WANTED:
one poet!
garret trained,
impractical in many ways,
scatterbrained, dark, mysterious.
and lovelorn.
must be at the very least lovesick.
not adverse to occasional starving and bouts of woe.
even able to adapt to living
in a continual cycle of manic depressive flux.
able to overcome writer's block...
and worse!....word drought
able to converse in both, straight and rhymed verse.
desirable; an understanding of
freeflow and rap
must have ability to write,
day as night and night as
day
must work for minimal pay,
read: mostly zero $$.
just occasional compliments.
should be able to empathise.
and in a position to consider (as a carreer pathway)
attempted suicide.
applications by way of
verse
can be sent to the reader
via the internet eather
and will be read of course
but be warned the reader
is fickle and may not deign
to reply...

hallmark cardwriters need not
apply

Now,
We are mellow.
Having spent the evening exploring the threads of friendship.
That had come adrift of warp, weft and weave.
Time and distance had
silks, snag-tagged-torn,
on the bustling-busy,
hectic-hustling of work
and family.

Teasing-taunt,
needle-gnawing,
small, gap-rip-rents
in the snug comforter
that is... the wonder of us.

Us, so many secrets woven. So many, nights of tissues and sobbing tears.
Darning in daring exploits. Cutting away knotted,
fear-angry-scream-fighting feuds.

Cutting work, for days of delight and nights of desperate yearning.

We used anything at hand, rough wools, pieces of string and twines.
To weave a blanket,
to hide us from life's storms.

We were,
so young, so strong, recklessly-brash,
stupidly-joyous
and braveheart-fools.

And now, time and age,
has softened our work. Felted and fuse-melded,
the fibres into a beautiful entity.

That we store-save in the heart's cupboard,
of special and precious  things.
It is an heirloom of sorts.
We bring it out,with occasional, humble-grace,
to be dandled and stroked with reverence.

Caressed and cossetted are our memories held within the abstract weave.

We are the dwindling
of a youthful exuberance
flung-thrown-heaved
to the wild winds.

So now, we are grateful to be curator-custodians of the retrospective nature
as we augment-append
and reiterate-repair.

A new thread here,
now,
embellish-embroider,embed
and tatt-stitch.
My son and your twin girls, squeezed, splashing
into your tiny bathtub
big-grin-giggling in the gurgling water.

Our future, here and now,
is the brightest of silks,

Our past, mellow and yielding in,
the luminent opulence,
angelically-asleep in,
the other room.

was a time when
hills were mountains
rivers small trickling streams
towering trees, dormant seeds

was a time when
skies were clear of smoke
seas plentiful of whales and fish
the planets skin unmarked by greed

was a time when
life was hard but some how simpler
when you knew your neighbor, perhaps
even the whole block or town
when kids played til twilight and came
home to doors unlocked and books to read

when the most you borrowed with out great thought
was a cup of sugar or the neighbors saw
was a time, when courtesy was a given
and kindness was common

was a time....there was a time....almost a lifetime ago

in a xebec,
we sail...
seas,
of turqoise, teal
and cerulean blues...
with horses white and alabaster,
galloping in wavelets,
beside,
the creaking mahogany,
hand caulked hull.
the brass once shining bright
is now speckled,
by the salt of posiedon's
briny brow

above the masts.
one two and three,  
hold the lanteen sails,
set free, in a flurry
of canvas hysteria.
full and billowing,
now,
they propel us,
gently onward.

you and i recline,
undecorously,
on a plethora,
of bright morrocan cushions.
like bees,
busily rummaging,
among the flower petals.

as the sun sings the days
lullaby,
in the east,
in notes of tangerine and  buttercup yellow.

the waters edge
is where i stand
feet sinking slowly
in the golden sand
water is ice in a
white lace hand
salty tears from
a far off land

sun is bright
and warm is air
breeze is light
just ruffling hair

off in deeper places
dolphins play and
win races against
the curling waves

surfers sit awaiting
water graces before
leaping walking on
surf and slimline pieces
of wood and fibro foam
artfully worked into boards
of about three paces

whales swim along
the water roads
occasionally
showing age old faces
and fins and tails
in the dance of ages

birds fly high
on wind planes
dipping and diving
in order to gain
greater speed
better angles
to spear down into
water tangles
coming up with
dinner or not
spreading wings
again seeking the aloft

at waters edge
where i stand
mountians have been
broken down into sand
horizons quiver in the sun
somewhere day is starting
somewhere day is done
and still the waves seek the shore
and still the water always wants more

the bones in me
seek out the sun today
desiring of,
it's warmth and nourishment

the rest of me follows
blindly  along.
i have always been one,
to accede to need

i am done with work,
for a week or two.
so, i sit in the park
and watch the human zoo.

