above the clouds


There’s been an unfriendly takeover today. The circus is lining up to conga dance my Ireland trip into folklore. Another story to share with the turkey each December. Another blade to tap tap tap deeper til the space between wounds, the healthy flesh, is unrecognisable. So. They’re all ticketed up. Let’s do it their way. My enthusiasm wanes as the mulberry bush beckons. I’ve been round before. I don’t need to speak. I exist but I am not here. I will find some joy across the water but not what I’ve been looking for. Just flow along the told path. Don’t share your dreams. Mud comes back at you.





small town of the south


That’s as cold as I ever want to be. The cramps in my calf, and my traps screamed heart failure and yet, back in familiar climes, all is well. Anxiety monster latches on to anything and feeds. 

Anyhoo…we sprinted from car to gallery and, burst through the door with flourish, turning all heads within. Eyes up from coffees and breakfasts, to assess the newly arrived. Bizarrely, to my right and glimpsed in peripheral vision (do Not make eye contact and it didn’t happen), playing guitar is the food blessing waiter from last night! Different venue, very different role – same clothes but hey I don’t have a problem with that. Just a real Fawlty Towers moment. 

I believe this town runs on people in single digits. The manicurist’s friend owned the lunch restaurant, worked in the dinner venue, served in tomorrow’s lunch spot. She surely must know this singing peace sign sharer as well. He showed no surprise at our explosive entrance, or at seeing us at all – just flashed a V with two fingers between strums on our way out. No eye contact on way in, I flashed a smile to his V, rock on he returned without a change of facial expression. 

And then the long drive, not home til the fog lifts.


Small town of the south

Misty organic paddocks

One winter visit



keep running


It’s not fair is it! You can see it in his eyes. The haunting. Not well yet. Why are some people born to do battle with their own head? 

And they’re all around us. You can’t read it in every face, some keep it well closed in, but some pain is so transparent.

I’m glad they didn’t share the how’s of their attempts. Good attempt at the why’s. There is no why other than the demons made me do it.  Then again there is no why not. No judgement, no option for them. Two lost, two saved…one little girl without her father.


suicide prevention australia – fundraising campaign



here’s a poem


The Daily Post Writing Challenge : TIME FOR POETRY


you ask if I’m a poet – can a poet tell?

you want me to write a poem for you – then read this

all thought is poetry

you won’t find rhymes here, spelling is challenge, thoughts on loop


never explain, never complain – mother’s words

do as I say, not as I do – father’s


will my children quote me?

I think I’ve said little enough



an autumn haiku

the wind sweeps the poet’s brain

and the thoughts move on




back flip

Small mercies I was headed for the white linen hours before the usual time. What? Left the morning tablets at home?

Did almost the whole wakehurst parkway on high beam, did not see a single set of headlights in the rear view mirror and only a few came at me.

The harbour bridge is a snake of vacant taxis close to midnight.

The closer to home, the speed limit sent it’s sticky grip down over my matchbox car. I enjoyed the last few turns though, drove the purple flower asphalt while Anni-Frid, Benny, Bjorn and Agnetha sang to me.

The big cat’s happy to see me.


Hey, I’ll sleep here tonight.

the waiting game


Night follows day. This age has been a long time coming. Ninety years of life not same of living.

She moans and creaks, tells me her joints are rusty, tells me she’s past her use by date.

Father Time is playing a cruel game with her, with all of us. He’s keeping her waiting.



This is an entry in this week’s Trifecta Challenge – between 33 and 333 words, using the word RUSTY, with the definition provided…