Echidna walks by
Percusion personified
Complete with long nose

tommorrow
i travel backwards
again
to the town of my sculpting

hard cold mountain edged
meeting the silent lament
of the grieving sea....

small minded mercies
given in pious charity
heart of salt, ****** fruit...
made the clarifying  fast
made the chill last....

grew the best apricots
i  ever tasted on the downside hill of the local
necropolis......
yet the single cherry in our yard....never gave a lonesome globe....

and the timber jinkers sang my soul to sleep....
rested for the days next burden.... and the hard chip-
chipping of the sculptors hand against my marble heart....

sometimes words spoken or written
are woefully inadequate
they clutter up and make
the emotional space claustrophobic

silence can give just as much comfort

sometimes even more

the things that pass between us
by the merest touch, thought, glance and whisper,

are the precious threads
woven through the tapestry
that is our daily lives.

they glint and gleam
and catch our memories eye.

giving us pause
and creating the secretive smiles
that sustain us on the darkest days.

looked for my
poet in residence
this morning...
all i could find
was a badly scrawled
note
that said,
gone, need me, some
me time.
back whenever.

you called, i came,
that's what one does,
when a friend,
is terminal.

i watched you doze.
body skeletally thin,
face no longer yours,
more drawn and alien.
skin parchment draped loosely,
on a collasping frame.

quiet i sat,
not ready to disturb.
you woke and smiled,
with effort, moved
to bring me into focus,
you reached for my hand
and beckoned me close.
inside my heart lurched.
"glad you came, just needed
to see your face."
my smile tremulous,
as you gently squeeze my hand,
with all your strength,
"not long"
you sigh on laboured breath,
i nod unable to agree.

you slip back to sleep.
giving me,
momentary grace,
to gather myself,
my thoughts.
inwardly, i mourn your choice to cease the battle,
fought and won twice before,
but,
i know this is my need,not yours crying.
when stronger,  you as always, eloquenty explained your rationale.
battle weary,
knowing the final outcome you chose,
not to walk toward it,
but let it come, without fight,
for you, not fear,
but faith's reward.
pallitive care was all you sought.

the warrior woman,
had put away her sword.

you told me, all this, one day bright with sun,
as we watched my child play.
you ended the conversation with these words.
this is not suicide,
dear girl, but grace.

again you stir and mumble,

" live well my dear one"
"as have you"
my broken reply"
"go, for now there are others to see"

i put my lips to yours,
special in intimacy.
i walk from the room,
your salt tears on my face this will be my last time spent with you,
my mentor, my friend,
my sage wisdom women.

in the garden of death's place
i sit myself down
and water the world with my sorrow.

O captain, my captain
i stand on my desk and stomp, for you...

au reviour, you manic mind
of mirth and astounding depth...
ork has lost it's greatest son
and we a genius...

you will be missed

vale, robin
and may you find
peace on the other side

i have said,
goodbye to you
a thousand times, plus more
in both, small moments
and big.
when i turn,
to see your face
and then, remember you are no longer
so with smile, and a tear,
i  once again,
bid you goodbye.

it is now nigh,
on three years,
i have been saying
farewell.
all that time,
desperately missing you.
wishing i was,
saying,
hello, instead.


but the sad truth is,

dead is dead.

au revoir, dearheart

yet again.

good morning
...mr wren
sitting at my
breakfast table.

you.... in your fancy
duds and plumage.
...all the while
your wife at home,
in .....beige brown grey.

you want my toast
.....just the crumbs
yes... it has been a hard
couple of days.

you'll dance and sing
and bring.... beakfuls
of happiness my way.

please ...take the crusts
and if you must
...the corner of the
pastry too.
as i know it is more
than..one or two....
that are waiting,
at your ...table

but, rush now, mr wren
the attention of the cat,
you've caught..
and he is willing and
....almost able to make
your wife a widow.

fly ..now ...mr wren


but...please do.... come back
again

forming the letters
of the words
that describe
my love
for you
is beyond
my mental
mettle tonight
so i lean over
and kiss your
sleeping brow
and  leave love
and salt tears
on your warm skin

goodnight .... old girl,
goodnight, to you,
you quiet house,
you blessed home.