with the sun,
beaming down
in gentle dismay,
over the seemingly,
awkward disarray
of poeple, dogs and birds,
(mostly pigeons),scattered everywhere.

on this day
when the sky
resembles god's bellybutton
filled with fuzzy
only he knows
where it comes from lint

and the ground, sodden
and squelchingly muddy
and puddles abound

on this day....we look to
each other and find old
board games and puzzles to
play...kerplunk, unbarrelled
monkeys...snakes and ladders.....and jenga
all entertain...as we play
just us three....

(for nanna there is cricket
and napping)

now it is mid afternoon
and we are tumble together
like monkeys on the couch
tod...sleeping thumb in mouth...and us wrapped together....beginning the slow forplay that will
come to fruition tonight...
we have stolen this day...
and are happy....in doing so

and it is,
when i am with you....
i shed all my outer coverings,
take the sledge hammer
to my walls,
drop pretence and artifice,
like beggar's rags
and stand.

my scarred and naked body,
before you.....
with beautific but battered mind  intact
and heart beaten and besieged

i stand naked before you

and you......
gather me up... and love me
with your besieged and beaten heart ,
battered but beautiful mind
and scarred and naked skin
and it is when we are together....
like this
that our weary souls entwine
and provide the love
that allows us to believe
we are both human...
                                    .... and divine.

and give strength to each
other...

grumble, rumble, crack.
god in heaven, stretching his back


spit, splat, splosh
out goes god's bathwater
with a great heaving toss

wind blow, seas squall
rivers rise,  mud forms
oh gosh what a summer storm

lightning forks in the sky
jagged streaks,
thunder speaks,
from clouds of grey
glad i'm home,come what may
on this sultry stormy summers day

the leaf no longer drips
out side my window
the sky has for the moment
stopped it's weeping,
maybe the moon got it some
hokey pokey ice cream,

it is cold enough, the puddle pools
of  water have little lace doily edges
and the hibiscus bushes are frosted

the weatherman states we are having
an unseasonable cold snap....
this is the first time the tuxedo rex
has seen frost...he is beyond freaked
and has gone into the linen ccupboard
to seek solace and warm, we find him
curled up under the guest towels

the paths are icy, as well my bottom knows
this is not a drill, we don't normally get this
cold here and frankly we are under prepared

we have towels covering every hangable surface
the dryer running constantly, the fire is eating wood
at an alarming rate...and the wifi has become unstable

and now the leaf is dripping again...

do we remember what the sun does...Do we???

soggy bottomed shoes
encase wrinkly tender feet

it's been raining solidly
for more than a week

the towels all smell
of mould and mildew

the carpets more mud than wool

the vegetable garden
is accsessed by canoe

and the fire just splutters
cause of the water in the flue

we have gathered a menagerie
of frogs and spiders on the
front porch, there is a sugar glider

and still it rains....and the rivers flow high
gosh what I would give to see some blue sky

Foggy breath on glass
As I wrap my scarf tighter
Crisp and clear today.

we are home,
from our first day
back... at the salt-mines.

ben, heads for the shower
to loosen, the muscles
tightened, by a day of
hammer and saw.

tod, sits, one blink shy
of comatose..in front of
a blaring t.v....
we need him awake,
for another hour and a bit.
or none of us,
will sleep, through the night.

me i stand in the kitchen
in front of the fridge
weighing up options..
will say G&T; looking
awfully good...

mother nestled out
in the nanexxe...
engrossed in afternoon
gameshows...
best not to disturb.
she bites!(or at least snaps)

only thing in the house
that's happy,
tonight,
is the little blucat.
who purrs up a storm,
as he figure-eights
about my legs.
in the ecstasy of
the un-abandoned pet.

we did, come home,
to feed him...we did....we did...we did!

