#napowrimo2014bd
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.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
there is this photo....you see
of pretty much nothing...of
nowhere....at least....
nowhere i know...
the skies are blue, with
a cotton balling of
innoccuos clouds
it seems as tho the weather
would be pleasant there.
there is a gray-blue-rock
covered track, well road, that roughly disects the photo,
beginning right in the centre at the forfront
and then wending off
to the right behind a small hill.
the track would be wide enough for a small car
or cart
but is in the picture
devoid off traffic.
as is it's smaller,
companion walking path, terraced and to the left of the road.
cut about six foot below the road persay
to the right, a spindly tree
of indeterminate species
then, stretching off to the photo's edge,
green grasses, roughly, cropped low by machine
or beast.
to the left, once again below,
the walking path,
a swathe of green
and then, an expanse of water,
loch, lake, river,
i do not know,
but it is wide and slow.
there are no,
watercraft, no birds,
to be seen.
just water, greenery,
a spindly tree
and the two tracks,
leading to god knows where and coming from, behind
the lense.
but right now, the ambiguity
of destination, the lonliness
of the landscape are appealing, enthralling, even.
there is a dichotomy,
in the fecund greeness of the grass,
opposed to the, apperent,
barenness of the lake.
and in the disection of the pastoral scene, by man made road, there is disruption,
there is choice.
to, cant to one side,
or the other.
there is choice to, go forth into the unkown.
or to, retrace one steps
on the road behind.
it is a photo,
that while not
bucolic in nature,
is pleasant
that is well framed,
....that is the one...
you take when you
want to finish the roll of film,
or these days fill the memory card...
why it has me,
fascinated at present is ...
it is a photo of somewhere... that is not here...
it is a photo of somewhere...
where, the possibilties are new,untried...not impossible
.......where the grass
.......is greener...where the grass is greener...where the grass is.....
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
as the oak is always the acorn,
so the poem is always the word,
no matter, how decimated the tree,
no matter, how faded
the word,
inside resides, the tree, awaiting the catalyst.
inside resides, the poem,
awaiting the esprit.
always, the essence remains,
embedded...
always, is the outcome, foreshadowed...
etched in, by a code,
known, only in it's base intricacy by one...
the creator.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
when i want
to build a wall.
i take the stone,
formed by,
anger or hurt
from my gullet.
wash it, so it's
dark facets shine.
then place it,
in the footings,
of my insecurity.
find another and repeat
til they form a line.
using as my mortar,
pain, embarassment
and indignation in equal parts.
mixed with tears and bile.
and then, i begin again
buttering bricks and
offsetting, them.
i want, no need,
my wall to be strong.
tho i never build,
my walls too high
three or four courses,
never, no more.
i want to be able to,
step over them
and be free
i have seen those
and watch them still,
thoese who, built a high, formidable wall,
a fortress, it does become,
with them, still locked, imprisoned inside.
so i learnt to build,
walls strong, but squat
so i can,
when ready,
emerge.
righteous and graceful.
but this is my folly,
the flaw, in my scheme.
my walls, they run
***** nilly, everywhere.
and over them i trip
**** over beam..
so now...
i must find a school
to teach me the art
and give me the tools,
of how to deconstruct a wall.
with out the haphazard use
of a wrecking ball.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
i suppose,
i must, i must, i must,
go forth, go forth,go forth,
into this brave day.
but know this, truly,
i crave, i crave, i crave,
to stay, to stay, to stay,
alone, here away from,
the maddening crowd,
at play, at play, at play,
too loud, too loud, too loud,
for my disconcordant mind.
if i had
my way, my way, my way,
i would hide,
away,away away,
over there
with books, with books,
with books
and uninterrupted solitude.
but my lot is such,
that a hermit,
i am not!
nor most days,
want to be.
but,today, today,today,
the words penned above
make up my mind's
clockwork soliloquy.
please let me hide
my face, my face, my face.
