Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
betterdays Jun 2019
you are the last of
this years frangipani bloom's
the wide green leaves
of your tree,  are already curling
grey brown upon themselves
to drop dry and rattling to the path
leaving the wrinkle of dead man's fingers
to winter alone

but you are the tree's
final salutation, one last hurrah
waxed cream and butter beauties
that you are....

summers kiss, happiness in
one bloom,  your esscense
fills the room with sunshine and grace.

now you scant few are the last
of the frangipani bliss
you are as the night grows cold.
as the days grow shorter
the last zephyrs  of  fragrance
whispering fond farewells

you are summer's last kiss
one of  gentle memories
blown about by summer's breathe
betterdays Mar 2014
disparate thoughts


                     clash

  with butterfly brillance


     resulting in


neonic cymbal synapsual
           clarity

reverberating
          reverberating
                  ­ reverberating
      in my brain

the outcome
                 this inkstain
betterdays Mar 2014
once was twinkle

once was star

once was nova

bright and ever
brighter

but the gravitational pull
            you exude

is more than dark matter

it is all

light, dark

and the spectrum

in between

but soon i know

i will become

a super-nova

or  nova- remnent

gases, broiling, blowing,

glowing brighter than the sun

then distortion, explosion

blazing fire burning flames

flaring foils & spares spurting

  i am become

fury and death

      a star
on the implode

unstable,unable

to hold form

i die

and fade and fall

and become

dark space

within the forever night sky

that fills the place
    behind my
shuttered eyes

my love i am gone
     blown away
             by
  my need for you.
betterdays Aug 2014
cantankerous cat,

i am not, your private slave!

who am i kidding!!!
betterdays Sep 2014
he cleans his paws,
with a delicate pink tongue.
always the left first.

he is a cat of order,
not for him,
haphazard ways.

i sometimes wonder,
how he survives,
in our chaotic house.

but then,
i see him hidden up
high in the bookcase
watching us all, beneath him
dashing madly about,
with amusement,
quivering at his whiskers.

and after all...
he is...
the god of wrinkly things.
betterdays Dec 2015
day 43
28000 miles out
isolation no longer imagined
small specks floating, floating.
outside the window... space
and so very distant
home...
blues, greens, brown
almost perfect, almost
the marble of earth ....
plaything of gods
                             and mere mortals.
today is the aniversary of the taking of the picture of earth by the astronauts  of apollo13....the picture now known as the blue marble...
betterdays Aug 2014
looking for unique

consider the platypus

god's blueprint for strange
betterdays Jun 2014
Blue rinse  and set
home done.
Meant the colour changed every time,
from shades of pale lilac...
to electric neon light.
Always wave set never permed.
Hair too fine.

She was what they,
termed politely,
in those days:
"a large ***** woman."

Corseted nine to five,
in matrons whites.
Jiggly in a flambouyant orange muu muu by night.

A spinster, devoted to work and extended family,
large of heart and appetite.

A soft place to fall,
when the stonelike,
stoicism of my mother, became to harsh to bear.

I was flummoxed,
when in my teens,
I found a dog eared,
Kama Sutra,
in my blue haired aunts cupboard.
I can honestly say....

I learnt a lot... about a lot ...that day.
betterdays Oct 2016
Monday morning
is singing the indigo blues

the sky is wearing
a grey duffel coat

still I gotta pay my dues
gotta get happy
gotta get happy
an pay my dues

Step into the winters day
Air so crisp and cold
Snows on the way

Somewhere they will be
Freezing today
Somewhere they will be
rubbing chilled hands together
draming of warm summer days

Inside boxes filled with red faces
they will be dreaming of faraway places
where the sand is warm underfoot
and  in the chambray sky there are no traces
of water accumulation, just an argent sun
and on the breeze exotic spices.

