June 24, 2005

Lace Curtains ~ A Villanelle

Turn back the quilt, take me in your embrace
Whisper words I’ve waited all my life to hear
Transport me to another plane, another place

Shrouded in the shadows I can barely see your face
yet know each gentle feature I hold dear
Turn back the quilt, take me in your embrace

No hesitation now, in this our special, private space
where time stands still, with you so near
Please transport me to another plane, another place

I watch the moon rise through the curtain’s lace
Then see the tracery transferred to skin so clear -
Turn back the quilt, take me in your embrace

Once joined, our beating hearts increase in pace
We soar to reach crescendo without fear
as you transport me to another plane, another place

Sleep heavy arms reach for the other to retrace
each touch.Before these stolen moments disappear
turn back the quilt, take me in your embrace...
Transport us to another plane, another place

Vickie Farquhar (c) June 2005.

Posted by Midus at 12:14 AM | Comments (0)

Diversify ~ A Ghazal

Let me, in your gentle company, myself immerse -
but if I should back away, I beg you not to think I am perverse.
I’m merely wary of commitment – aren’t we all afraid to fall?
It’s not the loving that I’m scared of - just there’s no time to rehearse!
To find you’re not the man I dreamed of frightens me to death
So I’ll beg you to forget it and I’ll find something more diverse
to occupy my time, like racing homing pigeons…
it couldn’t possibly be worse.

Vickie Farquhar(c)June 2005.

Posted by Midus at 12:12 AM | Comments (0)

A Good Memory is Essential.

Honey drips from smiling insincerity
salve wounds from yesterday’s spiteful barbs
and all the time she lives in hope that
He will forgive her, her stupidity.

Yet in the darkness of his mind
a silver thread weaves in and out
waiting in amongst the lies
to trip him on his own foul words.

Degradation and misery are his stock in trade
plied as if gifts to the victim of his rage,
until he tangles in his own deceit -
and the innocent replies ( to his surprise)

I used to love you once …
but never more –Leave the key
on your way out.
Then she smiles a secret smile,

forgives herself and drinks
a toast to new found peace.

Vickie Farquhar (c) June 2005.

Posted by Midus at 12:09 AM | Comments (0)

Everyone uses Shorthand

(i)

Writing things down
In lists and on calendars;
‘Ways not to forget’…

Forget – now there’s a word for you!
‘To let go out of the mind’
Interesting …like releasing a bird

Where do all the forgotten words go?
Is there some place where all the bull shit
and beauty are catalogued and stored

away in a safe place
where they will never again see
the light of day

or be read by anyone else
but a dull as ditch water
‘Keeper of the Words’

with an acute case of
amnesia and short term memory loss -
unable to remember even their own name?

(ii)

I received a letter from a friend the other day. It was actually delivered by the postman.
I wanted to frame it, but it was too personal.
No one ‘writes’ letters in these times, so it was something of a rarity -
perhaps I should frame it after all!

(iii)

I’m suffering from an acute lack of communication – not with my husband and family,
but with people outside my circle of comfort. I want to have long discussions on World shattering events and how beautiful my dog is. I need to discuss the change of seasons and the education system…or lack thereof…but no one has the time.
Everyone uses shorthand. Life has become an abbreviation…they seem to forget the words.

Vickie Farquhar (c) June 2005.

Posted by Midus at 12:07 AM | Comments (0)

June 16, 2005

It’s bloody Bitumen!

( a note to a memory)


….so anyway, I went back;
packed up the car and just drove
for hours, along what used to be the track,
and found it bloody bitumen…but it led to nowhere
I remembered.

I guess they made the road all-weather
for travellers to the big town up the road
because the place I wanted wasn’t there –
just tired and silent lines of houses
on streets wide enough to turn a bullock dray.

Two old dogs lay outside the pub, one raised his head
the other scratched as I walked past, into the
cavern of the public bar. I recalled the women
had to sit apart back then, in what was called
‘the Ladies Lounge’
and listen to the men tell bawdy jokes, pretending
not to hear.

I ordered Margarita, but changed it to a lemonade
because the barman smirked and raised an eyebrow
when I mentioned Lime…and all the while
the red dust hung suspended in the air.

That’s not changed – the dust,
it’s still everywhere, coating every surface
and, when the wind blows, gets in your
eyes and nose and food
to add a little crunch.

I must have dozed, for I’m sure I saw you
walk in through the door but then I shook my head
to find a weather creased old man, who tipped
his hat and ordered XXXX – so I knew it wasn’t you –
you always ordered Johnny Walker Red.

It’s close on 40 years and now the smells
of beer and sweat co-mingle with the
dust and midday heat, to flood my memory
with how it used to be.

They’re right…you can’t go back;
just visit for a day.


Vickie Farquhar (c) 2005.

Posted by Midus at 11:21 AM | Comments (0)

I'm A Mirage

Hot tar, melting in the midday heat
lends acrid fumes to summer haze

that ripples into an illusion
of our bodies floating in a half-world

not connected to the ground
but existing on a sleepy plain

where irritating, buzzing flies drone
a monotonous wordless chorus.

Rivulets of sweat pool in unlikely places
giving cause to thoughts of melting

into puddles on the parched front lawn –seared
by the molten copper disc high in the sky.

Vickie Farquhar(c) 2005

Posted by Midus at 11:17 AM | Comments (2)

May 06, 2005

Today I make Polenta

Today I make Polenta -
think of the stones that ground the corn.
Corn and stones both Earth born gifts

Stone is a friend of whom we rarely think.
We use it in our homes, use it for our homes
mark the graves of loved ones –
names engraved for perpetuity.

Polenta cools on my marble slab
and when I work it
I use my mothers wooden rolling-pin,
polished with the use of many years.

Wood, stone and I,
retain memories within each line.

Vickie Farquhar (Copyright) May 2005

It's been a while since I've posted any poetry. I guess my Muse was taking a bit of a holiday while I sorted the rest of my life out. This is my entry into Workshop Challenge #66 at About Poetry.

If any of you have poetic aspirations, About Poetry is a great place to throw your work to the wolves. Seriously though, the majority of poets there - especially the old hands, are a kindly bunch who will offer you a critique without tearing you to shreds.

Posted by Midus at 10:20 AM | Comments (0)

December 29, 2004

The Gaia Hypothesis

Our Earth Mother is sick.
She trembles and tosses in disturbed sleep,
her skin cracks, lesions appear -
the waters leave their usual lunar tides
to crash on unsuspecting shores
where her sons and daughters
have no place to hide.
If only we could give her peace.

Vickie Farquharã 29/12/04

Posted by Midus at 08:26 AM | Comments (0)

December 15, 2004

January Can't Come Fast Enough!

I long to hear a tropical downpour on our iron roof again,
the tree frog chorus, wind in the palm fronds,
fruit bats screaming in their nightly raid
on the lychee tree.
I need to go home.

