sitting by your bed
waiting for the waiting
to cease

my, heart a lump,
within my breast.
watches for your beat
barely discernable and frail.

so many things left unsaid
misunderstood, misread.

but there is love
mother to child
child to mother
there was love

you fade, each breath
a small farewell
each tear i shed a plea for
forgiveness
as i wait and witness

there is love and forgiveness
here carrying one home
and another to release
a burden .... forgiven.

this is the time
of the year,
when the cold
asserts itself
and the near naked,
little blucat,
makes cocoons and nests,
under any towel,
jumper or rugs, left lying about.

we have learnt,
to pat the cushions on the couch,
to see if they meow....
and check the chimney,
before lighting, a new fire...

for if the days are grey
and bleak.....

gus will find warmth, somewhere, somehow.....

i once got all the way
to work....
and worked till lunchtime,
when in the comfort of my office.
...i opened up my, satchel
to find a little,
blue-grey kitten-cat,
curled up, around my thermos flask, of chicken noodle soup....
he was, soundly asleep,
i may add.
.
he will not be dressed
for this cold weather, squirming,out of coats
and specially knitted sweaters....

but will find places,
to nest and ride out
the cold snap.
only coming out....
when the fire has warmed the air...
or for furtive and hurried trips to dinner bowl
and litter tray...
before snuggling,
back into the cocoon
he has created.

we create worlds
here on the internet
connecting we those
we will never see

chatting over virtual
back fences about
children, cats, recipes

we meet those who
have similar views
and those who don't
discuss things of import
show sympathy with
sad faced emoticons

we wish each others pets
happy birthdays with
cartoon characters

we share our art, music
and photography
then there are us poets
who write our hearts
for others to see

it is a melting ***
of thought and culture
of the full spectrum
of ability.....

it is a place of secrets
or exhibitionist excess

it is in many ways a wonder
and many ways a curse

the internet, really
just like the bottom
of an old ladies purse
full of useless lint and
used tissues, but if you
ferret arond long enough
you will find a dollar
or a hard candy

they were in the corner
of the library again this morning.
not here to look for books,
but just a quiet place to look,
deeply into to one another
with eyes smoked
and fingers blind
feeling, touching, questing,
reading familar nooks.
not caring of watchers,
seeking only each other
with silent need bordering
desperation.
they read each others bodies
history, philosophy, tradgedy both greek and modern.
they braile like ******, word,
verse, and chapter whole.
eyes feasting the depth of
others soul.
one final look, one lingering embrace  and they part
with shakespearean sorrow
they close the lovers book,
bereft,
until tommorrow.

I send my poems off
like warriors to war

I send my poems off
like the adventurers of old

I send my poems off
to woo and ******,
to dance and entertain.

I send my poems off
to shine light into dark corners

I wish them luck,
as I wave them goodbye

All bravado and
bolstered confidence

Out into a world of
of readers and writers
and now....
when they, my words
are out in space
halfway between here
and wherever there ends up being

You want me to reel them in
to recant...to put a spear to them....

Palinode, be ******!!!

These words...
have paid their dues,
they have flown the coop
I'm not blowing
them out of the sky now.

they made me
from a soulful longing,
a sad desperation..
of hopeful reincarnation

they made me
after a birthday celebration
once the wine was drunk
the cake eaten,
the other kids bedded down
they clambered into bed
to make a baby girl

they made me
to replace my oldest sister
born too early, too blue, too still

they made us all to replace her
but the next two, came as boys

so they made me
their last try,
a rhesus baby
requiring three months bed rest,
coming three weeks early
a girl, that solved nothing

when,
they made me
they made hope,
a fragile seed
for a family tree
gloriously completed

but it was not to be
i could not compete
against the phantom branch
whose life mere seconds long
held the potential ,
i could never have achieved

they made me,
i destroyed them....
not with intention
or malice, not with
action or word,
but by being compared
to a figment of a happy time.

by being flesh and blood
with failings and faults

they made me
they hated  me
they loved me
they made me

I love them still...

the new cat
is a collector
he steals
ointment tops

and stashes them
inside my workshoes

he like to walk around
with lego people dangling
from his toothy mouth

he steals my boys jocks
and ***** socks and makes
nests of smelly goodness
behind the reading chair

he is brazen, within his world
dragging a washcloth out
of my hand as I removed
make-up leaving me
panda- eyed and surprised
as I watched his awkward
tripping get away

we believe he has kidnapped
Beanie Z the zebra
but cannot at present find his lair
negoitations are ongoing...

