She looks up at me from the
Stroller, eyes wide open as
If she's never seen a shaved
Head before.
I'm guessing it's the head.

The tram is packed full of people,
And my country boy soul cringes
At the touch and smell of a
Hundred strangers.
So I focus on the little angel princess
Strapped gently to her

Throne on wheels, and in the
Vast space that our eyes meeting
Creates, I breathe pure, fresh air.
The tram is a hall we have to
Ourselves, and I'd trek to
The end of the universe

To find the last piece of candy
In existence, just to return,
Travel worn and outer space
Accustomed, just to place it
In her tiny hands
In gratitude.

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.

I had a coat
Made from skin
That was a goat.
My coat made me thin
I was a skeleton
and my friends
Thought I was torn
They worried of my trends.
I was born to poor
They mocked me of poverty
Tears,I could pour.
In me was genuine liberty
I summoned my few kids
And I told them about courage ,
For Holes in life had lids
And we had not to be discouraged
"we have to face it courageous
This life is ours to live
We,being gorgeous
This life is our beautiful leaf
We have to remain hawk eyed
And clever like non
To always live today
And hope for tomorrow
Our past to control we can't
Today,our future we can ruin
So my kids,
Let us work to our best of ability !"
That day,
I threw away my coat
I focused on life
And
In less than a year I had what I called mine
I grew better
Wiser and
Today,I see the change.
Hope is my song
Change is my rhythm
Determination is my guitar
Devotion is my soloist
And my dancer is perseverance.
I am on my way to my destiny
Further away from my coat
That was a goat!

down by the river
a public house once stood
it attracted a clientele
from the town's neighborhoods

the oversees and laborers
would whet their whistles
after a big day working
amid the scrub and the saffron thistles

on the afternoon
of September ninth 1932
in the pub's kitchen
a fire did brew

the flue of the Metters stove
caught alight
which made the cook
scream in fright

from the bar the proprietor
ran at speed
to bucket water
on the flame's greed

town's folk tuned up
with hessian bags
to stub out the embers
that were raging in the building's rags

but their efforts to contain
the fire were all in vain
the watering hole was consumed
by the fast pace of the flammable bane

at the rear of the pub
a charred body was found
he'd not escaped
the flares which did surround

the itinerant bur cutter's
ghost loitered at the pub's site for many a year
he'd appear on nights
when the skies were darkened in drear

the fire at the drinker's establishment
is still spoken of in town
that fateful day the hotel's stove
burnt the drinker's house down

it was only a little house,
two bedrooms, small in space, a kitchen, bathroom
and living area..
some woul call it quaint,
others run-down and dilapidated...

...but it was
a happy place....even if it
sat alone ...bar a jacaranda tree...out in the middle of
a drygrass sea...

on the outside, the paint
had peeled and the boards
had begun to warp...
the yard was dry brown
grass and dryer red dust,
the roof, corrugated tin
was dull with age....

the door, was once painted
a bright hopeful blue
but now faded like old
denim... on the verandah
two chairs a table.....and
an old cattledog....
the bell, a suprising ******...


but inside that ramshackle
house... that stood by luck
and will alone....

was a home....filled to the brim with love....
the old couple who lived there...
still held hands ....still looked
at each other with love and
longing.....still danced to the old record player most nights....
still slept wrapped in each others arms....
still bickered and fought
then made up....with a lasting passion....
still wished for, more days
together in the sun....

these are my memories
of my aunt beth and uncle
wilf.....
and the house,
they made a home....
out in the middle of nowhere....

country roads
highways
bridges
exhibiting a city in
kinematic frames

to pass
high speed
low speed
lit windows

a kitchen
a tv screen
a bedside lamp
curtains down
nobody's home

cottages
villages
overcrowded districts

dots and dots
each lit window
each turned off light

a story
a me
a us

they

lost
anonimously
as dots
in the distance

forgotten