You see there are two types: front yard gardeners and back yard gardeners. Back yard gardeners (BYGs) are the dreamers, they are the story makers, the fairy believers, the still spirited and often the deeply troubled. Their garden is their fears and failures, their secret childlike dreams, their place of poppy purity, and lily regrets. Have you ( Read more... )

An elderly woman sat. Alzheimer's appeared to have robbed of her remaining sweetness, yet when given a photo of her husband and asked who it was she replied, " I don't know but I believe he was the best man I ever met in my life"


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Pale eyelashes bat against
high storm winds-
I got nothing on You

Roll up all my friends and followers
like balls of icy snow
throw them at my mound of failures
and they got nothing
Now we are wet and cold
wet and cold and old age sets into children's faces
before we had a hope to fight

tiredness sets in to our children's faces
falling into their dinner ( Read more... )

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 In the great gap between traveling boys and household men they stood, separately at first, then ever closer. It was as if the focus came to my eyes after morning haze. "Film makers" they said, English in accent but Aussie in their words and restless in their hearts. A couple of dingoes kept at a safe distance for this initiation, but the casual ( Read more... )

 Just spent the day in the mountains, rinsing off the city.

Tuck me into you
-safe like a shirt in your jeans,
and far off I'll hear, the world's reveries
just restless waves on the sea

-AEM

"How will you know if you found me at least
'Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired, I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight"
- Neko Case

ahead I hear the same dog barking and the jasmine smells come strong now-
 Tell me homecoming stories Eyes closed tight and running
til the sounds slow come to be familiar
with familiar and forgotten glories

I heard today that it's been breathing
                                                                          air that's been killing us all ( Read more... )

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 Pastel and murky aired afternoon
turned slowly to late
cars travelling in their tiny worlds

along the lone street

always passing by

Little fires in the sky; Ignite
when gold turns to dust turns dark to grey
Some strangers and neighbours
move round their red rooved boxes
and a part of me wants to   CLAP
my hands for them to hear 
to cast eyes out
to hear birds ( Read more... )