These are the dreams of the red faced
and blue handed masses that ride the buses
in this crisp winter morn
.....looking for a scrap of chambray,
in the cold flannel grey of this Monday
betterdays Apr 2014
mopoke

the mournful call

                                      mopoke
of the boobook owl

as she ekes out
an existence
for her and her chick

                                      mopoke
fair warning to,
house mouse and field
you have entered my fiefdom.
now are you prey
to feed my fledgling fold

                                      mopoke  
               mo..poke..mo...poke

from my aerie
                                      mopoke
my eerie calls,
defray my diminutive size, my too cute name.
my chocolate feathers
and startled gaze.

                                      mopoke
i am owl warrior queen  

                                    MOPOKE
boobook owl
small owl eastern australia
has a distinctive call
betterdays Apr 2016
a prisoner of birth
the beachcomber
an a red rabbit
conversing in the place of lightness
spoke of the point of origon
then, shared the deception on his mind
in a painted house
until memories of midnight
became monday mourning
and the warlock
cried it's over now
let's bake ginger breads
Not my bookcase, visiting  relatives...but still fun
betterdays Jun 2014
a poetic collaboration
with Elizabeth Squires,
(thank you for the privilege)*


high in the infinite skies,
above the clouds.
where no, naked eye can see 
particles in the ozone layer,
bounce around.
in a manner, most carefree. 
these minute, wee, little things,
e'er bobbing and moving,
so happily. 

we on the ground,
would delight,
in their existence of joy.
but we're tied to the prosaic, daily grind working,
in our nine to five,
coalface coal mines.

with axe and pick,
we chip and hack away...
whilst our minds delight,
in front-lobal play.
of waxed wing-ed flight,
of acrobatic, aerobatic display.

whilst working,
in the cramped and dubious
spaces we inhabit....
we dream, of spaces, blue, boundless and arcing-wide, forgeting, forgoing, forgiving the mindless, daily grind...
we leap,
with fragile hope,
into fledgling flight....
up to the ozone,
up toward the light...

there, in the freedom,
of this spacious playground,
we're at no command,
of employer's tools,
of work.

on our faces, we'll wear 
those  effervescent, unfettered smirks
hopping in rambunctious 
fun 
in the ozone's air,
upon the weary brow of labor release, is found.

in it's mirthful atmosphere,
which eliminates, our obligations, to our bosses.
we then farewell,
with liberating tosses.

and so we soar
in insouciant grace, unfettered,reckless,feckless 
freedom, sliced and pared, away across our wings
and faces,
joy ungaurded,
is this moment's prey
unbidden, unbound.

no longer hearing,
the sound of the grinding axe.... at play
we soar eagle high...
we soar to the sun's eye
but we are not made
for such undulterated bliss our wings of feather
and wax....
become, around us mist  
and to the ground
we do spiral....

into our adult occupations,
where there is little time.
for us to be engrossed,
in exuberant glee.
we're shackled 
and yoked to,
our heavy work day shrouds.
but our dreams of play,
with those ozone particles,
seem too impractical.

happy little vegemites
we'd be,
if our days were free.

take heart, our days off,
are nigh and on the lounge
we'll sigh, 
a well earned sigh.
betterdays Apr 2015
black mussels de-bearded, shine
water, yeast-beer, hops
combine enticingly with
ginger, chilli, lime
and much garlic.
simmer, then....
gorge!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
napo wrimo, prompt was for a sapphic poem.
but chose to do this instead,
epelaryu,
invented form
to do with food...
has a syllable format.....
for more information
check out "shadowpoerty" on
the web.
off to buy mussels now....lol
betterdays Dec 2014
we move
             s-l-o-w-l-y
                            today
d
  r
   a
     g
       g
         i
          n
             g
                yesterdays excess
about, in still gurgling        
                                   tummies and pickled synapses....

even the boy, stagnates in
front of new videos....
we are lizards on the lounge
me pretending to be engrossed in a new book
him.....awaiting the first
ball of the cricket...

we are a boxed set of...
self induced apathy...
the day pearl grey and
crying....
                 forgives us our
                                        sloth....
as i hear my bed beckoning..
Boxing Day 2014...
betterdays Dec 2024
1.
Christmas bugs litter
the verandah's floor glittering S
Season's memories