in this peaceful
place, place, place,
just til i catch my,
breath, breath, breath.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
dimble dumble,
caught a, thimble thumble
of precious morning dew.
dimble dumble, took his thumble thimble,
full up to rimful.
on his nimble rambull
wooly stu,
careful not to lose,
a drippity drop
of the delicious dew.
they flimble, flambled,
up and overed,
down and undered,
till dimble dumble,
with his thimble thumble, filled to rimful,
on the wooly rambull... came to stumble.
his face a crumble,
as the rimful,
roamed and overflew,
the thimble thumble walls.
a dribble drabble did scribble scrabble,
down the rambulls hide.
dimble dumble
chewed his bottom lip
and cried.
"do not fret my little pet, look there is still enough inside"
wooly stu decried.
"i'll be more staid,as we ride our fortunes, soon will be made."
so,dimble dumble
and his rambull crew,
with thimble thumble recovered,
from the tumble.
on they skedoodledaddled. being careful to protect the remaining morning petal's dew.
after a while, time,
flew with dove like grace and dimble dumble,
with his dudes came
to the the very place, of the rimble romble rumble
and royal rapture rap parade
dimble dumble
and rambull stu on bended knee
and really humble
presented their
thimble thumble
not quiet full to rim still
but delicious and felitious morning dew
to the king awaiting
his purchase and perview.
before its spoiling,
it was boiling,
his kettle singing,
songs a ringing,
to the beauteous,
but not so bountious, morning dew.
dimble dumble
watched the
thimble thumble steam
and bubble blip away.
hands flipping flapping
nose jinkling wrinkling
as the fog blew,
his way boiling dew,
tea leaves darjeeling
with daphne blossoms
was the flavour of the day.
dimble dumble
with thimble thumble
empty now
and too, wooly stu
caught a peek of teacups platinum
holding royal blossom brew before the butler,
with a silly stutter,
sent them on their way,
with dimble dumble
all a fumble,
with a thimble thumble
of goldenboldens,
as his hard work's
reward that day.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
i am a sheep of the blackest
shade.
and my sisters,
wooly white angels
in bleached mohair.
me i could do no good.
me bad through to the core.
them angelic, pure.
at least that's what, everybody,
thought they saw
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan
my feet have always had,
a need to be elsewhere.
Dad called it my infernal wanderlust...
so, i have heeded their call.
travelled far and wide,
finding love in ports everywhere,
but none for to be my bride.
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.
always moving forward,
so i don't have to...
look behind.
but still,
self recrimination
is a constant bedfellow
of mine.
you know, it takes years,
of dedicated time and headspace.
to become a man,
beyond, his prime.
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.
a merry, meticullous ******
who can laugh, at hisself,
yet, still continue to commit his biggest crime,
daily i **** myself....
daily i survive....
just a one man crime wave,
not worth trying to save.
but you do, you do.
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.
motley me,
with a jester's soul.
trying for laughter,
but just getting more old.
lived a life, bought,
purely on fool's gold.
now close to the hereafter and still breaking the mold.
girl, i am a member of the black sheep clan.
the Crue knew who i am.
i am just one of this world's many misunderstood.
girl i am just one member of the black sheep clan.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
a calcium carapace,
sits upon the mantle's shelf. dreaming of the sea,
craving water and salinity.
pretty trinket ivory white,
a plump smooth bubble with cafe au lait dotted curve, leading to,
sensuous convex lip,
scintillating burnt caramel
hue.
what lived in such a
palace of the sea.
what graced the interior hall.
did it wonder,
at the beauty of it's home,
or did it only see,
the weight of the walls, pressing in.
does the palace discarded
on the shelf dream,
of saltwater
and former self.
or is it an inamate relic,
of an unregarded time,
with out measured reason, unresonating thought, unrimed.
does it know
it is
beauty sublime.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
no place, i would rather be.
sitting on golden sand, by sea.
once single, then dyad, now triad.
growing in love our little family.
and the sun shines down glad,
and we chase away, lingering sad
and we smile, the summer day long.
and i watch play, boy and proud dad
but in other climes, a sad song,
plays in a room where life is not long
and there is much pain
and somehow it is so, very wrong,
that some live and gain
and some who, seeded by bad grain,
are short changed, days of life
and deseperate death reigns.
but in both places, love conquers strife
and in both places love is beautifuly rife.
love, lives hopeful and large, everywhere
because whether long or short, we all live under damocle'an knife.....