must go....just saw him slink past
with the dishcloth......

ok, things are getting better!!

got my ducks all waddling
in a row.
my tin solidiers standing
to attention in a line.

my cats all in pyjamas and spats...(gotta tell ya that one was a bit tricky).
also put mittens on those
curious kittens.
don't want them dying,
ya know.

the mutt, is busy looking for
nuts.

and i made the elephant
comfortable in this small room.  
he is now, chatting with
the paper tiger,
over by the fireplace

my fish swimming happily
in their barrel.
and the bees,tending
busily to arthritic knees

so almost all is well...

but sheeesh!!!
my geese are running around pell-mell
and are likely to give
the mittened kittens
a fainting spell.
all that,
honking and flapping about
mother goose going to hell.


so....... now......
the ducks are wandering
tin soldiers, planning
a gruerilla wafare attack.
the cats now  naked
****!!!
how did they,
get out of those spats.
the mutt still looking
nothing, will stop that
fool dog, those nuts are,
looooong gone.
elephant is embarrassed,
the tiger squashed flat.
fish, floating, not swimming.
now food for the cat.

and the bees and their
knees are creating
stinging, verbal retorts.

....as for the geese
and the mittened
kittens....
they have, commandeered
the black forest torte
and are gulping it greedily
down.

so... it is certainly not me,
no siree,
who is  in charge of this madhouse mind,
in this mindless town
of mine.
not me,
who wears the king's crown.

you will find me,
the fool......
down by the pool,
....sunbathing...
when all this weird ****
is going down..

**nothing to see here,
move along,
nothing to see....

November is a month
i dread, all the marking...
all the words ..... ideas
clutter up in my head....
all the hopes and ambitions
weigh heavily on my back.

the first day, my birthday
hip hip hooray!!!
then a rushing, pell mell
downward track
of red pens and meetings
going on and on and on

planning, prepping, late night stressing

then, when not at work,
not shirking, just not working
hoping to give the brain a rest
am bombarded...
like i am ******* in cheer
...continual messages of
christmas is near....
coffee and carols,
shopping and angels
harking, harking,
joy to the world, fa al lalala...
Santa queues
truly not an Ebeneezer
but Christmas teasers
in November make me grey
around the gills
fish out of water
lamb to the slaughter

and running on empty,
always empty,
just want one day...
when the world
would stop hassling
and just go away

no end of year parties...
prentending to be hale and hearty
with all sorts of colleagues
and academic smarties
no presentations of budgets..
thinner than last
no we could not fast
this area, to be on line
no it's alright, it will be just fine
while sculling copious amounts
of cheap, cheap, nasty  red wine.
no hangover from said feast...
no,  you be the one to corner the beast.

no more standing with mothers and others
watching children in a god awful christmas play
and clapping and chatting while little bettsy
recieves an award for knitting a sleeve
and george gets one for adding fourhundred and forty

please, please show me the door.....

not to mention hayfever,
daylight savings and more

but all this seems trivial...
when I consider
the blight of my life...
in the stakes of annuity.

the month of November has a great heart
Movember...a charity of moustache art
has an fanatic in my big, bluff,bloke
for a month he curries and cares for the
caterpillar  that grows on his lip...
a fuzzy flecked monstrosity
with the mange and a weird flip.

November a month of avoiding
the succour of contact....
with that thing,
my toes curl now
thinking of it....
tho I try not to react
(after all charity begins at home)
november november
truly you are the ***.

last year he bought
the ****** thing a comb



yet in the end
you are but a month
and it seems I survive you
year after year
thank god for take away meals
and long cold beers....

this book got no title
so don't dare compare it
to the others dozing on the shelf
man, the blank stare
you are reading, as stupidity, disguises heart and feelings, kaleidescope dreamings, overtures operatic.

mental fluidity.....
just workin in a different lane to yourself
savant to the art,
smart to the keys...
hit the beat....
find the real,
create the start,
just sometimes,
becomes,
the begining of the bugeoning of the being.... caged behind the stare.

the wind sings a song
of howling sadness today
catching at the corners of
the old teak farmhouse

as the sky cries in long
exclamation points
and puddles of loss
form on the ground...

we stay inside away
from the worlds pain
cocooned in warmth


the blucat a sleeping
hearth stone...
me making soup a
nd scones
to the sounds of my clan
the click of knitting needles and building blocks followed by demolition...and laughter

this is love.
this is easy,
everyday love.
under a grey and
brooding winter sky.

