did you know?
did you hear?
what's the go?

chinese whispers,
cost us dear.

at the water cooler,
in the dark,
murmuring inanities
in the park.

gossip, gossip,
word of the day.

such and such's,
significant other
has run away.

i have a wanderer's heart
always wanting to be elsewhere
a wanderers mind looking
to the next horizon...for a new and exciting view...

but alas my feet are lazy
they are settled and sodden
with the clay soil  in which
i grew
they are rooted to home and
hearth
and thus i am bound
my heart soars
my mind dreams
my feet stay firmly
placed on homeground

but one day
i will clay feet and all
travel this world...i will

i place the configuration
of bones,
commonly known as hands
against the convex cusp
of my cheek,
then place the whole mad
contraption ,
elbow first onto the bench,
that seperates you
the bartender,
from me,
the person wishing,
to inhale copious amounts
of alcohol....
and say in my finest
of linguistic stylings....
"can i  ave  another....of
da ***** mules....ta

.....muchly luv...."


upon your denial,
of my well worded request,
i being both,
discombobulated and distraught,
cry,
into some one else's beer,
before leaving,
to stagger and stumble home....

where i puke $73.00+ dollars,
worth of cocktails,
into the porcelian bowl
of the only restroom,
in the apartment...

these are the thoughts
of Clive,
the neighborhood curmudgeon...

how do i know this,
i am the imp that put them here....
in the garden, you folks
call a brain......


take this, sodding life
and it's meaningless struggle.
i set my face to this wall
and brick myself self in
to this useless stall.

the old man, Clive,
grumbled with a,
set and sour grin.

you...you're all pathetic,
thinking you can win.
death's the only victor...
over us, one
and sodding all.

and you can take,
your sodding...
flowers and cards
and sodding, casseroles too!!

there was,
one ray of sunshine
in my life
and now she is gone.

and she is not,
sodding around in another room,
or waiting for me up there.
she is not, in greener pastures
cause she was never..
an effin cow.

she is,
six footdown,
underground,
in a cheap wooden box,
making fodder,
for worms and beetles.
slowly, they are,
breakin her down.

and it will not be,
sodding fine
and time will not heal...
a heart smashed to smithereens.
a life torn asunder
**** me it's time,
for you pathetic
do-gooders...
to get ****** real....

no i am not,
a happy man,
and yes i am,
greiving the greatest loss.
and a ******, sausage
and bean casserole,
is not going to be,
making me believe,
that the world,
is a fair and just place...

don't you, worry about me.
i reckon i'll soon be,
leaving, my home
and my goods and chattels
and be recieving last rites,
farewells and a deep,dirt bed.

and that will be,
fine and dandy,
as long as it is,
close and handy,
to my beloved, Mandy.

what?
you're worried...
about my,
state of mind...

will ya, just *******,
haven't i
made myself clear,
i am way, too busy dying,
to pay you any attention...

this garden just going gangbuster
hey¡¡yah huzzah!!!

"what do you miss most?"
i asked.
turning to my friend sitting on the park bench.
she replied,
with a wistful smile.
" the colours in a rainbow"

"what do you miss most?"
i questioned.
as i dug the garden over with my grandfather.
"the smell of rain on dry soil"
he replied,
dusting his hands against his pants.

"what do you miss most?"
i queried.
my old mentor as we sat drinking tea, before a roaring fire.
"the warmth of the sun on my back."
she replied,
snuggling further down into the cosy chair.

"what do you miss most?"
i asked my forever young sister playing on monkey bars.
"the feeling of the ground under my feet."
she replied,
swinging upside down.

"what do you miss most?" the kindly old gentleman, asked me as we walked together.
" i miss the sounds of the wind rustling the leaves."
we paused to rest in the peace and quiet place.



" but i miss my heart beat most."

i said to no one

my husband, my lover
the man i hold dear...
you know the one
the sports zombie
who dress's so fine.

sauntered out to the back
deck and asked
"beer or wine"
as he is the chef of,
this evenings decline.

now, here is the conundrum
that often,plagues my mind.
wine, tonight, is not really, my palates delight
but beer, tho tasty and thirst quenching,
expands my quarters hind
and leads to wrenching and
writhing in midweek training or at least coniving
of how to be released from
exercise captivity

which way to go,
a cheeky pinot griggio
or a robust boutique beer.
which way, crisp chardonay
or mango ,belgium wheat,
micro-brewed  pilsner.

oh, for the days
of the cask or the
slab of vic bitter.
when the biggest
problem was how
to drink fast enough,
to gather a blast.

the man mountain,
has become impatient.