You need to go home too…to a house you’ve only
visited before – once as a friend, once as a lover.
Next time you’ll be a husband walking in the door.
So much to do before
you can share my frogs.

Vickie Farquhar ã 13/12/04

Posted by Midus at 06:31 AM | Comments (3)

October 20, 2004

Life 101

Doing and being ,
dealing with actualities,
facing up to consequences,
calculating odds and wanting things
so bad you can taste them - even over
the sour taste of mistakes and last nights
pizza. ( Joe used too much garlic)
That’s life 101 – not some airy fairy
wannabe dream, where everything
turns out right and we all live happily
ever after, without struggling to
pay the rent or vet bill. (‘cause
your dog got sick)
I’ll take a risk -
throw my hat in the air,
jump off the roof – umbrella in hand
(to keep the sun off, not the rain.)
I’ve no time to waste on dreams.

Vickie Farquhar (C) October, 2004.

Posted by Midus at 10:09 AM | Comments (0)

July 14, 2004

It's What You Make It.

In dreams I see the creeks run swiftly, full of precious rain -
the dry land fills it's belly, until the sun appears again.
Constant battles always fought but never , truly, won
amid the dust out in the paddocks of the Western cattle run.

Oh for three good years of plenty on this stark and arid land -
grass would grow and water flow and stock would fatten out of hand.
The bankers all would tip their hats again, to Graziers on the street,
instead of turning noses up, as if they’d cow dung on their feet.

But I’ll not whinge and whimper at our bloody awful lot
for there’s plenty, far worse off than us, yet never lose the plot.
I’ve seen little kids on city streets who’s faces never smile,
I wouldn’t swap my life for theirs…not by a country mile.

There’s women on dark corners who sell themselves for cash -
a thing I couldn’t come at, not for all the city's flash and dash.
I’d rather have my drought hit farm and all the heartbreak there
than give away my freedom – it’d be more than I could bear.

Vickie Bowman (c) 2004

Posted by Midus at 12:46 PM

June 19, 2004

Let's Hear it for the Worm!

Moth wings beating time
with throbbing temples.
I recall something about butterflies
and the Amazon forest
but thinking hurts
and I really couldn’t give a shit
if the Earth imploded…
moths, butterflies
the worm in the tequila
are all related –
right now I hate them all.

Vickie Bowman © June 2004.

Posted by Midus at 02:04 PM

June 06, 2004

Winter Night


‘Neath the soft down of geese
we seek each other’s warmth
breathe in with each breath
love’s familiar scent.

Curled inside your curve
safe from terrors of the dark
sleep flirts with heavy eyelids
as I kiss your mouth goodnight.

Vickie Bowman  June 2004.

Posted by Midus at 11:58 PM

April 01, 2004

Requiem for a Sandwich Plate

Emasculation doesn’t need a scalpel.
I’d never even heard the word -
yet at ten I recognised the signs.
Watched you shrivel before my eyes,
become subservient.

Denying guilt by silence,
you let me take the blame,
watched while I was kicked
for refusing to admit
the fault was mine.

Fine porcelain shards
severed the link
'tween child and parents.
Was a broken plate worth
the loss of love?

You both grew weak…
but I grew strong.

Vickie Bowman - copyright 2004

Posted by Midus at 03:07 PM

October 31, 2003

Top Address!

It's a perfect place for an American in Paris
Jim always wanted to be buried there!

Always wanted to be buried there?
When always is so few years, it makes me wonder why
such thought should reach conception.
Adams' said the answer to everything is 42
Morrison, your answer is 27.

All hail the Lizard King!
You rest with Balzak, Wilde and Stein.
Pere Lachaise , Paree – Ooh La La!
What a top address!
There was always too much booze and drugs
everything in excess…nothing to lose.

The graffiti's fading
your mandala not so bright
but the music's loud.
Did you find the Freedom ?
Did you have a good World before
you reached the top of the flight?

Vickie Bowman © 14/8/03.

The inspiration for this piece, was a picture of the late Jim Morrison climbing the steps of an Incan Pyramid. He was looking back over his shoulder.
He once said that his only crusade in life was freedom and to have a good World. Hopefully he achieved both.

Posted by Midus at 12:59 PM

October 30, 2003

Forget-Me-Not

Six accusatory fingers
pointing to the heavens …
How many combinations of numbers
can you engrave on glass without
the shear weight of the sorrow breaks it
and we start again, piecing together
the history we pretended we'd forgotten.

Your face is solemn as we strain to read
try to remember words they wrote and follow paths
of steel and glass through each camp's shame
until we reach reality of 'now', tonight
in Boston's cooling air.

How sweet the birds sing
how green the grass -
how short the day.

Vickie Bowman © 2003

Remembering a visit to the Holocost Memorial
Boston MA 2000

Posted by Midus at 08:10 AM

October 19, 2003

Magpie Morn

Puddles glisten in the early morning light
The gum tree's arms shed spangled spray
as Sun's bright smile transforms the night
into a day, fresh washed by springtime rain.
Magpies warble welcome to the warmth of dawn
and all is right, once more, beneath the heavens.

Posted by Midus at 11:05 AM

August 21, 2003

Georgia In My Mind

A tribute to Georgia O'Keefe.

Corrugated hills
turn into serrated mountains

The pale ribbon of road
climbs in the moonlight

until it's a skyway in the clouds.
Tomorrow, beneath a searing sun

I'll paint my happiness on canvas.
I now understand the light play

that tempted Georgia to leave
a sheltered life for this

ancient pile of sun bleached bones
touched by lavender and silver

as the day draws to a silent close.

Posted by Midus at 07:18 PM

May 02, 2003

From Matins to Vespers

The bell tolls at five a.m
Dress, pray, start the day.
Nothing to eat but humble pie.
March in line to the laundry.

Tubs of suds turned murky grey
with the dirt from prison clothes
scrubbed till knuckles bled,
then I burn myself on the iron.

Pray aloud for forgiveness

Number 44 is pregnant
The men found 79 too pretty
Number 127 was, I've heard,
a bit of a rebel at school.

All just cause to lose their lives,
do the time for being young
in Dublin's fair city – what a pity
no one knows we are here at all.

Pray, but don't think of the words.

The Little Sisters of Mercy –
that's a joke. They say
they're saving <i>our</i> souls from damnation
I hope they'll forfeit their own!

There's many a girl in an unmarked grave
inside the laundry grounds.
All the babes have been taken away
to be given a better life.

Suffer the children to come unto me…

Darkness falls and we get to eat
the single meal of our godless day…
but before we do we have to say
how grateful we are for our blessings.

A cold hard bed is waiting for me
to take me far away…to home,
but before I sleep I a say a prayer
one I really mean

And now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take…

Away from the Magdalene Laundry.