are you glad to see
another day done?
within yourself,
your hidden recessed places
are you sighing in relief
as we settle safe in our beds.

your present loves,
all accounted for,
sleeping within your teak
and nail embrace.
or do you prefer,
the drumming of our feet,
the hum of activity,
of when we are awake,
and bustling and bumping,
about your frame?

or is it best when we leave you,
silent and alone to contemplate,
in the sun and wind on a work day? my lord, the secrets you must keep, the lifes, that you have held close behind these old walls.

you must groan and cry,
with the weight of some memories, yet, others cause you to smile and sigh in near-miss relief.
you have stood strong and sturdy,
for almost one hundred years,
in one form or another,
your girth has expanded,
with the growth of family,
from farmers cottage, to three bed,
with study
and nannexe out the back.

you have been
all but knocked down,
rebuilt, reworked and restored,
to former glory.
you have withstood,
the element's rage
and time's insipid attempts,
to shift you, from your place
upon the cliffshead.

you have, and do,
do well, to hold us
all within.
and now,
just before i sleep,
i want to thank you old girl,
for the way, you keep us all safe.

chasing his tail
to the point of dizziness
before running the race track
defined only in his head

streaking past in a doppler like blur
all scrabble and drift on the hallway turn
ending with a clumping thumping fullstop
into his bed/sack/bed....and then two blinks
and asleep,  limp like a ragdoll.

this is the nightly ritual

must be a local now,
and doin something
right...
just got my logain  badge
my work dreck to his sight
redundant too

whoo!!! hoo!!!

we got a goldfish,
for my little boy.
a tank, some coloured grit, three plants not two,
must practise goldfish fung shu.
all the water testing guff
and of course a filter.
a sunken ship
and a treasure chest .
we paid the pirate...
and took our ***** home.
so we set Bruce.
( for that was the name chosen).
up in pride of place on sidboard.
the list, above,
was positioned after meetings of commision. water tested to the highest degree,
filter fizzing, wizzing,whirring.
Bruce swam in his bag
in the tank,
for a time as instructed.
then released to a slightly larger freedom.
he swam and swam,
golden scales a flickerin.
we, (that being, mr just about three and his dad)
fed him, watched him poo, and eventually,
read Bruce,
a bedtime tale or two.
one fish, two fish by Dr Suess went down a treat.
the little man then,
was bundled off to bed.
thoughts of Bruce left our heads.
the evening lengthened.
we retired to sleep the sleep, of ignorance it conspired.
for in our planning we forgot one thing.
a devon rex cat,
who has a bath weekly,
a penchant for tuna,
no top to the tank.
so we thank the lord
for Bruce. however,
brief was his reign.
now we introduce
to you....
Murtle the turtle
who has a glass pane,
sitting above her head.
just in case......
the cat likes, turtle soup.

for me,
there is an undeniably
exquisite beauty,
in an aged face
it lies in the lines of life,
etched by angels,
as unseen cartographers.
it hides behind the crow's feet and creased frown lines. it is so apparent in the mryiad of tiny wrinkles
at the movement
of the faded red lips.
it is carried in the baggage under the eyes
and the luggage of wattle
at the throat.
it winks from slow
moving eyelids and thin arching brows.
it glows in a smile
that folds and creases
the skin like origami.
it is the beauty,
ethereal,
of a life lived,
of love found
and lost,
of hardship suffered,
and joys revealed,
of working hard each
and every day,
yet still finding time
to sing and dance
and play.
it is beauty,
created by endurance.
not manufactured
by cosmetics and pills
and machines.
it is a beauty,
so honest and true,
that it needs not
these things,
to embellish or frame,
it is the beauty,
of the years passing by, standing proud,
without fear or shame.
it is the old woman
sitting on the bus,
in the park,
having a quiet cup of tea,
it is my mother,
asleep in front of the tv.
and one day,
              i hope it will be me....

back in the days.....
when i was youthful
bright longing in my eyes.

when life was
a desperate struggle
based on a whim....