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
so?
can we start again?did you mean what you said?
where do we go from here?
do you remember ?
what colour is the sky today?wanna come n' play?
whatcha wanna do?
one cookie or two?
have we got enough money?
can we pay the rent?
do you think you can get some more overtime?
what are we going to feed the kids?
does my *** look big in this?
what, you don't have a larger size?
how much for the full make-over?
what does it take to make you smile?
please, stay with me awhile?why are you staring at me?
what can you do?
when the world's gone crazy and all you have is a smile what can a girl do?
just wait a while, be patient
just wait a while
and
if you are lucky the answers may come..... or not.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
here sit i
a skalded-babe
at a prison-box of
metal and wood and plaster.
chained for the span
of the elf's glory passing,
i shuffle leaves of wood
from in to out.
i move the hamsterwheel forward inch by inch,
or i runabout in a
runic-neon-field,
with my cheesy,
tailess-rodent, biting
and chewing away,
for the need of budget burning yeilds.
if lucky some snail mail
may come to relieve
the electronic humdrum.
if not,... i suppose,
i can knock on the world wide, spiders-door, enter
the ether-frame...
and see the cat, playing
piano, badly in fortissimo.
or be a mouse-jockey
in the web-led rodeo
then when the elf's are done
home to hearth,
i will run,in the rover of the land.
to sit by whale road on
golden sand.
and go make fodder for
the artisan-sawdust-man and the child.
for us to eat with carrot-comb and steak-stabber
before sitting down
replete,
for a night in with the
zombie-creator.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
the giving of salt,
is a delicate thing.
there will always be,
salt
at my table, for those
who grieve, or have lost.
salt can be,
the smallest of things,
the merest touch of
compassionate hands,
a glance,
a memory,
a treasured photograph,
a fragrance that lingers,
even though they are not
there.
it is hard to recieve,
these gifts of salt,
often given freely
from
a caring heart.
when all you desire
is to,
hide and fade away.
but the secret of salt
is in, the reminder,
that
for the sake of all,
you need to stay.
there is salt in crying,
salt in tears,
sometimes
there is salt
in the quiet solitude,
the contemplation of the, changing years.
there is,
little, to no,
salt
in allowing your fear
any power,
any place.
there is much salt
in
finding the strength
to run
your allotted
marathon.
salt can heal,
the heart,
broken.
give strength
to those,
faint and lagging.
reknit,
the patchwork mind.
we will all need,
the gift of
salt....
mutiple times,
through the years,
of our life.
salt is universal,
to all manner of man.
salt is salt unto itself,
salt is ever, needful
salt is always, always kind.
yet,
still,
the giving of salt,
is such a delicate thing
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
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"
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
crinkle the chippies
wrinkle the bag
savour the salt
you're now a potato lad
buy the chippies
bag after bag
don't bother
about the belly sag
you're now a potato lad
wonderous flavours...
to be had
don't you worry
if your skin has gone bad
you're now a potato lad
cholesteral rising,
have trouble prising,
your doubled in sizing,
couch potato spread.
no, not you
you're a potato lad
don't worry bout that,
at least, a third of the
world is morbidly fat.
besides my man,
you don't need to cry.
they went organic,
buy, only happy, free range kipfler joys.
they reduced the fat,
changed the taste.
and now your favourite
chips, are too
expensive to buy.
so my boy, you,
no longer can afford...