we go now
to the place
of  solemnity
all three
of us
together

we go
to place
memories
wrapped in
flower petals
on the doorstep
of your afterhouse

we talk
in hushed tones
to the motes
of dust that
sparkle in
the sunlight
hoping they
will carry
our news
to you

we water
the grass
that covers
your afterhouse
with salted tears
hoping they will
carry our love to
your landlocked bones

we hold hands
believing that
you see our
togetherness
and take solace
in it...

we go back
to the everyday
leaving you behind
with these little
particles of ourseleves
called sorrow

they are your substance
until next we come

we stood
             transfixed
                         in disbelief
as the day of 9/11 unfurled

way down here ....
at the bottom of the world
  we cried in horror
        as the buildings died
            and so much was lost

all on small screens of despair....
and tho, life moves on...
the feeling of loss...
stays, right there.

we went, that day
to your house,
with food and drink
gifts wrapped in bright paper
it was a day of celebration
all day we would remind you
that fifty was just a number

we spent, that day
gathered together on
couches and armchairs
watching the world change
as planes became weapons
and buildings became like trees
falling in a forest, peoplee became
ghost and ether on the winds

we wept, that day
for those lost
on the other side
of the world
we wept, that day
for those left behind
we wept, we weep still
when we think of the atrocities
that mankind can do in the name of gods

we left, that day
with food uneaten
presents still wrapped
heartsore and sorry
images of horror imprinted
praying for succour

we send our thoughts
out each year to those
who have suffered
to those whose family
names are remembered
with bell chimes and prayers

it was,  meant to be such a wonderful day
when we went that day to celebrate your fifty years

the whales
have started to come
gliding past with a wave
or tail breach.
occasionally they breach
thier entire bodies in the air
even if only for a moment

we are blasè about it
joking about the tourist boats
that race to be near the tails and fins
but really when the season is running
on a good day you can see three or more
so many more than when I first came here
then I kept a log of fins tails and breachings
now it is like when you see your neighbor
mowing the lawn you smile to acknowledge it
but still continue on with your day

and on some level I think the whale prefer that
cause when you think about it, would you want
some group of gawkers chasing you down
when you went up the coast for a romantic holiday

what is your shadow?
if not the conglomeration
of memories...
you drag through your
days.

what is life?
if not a jigsaw puzzle,
without the box.
waiting....
to be put together...

what is hope?
if not,
a tube of unopened
crazy, glitter glue,
you will use ......
to stick your dreams in place

what is fate?
if not, the hindsight
of hope and circumstance..
combined to form....
life's wibbly-wobbly jello....

what is hate?
if not a toddler's tantrum,
wearing hobnailed boots....
and stomping about.

what it is not...
forgiving or kind,
patient with time.
gentleness to the weary soul.

whilst it does allow smiles,
they are mostly,
of the wry
or pitying kind.

again,
whilst it gives,
much time for contemplation, rumination and wistful
and regretful dreaming
but in doing so
it often, so often, takes,
more than it gives.

it is not a gentle kitten.
more of a savage jungle beast,
ravaging not just you,
but your village too...

it does not respect,
station or situation...

yet sometimes,
it gives you an almighty fright.
taking hold and shaking
your ragdoll life.
only to let you go...
scarred,
but not defeated.

at other times...
it stalks you
through the years.

it is not necessarily
a death sentence,
but often so.

what it is,
is a puzzle to unravel
what it is,
is, in need of the best
minds in order to
bring about solutions

what it is,
is, small and large donations
required to change
the future of us all

what it is
is... cancer....
and given time
it can be cured.

one moment ago
every thing was fine
the starter was fine
the main exceptional
the conversation whilst
not exceptional held nuggets
of interest and hints of wit.
dessert came, looked scrumptious
but before fork hit pastry
it happened
something was said,
umbrage was taken
and now we all sit,
in the middle of a ferociously cold war,
my husband caught with
forkful between bowl and mouth
gulps loudly and places fork back on plate
apart from the two combatants,
everyonehas become interested in
the state of  their shoes,
mine are in need of a polish.
and still the fury roils around.
i ask for the bill, pay our share
leaving the cash on the plate..
we are too old, too tired
to take part in what has become
some one elses public domestic

we grab some pastries to go..
and in a blink of an eye
we depart the field...
leaving the two sides blinking

i am alone today
ben has taken lazlo
fishing... not so much
as to catch anything
but to be away
from the crowds
of condolence
and to be quiet..
within one self.