i found myself at a place
edge of a valley
start of a mountain
holding back ,
whilst ....
looking forward,
balanced on the rim....
of a new horizons skin.
what to do....... what....

dive
back into the shadow
climb
up into the light.

walking...
on a tightrope
of fraying indecision
circling...
round and round.

years of making myself
dizzy...
with fury
and  
rebounded thought
pinging,slinging, stinging
doubt....
about which way
back...
forth...
back
(g)round....and (g)round
wore myself a groove,
with witless, wistful pacing.

a grave slowly shuffled out,
deeper, darker...
valley dark,
mountain light,
grey grave groove...
on the cusp between.....

mental twilight...........
had me enthralled,
everday shufflin...
till,
when...then.. somehow...
i...
ceased ......
to be me,
frightened to decide....

.........epiphany........

any whichway
was better than this.....
grinding, ground down
groove worn grave.

small steps, giant leaps.
i found grace was in
believing.....
found was in the looking,
laughter in the smiling
life was in the living.
direction was merely mindful
deception....
coralling random disposition.

for one
up
for another.....
down

purpose is a delicate
preponent,
in decsion making choices
attitude the fulcrum
on which it all approximates.......

valley dark
mountain light
both wrong
both right
take .....
a step,
a leap,
a bound,
a flight,
of fortunate fancy....
........or petulant plight.

today,
the little blucat...
dreams in hard edges
and of un-catch-able mice
and growls as he sleeps
under the old blanket.

despair  and hope
both seeded within us
each and everyone
as is love and hate
anger too

they are there...
we would be incomplete
without them

so it becomes
a matter of  choice

which seeds
do we nuture
which saplings
do we prune

what do we
allow to flower
and fruit

you are the gardener
you get to choose...

but as you are learning
every choice has consequence
both for you and others...

in the dim reaches
of the clouded night

at the time when the
old grandfather clock
has reached it's peak
and begins the downhill
run into another day

i sit in the summer heat
still, stullifying and steaming
with a bottle of *****
straight from the freezer

in the gloom i read the memories of the kitchen
table scuffs and scars
and pour a glass of
clear *****.....

take  a sip....and let
the russian coldness
flirt with my tongue
dance with my throat
and bellyflop...
                     into my stomach

out to see lightning strikes
a jagged rip in the sky
and i turn...and see
the two cats....
watching me ....drinking
*****....at one am...

The verdency has long been bleached from the grass.
It is now hollow straw and chaff.
It soughs and rattles it's
sorrow in whispering distress.

The livestock, ***** smudges
of skin and bone.
Stand listless, under the stick
bare branches, of the ghost gum .
Waiting for the rumble
of the feed truck to come.

The dust swirls, red fine
and irritating to skin and eyes.
The only creature to thrive
are the buzzing horde of
flies.

The bore pump clanks to life
and the water allotment
flows.
The sheep arise and drink
the trough, bone dry.
Before resettling into hungry
repose,
under the white ghost gum west of Gundagia.

This is drought, this is the
wait for rain, this is the daily
struggle, the farmers lonesome refrain.

All but the sturdiest stock
sold, shot or long gone dust,
to the unforgiving heat. Nuturing the best,
saved from starvations
questing hold.
To rebuild the farm
and complete Job's test.

After the rains have come,
all will be good again.
And if they don't come.
Doesn't matter, soon we'll
all be dead.

half formed thoughts,
half finished lines,
breakfast  half eaten,
left on the...

half asleep,
half awake,
half dressed child,
starting today...
a mistake.

let us rewind,
to, when we were
all still abed.
then when the alarm
rings out
snooze it
pretend we are dead
at least to this
half made greyest day
and turn away
from this half formed mayhem
of  harried reality

go back, go back,
to the land of dreams
for today,
the better choice...
no half sown seams to burst,
hems to trip on,
clothes, that will not zip,
the zip on that set of pants that i must fix
no bad hair, no external rants,
about work incomplete,(half done).
no thinking rude thoughts,
about stinking heat swelled feet.
just cool linen,
pressed against my tired cheek
.. and an island
deserted... with cool breeze
and
a fridge with filled with
chocolate eclairs
and iced coffee ...
a big squishy chair...
utopia ....
see i am halfway there..
but
halfway here also
and the bell has rung.
time for these...
half @rsed musings to be done.
phones to answer, emails too
reports to analyse, lectures to
prepare,
here i am
half an hour
into the day
and already...  way..
too tired to deal....
so position.. my clock hands... at..
half way past... i don't care.

