Poem # 100 Goodbye little Dex

Goodbye little Dex

They were the three amigos
They were the three amigos
Mr Cu, Teddy, and little Dex
Together forever whatever the odds
Together forever they would go.

Now little Dex is dead and gone
His brave little growl is still.
He has gone to join the heavenly pack
An Angels space to fill.

He has gone, he has gone up the trail
His brave little growl is still.
He has gone to join the heavenly pack
And roam the heavenly fields.

Mr Cu and Teddy are feeling sad,
They are missing their little pal
but he has gone to join the heavenly pack
He has barked his last bow wow.

                   Goodbye little Dex 2011- 2016 no dog turned a love light on
                   with greater intensity.

Poem # 97 The first time

The first time

I looked up my eyes caught yours
you smiled and my world changed forever.
I was paralysed, literally,
I could not move.
Rather than simply looking
into your eyes I seemed to be
able to peer deep into your soul.
I felt stunned.
I can give no better account
of the transformation of my mind than that.
you as an acquaintence
had been replaced as a woman
that I felt I knew as an
essential individual.
Your vulnerability and your
pride were both part of that
I suppose,
as is your beauty, your voice,
and the way you move.
A strand of hair hanging down
made all the difference in the world,
as did the slightest glimpse
of collar bone above the
top of your shirt.

Poem # 95 Drumming with the earth.

Drumming with the earth.

Down the bush track through the gums.
The dry heat lay so heavy in the air as to
become nauseating.
Already we could hear the sound of drums and bells.
The distinction of the sound led to the belief that the quality,
the density of the sound was not the same as elsewhere.
One could distinctly hear the stick striking the skin and the rim
which gave out some sort of note,
but it was then that the phenomenom would begin: a first
beat would carry into the pale grey skys, would extend
hesitantly like a smoke ring, becoming a perfect circle out of
which other circles would form by magic,
ever increasing, ever purer.
The circles passed beyond the trees and rocks,
stretched over the water pools and a long way out
towards the horizon.
One felt them above the hot trees and the rocks,
and they hadn't ceased to be perceptible before
the stick or the hand struck the skin of the drum once more
and other circles of sound were born so as to reproduce
themselves, and then other beats, which one listened
to in innocent amazement, as one watches
a firework.

Poem # 94 Any other day.

Any other day.

" I want to talk about this. It's important."
  " but can it wait until I get some of the
other things I have to do out of the way. "
" Sure."
It was said in a way that communicated
that she wasn't happy about pushing the
question aside.
  " I can see that you are upset now.
Don't be upset."
" I am not upset."
  " I can sense that you are"
' I just want to make it clear that I am
not in your life to be an assistant."
I was never sure in these situations
whether I should smile or not. I
attempted an explanation."
  " I simply asked if you would do me
this favour. If you don't want to do it,
or doing it is going to have all this bad
feeling attached to it, then we-"
"I told you I wasn't upset. Can we drop
it for now?"
I reached for my glass and took a long
drink, draining it. I reached for the bottle
and poured some more.
  " Certainly," I said, wondering if I
should open another bottle right
now, or later when I had finished
this one.

Poem # 93 No turn left unstoned.

No turn left unstoned

I nearly hit the large wombat on the gravel
road where it dips to the creek.
The light filtered by the stringy bark was thin
in the evening hours.
The big ute drifted with no traction
around the bend and even though I steered
into the skid I completed a 180 before I stopped
headlights pointing in the direction from which
I had come.
This road is way too dangerous, I thought,
I need a beer.
On its own the radio was picking up a weak
station fading in and out. Country and western.
Something about a weekend at a rodeo that
went awry.
I imagined a cement bunker and a lone
radio tower with a blinking red beacon,
personally transmitting to me from an island
in the middle of a dam.
I leaned an elbow on the sill and settled in
for the rest of the drive. Fate.
It was meant to be.
God was watching out for me,
not wanting me yet

Poem # 92 Current ( Flow of Life )

Would she ever be willful again
she wondered,
now that the little one had been born.
In passion she had conceived and
given birth and now she felt that
her own clearly defined identity
was no longer clear or defined,
now at this place of the merging
of three lives.
A river with tributaries where each
stream became a part of another,
that was the sincere hope;
but just as rivers and streams, especially strong ones
erode their banks, would these two do that to her?
Would their needs and demands
cave her in, suck her dry,
just as the little one sucked now
hungry for her life force.

Poem # 91 Night time Chatham Valley

The fire was built from foraged material,
red.
A blood moon in the west and
overhead
diamond stars.
I looked deep into the flames
to see what was there
a symbol?, a message?.
there was wire that had burnt out of
fence posts and left garbled shapes
in the ashes, and coils of it stood in the fire,
and the coils pulsed red hot deep in the
devil eye coals.
In the half light my horses
had come out of the darkness
and stood in the damp mist
falling from the eucalypts,
their coats mussed rough with
damp and their own eyes
burning with curiousity.
I thought of relationships
nearly always based on expectations
and possibly false promises,
or beliefs; and the coils of wire in the flames
spoke to me of the tangled web
which is life.