the morning has dawned
achingly bright
the clouds of yesterday
blown away in the night
after leaving.....
just a dusting of spherical
pearls on leaf and grass tips

the wind just now a breeze
giving the sea a herd of
white horses  to cross
the blue- green plain
and play tag with the sailor
in racing boats.

i stand inside, with the warmth of the fire at my
back , cup of tea steaming
in my hands...and make plans for this promising
winter's day...

full well knowing, in an hour
the vista could change....
thus are, the vagaries of life.

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)

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 is, lying within my soul,
an elusive dissatisfaction...
like the loss...of a red balloon,
floating up to the air...
and you, almost have a hold the string....
but then,  the balloon is not there.
it is gone.

it is like that aftertaste,
of the best meal....lobster, butter, brandy, garlic.
still tasty, on memories tongue.
but the restaurant, closed
and the recipe...long gone

it is that moment, remembered, of just we two,
of pristine blue water salty, manta rays dancing ballet and fish and coral and crab
sheer under water bliss...
but now, standing in cold winter rain....knowing,
you'll not soon know that connection  again....

it is knowing, that while
i can see your face
and hear you speak....
these are just, soundbytes, from the history we keep.

it is grief, and it comes
and it goes.....
it is sadness, wearing
the reaper's clothes.....
it is knowing, you are gone
and no-more.....

it is my late night tears,
quietly, falling to wood floor.

the salt tangs and swirls
in the mist
giving the world outside
my door
an ocean lisp
all the tree's now indistinct
and ghostly
all the world now mostly
secrets and whispers, soft this morn
the cloud have come to visit
and the sun....
he is up there somewhere
the little blucat has made
his decision....hibernation
is the mode of coping...
the boys of the same intonation...
who am i to disturb the flow
....back to bed with book i go,

world, expect not to much
from me today ....no great song...today...i will just hum
along ....to other's music...

world ask not to much
from me .....no great tree
of wisdom....just perhaps
one sage leaf.....

today world i will not ask
much of you.....a little sun....some exercise...and love...a smile or two...and some blessed quietude....

and when we come to the
sunset.....we can both know
that not all days have to be
big adventures.....
some days can just be small
walks......  on well worn paths.....and there is much in
that.

******* bug,
bled black blood.

crunching carapaces,
caught, crawling contentedly.

magpie's morning meal.

warbling, wistfully,woefully, wanting, weighty worms.

grabs, grub greedily,gulping.

magpie makes much, munch.

click, clack, clack, black beak.
famished family, finally, filled.
*****, flies.
finished, foraged feasting.

have spent this morning,
counting and measuring
thoughts.....

they are like,
little exotic birds,
that have been caught,
in an ornithologist's net.


are there enough,
or are they in decline
do they have enough
weight,
will they fly,
if, or when,
i let them go?
or will they wander around,
in circles.
dragging, a broken wing
behind them...
will they sing, a cheery heart-warming song,
or will they, croak and caw and cackle.

or will they,
fall lifeless from the net
and lie, dead on the ground.
to frail, to cope with having,
been caught, counted and measured.

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.

this little poem
                        a pilgrim of
letters and words
                         my mind
zestings and oils
                          sent forth
to add my flavour
                          to the world
and now my thoughts
                  bubbling & boiling
to mingle with yours
                    with excitement
making a new world view
              just to serve & enjoy