the grace of my heart
lies in the palms
of your hands
broken,scarred
and calloused
as they may be
it is in this thought
i know complete serenity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

they are so very...
small and delicate
plump and oh so pink
these little hands
with tiny nails
that rest curled
upon your breast
I watch them  unfurl
like butterfly wings

and wonder at their beauty
it wiil be a while before
they are useful to you
at present they are just
object of amazement

oh, but the newness
of them, is beguiling
to both me and you.

she sits, across from me
******* the loose threads
of her genes

they are attatched to the fraying of her mind
this, it girl
who is
falling apart, before us all
an honours student,
stumbling quickly down from grace....

silence, is her cloak...
these day....
and in this desperate,
wanting,
of invisablity.
her distress cries loud enough
for all ....to watch...

tears,
fall and track,
silently down her face,
as we quest for the canker...

reponses,
monosyllabic
and non commital...
issue forth....
defiance...
her weapon of choice....

we can,
but, reiterate,
our duty of care...
and hope....
that when she falls....
it is within earshot
of one who gives a ****....

she leaves....
no more intact...
than when she entered.... and hitches,
her ragged psyche
and theadbare jeans
up over
those slim, woman-girl hips.
...as she walks, out of
my office door.

three, one,one am
and out there in the
cold, cold dark
the sea's pounding entreaty
sounds like
god is heavy breathing,
on an old rotary phone.

happiness is a game of courage
intricate in it's strategies
straight forward in it's goal

it does'na matter  if you play
with stick and ball or pen and paper
this game requires the strength of your heart
and sometimess the loss of your mind

you score according to your own gradient
some, the best players find happiness
in the small wee things, the rest of us overlook.
some search for the big score, whilst overlooking
the small golden fragments scattered about...

you can see those who are winning,
for when you look into their eyes
there is contentment, that is after all
the much sought after prize...

are ye winning today......

this is a poem...pre thanksgiving....
and is written for a number
of people on site who will
be either alone....or find the
holiday difficult....for various reasons....
please be kind....and share the love....some are going through....hard times.

i know this lady
a friend of mine
who will sit alone on thanksgiving

to her, in many  ways
this year has been unkind
with death, sickness and
memories that bind....

she still has much to be thankful for and this she
knows....
but the table is lonesome
and the world has lost it's
glow....

at present housebound
or i know...she would go
ease the suffering of others
passing turkey and stuffing
around,
with a kind word and a smile...
for she is known to go the extra mile...

when one thinks....
there are many like this....
many who spend the holidays
adrift....
or lost in a place...hard to find
we are thankful for this day
but don't let the celebrations
get in the way....
reach out in kindness,
and let it be known....
these people marginalized
are not alone....

i stand on the grass,
and above me tonight.
the sky an upturned bowl,
no.. a collander,
with stars streaming
bright...through the blue
metal sky...
and thus the moon is, dinner plate big
and  cottage cheese lumpy.

and i hear the sea sighing
and fretting away...

but not too hard.
there is, enchantment
in the air.. .
and i wait a few moments
more,
in the crisp, winter
night's air... for magic
to happen....
before walking inside,
to a child asleep,
a husband reading
and a little blue, grey cat
washing the day away,
in front of the fire...
and i thank the night,
for the magic...
it has sent,
as i turn off,
the porchlight.
and enter into
my haven.

in the moist dank
hours, of this
rainy night.
the shadow
cat-blue,
has sought, the
high planes of
the house
and can now be
found, only
by glaring
lantern eyes.
we search
and find
him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.

it is three a.m. here
and the unseasonable cold
has etched itself onto the knobby bones of my spine
and eats voraciously at the
callous of bone and metal
that now suffices as my
lower left leg...