Posted by Midus at 07:14 PM

April 11, 2003

Good Clean Dirt

Grandfather used to say
Don't be afraid of good, clean dirt.
Bury your hands in the stuff that
grows our food and is our final home.
It comes from the stars last moments.
The death of the dinosaurs and all living things
that came before and after, make up
the fabric of our earth.
Each clod of soil is a history
of those who went before.
Our footprints crumble, to be blown far away -
even though the walker may never leave
the square of land that we call home.

The dust that lodges in my eye
is a particle of another, who's come
to remind me of my grandfather's words.
When I'm laid at last, in earth's sweet mantle,
will there, eventually, be a super-nova to fill my place…
or will I be a single grain of sand
in the hour glass of the gods?

Posted by Midus at 05:52 PM

April 01, 2003

The Diva

Dressed in a shimmering
tracery of autumnal finery,
spot-lit for a few brief moments,
the arboreal diva stands straight and tall.
She then starts to bow in obeisance
in a storm of thunderous applause
The ridge-top stage her final curtain,
she exits in a blaze of glory.

Posted by Midus at 07:26 AM

March 12, 2003

Ennui

Internal litany of boredom
punctuated only by external
choruses of heavy sighs
each moment is a brother
to the next unending second
the day drags on
until the fading of the light.

Summer’s warmth departs
and Autumn’s rains beat
with monotony on dusty windows
leaving streaks
to clean another time
the day drags on
until the fading of the light.

Lizianthus in a crystal vase
droop sadly from neglect
for lethargy rules here
it permeates the air
even moving is a chore
the day drags on
until the fading of the light.

The day drags on
until the fading of the light -
When all will come to life
with the sound of your step
on the creaking stair
and the turn of your key
in the front door lock.

Posted by Midus at 06:02 PM

March 05, 2003

My Red Dress

I’d wear my red dress and red shoes,
dance the night and early morning hours -
until only the strains of the last waltz
remained to push me towards the door.
I’d keep my need for love locked away
until the time was right, instead of
sacrificing it on the backseat alter of a Buick
(which was, symbolically white.)

Posted by Midus at 07:24 AM

February 13, 2003

They all look the same

Jefferson Barracks, St.Louis Missouri 1999.

Rows of headstones –
Markers for the fallen soldiers rotting
in the company of brothers;
returning to the soil of home.

Regimented lines of white, uniform in death.
Nothing to break the sameness,
nothing to disturb the order.
Nothing to shatter the silence.

The engraved words should shriek; drip blood -
but they too are silent as the graves they mark.
Not a pain filled whimper
Not a whispered prayer
Not a sob,
except from old men who remember
and wish they could forget.

Posted by Midus at 07:38 AM

January 23, 2003

Jetsam

He finished his beer and tipped the barman,
Lingered listening, as the final note of Stardust
rose to the smoke stained ceiling of the club,
pushed his way towards the door,
climbed the stairs to street above and
stepped beyond the warm cacoon into the cold.

Coat collar up against the wind
hands in pockets, he began the walk down Queen St.
A minor gale blew litter up against his trouser legs.
At three AM the city slept except for folk like him.
Not even a garbage truck, with clanging bins
to break his reverie.

The stars were spectacular.
Whole constellations he couldn’t name
visible to the naked eye,
without a moon to overshadow.
It should have been foggy, gloomy -
then he could hide his misery.

Quickening step, he reached the bridge -
Leaned over and stared into the water far below.
The sound of the river, slapping at the pylons,
soothed, lulled, hypnotised, yet strengthened his resolve.
A vault onto the parapet, a perfect dive…
And he was gone.

Posted by Midus at 07:40 PM

January 22, 2003

What A Waste Of Time!

Academics and the common man
Both live out their allotted span.
Why worry about whence we came-
Can we alter destiny and cheat the game?

There’s no changing our direction
It’s all set out by pre-selection.
The reason why we’re here
Though to most, is still unclear

I have this half-baked theory
That will answer any query…
It’s simply to increase the girth
Of dear old Mother Earth.

Posted by Midus at 07:44 AM

January 08, 2003

Prozac For All

Prozac for all!
Give your kids a way to face their lot
In a state of false good humour.
It’s the quick fix
The opiate of the masses
They might live a little longer…
Shielded from their deeper feelings
Resist the urge to find another way
To end their pain.
They may even find the heart
To finish boot camp
Find a mindless way to go to war.

Posted by Midus at 07:32 AM

No Heroes Here

Hide behind curtained eyes
ignore reality
watch your day replayed
in slow-motion
within your carefully edited mind.
Nothing can reach
your brain unscripted -
life's a badly acted episode
in a tawdry daytime drama.
The only light at the end
of your carefully blacked out tunnel
is a flickering TV screen...
and the colours are fading fast.

Posted by Midus at 07:25 AM

December 04, 2002

Funnel Web

Death on eight thin legs
scuttles through the mulch
beneath the Chaucer rose.
Her black back alive with
minute passengers,
she glints in the sun –
a moving pebble of obsidian.

Sacrificial knives were fashioned
from that same dark stone,
then used to send a chosen soul
into the endless void.
Unlike the wielder of the knife
She has no preference and only strikes
for sustenance and preservation.

Nor have I a choice.
One bite could be my end
if, inadvertently, my fingers stray
within her range,
while testing dampness in the soil.
Thus it is, with some regret,
I crush her ‘neath my booted heel.

Posted by Midus at 07:16 PM

November 08, 2002

Critical Acclaim

I’m in the stacks at Borders-
Gods and Generals in hand
reading press blurbs;
He said Well fuck me dead!

Being particularly astute, I knew
it wasn’t an invitation to partake
in necrophilia or frenzied fornication;
simply an expression of amazement
at my ability to survive his absence.

Smiling sweetly I replied,
No thank you.

Posted by Midus at 05:55 PM

November 05, 2002

Wine Tasting

Now that was a good wine
not a droplet left -
It’s dead and gone
but the memory lingers
on and on.
If I had just half a glass
I’d dribble it down your chest
To pool in your navel
To be lapped at my leisure -
The addition of salt
Only adds to the pleasure.

Posted by Midus at 07:57 PM

October 29, 2002

Why My Room?

Horrid spirits shunning light
come to play in my room at night.
Round and round my bed they fly
giving vent to awful cries
There’s one with fangs and an awful leer
who fills my mind with dreadful fear.
I pull the sheet up to my nose…
then worry that he’ll bite my toes!
What’s that one got in her grip?
Oh it’s my Teddy she’s trying to rip!
Why do they bother me in bed
When I’ve been good …my mummy said!
The skinny one’s trying to comb his hair,
when he looks in the glass there’s no one there.
I’m going to get brave and cross the floor…
they rush into the closet; I slam the door!
Back in bed, I can hear them scream
Then I open my eyes…It was all a dream.