2.
Recycling bins
Full of  spent wrapping paper
Await removal

3.
Bleary eyed I sit
Nursing coffee, eating ham leftover Christmas

4.
Deck the halls with all
things beautiful n' shiny
Just to take them down.
Xmas 2024 the next day  let down in haiku form
Hope everyone had /has  a woderful holidays seson
betterdays Jan 2017
my mother throws
the wet headed mop at him,
expecting him, nimble and atheletic
to jump over it
but it hits his calf
and ankle with
a sickening crack
and he falls
like tree felled in a storm
as he hits the too long green grass
there is a wet thud, thud.

then a momentary silence
striking in it's completeness
so profound, it is almost zen like

broken by the high pitched wail
as the pain receptors in my brothers brain
kick in to high gear,he writhes on the ground
my mother hovering over him
repeating this mantra
"you were supposed to jump!
you, were supposed to jump"

he was foueteen, the local sport star
arrogant as only teenagers can be.

she would have been middle to late forties
a single parent having worked a double shift

I cannot remember his infraction,
there were;  oh, so many
but still 38 years on
I can feel the silence
so absolute....
and hear the mantra....

you were supposed to jump
                                    you were supposed to jump
My mother to my recollection only ever twice lost the plot in anger....this was one of those times....as I say I have no recall of what my brother did...
My mother worked hard and was a good mother...and father to us...
I write this today...because  I found myself un a similar situation...
not that I was violent toward my child
but that I was so blindingly angry that  I could have been.
As to why that is another story entirely.  Suffice to say youthful exuberance, and no fear, can be a mix that makes Momma mad.....

My brother was bruised by the mop handle, every body carried the shock of that moment with them for a good many years....My mother apologised profusely to us all for her loss of control....and I think that was when we as children had that epiphany children have...that parents are humans too with strengths a d weaknesses.
As a child I was in awe of the monentous nature of that moment, as an adult I do not condone the violence within it, but after today...I may have a better understanding of it
betterdays May 2014
i am baking bread,
hair piled atop my head.
abba playing ....me out of
key singing along.
flour dust and nordic exuberance,  in the air.

....my friend fernando...
as i knead the dough...
punch it down.
....i would my.....

****** smell, silky feel.. dough, dough, dough...
oven not too...hot ...
money, money, money...

rest the dough...agnetha
i am not....
but baking bread....
may make me a mamma mia
or may be my waterloo...

just have to wait and see.
betterdays Mar 2014
the painted lady butterfly
stiltstalk, struts around
the edge of
my bread and butter plate.
ballerina, delicate,
in black stockinged feet.

she is coy,
at present and has her wings closed and is only showing her,
mottled, brown, bathroom robe underside.

she preens across the plate,
to the sweet quarter of,
blood orange heaven
i was yet to eat.

her curlique tongue,
quests out, in hope of heaven.
allehlieu !  
she finds sweet citrus juice,
much to her liking
and now a miniscule ribbon,
pumps and pulsates as she
drinks

her wings slowly open,
oh ! her iridescent wings,
blazing orange, amber
saffron and gold.
set well against,
the bold, blood citrus coral
on which she stands.
her wings, fabulous as they are, belie her underlying nature.
as they, flit and flutter,
in time with her greed.
and we are truly, mesmerised.

she withdraws,
the tongue,
a dance in itself.
a flex of fire
and then, she is gone.
and only the visual echo,
of  sublime beauty is left,
resonating, in the summer air.
betterdays Mar 2014
breakfast with my mother
is now a song of
tapping,clinking noise
as the tremor in her hands
grow beyond the medications
control

she will be 85 within month
and has become small and birdlike in appetite

conversations have become
vocal exercises in loud short
projections
but she is not deaf
the world has just stopped
speaking clearly

her eyes
have seen so much,
her heart
has encompassed both
great joys
and deep sorrows