on the breakfast table
placed carelessly
with great love
in an old busted
coffee mug
a handpicked bunch
of  fresh peonies
still damp and dewy
pale pastel linensilk flowers
crumpled and beguiling
beside, a note
my love is but a garden
that blooms for you..
each and everyday.

there is something truly
enticing, about the curve
of  back, as you sit
on the edge of the bed,

lost in that moment between
being  abed and rising
that delay, whilst you decide
yay or nay, to the day.

there is a challenge in the
***** of shoulders
and the swell of good eating
that rests upon your hips

that makes me want leap into action
and draw you back
from the edgeof mundanity,
of everyday routine
and ravage you silly,
make you howl
and make you moan..

i want to taste your sleep drenched skin
and feast upon the energy kept quiet
i want wake you, make your open eyes
make your pupils dilate,
as i drink the night out of the depths of you...

but I am to slow, in my langour
i have lost the moment,
you stand and stride off
into the day
i turn and lay on my side
hoping the sun will leach
the frustration from my being

this once was,
a happy place filled
with love and laughter

now a place,
of dust and tattered cobwebs hanging
where tired memories roam

in place of windows,
boards
in place of floor boards,
dirt

with  pools of slimed
water stagnant, standing
from the ceiling, opened
to the weather and time...

a broken falling down place
in middle of overgrown plot

rusting chains
of swaying swing,
jangle in blowing breeze
wooden splinters,
from old decrepit seat scattered on the ground

there were once,
children here
this was once,
a happy place,
a home

it was, was it not?

fragile,
needing care,
impermanent,
not quite all there

standing
gently swaying
with wavering stare
hand held out
needing care

but garnering
indifference
and  misplaced disgust

what if that was
you or me,
or uncle alf
or sister beth

would you want
the world to walk by
deaf to the mumbled cry

these are people
just like us....
these are people...
give a f...

not just a ******* up
sweat stained buck
thrown at them
like they are muck
scraped off the bottom
of your shoe...

cause by god,
this might well
one day be you
seeking truth
and sanity
in the gutter...

fragile...so very fragile

And it is what it is....
This life of mine,
Some days good and joyous
Some days fine,
And some days....
Everything is askew
and no matter
What I do....
The world is contrary.....
and unfucking fixable.....

Those are the days of...
chocolate and wine

oh' where did those days go
those enid blyton days
when my greatest wish
was to be jo, from the famous five....

those long and glorious
summerdays....
of sunshine and youth.

when bikes and fresh air
whipping past your face,
was way more....
important,
than winning the ratrace.

when the local creek
was the multiplex,
with so many different worlds on show ....
at each
new bend of the
winding, water slow.

when life was a beach
and living was carefree..

those days of watermelon
slices and orange icee's
backyard cricket....
belt it over the fence
for a six and out!!!

bbq'd sausages,
smothered in onions
and tomato sauce....
slapped on a slice,
of good white bread,
sufficed as dinner.

with a salad of course,
(if quick the salad could
be served surreptisiouly to
the local wildlife with a slip
and tilt of the paper plate)
if lucky, strawberries and
icecream to follow.

oh' those were the days,
simpler than most...
when the biggest
difficulty
was in ,cadging
one more hour,
before sleeping at night.
one more chapter,
(perhaps, even two)
of adventuring
with the famous five,
before sleeping....
under the security
of  youth...

your words...
a balm...... to my
                .......careworn soul

words..... chosen
         ...with thought
                           and love
knit my radled brain....
**** the hole .......
.....in the heel of my heart

your words...
sought to save....
.. to bring life
.....seed inspiration
cease the strife...
and the pecking
       of the nagging hurt.....

your words.... water....
to my..... parched and
barren land....

....seeds of hope
and inspiration...
left in my heart grow..

...thank you ...for your kindness
and your.... courage to speak
with thought.... your words
...made my life brighter
a place.. now... a lot less... bleak.

arrowing words,
whispering lips,
shotgun words,
freudian slips,

words as weapons.
cutting delicate hearts.
****** syllables.
bruising brains.

what power we wield,
not ever knowing,
the cost.
less often gain,
more often at great cost.

but, for the moment
of retention,
between,
careless thinking
and hurtful speakings,
push the pause.
because,
the words that have slain.
mayhaps be the ones lodged
within your brain.

red pen in hand....
i critique people's thoughts
and dreams

six years at university,
to become a god....
who moulds minds
and delivers future prophecies, ready for unwrapping.

who creates bell curves,
of fail to high distinctions.

