soft blue
and maroon

that’s my
room, what

colours have
come to me

– – – – –

bottle green
i haven’t seen
you for a while

now in a blanket
you used to be

a knitted jumper
i could draw
down to my knees

– – – – – –

dolphin blue
i wish i was you

caught up in
childhood fantasy
feeling it were true

Being Under and Down

Knew that sensation of being under and down
Shedding light skin rubbed smudged bunching dull edges
Infinitude left in the moment carries right right the way down
Inner thighs the bruised breath the head rests near the bevel
Undone beneath brow ridge the eye suns in the sundown
Cast arcs reaching far past the cave where heart gauges
Thumps fear beats the loudest the darkest is down

Prise prison til lengthen the sentence lies down
Narrow scent sent long long hallways serious sound
Check echoes of memory the trail follows the ground down
Shoulders relay it follows rolling train of the serpentine spine
Phantom arms yearn for knowledge from every ledge down
No hips hold such blood vesselled in delicate harbour
Sorrow shifts levels tails ripples in destinies down

Marrow and morrow and endless days laying down
Subterranean terrors near carefully sharpened sense
Eyes are streaming dreams in the darkened way down
Shutters of shadows flashing light waves listing in rhymes
Borrowed burrowed furrowed the body smoothes it down
The groove grows the road ploughs rows tossed in dust
Childhead turns in undertows mid time laid down
30 – 11 – 10

Hands Loosely Folded In Prayer

Hands loosely folded in prayer
Thumbs touch, resting like lover’s heads
He below, she leaning in, shared
Wonderment in the flowerbed’s
Soft pillow, the day above in blue
And should the night roll right around
Like a counterweight, the view
Of heaven’s host of lights be found.

Hands loosely folded in prayer
Lips want to kiss the cool thumbnails
Two half-moons under shiny veils
And nostrils rest and draw upon
The air and light from father, son,
One hand the parent to the other
The space they share, theirs discovered
A place for holy spirit there.

Hands loosely folded in prayer
Fingertips touch the mountainous knuckles
Like unborn children’s heads to knees.
Before the bosom, one’s childhood suckles
Upon itself in dreaming seas
And so the hands become a womb
Enfolded spirals like seashell rooms
Breath at the foot of the stairs.

Hands loosely folded in prayer
Fingers make furrows across a mound
A fertile world, two roots going down
To elbows anchored near the hips
The space between where eyes like ships
Approaching a bright new world explore
The fissures leading to the core
The fecund treasure there.

Hands loosely folded in prayer
The folded fingers a double roof
The heels of palms the floor, the hooves
Of goats that press on angled walls
Starlight streaming above the stalls
Thumbs move now from lips to forehead
Third eye the star that sees the bed
And the baby cradled there.

18 – 11- 2010


Already the jasmine has taken me
To sunny Sunday mornings as a boy
Cold concrete and wet washing on the line
Linen from the laundry basket left to dry
Steaming into a high day of far-off clouds.
The narrow path down the side of the house
Stroked with long reaches of light
Where the cat curls on the earth by the weatherboards.
Chug-chug of the washing machine working further
Warm metal flashing by the drain where the water spills out.
Odd places beckoning one to sit down with eyes closed
Crisp still fresh full day-dreaming days gone by.



Whose are the caring hands,
That gently fold the worthwhile moments
Of the open days that fall behind me like calendar pages?
In what linen cupboard are they layered,
Placed in what arrangement?
And are some left untouched, hardly noticed in a corner,
Special things with scalloped edges,
Made for times when company comes calling?
Are the creases still able to be ironed?
Do they resist being laid out in the open?
If lovingly kept do they yet grow old?
Unfold the treasures there.
I seem to have forgotten.
Brush away the dust of years, and
Lift the corners into the air, and
Place them on the bed and table, and someone
Light a candle for night and day, I’m afraid
I have forgotten.

The Child of Hills

Walk in the child of hills with legs that shine like apples
In pockets open to sunlight with daffodils holding the air.
Look to paper planes catching from leaves that green the blinking eyes
To butterflies lifting from waterfalls spreading fingers on the stairs.
Take chimneys dressed at daybreak passing shadows off the fields
Caught in waves at grassy ridges growing warm clouds off clear blue.
Wait near old brown bridges for shoes that hang like coloured fishes
And hide near branches folding out for worms in borrowed suits.
Show candles roaming under stars past roads that whistles turn to view
While seeds shy under fallen logs down past grey crickets hicupping.
Embrace long days at childhood’s end in meadows facing head downwind
And wrap full coats at owl’s long note in hair flung puddle-jumping.
13 – 3 – 05