Posted by Midus at 07:54 PM

October 28, 2002

Albertina's Feast

Unbelievable that a few lines
of red and white chalk,
black ink and water
could endure six hundred years
when buildings have crumbled
in less.
Just glass between the paper,
the climate controlled air…
and me.
Nothing to distract from the
perfect curve of a cheek,
the tilt of a head
or the rakish angle of a hat.
Raphael and Rubens
hang next to each other
in a visual banquet
courtesy of Albertina.

‘Albertina’ is the name of the exhibition of Old Master Drawings on loan from the Albertina Gallery in Vienna, to the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Australia.

Posted by Midus at 04:43 PM

October 23, 2002

Sometimes

Sometimes I think in dreams,
disjointed fragments
imagination and reality,
taking hold of my subconscious.
I drift whilst seemingly awake
in realms where others
may not enter uninvited.
A private world of mist
swirling through my mind.
Hidden, that I do not wish to see.
Fantasy fiction truth,
I do not care to know if it be so
for I am safe in daydreams.

Posted by Midus at 07:45 AM

Through Cracks

Spread your fingers just a little wider
peer through the cracks at my world
I am a wisp of fancy
a moonbeam
enchanting and changing
captivating and deceiving
trust me if you dare…
Grasp at my elusive light
watch me evade your fingers
yet feel the coolness
as I whisper in your ear.
Run with me
come with me
enter your dreams.
Tie a silken thread to your bedpost
for you may lose your way.

Posted by Midus at 07:40 AM

Salem Sister

Six fingers on each hand?
“You’re born to hang”
the saying goes!
And so you did at sweet sixteen,
accused of being Witch.

Then cast onto the pyre,
your tortured body raised itself
as sinews tightened in the heat
and all about you screamed
“She was a witch indeed!”

You dug for Mandrake
by the dark of moon,
ears protected from its shriek,
to make a potion for a lass
as barren as a Winter fallow field.

To know so much
you had to be a witch!
Had you not devil’s spawn -
a cat who followed every step
and hung besides you on the gallows?

I gather Herbs.
Speedwell, Slippery Elm & Peppermint
Plaintain, Passionflower & Mallow
to name but few-
and no one says a word.

I know you
Salem Sister.

Posted by Midus at 07:34 AM

That There Shed

Made of shingles it was
with moss and lichen covering
the weathered walls
Wind, rain and drifting snow
had taken toll
even the spiders moved away

Next to a lake it stood
it used to store the trappers gear
ready for the Fall and Winter.
Beaver and bear had fine pelts then…
nothing’s as soft as beaver fur
against a human skin.

Old Charley crawled there
one freezing night…
after breaking his leg in a fall.
A cougar tracked him
down the draw and watched
then settled down to wait.

Cougar, it screamed like a soul in hell
so Charlie lit a blaze to
make it feel at home
if it dared to venture nearer.
Then he wrapped himself in the skin
of a bear, he’d left there two weeks before.

In delirium he tossed and turned
and the cougar he slunk closer
until it poked its head in through the door
and saw the fire and smelt a bear.
Charlie, staggered to his one good leg
let out a mighty howl and the cougar fled.

Five days later, two travelling Sioux
passed by the trappers shed
They found old Charlie wrapped in bear
near starved and close to death.
A travois out of saplings they made and
dragged him back to Santa Fe.

The say old houses hold a tale
of all whom they have housed
but that old shed a legend told
of the Bear Man from Sangre de Cristo
a man to ornery to die
old Charlie James the trapper.

His fat wife Sally heard the tale
and laughed until she cried
He didn’t need to shout or roar
she uttered through her tears
the cougar would have died of fright
if it had heard my Charlie snore!

Posted by Midus at 07:24 AM

October 20, 2002

Wayang Kulit

It's not the shadows but the darkness
that unnerves me.
Shadows mean there is a source of light;
walk in the light
avoid the shadows...
One cannot escape the dark.

Posted by Midus at 07:43 AM

October 18, 2002

The Vulnerability of Sleep

We sleep touching.
My foot on your calf
your arm against my back
or maybe legs entwined.
Waking in the early hours
to find your warmth
enfolding me is love.

How primitive we are
to seek this comfort.
Dogs sleep this way -
curled around each other
hard to tell where
each one starts
and each one ends.

Did our ancestors
wrapped in skins around
the dying fires sleep thus?
Protection and body heat
shared in shadowy caves
bonded by the need
for human contact.

The vulnerability of sleep.

Posted by Midus at 07:37 AM

October 11, 2002

Mice and Pablo

Casels at seventy-six was electrifying.
Three Blind Mice became a rhapsody
and at ten years old I was enchanted.
Enchanted and left longing
to find his music in my fingers.
It was the wrong place to look –
music comes from the soul.

Fifty years on and now I
understand the things he said …
Hold the bow as if you would caress-
the cello is a beautiful woman.

A woman I’ve not held for far too long
My failures are mine alone
I failed to make her moan in pleasure .

Today I awoke remembering Pablo –
an old man who shared his gift
with children.
I feel the urge to try again
teasing and tempting the shapely miss
to surrender her music for me
and with a clear pure sound at last she does.

Note follows note
my bow strokes the strings
thighs hold her tight
and I close my eyes
as she tells me of mice
in a low sweet voice
and we play a duet for one.

Posted by Midus at 07:47 PM

August 20, 2002

Finding out about Soul

Each individual face
a different shade of black
each expression inscrutable
each one’s body language
unreadable.

They wait to hear
if I’m worth the effort
of their listening
or if they should just act
polite.

This is foreign territory
in a foreign land
Delmar, St. Louis
seems a million miles
from home.

I’ve listened to their
militant street wise verse
wishing for the same passion
in my own ordinary
scribbles

Take the plunge…
microphone at mouth level
I pass the feed back test and plunge headlong
into a song sans music
of Aboriginality.

I’m white
but for a while
with words I’m black
stating the case for the cause
wondering if they understand my accent.

Over…I can breath
lap up the applause and “Amen Sister”
delight in the hugs
and know you don’t have to be black
to have Soul.

Posted by Midus at 07:11 PM

August 15, 2002

The Fatal Attraction of Likeness

Soap bubbles
hovering on a whisper
before the open window
find themselves
reflected in hanging crystal's facets
forming rainbows
as it twists and turns.

A searing flash of gold
as sunlight's intensified
trapped it seems
inside the clarity
signaling intent
to escape
and bathe the world in brightness.

Attracted to the movement
the bubbles kiss their mirrored selves
in narcissistic innocence
surface tension broken
they return to water
and unknown chemicals
just another wet spot.

Posted by Midus at 07:28 AM

August 03, 2002

Half Moon Lane

No cat ever strolls down Half-Moon Lane.
It's all hearsay and superstition...
but queens tell their offspring stories
to make them stay-at home kittens.

Once there was a fat sleek Tom
who took a holiday from home
he wandered by, all unsuspecting
in search of chicken bones.

His humans missed him sadly
his family was distraught
they cried into their sweet & sour soup...
and complained that it needed salt.