that the undergrads,
follow like dancing, pavlovian dogs...

the posts...have slipped
the leash and ...
leave thoughtful piles of...extruded work, in the academic yard.

six years at uni...as a dog
nine years at uni ...as a god.

it is amazing,
how the garnering
of parchments
and strange hats,
can transpose a person's world.

little trout upon my plate
bet your wishing that fly you ate
was not attached to fishing line

little trout in my mouth
like a bird you should've flown south
but now you are destined for my mouth

little trout in my tummy
you are so incredibly yummy


little trout I thank you
for feeding me and my crew

this little poem
                        a pilgrim of
letters and words
                         my mind
zestings and oils
                          sent forth
to add my flavour
                          to the world
and now my thoughts
                  bubbling & boiling
to mingle with yours
                    with excitement
making a new world view
              just to serve & enjoy

betwixt me and myself
but not I
thoughts are
muddled, befuddled
and often obtuse

but I is,
concise and acutely aware
of the confabulation
within the world
of weirdly wild will-fulness
contained within the brain-pan
I shares with me and myself

I wishes it were different
but knows it cannot be
for they are co-dependant
the id of the three

new faces
eager to learn
wanting to speak
not sure, too sure
waiting for brilliance
to fall upon them like rain
holding the centre of the space
yet small within in it

older faces
casual in welcome
relaxed in attitude
creating a sense of being
larger than they once were
filling the space with  synergies

they all come in  and mingle
the very fresh,
those who are middling
and those who are beginning  
the downhill trek to the end
this is the conduit,
this dark room
that seems dingy
and broken in the day
but at night
when the grid is lit
and the mummers come to play
it is the grotto fantastic,  
filled with other beings
opposite selfs
with faces painted
and multitudinal voices
making all from naught

and I am
the gatekeeper,
paid in coins of laughter
and notes of tragedy
opening vistas
and changing lines...

all the faces
have the one thing
in common
an earnest desire
to stand up and
take the stage

so throw open the gates
let them enter, let them play

i recall
with a fondness
blurred by years
the town of
my formative years

in the mountains
the heart of the table lands
dissected by a highway
it crouched, along the sides
of a shallow valley

i remember a greeness
that came from the trees
eucalypt and pine
most prominent
in my mind
and the grass that grew
lush and tall
only to be mown
each Saturday morn

i remember
churches and schools
the wide expasnses
of playing fields
and parks with
hurdygurdys and swings
i remember the pool,
that too turquoise
rectangle,
that glistened
with wet invitation
and on the highest peak
the stolid grey water  tower
lording it over all

i remember rough tarmac
under my feet, running from
light pool to light pool at dusk
and frost on picket fences
in early mornings,
like delicate sugar candy
solidier braving the early sun

our house, small on a large block
with hydrangea at the front
wisteria overtaking the fenceline
an at the back door a concrete slab
painted fire engine red,
but faded to overipe watermlon pink

poplar trees garding the back
and the smell of onions
burning on the grill
hill'*******with tennis ball
and pantyhose
standing  to silent attention


and in the forground
my brothers and clans
playing football, league
with passion and
burgeoning skill

all this comes to mind
on a cold winter's day
i may of come a long way
but my heart still
ties me to there
and the memories
make the knots

tiger, he was,
could not honestly,
tell you the breed...
he was a mispent afternoon's produce....
but by the stock of his body
and the smile on his face
some one's prize corgi,
was now in disgrace...

allways a smile and a little
yip-yap...
he was my childhood,
of running and jumping,
just because, we could.
the picking of blackberries,
the finding of mushrooms,
wandering along creeks
and afternoon naps,
with his soft furriness,
under my palm....

mottled through, ginger
and blue,
with an under-carriage,
supposedly white,
but more often muddy or dustily brown....

a co-conspirator of the highest degree....
would  sit under the table
and eat pumpkin for me.
but not the beans....
they made him smell...

his tongue so long and pink,
his ears ***** and mobile, tail was docked,
but his *** it did wag,
with such a unique style.

he was my childhood,
but then,
he was gone...
off to chase rabbits up
on the farm...

good boy tiger....good boy
you where my protector
with you i came to no harm...

time..