i suppose i could look up
old friends......
or shop.....take in a movie
or buy a book .......
and read it cover to cover

but the reality is i am a mother.... so this day....
....stolen from the world...is
to be spent.. in the luxury of
                  sleep

             good night all

if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day
but
social convention dictates,
that while taking the minutes,
of the meeting for
the arts faculty directorate,
thats NOT okay.

if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day.
but my boss says,
it might be
difficult to tell a phd student NO to a grant application,
in a bath robe festooned with purple hippos drinking tea.

if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day.
but
my husband tells me, POLITELY,
that jeggings,
are not best suited to my ruebenesque frame.

if it were up to me ....
but
apperently it's not.
.....so black pants cream shirt and vest it's to be

what was nothing

becomes reality

it happens momentarily

a thought creates an action

which sets the heart alight.

then reason takes flight

on wings of  purported glory

we skim the stratosphere

oblivious to gravity

we soar in graceless ecstasy


until ..... until....

there once was a time,
when her face was unlined.

her hands,unseamed
and uncalloused.

her eyes, bright and unclouded.

her *******, perky and full.

her back straight,
her stomach, tight and naturally, slightly concave.

and she had legs, that turned heads and a walk,
that created many,
a wolf whistle.

but then,

she had a life,

left her youth behind,

married,
badly, as time would tell.

had four children,
watched one die.

discovered,
she had married,
a selfish, gamblin man.

got a job
and then a second,
just, to feed her clan.

watched the love die.

then, watched him leave
with a resigned ,
yet  a relieved sigh.

raised,
two rambunctious boys
and a sickly, stubborn girl.

then, watched them leave.
launched them,
succesfully,
into the world...

now, the years,
have gone, bye the bye.

and with,aching back and teary eyes, she shuffles on
toward her demise.

with the memory of
times long gone,

and the echoes
of wolf-whistling guys,
legs long and lean
and her unlined face
with, eye catching smile.
giving her a sense of
inner grace....
that plays upon
her lined and crumpled face.

as she relives her youth
in her memories
as she finds that wonderous place, when once she was young.....and oh so beautiful.

when you and i...
are apart, for a longer
length of time
i find....

i am a lop-sided,
mis-shapen thing.
stumbling along..
a straight and
narrow road.


simple things,
take more time
and difficult things,
are well... too...difficult.

it is not that,
i can't cope.
i do....
but life has,
become more
of a chore.
and less, of a game.

and it is the seperation.

i blame,
for the colours
becoming dull,
for the words
lacking purpose,
for the heart
beating  too slowly,
for the sun
losing it shine,
and food, it's taste.

and for me,
becoming a....
whinging, whining
waste of space!

lop-sidely,
stumble-grumbling,
along....

bewildered,
confused,
where did it go?
alienated,
dogday tired,
just all gone, gone, gone.
confounded,
out of place,
it was here, i left it right here.
muddled, jumbled, befuddled,
jumble thoughted,
stumble stepped,
tangle, tousled,
perturbed, perplexed,
just downright baffled,
snarled up, sixways, sideways
why is'nt it where i left it, dumbfounded, disconnected, dazed,
so discombobulated,
i am about to be,
bedlamized...
i could swear,
i left my youth right there,
on the hall table,
next to the car keys....
but now it is gone...
........and i am left bereft.

stymied,
i sit in the library
surrounded by words
but ....yet
               nothing of worth
comes to me....
instead i write this missive
all the while knowing....
it is the drivel of a mind
confounded....stumped
....run dry...

it occurs to me...i write
more of the act of putting
pen to paper,
than aught else at present

and that i well may be
caught in a meta maze
of my own making....

i feel my wells have run dry
and what i write here and now
is but mud and slime scraped from the murky depths.....

i excuse this muck  as the product of a long year....
not enough time
distractions of the
overly emotional type

but am secretly scared
that i have come to the
end of my ink
that i will succumb to
poesis nullaris
and not ever write
                                    again....

or worse....write
dreck, drivel, and bad rhyme

stymied......
                 stymied
whispers the gnome within
my ear...