the sharp cutting edges of
her mind
are now becoming
butter knifes
it saddens me to know
her mental acuity
is dwindling like yarn
unraveling
to pool in a
muddled mess
of colour on
the dusty floor

i watch her
over my coffee cup
we are so
different and disparate
i once truly believed
my self
to be anothers child
our personalities
were so divided by lifes spectrum
but as i muse now
as a mother myself
watching her
it comes to me
if i am just an inkling
of her strength and grace
then i am an amazon
incarnate
incarnate
betterdays Apr 2014
i could see her
then my thoughts
bloomed like
flowers, bright orange poppies
wonderous bright and  i go
and whisper love to
her hair still mussed by sleep
my mind all, raddled perceptions, and  in
moments like these their
ability to wear clothes
of polite deception dies with
stark naked truth gleaming no
shining through to the west
horizon, the wind
blows my deception to
the eastern most point of my love and  iron
rust,red and magenta  notions come out
with joy to play the
sun colours and creases
early morning clouds, they blush in
deference to her ****** beauty the
sun hides, she shines brighter this **morning
napowrimo day 5
prompt: golden shovel.
poem used Janet Frame's  "her thoughts"
agolden shovel is a poem created by using
another poet's work as the ending word
in each line. i have highligted this by using **bold**
this is my first attempt at this difficult form
betterdays Jan 2016
bright things,
glisten and shimmer
in the corner of my eye


little fairy wings
flit and flutter
in the outer circle
of my sunny day sky

my oak and acorn
plant seeds in the sunshine

no hope for sadness
no room for forlorn

today is bright
daffodils and roses
happy faces, happy poses

small sloppy kisses
and large heartfelt ones too

the last days of summer
shining, shining through...

dappled sun ...
green grass too,

we all lay down,
soak the heat
from the ground

happy to, look for fairies
and pixies, and gnomes,
lady bugs, inch worms, skinks
and grasshoppers too.....

dragonflies hover
and race the wind

butterflys, flutter
art on the wing

and in the tree
the kookaburras  chuckle
the magpies warble
wrens chatter

these are memories
although, destined to be lost
these are memories that matter
these small things and lazy days
are the backbone of our lives
holding us upright in times of strife
giving us grace to cope, with the darkside of life

these bright things, lead us home.....
betterdays Apr 2020
Bring out your words today
Bring them out with gentle care
So that they may do good
in a world awash in despair

Bring them out,
not in whispering assassination,
or with  edges sharp
and cutting designed
to harm, maim and torment

Do not bring words
that ring with anger
like a brass bell
broken and clanging

Nor should you charge
your words with
vindicate electrics,
primed to shock and burn.

Do not fling arrows
with aim to pierce and scar

This is not the time
for that...
Know as much as you desire it
There may not ever be
the time for that...
as much as you wish
to whip the heart of the other
this is not the time
and besides,
this they do well
enough themselves

Be the better,
salve their soul,
beaten, broken
and decrepit
almost beyond repair
be the sunlight
amongst  the gloom
Be the kindness
In an unhappy house
an anguished room
Be the guiding star
In someones darkest night
Be gentle be the light
It may cost you
the righteous anger
seeded deep in your soul
but then again
it may  just make
both you and the recipient
a little more whole,
a little more right,
a little bit more able
to fight the good fight

So bring out your words today
bring them out with flair
bring them out and show
us you care.....
Words are not dead...bring life to your space and beyond...
betterdays Jan 2015
brittle thoughts,
in fragile times.

brittle bones
and stick and stones,

leave marks upon
the  mind.

speak softly,
to the broken heart
speak gently,
to the shattered mind,

lest we leave,
a generation,
of maimed souls
on the road behind.

kindness becomes
the creed ...
each to another,
for under each man's skin,
beats the heart of brother.

and ideology
is just a thought...
hard pressed,
in overdrive...

be not a drone
think now,
outside the hive...

to the individual,
that lives within.

the one with
little, brittle
thoughts,
residing,
hiding,
biding,
to break,
the soul
and ****
the hope.
shatter
the mind,
find the rope,
take the life
and cause
strife.....