....now i need to
make a decision.

so,with a women's precision,
i state with a smile,
wide and then wider.
"i'll have one of those
apple-pear ciders"

chlorophyll green,
verdent, colour me trees
freeze dry to
amber, yellow, cardinal red liquid gold, titian, xanthous, carmine, deepwine burgandy, magenta, saffron, orange, rubicant, henna, bronze and copper burnished, cracked terracotta
and then finally...
bittersweet crumpled brown
what a pallette of cold night air painting daubed on wooded canvas'
life portrayed in leaf-ed glory
all before our autumnal eyes

outside the wind howls
and gnaws at the corners
of the old wooden house

inside the fire roars
and eats the trees memories
in hot flickering bites

we sit at the kitchen  table
with mugs of steaming goodness
and chatter about the news

unthinking of those
who cower in windswept corners
cold to the bone,
remembering a forgotten warmth
of heart, soul and body....

the wind  howls,
my heart aches
at my own government's  
stupidity....

and the cold reamain cold
and the homeless numbers grow....
and compassion becomes a useless word
like the mewling of a kitten

standing on the back deck
seeking a cool breeze
feeling the grain
of the old wood
beneath my feet
eyes meandering
from star to star
hearing the night birds sing
and the fish move in the pond
revelling in the serenity
still waitin on the breeze
I sip my  cold water

colour me blue
                     ........now,
                             ..not ***** or lewd or suggestive.

colour me blue
                  ...... now
                                ...not glum
or gloomy or...  
                        woebegone.

colour me blue
                   .....now
                          ... not cerulean or beryl ...
                         or cobalt...
                              ... not indigo or ultra marine or azure

colour me blue
                       ....now
                                ..... agave tequila blue     ....now

                  please bartender....

colour me  blue.

i want my day,
today,
to be applegreen.
the grannysmith kind,
of apple, big, luscious, beautiful,
sweet but ****...

polished, bright and shining.
just waiting, tempting me,
to take a great crunching
bite.....

and chew, thoughtfully, thoroughly,
extracting all the juice
and goodness.
allowing it to nourish my
body and soul...
eating right down to the core
and seeds....
leaving just the inedible
bits behind.....
to compost and decay.

it is in the cool green edges
of my memory
that i see you
                            standing, talking, with other men
                            cigarette in hand, a hat cocked on head
                             all tall and strong and smelling of brylcream
      

it is in the deep purple
of my mind
that i love you
                                 remembering days stolen from a lost childhood
                                 beacons on shipwrecked love
                                 admist the heaving sea of a saddened childhood


it is with orange streaked red rage
that i hate you
when i can be bothered to hate you
                  
                                for parties lost, birthdays  fogotten
                                for questions asked and gossip whispered
                                for the belief instilled by lack of interest
                                 that i was not enough, that i was the problem


it is with a tired sky blue
that i forgive and recognize you
    

                                                as  a man who wished, and wanted
                                                but was unable to give and recieve
                                               a world of wonder and days of sweet wine

it is with white...i let your memory drift...into the dark  of your making

and it is to the bright welcoming yellow of my life
to be lived, that i turn and embrace....

we have stopped,
for coffee and to leave Tod
with friends.

the comfort of their arms
open to our need is
immeasurable.

we walk down to the lake
and the quiet beauty soothes

the waterdragons, with the
scurrying, play brings a smile, as do the ***** wagtails with their
come-hither look-at-me
i'm better than, fred astaire, dance.

but beneath it all,
lies the quicksand of sadness
waiting to grasp at our feet again and again...

we must continue on,
leaving our boy in good hands, we go ......

i stand for a while,
ankle deep,
in the soft sinking sand,
at the tip of the tides reach.
the final inches of
the curlique wavelets
wash over my feet
and take with them,
on their return to
the brotherhood of
salt and water,
my footholds.
the water, refreshingly
cold on this hot muggy
summer afternoon.
i wade further in to
the calmer wash area,
after the waves have broken,
to about mid thigh
before
i dive shallowly through
the caesious waters
of the green room's
breaking waves,
and swim out,
to beyond the rise
and swell of surf.
to float in the
embryonic embrace
of the sea
my heart sings
with primal joy
at the saltinate communion.
after time slows, sufficiently,
i return to the beach.
and stand in
the pressing warmth,
with rivulets
of my mermaid self
dripping onto the sand.

black night sky, listens
withholding judgement, absorbing all
whilst the sea whispers.,

is it in learning,
the art
of contemplation,
that we become
poets ?

or is it,
because,
we have become
poets,
that we learn,
to contemplate
life....

in all it's varied hues.

i will need,
to think further
upon this....