is the best gift
i have ever been given

time..
to see life anew

time..
to love and be,
beloved

time..
to see my baby grow

time..
to know what seems
insurmountable is not

time..
of joy unaccountable,
but well remembered

time..
of sorrow etched  
like milestones
on my brain's
memory cortex

time..
in between those markers

time..
to soar
with creations grace

time..
to quietly sit,
adoring his face

time..
to savour hearty food

time..
for a cup of tea
and a natter with friends

time..
to walk upon a lonely shore

time..
to laugh and tickle some more

time..
to write,to read,to learn

time..
to dance,to sing

time..
to bring perspective

time..
to see

time..
to wrest with ideas ginormous

time..
to stroke a sleeping cat

time..
to figure out how to be me

time to
wonder at it all
time....

time....
time....
for just,
about
        ......everything

you leave me
alone.....
       to contemplate

and
all i can do
is
..........think of you

time apart
is ......
           anticipation
of
when we.......
can next
             be together....

they wait for godot....
                 i long for you....
this love
          so  unexpected
so....new
          
   my prayer......
                i hope  
we... possess...the stamina
to see it through.

tis
a
shade
past the middle
of
the night

tis
quiet
with the
exception
of the pulse of
the waves
and
your breathe
whispering in
my ear

tis
time
for
all good and sane
people
to be asleep

yet
i
am
awake
pondering
life's
questions
and
eating a mandarin,
juice
bursting with citric
sweetness
running down
my chin

tis
slightly
absurd
yet
slightly
decadent
staring
into
the depths
of the night
with the
taste of
mandarin
on the tip
of your tongue

tis
one
of this
insomniac's
quiet
joys

tis...tis...tis

tis time
to let the words
tumble mumble forth

tis time
to let the laughter
gambol and play

tis time
to let the tears
slide down my cheeks

tis time
to sort the boxes
that contain your life

tis time
to dwell in memory
of many precious days

tis time, tis time.

baby....
i don't own you.
but .....
i  have been granted
a 99 year,
freehold lease.

be still,
           be the small silent
                                        calm

be quiet,
       be the small watching
                                        mouse

be pliant,
               be the seed
                         spinning on
                     the wind

be memory
                  be the glint in
                             the wise old
                elephant's eye

be wisdom,
                 be the paradox of
                             the monkeys
                      three

be kind,
            for kindness needs,
                               to never be
             lost or neglected

be strong,
                 be passionate,
                for the world needs
                                strength
              and compassion
in order to grow.
                

but above all,
                      be love.....
            and allow love to be...

in all it's ....
        wonderful,
          guises and capacity's

and these my son,
                are just some
    of the steps

       in being a better man.....

sleep crumpled,
doe eyed and snuggly,
little mr just about four, climbs up into the big old bed.
his tousled, towheaded blonde curls bouncing
and plants a smearing, smooching kiss on my lips, before climbing into the middle bit of the bed,

the bubba spot.

then bestowing the same loving brand on da's lips
and wriggling like a fish,
he makes himself....
comfortable.

king of the bed

and hums himself back
to sleep.
we look at each other,
over his nodding head
and smile.

he is the gift ,
we did not know
we wanted,
but are so very glad,
we recieved
and we marvel at him daily. this bit, of you and me and god.
we doze all three,  
and the blucat beside
a knot of happiness and love,
in the big old bed.
contentment,
nestles, rich within our hearts
our minds at peace
together again.

two small gifts
as i head to bed
a new friend, lending
an ear and broad shoulder
a gift recieved and a burden
shifted and lifted
the second, a shaft of light
from the full moon, catching
possoms at play, on the front
lawn...snacking on stolen camelia heads.
so daintily nibbling with
tiny hands and feet
and big suprised eyes
and ears a' twitching....
and then they were gone
to the darkness again....
and i to bed ....to sleep
and slumber...

tomorrow has enough joy,
if only we are able to see it.

tomorrow has enough love,
if only we are brave and reach, to embrace it.

tomorrow has sorrow
if we choose to face it

tomorrow has anger
if we choose to engage in it

tomorrow is today
with different clothes on

we much choose;
be it
friend, foe or stranger,
we sit opposite,
on the train,that trundles
ever on,
toward life's
final destination.

surrounded by silence
only the slowblink
of the blucat eyes
in the stgyian gloom
of the overcast night
sleep eludes, sleep eludes

small smiles on the sleeping
godboys face
slack relaxed exhuastion
from the father, man mountain, hibernating bear.