so speak softly, talk gently,
create hope, nurture life become unity, in this
and every life.....

or brittle anger wins...
like a vengeful voodoo
master with a swag of
pins...
the word....was brittle
i wrote a stream of conciousness style poem...
and then went back and gave it punctuation marks
................................................
great challenge...ellie
well done.
betterdays Mar 2015
Redemption has no currency
in the holiday nation
young men thank the executors
for small kindness'
as the await the bullets flight

they do not deny the wrongness
of youthful days...
but have learnt, and changed their ways
they do not expect freedom
they understand the debt to be paid
but their unrequited wish is for more  days.

they now travel to their destiny's end
at a small island paradise and the
end of a guns barrel

redemption has no currency....
Redemption has no currency.
betterdays Jan 2015
in the house of bumbling,
frogs jump sidways
to avoid the talk
tense
with the things
unspoken....

in the house of bumbling
birds mime joy in silent cages
waiting for  life to smile...

in the house of bumbling
ants march in straight lines
hugging the walls
leaving poisoned crumbs
behind...

in the house of bumbling
the lizards no longer lounge
but busily repetitively clean
the cowebbed dark corners

in the house of bumbling
spiders have no parlours
****** no flies
they now knit cardigans
and read the words
of the wise


oh the house of bumbling
is a place of curious wondering
and sometimes is found
stumbling
in the reccesses of my mind

where and whence
it goes
when not residing with me
i do not know...

perhaps you may have
the delight
of the house of bumbling
staying the night
and removing the seriousness
of the plight

the one in which
you fight boredom
in the dark reaches
of the lonely night....
just some wordplay...
at work...
random word selected by
choosing book page line word  ie pick up a book go to page 117 count down or up to line 8  across to word 5
that word the theme or central word in your poem
in this case the word was
bumbling....such a delightful
word....
give it try.....it is a great writing exersice...especially
when feeling unispired.
betterdays Mar 2015
putting words together
scarring paper
is just that
if there is no heart
surrendered to the art

we need not write in blood
but must stir the blood within
engage the soul,
release the paradigm.
nurture the word,
play with the rhyme

there,
lies the difference
between the poet
and the scribe.
I proclaim to be both poet and scribe.... not that it matters....
both have a place....
both write the foibles and follies
of the human race.

somedays there is heart
and sonedays mere observation
of this world and it's slow building
conflagration....
so let us squabble and add twigs to
the fire....then we can stand back
and watch our own funeral pyre.
betterdays Aug 2014
i ate
my weight
ten times over ten

all green leaves.

now i encase
my fat body's face
in chrysalis
and
become, soupy,
torturous bliss
awaiting wing-ed
grace.

i awake
and crack the
membrane
crawl dishrag damp
out into summer's
kind light
and slowly
spread my wings.

please,
do not think
me vain.

but as i await
my wings to dry
and the glorious dust
to set.
i wonder at the ironic beauty,
that i, the fat catterpillar,
has become,so fine
and delicate,
an exquisite pallete upon
the canvas sky....

i take flight and find
freedom....
is a state mind
that flits upon the wind
and knows,
dfrom the beginning
             beauty is always
                            from within.
this was prompted by the joe cole's freedom challenge....
betterdays Dec 2024
The cooling air
of the night
falls
gently
Into the room
as I enter.

The dim light
softest butter
yellow
shows
you
asleep in the  
armchair
glasses askew,
book laying open
across your lap
A small
smile upon
your face
and a small snore escaping your lips.

And I know
once again.
that...
I love you

Til time
immemorial
begins,
ends
and
dissolves away
He waits up for me, at least he tries to on those night  I work late
betterdays Jul 2018
consider the bee
industrious
in manner

one wonders
if it ever crosses
their minds

to take a day off
curl up with a friend
and natter the day away
betterdays Jul 2017
moths play tag with the porch light
creating a soft jazz shuffle
unbeknownst to them
it is their  60 watt opus

as the fine brown dust
glitters down....and they lose
the rhythm, a dying of the, by the, light

in the harsh morning light
the small pile of carcasses
tattered and folorn
remind us...all dreams
have costs attached...
betterdays Jun 2014
here's a thought...
most of you,
would not send
a child out into the world
without a name....
but you will a poem.