The feline population dwindled
the dogs got bloated and lazy
for with less cats to chase around
their exercise schedules got hazy.

There came a new cat to the town
A Maine Coon Cat was he!
He stood two feet at the shoulder
and ate Dalmations for tea.

He heard the stories about the lane
from the cute little Persian next door
and decided to check out the rumors
and lay them to rest evermore.

Our hero he entered the alley
he sauntered right down that lane,
that cats had entered before him
and never come out of again.

Just as he came to the exit
of the posh China Plate café
a hand came out of nowhere
and spirited him right away!

He yowled and he spluttered and put up a fight
as only a coon cat can
but soon there was only silence
and the persistent whir of a fan.

The news of his disappearance
spread through the town like wild fire
and the remaining cats hid under the bed
fearing an outcome quite dire.


Once the kerfuffle had all calmed down
(though the Maine Coon was missing still),
a Great Dane taking a short cut
casually glanced o'er a window sill.

What he saw there he couldn't believe
and vowed to tell not a cat...
for there on a comfy armchair
the enormous Maine Coon sat!

And all around him in that room
upon each human lap
there lounged a pampered feline
being stroked or taking a nap.

The Coon Cat spotted the Great Dane
and closed one eye in a wink,
which proved that kitties have got smarts
no matter what canines think!

On Winter nights, in front of the fire
when the wind is whistling shrill,
the cats tell each other weird stories
to give themselves a thrill.

They yarn till their hair is standing on end
and their tails look like bottle brushes
but not one of them knows the real truth
'bout the Cat they talk of in hushes.

The Great Dane's discovered he likes Chinese
he's developed a taste for Chow Mein
for as long as he keeps their secret
he'll never go hungry again!

No cat ever strolls down Half-Moon Lane.
It's all hearsay and superstition...
but queens tell their offspring stories
to make them stay-at home kittens.

Posted by Midus at 07:31 PM

July 29, 2002

Sandcastles

So much time spent
with tongue protruding
from the corner of the mouth
deep concentration
furrowing the brow.
Just enough dampness in the mix
to hold each grain together
until construction is complete.
Adorn the turret with a flag
and the battlements with shells
and watch it wash back to the sea
on the incoming tidal swell.

Posted by Midus at 07:35 AM

July 16, 2002

Location! Location!

I was talking to a bloke I know the other day
about a balcony flat in Darlinghurst
Second floor with rising damp
shit house paintwork and leaky taps
just three cramped rooms and the balcony
for six-fifty dollars a week
what a load of crap!

The girl upstairs – with a better view of
nothing in particular
paid a hundred dollars more
He asked her what she did
she told him she was a publicist for
a dance troop
He reckoned there must be some
table-top in that to afford
the lease.
Why Darlinghurst
when she could do the job from anywhere
Potts Point would cost her less

She said she liked the life style
looking at her ugly purple dress
he reckoned she was right at home.

Imagine…paying all that cash
for just a bit of flash and dash!

Posted by Midus at 07:45 PM

June 28, 2002

Porridge Kisses

In thirty years
when you look back at twenty-five
will you remember learning how
to change a fuse?
Will you remember groaning
at my puns?
Remember the thrice daily phone calls,
with their constant loving words?
Will you remember me,
tousled hair and sleepy eyed,
as you kissed my neck with lips,
warm from morning porridge?

Even as you hold me
I worry that you might forget,

So much love…
so little time.

Posted by Midus at 07:30 AM

June 18, 2002

Go With the Flow!

Don’t rock the boat.
Do as you’re told.
Go with the flow…
of lambs to the slaughter!

Rebels cause unrest...
unsettle the status quo,
make others think.
Don’t dare rock the boat!

Igniting sparks is dangerous,
social conscious is a threat
original thought a curse…
Do as you’re told!

Mindless acceptance
is required by all
who wish to get ahead…
Go with the flow!

Ennui is encouraged,
soporifics spoon fed
to unwary flocks
of lambs bound for slaughter.

Posted by Midus at 07:20 PM

June 03, 2002

Wind Rider

I ride the wind
A tempest or a zephyr
spirit free and buoyant
touching loved ones softly
scarifying those who harm
my world.
My years are gaily coloured
Autumn leaves tossed in my wake.
Some crumble with the passing days
but dust of memory remains
to paint my revere.
Friends, lovers, children, parents,
enemies and passers-by
all have a place
as do the countries I have seen.
I rode love’s whirlwind
full many a time…
never finding rest
‘til now.
I try to paint my life in words
but find there are no colours
rich enough to picture laughter;
no hue dark enough
for depicting past despair…
What colour is a tear?
I ride the wind in search
of who I am
and find a complexity.

Posted by Midus at 07:55 PM

March 14, 2002

Switched on Bach

To a background of Bach
we travel, reaching crescendo
with the organist
glissando of pure ecstasy
delicately fingering nerves
vibrating with each chord.
Aware only of sound
permeating flesh.

Posted by Midus at 07:22 AM

March 05, 2002

The Kingdom's Key

Chill dawn spreads light on grey slate roofs
moist with night sweat.
Bound by habit, the unquestioning rise,
splash water on sleep sodden faces
dress and leave with empty bellies
that no wafer is capable of filling.

The atheists turn in their beds and curse the bells.
Bells that wake them
from peaceful, unbelieving sleep.
Why worship someone who’s been dead
two thousand years?

Millions could be feed on what it costs
to keep a dream alive.
What dreams are worthy of the cost?
It’s all a vanity of mortals
seeking out eternal life.
Who can forgive sin?
Only those who have been sinned against.

Turn to the East and send your prayers
to a city beyond your sight.
A place that thrives on the faithful
Who've strived for years to reach
it’s weathered walls
in pilgrimage
to gain a place in Paradise.

So many gods in history and modern times;
each, seemingly, demanding praise and sacrifice.
Yet it was not they but man,
who placed them on their pedestals.
Man who found a way to power
in another’s name.
Pretension covered with a cloak of piety.

I ask myself what I believe
and it is this:
Rank and file humanity,
with all it’s stupidity and flaws
has found the key to immortality –
that key, that God,
is Love.

Posted by Midus at 07:29 AM

December 14, 2001

The Entertainer

He probably had a good voice
before he hit the grog.
he knows all the words but
now they’re slurred
running into each other
lubricated by cheap plonk.

Sitting on the footbridge at Hornsby
guitar out of tune
manky hair and dirty clothes
abusing travellers
who won’t toss cash into his guitar case
he sings Summertime off key
as punishment.

He’s angry with everyone
scared he may be sober
when night comes
scared he will remember
how he got here…
Just a couple of bucks for a bottle?

Posted by Midus at 07:27 AM

December 01, 2001

Basic Black

Point Piper:
Freshly showered
in AC controlled atmosphere
she selects with care
her gown…
Elegant
understated
basic black

Redfern:
He stands before a window
bathed in sweat
trying to catch a breeze
his nakedness
elegant
simple
basic black.

