hey mister museman
float an idea my way

you see my brain is tired
and the creatives gone away

hey mister museman
give my some words
to play with
on this wet and grey
old day

and I will try to
string them together
so they have
something grand to say

hey mister museman
don't turn away
need me some
jot's and tittles
to chase these blues
and black grey hues
out into the middle
of Sunshine Bay

thanks mister museman
for taking the time
to help me rhyme
and float some words
out into the stratosphere

as i drive to work today
i see the detruis of thebig rain
piled up on the kerbs

great heaps of garden trash
leaves and broken trees

and in front of me a council
team with a log chipper
pulls up at one of the larger heaps
and begins to decimate it
bough by bough, it rumbles
through the mechanism
that cuts it down to mulch
and throws it into
the back of a following trailer

whilst the practical part of
my soul applauds their productivity
the whimsical nature loving earthmother
cries..for the birds and possums that
just lost the family ranch

seven.
it was at this point
I started running
because there was no way
three more numbers
were going to get
his temper/ rage
back into the box

eleven
that was the age
that I learnt the effect
of a fast moving patella
aimed at a *******

twenty nine
the number if times
that story has been told

forty three
that's  where he caught up
with me with a crash tackle
splitting his lip and my eyebrow
in the completion of it

thirty two
the number of stitches we got
me 14, him 18

fourteen
the number if days
we where grounded
no tv, no visitors

five
the times
I have used
that manoeuvre
since then

two
the visable scars
we still have.....

Pale moon kept
hiding behind
the thicket of clouds,
being constantly
twisted and turned
by renegade winds

Silence fell
intermittently,
may be after
every defeat
or victory perhaps
depending
on the side,
one could only guess

There were booming
of guns, explosions
sounds of vehicles
rushing to all sides
creating panic.
Pain was the language
cried out aloud,
well understood
At all times
smell of death would spread
like a trail of smoke
from an extinguished wick.
It thickened the darkness
by desperately crying out for light.

"Are we winning or losing?"
a voice in the darkness
in agony whined,
not knowing which way
wind blows
or  when all would
mercifully  end;
that question has
already rendered meaningless
by the reign of dark forces.

Was there a whistle
signifying naught?
a whisper spread
all around like a mantra
"Nada..nada.."

Then came a long silence
nobody seemed to answer
or know what to tell.

I forgot my jacket upstairs in the law office that bears my last name on the wall
It's a fancy building, so I need the elevator operator to take me up
'Are you Mr. Maladi's daughter?' he asks
No, actually. I'm Mr. Bradley's daughter
It takes a second before the pieces connect
'I'm so sorry'
He hugs me, teary-eyes
'I loved the man, he was such a good guy,' he nods

It's been over four years

My dad always said to make friends with the people who support a building
He said you never know where they've been
And that too often they're taken for granted, when they're always there when you need them

And today I saw the effects of this
My dad living the way he taught me

I have never been prouder to be his daughter

she sneezesas the breezes
carry the pollen to her nostrils

she  is small
and somewhat frail
but  when she sneezes
she creates more than breezes
she makes a gale

and the noise is like thunder
as her lungs do the rumba
all in order  to expell
the pollen from her being

her eyes cross
and fixate
on an ephemeral state
in order to calibrate
the legnth of the ah
in her ah-choo

sometimes it is
large and elongated
sometimes small delicate statacco
and then again it may be somewhere
in between the two

and after she sneezes and gales
and wheezes...she seems stunned
by the fuss and disharmony
she created by nasal cacophony

and in her daze, the taps
her nose and says quite clearly

good old faithful....
                           .....thar she blows

the god boy, grows a pace
no longer small, squalling child

now showing a fierce independent streak
that causes pride and fear in equal amounts

it is hard to balance the need to learn
and the need to teach...to protect
we fail the balance regularly
yet are fortunate to have suffered
no great ..... or lasting consequence

his greatest attribute,
our greatest joy
his sunny side up,
the ability to always,
see the best
in everything.....
eventually

as we slow and grey,
he seems brighter,
more intense...
gathering colur into him
only to give it out...
in a argent radience
that is contagious...
in  it's beauty

of course,
he has his flaws
my child,
is far from perfect
like his father,
his floor is his wardrobe
and like his mother
he is prone to losing himself
in bookworlds, while mundane
chores await..

but he is both the worst and the best of us

and more importantly
he is himself....forging
and identity and entity
bourne of love and compassion

and honestly
as a mother godess
and as a father god

there is naught more
we could wont
or ask for...

It was my birthday,
Sixty Five years turned to grey hair.
My love and I, and two old school
friends on a breezy Fall day.

Over Tea and a lovely frosted
three layer cake, we cajoled
and joked about our age,
all turned senior citizens that year.
And yet in truth, we all agreed,
none of us had ever been as happy as then.

The cake was sliced onto china plates,
Each piece served flat on it's cut side.
I noticed something then as we all
took our first bites.

Our forks all started at the thinnest corner,
on the bottom layer's side, gradually
excavating the two lower levels of fluffy
cake, saving the best for last, the top layer
where all the sweet frosting remained.

It occurred to me then that indeed life
is like a three layer cake, the last top layer
can indeed contain the sweetest bites.
That rather than gobbling life hurriedly whole
it should be savored more like patiently eating
and enjoying a three layer cake.