                          *is not a poem,
                      merely, the child
                          of your heart's  
                             speakings,...
betterdays Nov 2014
bone...
clicking..
fine china flicking..
cracking, shattering..
greenstick fracture..
stalk, greengrass  waving, growing, changing, cutdown
fine inscision, muscle, mulch
resow, regrow meld together
memories flow, memories flow
bone
clicking, aching, rasping,
shaking
back bone pointing, picking
etching time.
line by line...
until the callous grows
betterdays Apr 2016
The teacup holds memories
of laughter, love and time
steeped in years of  friendship

fine cut and flavorful our friendship
rests lightly in my hands beyond time
now, only in glimpes and fading memories

the russian caravan, has moved  on and i am left with time
you are gone, but the not the friendship
the aroma from the teacup, ignites the flame of memories

so it is a ritual, of loving sorrow and joy
i often have cause to maintain
when I was younger on most working days, my mentor/friend Sue and I would meet before going home for a cup of tea...mostly russian caravan and decompress....she passed a couple of years ago... but the ritua around this simple action still affects me deeply...
I know i didn't get the form right....but  for me today not really the issue....
betterdays May 2017
regret sometimes whispers
in a soft oiled voice, that meanders
through the mind, finding the raw
places of  guilt

those fires  that become embers
by time and studied ignorance
and blows soft worded memories
giving oxygen to cinders, that light
the night like cane fires, all smoke
and  the madly rushing things
that race before the fire
scream their  torror and fear and hate
as they blindly follow the exodus
into the light, into the short grass,
tarmac pavement, open grave
that is waiting....there they either
stop transfixed or continue pellmell
onwards...the fire roars behind them
they have no place but out
there is no control, there is no
measure thought or reticence
there is action, and smoke and grime

and a sweet smell, that is sickening
yet like candy, and campfires

I hate it when I  hear the slickoiled
voice of regret in my head...
for I know the conflagration follows
betterdays Mar 2014
can we start the....world anew
can we forget....forgo
the....(colour) blue
where do i apply to re
a do..(done).. over
world anew now!!
order on(e) up
can we stop....turn back...
the clock to before
the (my)...world stopped
turning.....started crumbling
stone....cold...iceaged...
can we just stop the world
please ... do not get
off(line/side)
canwe....cani... talk.... listen
(try to) ....explain?????
words don't come.....easy
back(for)lash(ing)
rework old refrain...disdain
my portions...keeper
do not maintain....contain...
innocence....(no)one can(is)...
does
can we not give...take blame
we both burnt bridges
got. ...caught... in flame's (f)ire
can we rewind ....unwind
desire unravel..
hate retire...
anger
....rework the paradigm
can we make....bake ...  the
world anew
aspect....ratio... payedforview designed....
  ....realligned for me...you
can we.... dare we ..must we
will we .....
can....you forgive me
i ....can...not....lose
again
experimental work
(at least for me it was)
betterdays Jun 2014
i am always amazed at how
my convoluted mind works.

just read sverre,s title...

my cup runneth over....

and was instantly, catapulted,
back to....
a sweltering, sunday morning.
sitting on a slippery gloss
painted bench...navy blue
and white....
in my itchy lace collared
dress....for best use only.
singing, angelicly.
the lord saved me
(sign of cross, then
hands pointing to the sky)
i am as happy as can be
(point to smiling face, then hands clapping)
my cup's full and .....running over.
(hands make cup,heels of palms together. then roll over each other.)
my hands reiterating the
words with the actions,
(in brackets).

i would not have sung
that gospel song,
for more
than thirty years...