Posted by Midus at 04:53 PM

Santa Fe Cutler

His accent cosmopolitan with hints of Johannesburg
He welcomed me to inspect his cunning wares
This lover of the cutlers craft

Rotund and handsome with a curling beard and flashing eye
He spoke of travel and the world he knew
His accent cosmopolitan with hints of Johannesburg

Inlaid handles gripped the shanks of fine honed steel
Displayed on velvet for maximum effect by he
This lover of the cutlers craft

His spaniel at his feet, he laughed and joked an hour away
(Long after my selection had been made)
His accent cosmopolitan with hints of Johannesburg

The package wrapped and paid for with my credit card
I hesitated at the door, loathe now to leave
This lover of the cutlers craft

How welcome he had made me feel to his small store
His farewell words were spoken with regret
His accent cosmopolitan with hints of Johannesburg
This lover of the cutlers craft.

Posted by Midus at 07:42 AM

November 26, 2001

Blacktown Babes

Tight “T”s and short skirts,
make-up the despair of “Woman’s Day”,
they try to claw their way
out of public housing
by their gel tipped talons,
while teetering on 6 inch heels.

Each day ends as it starts
with running for the train …
lucky girl who has a job
far from this multicultural cesspit
and can forget for eight short hours.

So what’s the future? Motherhood and /or
marriage to the bloke next door?
Old before their time and sick of scrimping
they sink before they learn to swim.

We had a Prime Minister…Paul whats’is name
who had his roots in Blacktown – but he moved.

Posted by Midus at 04:58 PM

November 01, 2001

Snapshots

There are few shadows in the canyon
To give respite from sun’s hot stare
As we clamber up the rocky paths

Walls of stone and cliffs throw back the glare
Select the tourists, sear their city skin
There are few shadows in the canyon

The kivas wait in stony silent mystery
The spirits of prior tenants laugh
As we clamber up the rocky paths

A well earned drink of water from my flask
Wipe my brow, replace my hat
There are few shadows in the canyon

Camera at the ready to record a perfect shot
Opportunity is everywhere around
As we clamber up the rocky paths

Time stops. I sense another presence here.
Surrounding shades become reality and offer me their hands
There are few shadows in the canyon
As we clamber up the rocky paths.

Posted by Midus at 07:44 AM

July 24, 2001

The Maze

My life’s a labyrinth, an unmapped way,
my hand a landscape with no lines to guide
from womb to funeral, too short the day.

Cat’s Cradles, once a game a child would play,
now roads, bunched into knots where terrors hide.
My life’s a labyrinth, an unmapped way.

Trapped in a maze of anger and dismay
I’m hiding in a mirror’s obverse side.
From womb to funeral, too short the day

You achieve my freedom, all fears allay
the knot myself, which you, with love, untied.
My life’s a labyrinth, an unmapped way

Love blossoms in a beautiful display
myself the rose who’s mouth ne’er spoke a lie…
from womb to funeral, too short the day


Life, death a highway with a toll to pay,
lessened by love that will not be denied.
My life’s a labyrinth, an unmapped way
from womb to funeral, too short the day.

Posted by Midus at 07:32 AM

July 16, 2001

Adobe Dust

Fine silt fills the air
visible in sunbeams
guilding the tiles
of the floor
decaying adobe
infiltrating
with each breath.

Posted by Midus at 04:26 PM

July 12, 2001

Winter Gloves

The Aspens glowed
gold and red
in the fading light
air crystal clear
and icy
mingled breath visible

I wore the gloves
you’d given me
soft leather
lined with lambs wool
supple and warm
enfolding every finger
like your hand.

Posted by Midus at 07:58 PM

July 06, 2001

White Muslin

She ran past me
Down towards the waters edge
Her white muslin shift transparent
in the sunlight
Bare feet flying
Scarcely imprinting the sand
Then casting aside her dress
She leaped through the spray
Revelling in the coolness
tasting the salt on laughing lips
Hair glittering with diamond drops
She raised her face and hands
Towards the sun
I lost sight of her in the sea mist
and the pounding surf
I turned and walked away
leaving behind my youth.

Posted by Midus at 07:45 AM

July 04, 2001

And All That Jazz

Mississippi river mist
swirls silently
streetlights throw haloes
of jaundiced light
fog rises from the street
the air is still
Notes from a tenor sax
sob for a St.Louis woman
long gone.


    She said Unzip me honey.
    In my memory
    her black satin dress
    slides to the floor
    and she sways to Ella’s
    seductive song
    reaches for the wine glass
    ruby red wine stains
    on smiling lips.

      No virgin
      but just for that night
      she was
      as I tasted her mouth
      Winemaid
      of those jazz tuned nights
      we improvised,
      soared in random tempo
      yet all was harmony.

Posted by Midus at 04:49 PM | Comments (0)

July 03, 2001

Midnight Blue

I wanted something special
a gift for one who holds my heart
so I took a shopping trip
in hope that I would find
a single item of perfection

I searched the racks and shelves
looked at the displays
until I found it hanging by itself
The deepest midnight blue
satin…smooth and sensuous to touch

I pictured it upon his frame
and felt my fever rise
No one makes a robe like this
unless they understand
the spirit of a man.

Posted by Midus at 07:11 AM

June 27, 2001

Façade

High-rise buildings lean
toward each other like
virginal sisters
trying to narrow the space
between themselves
limiting the sunlight’s
penetration
allowing Winter’s chill
to linger.

It’s all a façade
Virginal?
Feel the heat they generate.
The portals are opened wide
and their progeny, already
attired in business dress,
pour forth
Searching for sustenance
at the bar next door.

Night time falls and finds them
dressed in gowns of light
seductive to the eye
yet filled with emptiness.
Now their only companions cleaners,
primping, preening and preparing
for the next days trade.
With all in readiness
they are permitted rest.

Posted by Midus at 06:04 PM

June 18, 2001

Montmartre – a Tribute to Henri Toulouse Lautrec

Cheap whores and absinthe
night time becomes the day
floating in a hazy cloud
a crazy cloud while wormwood
rots your brain.
Stunted legs could not your love
of life deny
and so you painted dancers
who flashed theirs to the thigh
and more!
The Can-Can girls
the flirting gay chanteuse
were subjects for your art
and companions in your bed
as long as you could pay the price
to blind their age old eyes.
Paint and sketch
no time to rest
silk screen posters
oil and crayon.
Bright colours filling bill boards
outside the Moulin Rouge.
I have a feeling that acrylics
would have been your forte…
had they been around in your day,
but the mediums you worked in
have lasted through the years.
You take me with you on your midnight
forays through the streets of cobblestones
to watch the aristocracy at play
amidst the cafes and theatres
of seedy old Montmartre.
The glitter and the glamour
are only on the surface
misery and bondage
wearing make-up with a smile.
Somewhere along the way my friend
the booze became your master
and syphlitic paranoia
held you in a grip of death
not wanting to let go.
So sad to watch you falter
when all was at your feet
Paris in its Summer of Love
became your Winter of Defeat.