...and then,
get back to you.

she sat staring
into the creases
of the night
matt black
as it folded
over her

no stars
nor moon
came to give
her light

so she sat
and stared into
into the
unrequited gloom

for she knew
in her deepest soul
that from that stygian black
it would come once more

to stare at her
and see the faults
she held at bay
by mere force
of memory

if she blinked
it would sidle in
and stare and drool
and grin that lavicious
all knowing grin

so she sat and stared
into the black
hoping and praying
that the black
did not stare back

her ring sits on the mantlepiece
worn thin on one side
that dull warm yellow
that gold sometimes takes on

i remember it cutting into my hand
as she held it tightly as we shopped
it was bright and shiny then

she used to wear it on her  longest finger
after dad left us, she left it off for awhile
and then wore it on the other hand

it was tight on her workworn hands then
she took it off again before she went into
this last home, but kept it locked in a security draw

now it sits on the mantlepiece, waiting
for me to find a safe place for it
for it is the little bit of my mother's spirit
that will one day be part of my son's  wedding ring,

The sound of cars
Streaming through puddles
Competes with rain rattling
On the old tin roof

Underneath that roof
We listen to the percussion
of the log fire as it consumes
twig and tree.

The purr of the cat  stretched
out in basking bliss
Competes with the snore
of the man asleep with book
resting upon his chest

And from down the hallway
the soundtrack of a young man
defeating armies and building
empires.

All this I hear as I break from marking essays and take a sip
of lukewarm Earl Grey tea..

In the kitchen, dinner is roasting
away in the oven..with the not so small pup standing hungry guard.

By the door coats, boots, scarfs and facemasks await our after dinner walk..half an hour around the neighborhood, then back into  the house. This is our lock down life...

it appears as though
there was a coup,
in kookaburra land,
this morning.

much fuss,
and cacophony.
as the brown and blue kingfisher clan, reassembled,
their royal court.

the big old king,
uncurled his talons,
unfurled his wings,
gave one last,
manical chuckle....
and fell from his perch.

to lie still,
upon the dusty,
brown earth.

shocked, silence for some seconds, and then...
the eucalypts erupted into, (what would appear to the outsider);
cold calculating mirth.

as the young jacko princes, all began the joking joust
for the top place berth.

in a melee of swooping, chuckling grace,
a contest no less,
set to test....
mettle, worth and cackle call.
each young bird,
takes to the wing and flies into the maddening...and how close,
         how loud,
                  how startling,
         they can be.
            is made known,      
by those,
whose years,    
            have flown.

when all, is said and done. tourney overflown,
feathers are preened.
then the winner
is presented,
with opportunity, bold....
to nest the queen.
as to the rest,
they take their place,
in the chaotic, cackling, cacophonous,
kookabuurra clan nests.
to bide their time,
until, the next coup,
                        comes calling...

There are those,
by word or touch,
sometimes, a glance
or slight smile

Give to others, gifts
or strength  and hope...
The ability to move on,
take one more step.

They see, the best
in the world,
they know the depth
of a persons spirit
and are able to give it wings

They are ordinary,
They are extraordinary
They are you
And they are me..

A kind word, is a seed,
to a barren  soul,
A smile, sunshine,
A simple touch, rain,
to a dusty plain....

All it takes is courage,
All it takes is courage

the air so,
crisp this morning.
there will be
no early morning swim.

but i will trek to the beach,
to watch the surfers,
young and old.
continue their love affair
with the waves and the wind.

................truth..
once..... set free,
.....can cry,
joy ....or havoc
or the reams
......of the thesaurus
........in...between...

the choice.....
is in ..
...the hand of ....the scribe
and ......the heart from
which... the ink ......begins
it's.... souful journey..
...spritual....intellectual,
....intertwined....
set free...
to
touch...
another mind....

the little white lie
just a harmless seed
but will it grow
into flower.....
or ****.

a calyx in chaos.
a crack in chalky crown, crimson, cratered, clowns
cry crystal shards....
clothe me in crimpolene
in shades of clinical ivory
and cream.

come hither they cry
and carp, cavil,caterwaul.

