

the big
busterfer jones
tom
from 3 doors
down

black
and white
persian
moggy
more than
twice
the size
of gus blucat


pressed
up
against
the outside
of the glass

normally
the
best of buds
but
there is
a
new girl
in town
and
she sings
a siren song

so it is
bared claw
at 3 paces

as i
put down
my keys
there is a
muted
thump,
thump.

they have
rushed
each other

forgeting
the magic
of glass

and now
as i
finish
r.o.l.f.ing

i see
they
have
retired
to their corners

with that
was'nt me
that did that
dumb thing
look

as they
wash their
paws
with backs
speaking volumes
and eyes still
crossed.

the state of the human heart

both, astoundingly abstract
and sumptuously surreal

born of colours kaleidescoped
by fractured fractaled emotions

painted with either abandon
or cramped contractions

framed by circumstance
guided by thought,
or thoughtlessness

hung by guilt,hope arrogance

viewed through binoculars,
keyholes, rose tinted spectacles
seen in clouds and reflections

reviewed with misunderstanding

sold for praise and cheers

gifted to uninterested or uninteresting

left to gather dust....

held tightly, torturously so
for  fear of it flying free

weighed, found wanting
yet alway needing more

when  the heart smiles
the whole body sings
when it cries,
we often look away
from it's sorrow.

we can be heartfelt
heartless, hard harted
soft of heart, heart sore
we can have a heart
overwhelmed, full of grief
overflowing with love

we need it to beat,
be strong, faithful, steady

all this: ascribed to a muscle,
inside a cage, inside a bag
working hard to keep us upright

look, at the state of it.......

a creative entity,
kept far too busy,
unraveling the enigma,
unwrapping the riddle,
of the mystery novel,
that is living life....
euphorically, emphatically,
whilst furiously rowing,
in ever dwindling circles,
a slow-leaking dinghy,
on life's
idiosyncrasea....

that kind sir
just about sums up
the story of me....

again the rain
this time soft gentle
soothing mist,
that makes
trembling pools
of opal
while clouds above
drift and collide
like faded bumpercars
all movement but
little co-ordination

the tuxedo kit sit on windowsill
enamoured of the sliding
drops of condensation,
his head follows
up down then up,
he reminds me of a yo-yo

the night that
max wore his wolf suit
he swore the lycans came
and while he
hid under the bed

they prowled and growled
and howled out his name

but he stayed put
in the furthest corner
of gloom,
paralysed ....
by a feeling of
utter doom

he knew,
he was no wolf.
just boofy bloke wearing
the suit for a goof...

and as to being a hairy
werewolf...
all full of
bloodlust  and scare
he knew his head,
his heart, his soul
would not, could not,
go there....

he was if anything,
an aurilophile....
and would have worn
a cat suit....
but they, the shop of freak.

did not have any in his style,
that, being of the male
persausion.....
they had kitty
and pussycat suits
for all sorts of occasions

they had just rented,
the last tiger
and the lions had
all.... long gone.

so he got stuck
with the wolf
and thought, at the time...

what could go wrong....

now in the hours of
one, two and three...
as the lycan prowled
and yodeled love songs
he knew full well,

what could go wrong...

max and his suit
trembled.along....
waiting for the sunrise
and the light of the day
to make this dogfest,
of a nightmare,

go far far away....

then, in the bright noonday sun
he would go out to the park.

and find a stray dog
give him the suit....
or at least hide it under
a log....

then to the pub,
to down many beers,
put an acholic fence,
between
him and his fears

send the last night,
on down the stream
of all those other
fog filled...
and fuzzy freaken
dreams...

where he was a dog,
a cat or a fly.....
or where he slipped....
off a tigtrope so high

and fell with a splat....

of strawberry jam
to be scraped up from the
sidewalk and into
a jar.....

that was the worst dream
the worst by far.....

so eventually  max,
walked into the bar
ordered a beer,
strolled around for a bit
then sat in the corner......
all naked as a jay.....
or a ***.

cause in all,
the dreaming and scheming.
he had forgot one thing,

to put on some clothes.

so now, the whole
world had,
had a view of both
the front and the rear,
fishing tackle and gear...
and
it was them,
that had something to fear,
for the sight of,
the above
mentioned junk....
had put all who had seen it
into a funk....

for max's **** was a foul mouthed punk....
and as for his ar$e...
a right royal farce

some one had to say...
with courage
so as to save the day...
max ......
for god's sake
and that of my poor sainted
granny....
take this table cloth
and cover your man-*****
then,
take the other
and cover your ***'s face....
you makin my pub
a down right disgrace....

max,
smiling sheepishly,
did as was said
and apologised profusely,
for having lost his head
... and normal,
day to day attire...
took a six pack,
for the road, on the slate
....and went on home
and back to bed...
to meet,
with drunken bravado,
his all hallows fate.....

******! dali,
the clock's
sliding off
the wall...
again.

piccasso,
you *******
you blest
me with
three *******...
but nothing to
hold it all

van gogh,
whose
going to
clean up
all that straw
and blood.

and
munch,
do you
wonder
that
i
scream!!!

violets nod dainty heads
dancing to the zephyr breeze

watched over by gum
and swaying willow trees.

verdant leaves all shades of green
have returned if but for a short season

and on the rocks the lizards bask
and the ants continue working.

it is the time in between
the last of the summers sun
and the first leaf fall.

it is the most gentlest time of all

as the hands ever unseen,
push forward,
the tines of time,
i lie with eyes open,
but it must be said,
with a desperate desire
that they be closed.

i listen to the wind rail,
against it's perpetual,
homeless state.
fury has been it's nature,
this past long night
and has doubled
the occupancy of this old
king bed,
sprawled beside me now safely asleep,
is a tangle of blucat and small, but growing to fast, child
both resting, hard up against the lee- side of the man mountain.
all creating a purring, snuffling, snoring thing,
that has an equal measure
of comfort and annoyance, circulating within my brain.

outside the house,
something has come adrift, but not enough, to blow away and it bangs in an awkard thunking rhythm agin the side of the house.

in the bed it is warm
and slightly sweaty.
outside of the bed,
it is crisp and overcool.
outside the window,
the sky is lightening,
to a grey that portends...
a long day

i make my choice
and leave the warmth in search of, the first of,
far too many coffee's

and the unseen hands,
still move,
the tines of the
old grandfather clock.
ever onward, everforward.

the blood dries,
to a rusty brown red
and the thumbnail,
throbs in time with
his heart.

and his heart beats,
more slowly these days.
he has left all passion
and excitement behind.
...along with youthful memories.

now,it is contentment
is the simple things,
he seeks ... and finds.

the stars above his head,
a full belly,
a tot or two of scotch.
the feel of the sand on
a deserted beach
and the roaring-rumble
of ole betsy,
the harley softail.

he rides on this road
of gentle discovery,
with a smile of grace.

now as he waits,
for the sun to fall,
into darkness.
he puts the throbbing
and torn thumb
to his mouth.
and tastes
the coppery blood.