Posted by Midus at 07:13 AM

June 08, 2001

Paper Boats

Boats made from discarded poetry
leaching ink into the gutter
bring smiles to a child
too young to read of loss
and dreams
finally cleansed of dross
they continue wordless
until the sewer
claims them.

Posted by Midus at 07:27 AM

May 04, 2001

Plaza After the Rain

A dichromic study
Sepia lit
highlighting bare bones
trees in winter undress
silhouettes against the sky

Angular brooding buildings
stand sentinel
hold the Plaze hostage
they wait for the ransom
Spring’s sunlight

Rivulets of cold despair
slowly seep
freezing the core
Statues and citizens
recipients of frosty fate.

Midustouch 4/5/2001©
Inspired by the painting of the same name
by Paul Cornoyer.
The original hangs in the Museum of Art
St.Louis Missouri.

Posted by Midus at 11:19 AM

May 03, 2001

Sydney Sunday

Hand in hand across the park
we lovers laugh
in the quiet of Sunday morning.

Atop a statue of Prince Albert
is an iridescent orange
traffic cone -
lingering touch of irreverence
in the aftermath of Gay Mardi Gras

The streets and parkland cleaned
before the morning light
half a million people vanished
into nowhere
just the stragglers sleeping on the grass.

Posted by Midus at 07:22 AM

May 01, 2001

Faces on a Train

Eyes slide from mine.
Her hat is a touch of Christmas
a bold dash of holly red,
amid the grays and blacks of July
conservatism.
She sits, knowing every masculine eye
is turned in her direction

Reflected in the night dark glass
of sightless windows
she sneaks a surreptitious glance
Amused I grin
She lets half her smile escape
then retreats to
Chemistry by Zumdahl
(Third edition)

Mister Latino in the corner
sprawls with feet upon the seat
rubbing his big gold crucifix
between hairy backed fingers
Chatting up an unseen girl
on his yellow mobile
He’s loud, rude, uncouth
face all fake animation.
I wonder if she’s real

Next stop Normanhurst!

I scurry down the platform
Collar up against the wind.

Posted by Midus at 07:09 PM

April 04, 2001

You Know?

He kisses me…you know,
like no one ever did before.
On waking up,
at breakfast time,
just like he did the previous day.
I walk him to the gate
when he goes off to work.
He kisses me…You know
we talk in break times on the phone
He kisses me…you know
those little breathy sounds
I catch the kisses.
When he comes home from work
tired from the day and travel
after trudging up the hill,
He kisses me…you know…
glad to see me
glad to hold me
glad to know he’s home.
He kisses me
and I kiss him…you know?

Posted by Midus at 08:01 PM

March 06, 2001

Lime Pickles

Sunday Market at the Rocks
Colour jumps from the stalls
Handmade glass
Object d’art en masse

Two dreamers stroll
oblivious
with thoughts
of sunny, smile filled
days in a kitchen
filled with heady
spicy smells.

Tamil pickles,
salty, hot, whole limes
sets taste buds tingling
begging for a taste
of cooling water…
tempting,
Irresistible.

Time to leave
with quickening pace
through jostling crowds,
to catch a northbound train.

Posted by Midus at 07:43 PM

February 28, 2001

Chinos

He moved
as a dancer moves
sure of his steps
strutting with a casual air
full of the confidence of youth
his chinos held his contours
in a firm embrace
shirt unbuttoned
in the heat
revealed a flash of pale
smooth skin
that would darken in the sun
The smile he gave me…
brilliant.

Posted by Midus at 05:21 PM

February 16, 2001

Braille

If I close my eyes and let
my fingers take a journey
I read your body in my mind
through touch.
I trace the ridges of your spine
you shiver with anticipation
a minor earthquake in my arms
and I in yours
Your lips are soft to fingertips
softer still to searching tongue
I roam my hands on your strong flanks
which flex with promises
of heat filled nights
Blind fingers find a pathway
through unruly, thick dark hair
which falls across your forehead
and I know you smile
in pleasure as I gently rub
I recognise each crevice of your skin
intimately as you know mine
There’s the mole below your navel
which tells me that I’m right in line
to continue the excursion
and lift us to delicious heights.

Posted by Midus at 05:18 PM

January 28, 2001

Stone Cold Coffee

A copy of last weeks Sunday paper, lies neglected on the floor.
A coffee cup, with stone cold dregs, floats a moth upon the surface
The fan moves the stale, hot air around the stifling room
The same tune on the CD player drones on and on relentlessly
How could creativity survive in such a bloody mess?
No wonder you have writer’s block your brain’s gone soft!

So she left you did she? She of the voice so low and soft
She cast you of like dirty clothes upon an even dirtier floor
Are you going to wallow in self pity, look at you, you’re a mess!
You never saw beneath the shiny hard veneer, that so bright surface.
It was never your heart…she hounded your bank account relentlessly.
For god’s sake get up, shower, dress and get out of this room.

You realize, that I could get a hundred bucks a week, a room?
My accountant and my friends think I’ve gone soft
You see, normally I would be banging on the door relentlessly
Then your belongings would be on the hallway floor.
Maybe I see something wonderful beneath the surface
Just maybe we can salvage something from this mess

My father used to say it was “the sergeants ran the mess”
If you need a person to take charge my dear, I’m right here in the room
Oh I can be a bossy “know it all” upon the surface
But beneath it all, my hearts marshmallow soft.
Open the drapes and windows, wide, let sunlight spill across the floor
While you go eat, I’ll clean this place relentlessly.

Now, with you gone for just a while, the pain returns relentlessly
I look into the glass and find a tear- stained mess
So I wash my face and start to sweep the grimy floor.
I strip the bed and the smell of you pervades the room
And let’s me for a moment, imagine your kisses soft
I feel the passion grow below the placid surface.

Back so soon, you take my hand and stroke the grubby surface
I pull away, and polish, sweep and dust relentlessly
And hear your chuckle and then laughter soft
“Ah Maggie dear, the place is still a mess!
Let’s clear a space for dancing in the room.”
Then you take my hand and waltz me round the floor.

We seem to float across the floor and barely touch the surface
Music fills the confines of the room and still we dance relentlessly
We can’t see the mess and I lose myself deep in your eyes so soft.