to be a potato lad
*here endeth
the unhealthy
potato lad
fad*
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
clasp these things gently,
to thy breast.
my love, my little love,
hold them gently.
tho' seldom will they bite.
feed them,
hopeful crumbs
and tidbits
of delighted joy.
do not neglect
them,
do not yet,
let them go
they are still to young,
to fledge and fly.
this world is a place
of broken things.
these dreams you have,
are the chaotic butterfly wings that will flap and flutter and bring despots down
not yet, little one,
but when you
are tall
then my child
let them
fly one day,
in sunshine's
wonderous thrall
for now,
my little love,
treat them kindly
clasp them gently
to thy breast
and do your best,
my child,
to ignore, the random
snows of barren, hopelessness
as they fall.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
some days
the bunyip
comes
to
rip
tear
and rend
the
dreams
from
your
flesh
and
the
flesh
from
your
soul
somedays
the bunyip
just
comes
and takes
you whole
but most days
he sleeps
in the billabong
everdeep
in the stolen
lives he
has chosen
to keep.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
"The kind hand extends, feeds such anticipation. Today everything is borrowed. And it follows you everywhere"
------------
I borrowed,
my smile for today,
from my memories of us.
How many times,
my friend,
did your hand,
reach out to caress
and soothe,
my weary soul.
Countless upon countless.
Touches of love
and tender kindness,
that kept me sane.
When the black, black dog came to my door.
For this
and so much,
more unspoken.
I thank you.
And in days to come.
When only memory is left,
to feed my grieving heart.
The touch of your life
on mine.
Will stand and lead me forth.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
early morning,
with
cup of kenyan blend.
i step outside,
to meet my day.
all soft,
misty drizzle.
cocooning the view,
to the koi pond
and slick driveway.
stepping stones,
are
soft wet coins
on greenback lawn.
dewed and glistening new.
the last
of the snapdragons,
weep in bright tears
of beauty.
the portulaci
have closed their
faces to the world,
to await the
returning sun.
in the pond,
the koi swim,
and glide
like solar flashes
caught while bathing.
bright moving wonder
on the colourless day
and as i watch
the surface becomes
hypnotic as water drops
create ring,bisecting
ring, bisecting ring.
concentricity,
most exquisite.
the smell of jasmine
eucalypt and coffee
mix and mingle with
exhaust and salted iodine.
sound is muted.
birds, whisper this morning.
even the kookaburras call,
in stuttering short chuckles.
the sea, so close, is but a murmur, a chinese whisper
on the frail wind.
the small grey cat,
comes to sit with me
nose, aquiver,
ears swiveling
to and fro.
a pause before,
harrumphing
and stalking
back into the
dry, cosy, warmth.
i soon follow....
leaving the day,
to it's softness.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
take one giggle,
from a wriggling boy.
add the gleam of love,
from a proud fathers eye.
mix with dirt, play
and dinosuar bones.
pour into the mix,
copious cups of tea and
red cordial.
mix in time, add sunshine
and laughter.
dust well with a mothers
love.
bake for the hours of an autumn morning.
then enjoy forever and a day.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
small blue cat
curls up on himself
back to the world
content to
dream big cat's dream
safari
where he is
lion tiger leopord
extraordinaire.
he mreowls,
twitches and then starts,
hunting prey,
takes time, stealth
and skill patience, too
as he sleeps,
he stalks, stares,
the little blue cat.
dreaming still.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
i could see her
then my thoughts
bloomed like
flowers, bright orange poppies
wonderous bright and i go
and whisper love to
her hair still mussed by sleep
my mind all, raddled perceptions, and in
moments like these their
ability to wear clothes
of polite deception dies with
stark naked truth gleaming no
shining through to the west
horizon, the wind
blows my deception to
the eastern most point of my love and iron
rust,red and magenta notions come out
with joy to play the
sun colours and creases
early morning clouds, they blush in
deference to her ****** beauty the
sun hides, she shines brighter this morning
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC