there is,
in my opinion,
nothing like,
the determination,
of  four and half kilos
of grey feline.
that wants...
to be fed at 5:37am.

the pushing
and bumfping,
the disproportinate roar,
of the basso profundo purr, in your right ear.

if still not convinced,
or just,
downright lazy
a whack with a southpaw
to the back of the head.
your attention will restore.
no you're still resisting
the charm.

then be aware,
of the flying leap & twist; landing on the midriff.

but, from years of dilligent training,
i have deduced,
the cold, wet nose, trailing across my exposed flesh,
is to best be avoided.

simply, by stumbling up,
from your rest....
and succumbing
to the mantra,
the cat knows best.....
fill the bowl,
be done with,
the furry pest.....

and hope you
can snooze for a while,
before.... you have to get up
and feed the rest....

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.

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.

when the world,
was much younger
and i was a stupid-crazy
girl-ly-chick, enamoured
with her youth.

i drove, a sunshine,
lemon, yellow bottomed, white pith on top combi van. coyly, cloyingly named Mello Martha.

it was...surfboards and swimsuits,
egg and bacon sangers,
early morning breezes,
after a blitz at the breadbox.

before... changing into
the structured, tortured baby, bank teller blues,
in the back,doors left open.

it was... rockin, knockin,
***, on credit,
to a promised future,
alluded to, but postponed,
for the moment.

it was... bruised back and
grazed knees,
harder, deeper oh god!
oh god! please... faster, fucken frenzies,
on a saturday night.

it was....running away to nowhere,
to find myself,
then finding me,
running away from,
the self i didn't want to know.
noway, nowhere, nohow.

it was... a barrel of monkeys, a barrel of laughs,
a keg of beer,
a box of wine,
under the crowded stars.

it was.... a roadtrip,
up the coast,
midnight bonfire,
midnight munchies,
playing hunches,
exploring reefs and reefers and such.

it was...far from family
and church rules,
a friendly rebellion,
of loud, proud youth.
totally and brazenly,
uncouth
it was... wham! and m.j.
cindy and boy george's culture club ,paperlace,
billy idol and the beach boys.
sung with abandon,
at spinal tap level eleven.

it was... peaceful, quiet, sleeping grace.
insanely in love with...
i forgot his name.

it was.... the birth of bodaciously me.
all brass hair and bosoms,
wild and carefree.

it was ....so long ago,

it was... yesterday night,

when i saw... Mello Martha's identical twin,
stopped at a traffic light.
it was... sunshine and lemon, bitter and sweet,
as she sailed off, down the street.
i sat and watched,
wist, full of recollect,
far and away, from my presently minded place...
sitting in, the driver's seat,
of my mom-blue subaru.

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,