come hither, come,
come, come.
cypher the cyan, from the cyanide
castigate, the casting,
of the conversational.
be cognisant, within the
cogs of the  clock...

click-ticking..tick-clicking

in chorus, chant of canticle.
be the calm,
within the clemency.
and the core,
of the courageous.
concede not,
contemplate, with conscioncious, clear
the concepts of conotation

above all be
incomparable, capricious, canny and considerate
a conglomerate of cause, corpus and crux.....
both curious and a curiosity.
cause...
creation, cherishes
a clever n' curious, curiosity.

puddles of sky water
lay awaiting the sun's kiss
back to cloudy homes

dagger beak
and garnet eyes
feathers stolen
from the stormy seas
scalded legs
and gawping mouth

tis
the gull come
to call
with mouth a
begging, shrieking gape
alerting  
the whole **** clan
to clamour and fight
for the measliest of bites

once proud fishing birds
are now just feathered,
scroungers, grifters, ****..

Along the tideline
The sand ***** bustle about
Making sandy spheres

i am not whole
or complete.
tho as previously
noted,
i am serene
with that fact.
at least for the present
factor of time.

i am damaged.
in body and mind,
but then i rely on
the indisputable truth.
we are all in a state
of decline...

my life,
more full,
than empty.

i now walk with
a slight limp.

my mind,
more order,
than chaos.

my black dog
lies asleep.

i have learnt,
to be happy,
with the blessings,
that have blown my way.

and accept that perfection,
is a waste of precious time.

i am not whole
or complete.....
but mostly....
i am better than fine.

argent light signals the new day
far to early for this befuddled mind...
a few more hours sleep
please.....

but no.....cats to be fed
humans too
washing, cleaning,
baking all sorts of things
need doing....

but the brain says no
stay in bed....
the body feels encased
in lead...

today...
i just don't want to play
can't i just warm the bench
sit on the fence....

the cat is trying to sit on
my face....so i think the answer is a resounding
NO.....

**** it....

the jellied bioluminescense,
drifts and swhirls in an ****
of neon ecstasy...

out beyond the breakers

we sit on the beach
and watch,
with voyueristic fascination

as the sea makes whoopee!!

in cold crisp air,
with steaming breath
and hearts open and laid bare.

we stand and remember.

the bugle sounds,
carry across the river
to meet the rising sun.
then it is quiet again.

we stand and remember

in tearful, grateful silence,
we stand and give honour
to, too many young men
who went a soldiering,
never to come home again.

we stand and remember

and in the rows before us,
old men they soldier on,
standing to attention
remembering wars long gone
and mates and foes and battlfields
and letters come from home.


faces resolute, set to the sun
as the bugle calls.. the last post,
remembering remembering
the wars that are long gone...

we stand and remember.

poppies, lie in drifts of red
in the air the scent
of pine trees and rosemary....
wreaths of hard fought grace,
lay placed with grateful thanks
below the names enscribed
upon the cenotaph's granite plane.

we stand and remember

the sun comes up,
with gentle, golden face
upon this special, sacred place.
we stand shrouded by memory
of those who fought and fell
and lie in a far distant place.

we stand and remember.
we will remember them....
lest we forget....

dew laden flowers
sing love to the morning  sun
blucat sits washing

the page remains unturned
tho the bottom corner
has been worried into a soft dog ear

it is not that the words are boring
the plot mundane, or the prose stilted
it is I who cannot read the black ink
the same words repeating in my mind

as i stare out into the garden
my ability to read is well below par
as i day dream the hours away

content to be a  warm, squishy cushion
to the tuxedo rex cat,
as he dreams panther dreams
and purrs like a Massey Ferguson

outside the window, in the hazy warmth
a dragonfly darts about the garden,
before settling with dainty precision
upon the craggy green mossed rock
at the pond's edge, a pause, a blink,
then the insect alights again

i too should be up and about....
but i am anchored by lassitude
and  three and a half kilos
of contented cat....
whose daydreams  are not
to be disturbed....

i would live on a place
where all the roads are water
and i would be a paddle
peddler of wares
that come from the sea

i would trade in fresh
water a commodity
and take with friends
galanal tea

i would be busy
as could be, by day
and at night sleep
in the shade of a
tottentot tree
it's perfume
would be
a balm to me

that is what
i want to be
on days  i don't
want to be me

four little superheros
tucked up in bed
four little blonde heads
angelic smiles
and clasping hands

already met the old sandman...

they fought hard...but he
won....