my mind....is a funny thing
but the memory is a happy one.
thank sverre...i think...
it has now morphed into an earwig...
i liked the whole poem sverre
betterdays May 2014
three o four
there's a flock
of big brown moths
flapping at the door

they wish to see,
what the insomiac, me
is writing on my pallet
of white electricity

they thrum and they
fight to get to the
seven by five square
of light
that is my dark of night
insanity, rewrite.

sorry i must go,
the cat, has heard,
the feathery noise
and now sits poised,
ready to strike
and that will be
a darkside calamity...
of possible veterinary proportions.
betterdays Mar 2014
ravenous ....
...i watch..
the caterpillar
.....munch the leaf..
..edge to spine
in a systematic arc....

with a... squirm and
an inching motion...
he moves ......all energy
concentrated ....on ...the...
mouthpiece..... *******
rhythm,....
...cookie cutter.. nibbling...
...green mouthfuls....
...always ...just.. one ..more......

...willful ...energetic...unstoppable....
...obesity... for a cause..

...i wonder... what
wonderfully... beautifully..
..exquisite ..flutterful......
thing .....will this fat
wrinkly ****......become....


i turn to go inside.....
....i have a hankering...
for some.... green grapes..
betterdays Apr 2017
nine lives he had
that little blucat
the first he spent
as a kitten playing
on a mat he was
pretty ok with that
the second he spent
on a plane in the air
he really thought that
wasn't exactly fair
the third he found
his feet his feet in
cold hilly place
but heat was provided
and cuddles too
life four he threw away
escaping and then
climbing a tree
and losing his footing
too far from the ground
that was scary and painful
life number five he spent
it's years slow, looking
for the sun in summer
and in winter the doona
the sixth was all about food
and thefriendship
of his human things
by year seven
he was slowing down
no longer chasing mice
or feathered fare
by eight he just wanted
to lay down and sleep
be stroked by gentle hands
and purr as they ruffled
his fur
his ninth life was difficult
for all to contemplate
he tried so hard to stay
but in the end needed
to be at one with
his forebears
to join the family tree

nine lives he had
he used them all
living a life
that was in
no way small
betterdays Aug 2014
four twenty three,
antipodean time
and i am caught,
wide awake
between, my thoughts
and the sounds of
a snoring husband
and a cat purring
hungrily....
for an early breakfast.

i have a feeling,
no... i have a knowing.
this is...
going to be a long, long day.
betterdays May 2014
the pond asymetrical
mirrored the old oak tree
in perfect symmetry

the stillness of
the autumn day,
chambrey blue sky,
fairy floss, fluffed, whiteclouds
drifting along, lazy and dryeyed
people strolling by wrapped in scarves and coats.

all in conterpoint
to the stillness of the pond
and the old oak tree
caught staring,
lovingly, longingly
at each other.
betterdays Apr 2014
take one giggle,
from a wriggling boy.
add the gleam of love,
from a proud fathers eye.
mix with dirt, play
and dinosuar bones.
pour into the mix,
copious cups of tea and
red cordial.
mix in time, add sunshine
and laughter.
dust well with a mothers
love.
bake for the hours of an autumn morning.
then enjoy forever and a day.
napowrimo day three
prompt write a "charm"
not really my 'thing' but
i gave it a go...
betterdays Jun 2014
gotta have lunchtime nap!
forty winks.
i could afford,maybe more,

please dear lord;
i implore


keep the knocking hordes from my door.
switch the phone to silent
the mobile off,
comuputer quieted,
laptop too.

please heavenly father: make mute the zoo.

remove the marking
from the couch,
hurry now,
just push... it on the floor.
my nap time,
is dwindling away.

but,
without some, sombulance,
my semblance of calm acceptance will,
be blown away so,

dear god on high:
as i lay me down to sleep, can you converse,
with the sparrow
outside the window,
about stopping,
it's cheery,
              *
fucken cheep
*thank you lord.... and please don't let me snore*
betterdays Nov 2017
cherry red, dark skins
hard-hearted fruit, flesh such sweet
succulent morsels
betterdays Jul 2015
green,
jaded by this world's jealousy
I covet only a field of young wheat
in which to lay and
watch the lemon-lime
seed heads sway in the wind.
to hear the sussurant whispers
as the heads, heavy with potential
rub one to another
in a constant  dance.

