You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.


               © M.L. Emmett

Doona, oh doona
stop teasing me you meaty pillow
waiting impatiently in my room-a

I've had a long day
my feet have turned to clay
And I just want to climb inside
your soft womb-a

Whether at my feet on summer nights
Or mornings frosted, dark and wintery
All else is stale, mediocre cloth
You're always the doona for me.

Doona, oh sweet, sweet doona
Hug me under the light of the moon-a
Don't ****** me from afar
Spread-eagled in my room-a.

http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays



as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off

am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.

speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.

darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.

I have seen better days.

I have read betterdays.

now I am upset, distraught.

here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.

her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.

l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world

better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father

little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.

don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:

him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.

let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.

so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.

somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well

I wanna go to bed my love
Into bed to cuddle my teddy
Having fun in my dreams
In my bed cuddling my teddy
Having a methane smoothie
With my dad in a bar on Saturn
Having fun getting ******
Enjoying life oh yeah
I wanna go to bed my love
Ready to cuddle my teddy
Yes indeed it will be fun
To hop in my bed with my teddy
You can’t party in clubs on earth
Because of the coronavirus
So you go to bed cuddle your teddy bear and dream about partying in the cosmos yeah
Drinking methane smoothies and eating cosmic burgers
Asking Athena where is the vaccine
Because it is only that I take psychotic medication
That I could go to bed to cuddle my teddy
You can still have concerts
In your computer room
And I have poem reading
Yes that is great and I cuddle my teddy
But when it is time to hop off to bed
And get under your doona
And cuddle your teddy
Teddies are cute
And loving life is what I do
When I go to bed to party in the cosmos
The way my party can be great
Is hop in bed with your teddy
Occasionally my dreams feature death
And I need to suddenly wake up to cuddle my teddy
Instead of causing problems on the street they should party at home
In front of their computer or in the cosmos
And when my earth body is tired I
Go to bed and really oh yeah cuddle my teddy and party in the cosmos
Having a lot of fun
PARTY ON DUDES

"It's better to be scared than to be hurt."

Like butterflies
Leaving a trail
of coloured crystals,
only in my dreams
can I see you
for all you could be;
Like feathers
floating down
gently glittering
in the warm sun,
like a soft doona
Chrisp and fresh
lightly crunching as
I fall into its hug,
like all the things
I never have time
to feel, or do, thankful
in my imagination
I can still see you,
in my soul
I can still feel
the traces of
soft flutters, hugs, glitter
and coloured crystals
that tear my heart
like grains of sand
in a dust storm
in this wasteland
after your passing.

i am,
the spoon left in
the icecream bowl.
i am,
the towel on the
bathroom floor.
i am,
the toys in the cupboard
and more.
i am,
the vase with bright flowers.
i am,
the left over lasange
in the fridge.
i am,
the dinosaur doona
that snuggles your boy.
i am,
the bedhead that
watches you sleep.
i am,
the old clock
on the mantle,
wonky time i do keep.
i am,
cotton and lace knickers,
jocks and striped socks,
jumbled up in a cedar drawer.
i am,
toothbrushes and bathplugs.
i am,
the tattered, striped hall rug.
i am,
pictures of two, then three.
i am,
the couch, the oversized tv.
i am
the desk and the books.
i am
the mirror that looks
old and faded.
i am,
art projects, created
and afixed on the wall.
i am,
coffee table
and
featherstone chair,
none too stable.
i am,
walls of teak
and roof of
colourbond steel.

i am
house and home
and if i could speak,
well, it would be
downright surreal.

i am,
comfort and warmth.
i am,
refuge and rest.
i am,
old and creaking.
i am,
heaven blest.

i am,
haven,
from lifes storms.

and i am  more,
you made me
this way,
with love,
you and yours.

we return to life
blinking
at the changes
wrought by
time inside
one's mind

he once blue sky now
grey and dragging
against the seas rim

trees shivering at
the blast of ice
laden winds

and as we watch
the first angry
spots of the torrent
to come

we forgo coffee and cake
in preference to the cocoon
of the car as the water
sheets down from the sky

now home and cosy
with hot chocolate
mingling on the stove
we watch the continued
fury of the storm
the cats stay curled up
under the doona
hibernating til dinnertime

grey is the day,
bleak is the heart,
rough winds bellow
and sadness stirs.

the little blue cat,
burrows
under the doona,
rejecting the light.

i turn and leave,
for work
wishing i was,
a little blue housecat.

the mist of my voice
lays gently on the cold window
the sun is yet to shine
as i leave my comfort behind
still warm and fetal beneath
duck down doona's

i tell the house goodbye
and that i will return, anon.
and step forth into the frozen dew
sparkling on the winter faded lawn

once in the car, I sigh with deep breath
this is something that needs be done
but my heart falters at leaving the nest

for it is away i must go, to find some rest
it is to leave in order to stay, to be my my best
each year i take this small season of me
each year i go... go be alone in order to hone
my mind and shed dark blue barnacles
so upon my return my boat runs smooth
through river and wave, calm and typhoon

i retreat from this world and this world from me
i go find a place full of water and tree
and there i sit and sleep and walk,
very little do I talk, i do not perform
or  teach, i do not quest or overreach

i am but pebble in a river,
the water, washes and reforms me
i am but budding leaf, on tree
the sun energises me

I am snail, content,
within my fragile shell

I am quiescent, within my soul

nine lives he had
that little blucat
the first he spent
as a kitten playing
on a mat he was
pretty ok with that
the second he spent
on a plane in the air
he really thought that
wasn't exactly fair
the third he found
his feet his feet in
cold hilly place
but heat was provided
and cuddles too
life four he threw away
escaping and then
climbing a tree
and losing his footing
too far from the ground
that was scary and painful
life number five he spent
it's years slow, looking
for the sun in summer
and in winter the doona
the sixth was all about food
and thefriendship
of his human things
by year seven
he was slowing down
no longer chasing mice
or feathered fare
by eight he just wanted
to lay down and sleep
be stroked by gentle hands
and purr as they ruffled
his fur
his ninth life was difficult
for all to contemplate
he tried so hard to stay
but in the end needed
to be at one with
his forebears
to join the family tree

nine lives he had
he used them all
living a life
that was in
no way small

cool air caresses my
too warm body as
I stand at the
window

watching the play of
moonlight on
seawater

fruitbats and boobooks call
across the valley
out, foraging in the
night light I see them
sweep across the sky
shapes dark and sinister
against the dusting of star glitter

behind me man and cat curl
into tighter *****, seperated by
doona  mountains

I stand letting the breeze cool
my skin, and await the
next shadows rise and fall
upon the deepening darkness
of  the summer sky

it is the season of soup
and tissues here.....
after two weeks of drizzling
and driving rain

each sentence is punctuated
by a sneeze or a sniffle

hoarse voices whine
and whinge beneath
doona mountains

we all look like we have
wrestled with a yeti
and lost

meanwhile the washing piles up
the bins fill with sodden germy tissues
the chemist smiles with glee,
each time we enter his store
and the tuxedo rex runs from bed to bed

from red eyes and cotton filled head
i write this seasonal report
hoping to see the end of flu season soon