four little superheros
their day....definitely done

it is time my friend
to put my thoughts
on paper...
to write you

what my tongue denies
what my heart screams
in the middle of the night

it is time to speak in
the words etched upon
my bones
to give light to this
seed with in my soul

even as the ink blots the paper
my fears rise, and my courage quivers
to give this entity the substance
of words

is to give it the power
of freedom or destruction
but I am weary, so weary
from carrying its burden
through this long peroid
of gestation, I am beyond
beyond trying to carry
this thing with grace
and have now become
a lumbering leviathan
treading heavily through
each day,not evolving
or creating, just barely exsisting

So, if it be freedom,
there will be relief
if it be destruction
there will be release

No more dallying,
No more delay

You left, You died

leaving us behind
no recompense
no answers
just a ***** room
and unpaid bills
You, You, walked
out of life,

without
finishing the conversation
without
any explanation
without
care for others
without
thought for self

You told us nothing
You hid your hurt
till it was to late
till...it..was..too..too late

And tho
I WILL LOVE YOU
til the end of my days

Now,  I  hate....

I hate you are not here
I hate that I did not see
I hate that you did not ask
I hate the incompleteness
of it all

So my friend, I write
this to you...
then make it into
a paper boat
that I set on
the waters
before
lighting
it afire
in
the hopes
it will
bring
freedom

Just a note
to say, thanks
for the many years
of enjoyment

when I first met you
I will admit I found
you a dry and boring
old stick

It took a while to get the knack,
to be enamoured with your style

but once converted, I was, a fan
and read you by midsummers night
in and out love, through tempests
and battlefields, with friends, foes
and witches,
on balconies, in shoreditches.
upon islands where all seemed familar
but in such a confusing way.

Through battles and histories
fact and fanciful.
I walked withyou and  
your word play
at my heels like a dog...

sometimes with clarity
and sometimes befogged.

Your words dear friend
have so often been apt...

Tho I sometimes wonder
if you knew the effect
your scrawl would have
as you sat and wrote
making it up as you went along,
I wonder if you thought your
words  were whisperings in a wind
there....and then gone.

And now you are famous,
world reknowned.
A bard no less
with the Globe at your feet

Yet to me you are a friend,
your words comfort, and inspiration
in a world unstable...

So again I say,
Thanks for the plays
the sonnets and things

it made a difference
more than you know

but just to let you know...
I still haven't got the knack
of writing in iambic flow....

there is a poet
who flirts with words
who dances the tango
and fandango
who's poetry is a joy
to read,
and among all this wonderous word tapping
there are truths seeded
waiting to grow....
and flower....
so thank you, Wordvango
for your flair and style
and thank you for the
thousands of smiles
and the beautiful garden
you have sown
in the place of my word's
home...

one small leaf
set adrift
from the tree

torn asunder
in wind rain
and thunder

battered
by
life's storm

now balances
pecariously
on table's edge

not yet ready
to become
detrius underfoot

waiting
daring,
demanding
to become
just another
fond,
frail memory

pale
green
perfection

unblemished
bar the untimely
amputation

each cell
delineated
in cellular beauty

taken
far too
young

sometimes
you gotta
hate

natural
selection's
descisions

sometimes
mother nature
is dumb...

crushed
but
not defeated

they
leaf brothers
and sisters
will but
carry on....

for they
are
young and hopeful

ignorant
but
strong

one death
can be absorbed
and lost in living on

the tree
will
stretch
ever upward

for that
is the
tree's

everlasting
song

seek
the sun

seek
the sun

and you
can never
go wrong.

it was a blood vessel,
within the brain.
that gave out....
too much thinking.
no, more likely to be,
a genetic imperfection.
undectected until now.
the brain, became flooded
and succumbed...

it was mostly painless,
if confusing...
synapses firing,
one last time.
a fireworks moment,
of
absolute brillance.
of
knowing all questions
and answers.
of
rememberance sublime.

and
then the quieting
of the soul.

the folding of the deckchair,
the closing of the book,
receding steps...
some bars,
of classical music.
the light,
being switched off.
and
the closing
of the door..
all that is left .... is darkness

and the sound of distant...
                             ...weeping

slipping
slowly
under
the
saltwater,
the
coolness
so  
sensual,
like
softest
silk
against
my
skin.

sloughing
off
sweat
and
days
disasters
I
sink
further
down
to
rest
on
sand,
sifting
it
through
my
fingers

rising
only
to
take
simple
breathes
I  
allow
myself
to
silently
decompress
and
my
soul
simply
sighs