i know.....
infatuation and obsession
are... somewhat.... compulsive
in need ...and sometimes  
misunderstood
but...
it is writing me inside out
this desire to.......  speak in
ink laden syllables.....
to scribe and etch my self
on the synaspes of your brain
so that i am ever painted... in the background of your pictures
so that my words become... your
idiom and phrases
so that i appear black... and white .. in film noir or slapstick comedy
is this wrong....
is this creepy...
this need to be in your blood..
in every drawn breath..
i am not unhinged or crazy
there are other things......
but you come to me.. at unbidden times and wrest me.....
into this  sojourn
on sanities thin, thin cusp
walking.... the wire of......
ratiocination... one side... ...sapience...
...the other stupidity.....
you are not aware
of me... and you...
should not be
for i am no one......
only a thought upon
a poets page harmless....
and imagined
oh! but to be free to live
life on knife's.....
sharp and cutting edge.....

your mouth whispers,
sweet nothings,
to my skin...
i become, liquid,
in anticipation.

your tongue creates,
pathways, from mouth
to neck, to breast tips,
to *****....
i shiver, and sigh
in  gratification.

you, part my thighs
and enter my soul
and make the earth....
heaven.
i cry and weep,
in ecstatic, adulation.

but we have, just begun....

my mouth whispers,
sweet nothings,
to your skin.....

i think,
with years of sunday school,
indoctrinated guilt....

there is a small wavering
line between......
                              deceit
and kindness....

as i tell my aging mother....

she looks fine.

I would tell you...
everything is fine,
you would believe me

I would tell you happiness is mine
and you would smile and believe me

I would spin tales of love and laughter
I would show photos of us all together
You would look and laugh and say
you are so lucky...believing me

I would lie baldfaced and fingers crossed
I would make sure you believed me
Then I could for a time, believe myself

You would ask to got to coffee,
to sit awhile and catch up

That is why I no longer call, my friend
I am not that good a liar
But you would belive me....
                                For a long time I believed myself.......

i find
old friend
of mine
that
you have left
your footprints
in my mind
from
the days
when you tromped
down the bracken
of my narrow and
parochial upbringing
then
planted the paper daisies
and  bright poppies
of free and radical thinking...

Teeny tiny beetle
in your designer carapace.

Busy bodying,
up and down the flowerstems ,
harvesting, juice of aphid.

Teeny tiny beetle wings
a flutter,
launching tiny little you, homeward bound.

A speck of enameled beauty, contemptuous of the ground.

Up and away with you,
you miniscule marvel
of god's mayhem.

upon the waters
i threw my bread
only to watch
the fish and ducks
gobble it up.....

i gave my pearls to the swine
and they pawned for quick cash

i set my words on  a butterflys wing
only to see it fly into the windscreen
of a fast moving truck....

so today..i find a room empty
and bare....walk into the middle
and sit quietly there
waiting for the world to spin
and afford me the smallest
of wins...

as i thresh
              and winnow,
           the words of my heart;

anger and scorn,
             become chaff
                         set upon the
                     blustering winds.

and love remains,
                         golden seeds
left,
to nourish
               and grow
                crops of life,
                   love and laughter.

what days are these
when we sit to ponder
lifes big and small mysteries
with tea brewing
in the ***
and biscuits crumbling
in our hands

we sit and watch
the colour leach
from trees
and grass wither
underfoot

we gather
old clothes and blankets
to give to those
whose houses
are sky and ground
whose airconditioning
is frost and wind

we dread the winter's
count and the summers
harvest of those elderly
left frozen and unfound

some lose just little bits
who needs fingers and toes
some lose more and more again
we puase to remind ourselves
a life is a life no matter the choice
of the living....there is a purpose
to be found in each soul set upon
the ground

so we gather small comforts
to be bestowed on those
who live harder and meaner than
ourselves  and then sit in front
of roaring fires and suppose
our good deeds become us

yet we have treated but a symptom
of the cancer that is fed by greed
we have tried to answer need
but while we give a pittance
with one hand, the larger
beings of this land,
take with both, leaving
nothing but grist and sand
and lives with little
have a little less

it is hard to live
on crumbs

harder still
when the
big end
of town
is blind
and numb

to those who
are suffering
they do not see
the social buffering
blinkers their sight
and so continues
the cycle

whilst blankets and swags
and soup kitchens  all help
something more is needed
to bring the homeless, home

the leaves are pretty this year