in answer, i sit in front of the
newly stoked fire, as close as i can without becoming fuel
and await the painkillers sweet surcease.

i drink russian caravan tea
and as always,
it draws my thoughts to you.

the time spent with cup in hand and eyes full of laughter.
the way you rolled each teabag up into a neat little
parcel...

and those times of ceremony, birthdays and
big announcements.

when the tealeaf was allowed to swirl joyously and swim in the squat blue teapot,
releasing the aroma of
a gypsy campfire...
all rowdy, with celebration
and then served with the
orange and ginger cake,
(so **** good)of which,
i never did get the recipe.

always, the tea, served
in fine bone china
the tea, visible through
the white translucent pottery..
and we still,  playing at being, civilised and grown up...

the tears slide,
gently,down my cheeks
to fall and be comsumed
by the warm hearth...
as the gypsy songs fade

and i do not know,
whether, it is from the pain or sad and grasping grief,
that they come...
                          but they come.

it is the sussuration of the passion
that is etched between
the lines of your forehead
that causes my heart to beat
with quiet fervor
as i await your next move

stand me up
dust me off
wind my key
and set me off

i am your
clockwork
heart

and i will beat
for you
when your not strong

pay an extra ten dollars

and i will play this song....
*(insert song name here)

have i mentioned lately,
that my myocardial musculature,
pulses pure luminousity,
cause you are the incandescant
asterism in my biosphere.

no, well you are baby,
you are my hearts pure light,
it beats for you,
you are my stars and moon
my whole world.

i love you.

heatwave

night air barely sighs
heatwave

bodies lie far apart
on sweat damp sheets
heatwave

tuxedo boy sleeps
spread eagled, legs asprawl
on wet shower tiles
heatwave

the god child
twists and turns
in superman ******, under
mosquito-net blown by fans
heatwave

outside small things
bathe & scurry through waterpans
placed on fast dying grass
and larger things drink
gulping mouthfuls from the pond
heatwave

and we all await the breeze
and the small hours of the night
when the temperature drops
when the air cools enough
so as not to stifle breath,
anger minds, open lips
leaving hurt behind

heatwave

sticky tar on the soles of my shoes
the smell of meat bbqing
mixed with salt air, sunscreen, and beer

air shimmers, cats and dogs shadowy lumps
under trees and deck eaves,
old women sitting wide-legged infront of fans
children darting in and out of pools,
men in singlets or bare chested,
women in sarongs and shorts....

all waiting for the afternoon breeze,
the sun to give up and leave....
and the cool of the evening to come...

he lays slumbering
tho the sun be bright

on hand grasping linen
the othe out of sight

he lays sleeping
not a care in the world

his face unfurrowed
his hair disarreyed curls

he is handsome
and beautiful too

unrazored cheeks
closed eyes of a green blue

his chest broad and deep
rises slowly in his sleep

all that mars this perfect scene
are the shuffle snores
as he dreams, little bulldozers
at busy work, chug-chug- chugging
driving me beserk

he lays sleeping, i do not
unfortunately this happens
a lot

he wakes refreshed
i wake cranky
mine is the last laugh,
the best revenge
this morning, no hanky
or panky...

here's the thing.....
no one has chained
you to the chair,
put your head
in a vice,
glued your eyes open,
turned on the computer
and is forcing you
to read this poem.....

or indeed any one elses
work either.....

if you don't like my work ....move on
if you find everybodies
work sub par.....
consider this revealation
it might be you....
not the forum.....
that has an issue...

words and the artistic placement of them.....
is or at least should be an activity open to all.
not just the elite....

sins of omission,
are piled up
mountain high.
led to by a road,
cobbled with
pride and self gain.

and my unknowing
self plies this road,
daily, to place the
newest coins upon
the peak.

and my knowing self
sits, at it's base.
awaiting the avalanche
to fall.

as i walk past
the almost god of wrinkly
things and his new apprentice,
lying wrapped about each
other, in food filled plumpness, lying sate,
in the morning sun....

i can not but help ponder,
a house cat,
loved through and through, is probably,
one of the highest levels
of reincarnation......