feeling the earth warm beneath me
the smell of growth and verdancy
pungent in my nostrils.
contemplating chlorophyll and photosynthesis
. ... and cell structures
watching a olive green grasshopper
crawl up the stalk of the plant and
balance on the head, before leaping
into the field,
absorbed within the
shuffling hues of green.

melding with the rythm of the ants
as they march and
marveling at the butterflys dance
green, green,
seeding into my self,
growing little tendrils of life....
that tickle my weary soul and
etch a smile upon my face...
green.
betterdays May 2014
these words, i read
in quiet, stolen moments
are like....

exquisite little confections,

chocolates for my mind. somedays,
i am gluttonous and gorge myself.
somedays,
more circumspect,
cherry-picking, those well loved favourites.

some are, cream filled,
sweet to the tongue,
a hit of syllabalistic sugar.

others caramel and chewy requiring more -
a harder chomp,
a grind, a gnaw, before releasing the yummyness within.

then the dark,
the hard,
the bitter -not for all,
these concoctions
but to those who desire,
they become an addiction.

sometimes, there are
those tasted and discarded, not often i will say.
for i love,
the sweet, the bitter,
the smooth, the nutty.

my favourite, favourites have to be, those brandy filled chocolates,
cognac phrases with cherrylicious twists,
aged liqueured thought, distilled with care.
so to taste on the tongue
and burn to the core.
always leaving me,
wanting more...
                          more...
                       ­             more...
betterdays Apr 2014
bring the pizza,
pour the beer,
turn off the phones,
draw the blinds,
lets pretend,
we are not here.

we will be as quiet,
as mice in a church.
eat in the dark,
put the child,
early to bed.
mute the tv.
make love slow,
and silent,
lit by it's flicker.
before we dance naked,
one for the other.

eat cold pizza,
and drink warm beer,
with no one knowing
we are here.
betterdays Oct 2014
should i take azoth
to cure my sloth

it may well make
my mind like quicksilver
send me messages from
the mouths of gods
at round about 80wpm
or will it just make my moods mecurial
and put little beads
of silver sweat acroos
my furrowed brow
with it's inherent toxicity

if i take a dose of azoth
or liquid cinnabar.
i may live fast,
but i won't live long...
my old friend paracelsus
tells me "the dose makes
the poison" and in this he
is right.

i might skip the azoth.....
and the cinnibar liquid too
go for coffee instead....
or could just succumb
to sloth and stay in bed.
word play......inspired by
my dictionaries word of the day ...azoth....
probably should say...do not
attempt to ingest azoth
it is so not good for you
as it is....
betterdays Mar 2014
standing in the cool of
the summer night,
the grass, lush dampness beneath my naked feet.

i want to grow roots down into this place

the stars, stammer in the sky
bright chips and slivers of diamantine, on an inked cloth.

i want to **** my heart onto this place

to the west, the ridge of  mountains, nestle with chocolate ease into clouds
of clotted cream.

i want to hunger from my heart, to feed and comfort this place

the lights of the town below,
gleam like a clowder of feral cat's, their eyes watching.

i want to tame this place

to the east, the beaches tide and sand, the white breakers
glisten.

i want to dive and delve the depths of this place.

the air is scented with orange blossom and jasmine and fresh hope.

i want to breathe the breath
of this place.

behind me, a half renovated
teak farmhouse.
inside, my new lover resides

i want to make this place home.

i am going to make this place,
this man, my home.
all this i did
and then we birthed
a family
me, he and mr just about three
and im'a lovin it all.
betterdays Oct 2019
rain upon roof,
gentle falls,
creating a cocoon
of humid heat
in which we sit
mesmerized by;
the soft sound of
rain upon roof.
Next page