single sips of chamomile
tisane....sit in silence
no gain in scrapping against
insomnia.. better to succumb
to calm evening solitude
sleep will come, sleep will
come

time
and time
again

i awake
my soul
surprised
by the
blessings
in my life

somewhere
sometime
i must have
done something

exceptionally
wonderful
because

karma
gave
me

you..
­
and
the little
boy god

and
all the other
multitudinal
bits of
good stuff

that
make me
smile

each
and
every
day

the sun is struggling to meet
it's commitments this morn
and sits low on the mountain tops
smudging the sky pink and
charcoalred as it climbs wearily into the clouded sky

in reality, nothing much wants to get out of bed
the rooster only gave
a half- hearyed crow
the kookaburra's just chuckled and then went back to bed

as for you and me still here
away from home
we snuggle down into tje warmth and take comfort
in the childfree zone..

it is too cold to do anything other...
until the sun gets it's act
together
it's snooze time ,
thanks to
the ****** cold, mountain
weather...

you mumble and maunder
all through your afternoon
nap....
never quite still,
but not thrashing about...

and then you wake,
tired and grumpy
all sweat and stickyness

two hours of tired
and five years of sassiness
standing before me
with thunderclouds for
eyebrows....
                      you want!!!....

but what you get is
a big hug a quick dash
to the next door neighbors pool....

please god....when will this
heatwave end???

this day is beyond warm
less sultry, more stifling
the heat, holdings it's breath
awaiting the gathering of  the cummulus

the boys have gone, with polesand lines
and a box of milling maggotty enticements
to cajole water beings out of their depths
into the gasping heat of the day


my mother sits  in between making
sheep into woolen rugs and concoctions
of woollen froththe keeps the tea cosy,
before the drinking,
switching the tv channels
between the small ball sports on offer
like stone fruit, there is a glut
of tennis and cricket
and she gorges with patriotic fervour

I lie in, reading, making internal lists
of what should be done, but will not be
too hot, far too hot, the little tuxedo devon
lies in the bath room
stretched out on the cool slate tiles
and i wish for the life of a cat
one with out lists incomplete....

walked across the dunes
to the light house to
clear my thoughts.

the windsailors were
riding the sky,
my son calls them  the teabag people.
but to me they are like those  seed pods that coast upon the
wind in search of something
beyond.

the grass soughs and if you sit
quietly enough,
you can hear the hungry cry of
the little tern chicks.
hidden in the dunes nearby.

the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots,
single grains multi-hued,
flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes,
steep slippery slide.
little metallic black ants have the herculean task,
of working this ***** for
seeds and other oddments of food.
i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb.
while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand.

the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence
of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area.
their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself
to dance charts seen in black and white films,
you would now find them mostly in antique stores.

the tide is in recess
and the terns are hunting,
mottled little sand *****
in some killer, crazy
game of tig or redrover.
where to lose is to looose!

the windsailor above is surpassed by
the big old seahawk
as he stretches his wings.
it is a comparison of true mastership,
over a poor and gaudy parody.
the hawk with practised disdain, dives,
through the breakers emerging,
with his fish dinner.

as i turn toward home.
i wonder,
was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?

to the stones,
i poured their water ration,
but they seemed to,
be imitating ducks
and off their backs,
it rolled.

i spoke loudly,
to the clouds,
that hovered,
overhead
but they just scowled
and turned their
faces to the sun.

so, my next endevour,
is to re-arrange,
the sand dunes.
i think, that will be fun.

so set off i must,
with my bucket
and *****,
for it will
only ever get
finished,
once i
have begun.

there is lead in the sky
and the lead, spits and cries
and the birds don't fly.
they huddle wet,
on branches, of dripping trees.

there are tears, pooling
on the ground.
puddling, muddling,
flowing down,
to the craggy, creviced
incurvate creek,
which is growing, swelling
and about to breach,
boggy, bullrushed borders.

the water dragons, are fleeing upwards,
to sit with the birds,
in among the trees.

the frogs they are singing hymn to the great watergod...
as the leap and dance along....
to the rythmnic revival song of the pattering, puddling rain.....
time of plenty hath come again.
          come.....again.

she bleeds,
hard and dark, bitterwords
and angry scowls,
from the depths of her lazyboy chair.

age has stolen
her laughter, wit and compassion....
pain is her worldy possesion,
it blinds her to all else.


she used to laugh and smile and i miss that, so much,
and i wish that, my boy
would have those memories
but we have become,
the whipping boy,
to her frailty,
her scroogelike attitudes,
her impatience to,
be done with it all....


this is my sacrifice,
my burden,
willingly, lovingly,
shared by my lover and child...

but, oh! somedays,
it is like,
carrying a bag,
overfull,
of sharded glass,
that pierces my back
and stabs at my heart.