Posted by Midus at 07:18 AM | Comments (0)

January 20, 2001

Instruction in Seduction

Caress the palm
of care worn hand
with fingers strong
Place teasing kisses
on my inner wrist
In elbow bend
sensitive to lips
create delicious shivers
Trace the contours
of my breasts
listen to my
quick draw breath
Come feel the silk
of inner thigh
watch the mist form
in my eyes
I’ll instruct you
In seduction
We’ll play the game
we’ve played so many times
and ecstasy
will be our prize
What fool thinks years
can cool the fires within
The tangled sheets
bear witness to that lie
For with the passing
of each single solitary day
we still keep learning
love

Posted by Midus at 07:38 PM

January 16, 2001

The Muster

We’re mustering cattle on our land
Moving the mob along
we’re riding heels and hand

Wheel them to the left….
Watch that mickey! He’s a pest!
We’re mustering cattle on our land

Gather in that bull before he breaks
This ain’t a cushy job for fakes
we’re riding heels and hand

The dust flies in a choking cloud
Crack that stockwhip good and loud!
We’re mustering cattle on our land

Crossing the river where it’s shallow
four hundred head of beef, hide and tallow
we’re riding heels and hand

I’m so bloody tired I won’t dismount
Run them through the race and start the count
We’re mustering cattle on our land
We’re riding heels and hand.

Posted by Midus at 07:33 AM

October 08, 2000

Prelude

The cloying smells of oil and turpentine
rise from the drying deck
A dog barks from a passing truck
ears blown at angles,
like wings in the wind.
Lawn mowers drone …
gigantic bees
loose in a suburban jungle
this balmy Saturday.
A child laughs.
Ellen at the Service Station
cooks hamburgers,
the smell of onions
overpowers the deck’s oily reek
The DJ
says it’s eleven fifty-eight am.
as a car arrives.
Muffled voices,
A sweet familiar scent.
She kisses him.
The rhapsody
begins.

Posted by Midus at 07:31 AM

September 11, 2000

The Shawl

Silk fringes reach the ground
tatty scarlet threads
of splendour past
still shimmer
in the light

Blood red poppies
on a field of night
draped on shoulders
not so young
yet younger than the shawl

the slippery silken swathe
escapes her grasp
sighs in it’s journey
to the waiting floor
and gathers at her feet

Firelight paints her body
with crimson blossoms
shadows night dark
caress the curves
he loved to touch

Listening to a memory
she dances slowly
moving to her heart’s beat
remembering still the sound
of his guitar.

Posted by Midus at 07:35 AM

September 09, 2000

Why Do You Suppose

The fairies and the elves
the pixies and the gnomes
never take the path
where the stink horn grows

It’s ghostly white in colour
elegant and slim
it’s gills are white and frilly
but evil lurks within

If brushed by passing wee folk
putridity explodes
and tiny fingers hold the noses
of fairies, pixies, elves and gnomes!

Posted by Midus at 07:53 PM

Helios: A Cinquain Sequence

Sunset
Helios sails
a golden bowl of light
on Oceanos’ ink black depths
‘til morn.

wake World
Helios comes
driving a chariot
of dazzling gold across the sky
rejoice

Posted by Midus at 07:34 PM

August 24, 2000

Study in Blue

Dawn filters
through teal drapes
blue pervades
sets the day’s tone
odd I should notice
be susceptible
fluctuating shadows
cast on walls
a gecko watches
upside down
I brush my hair
all I see are
flashes in a mirror
reflecting
no one

Posted by Midus at 07:18 AM

Moving Walls

Have you noticed
when there are two in a house
there is no echo?
It's as if one absorbs
the sounds and energy
of the other.
Remove one permanently
instantly the walls
bounce back every sound..
every footstep is your own
the place seems suddenly
twice as large.
When all trace
of one is removed
walls then move in
claustrophobically
you long to escape
to the outside world
for company.

Posted by Midus at 07:16 AM

August 22, 2000

Thirteen O'Clock

I swear that clock just struck thirteen!
I must be hearing things again.
Is life in suspended animation
held hostage by an alien hour?

Posted by Midus at 07:39 AM

August 19, 2000

With Just A Sigh

Death passed by
wrapped his cloak around
one who ran to meet him
eager for the pain to stop
she made the rendevouz
chose time and place
where is her spirit now
Her smile for us is dimmed
does she smile for him
love and caring gone
with just a sigh
does she shed a tear
did she while in the arms
of Morpheus’ embrace
think once of those
who loved her easy grace
and sparkling eyes
the price of peace
too dear.

Posted by Midus at 07:59 PM

August 03, 2000

Hog Hell

Hey Red wanna come for a ride
stilettos tap a staccato beat
ignore the boy head up with pride
I’d rather walk on my own two feet
than be seen on that pile of junk
my girlfriends would laugh
he’s such a punk
I wonder when he took a bath.

Tight sweater tight skirt
twitching my assets
I’m a tease and I’m a flirt
I’m a girl of many facets

Around the corner comes a dream
a gorgeous hunk on a Harley
Now wouldn’t we make a wonderful team
Hey he’s slowing down for a parlay
toss my hair and look real coy
pretend I’m quiet and shy
oh geez but he’s a good looking boy
I wanna ride with THIS guy

He asks the question I answer yes
after humming and hawing a bit
but now I’m in trouble I must confess
‘cause side saddle’s the way I must sit
holding on tight to my hero
he lets the throttle out with a roar
speedo’s at 60 just now it was zero
he opens it up and we’re going full bore

suddenly for some reason he halts
in a distant secluded place
from the Harley he vaults
it’s so dark I can’t see his face
but I know where his hands are
I’m scared I don’t like it one bit
Now he’s really going too far
my daddy would sure have a fit!

He doesn’t know NO
nor recognize STOP
how come he’s this low
and still over the top?

Just when I think that I’m really in deep
a headlight comes down the road
It’s the kid on the clunker I thought was a creep
he aims straight for the good looking toad
the creep’s on his cycle and off
as fast as the damned thing can travel
he rounds the corner the bike gives a cough
and he ends up sprawled in the gravel

Hey Red wanna come for a ride?
You bet I do!

Posted by Midus at 07:41 AM

July 25, 2000

Dust Devils

<div align="center">

Left foot braced
against right knee
motionless
a study in
obsidian
he stands
atop the bluff
spear in hand
watching
distant dust devils
spin
towards
the mulga trees
only to veer
away
at the last
as they did
from childhoods
pointed finger
he chuckles.
</div>

Posted by Midus at 05:59 PM | Comments (0)

July 22, 2000

SuperGlue Won't Work

Willow patterned plate
pieces strewn at random
cover the kitchen floor
dinner sticks to the wall
the target ducked

Curses loud harsh angry
yelled through the window
at a back in fast retreat
safe out of sight
wait for sleep

Creep in at midnight
wash gravy from walls
mop floor pick up
broken dreams
into the trash

Breakfast is so normal
it’s scary.

Posted by Midus at 07:20 AM

July 19, 2000

The Veil

Hear you this tale of purest love
set long ago in ancient Babylon
where hanging gardens draped the palace walls
it was the travellers dream to tarry long.

The Queen had built a city fair
the houses standing two by two
were covered by a single span
so, closer then the neighbours grew.

Under one such roof there lived a pair
divided by a mud brick wall
they met as children, friendship grew
and in their youth their loving conquered all

Pyramus was a handsome lad
much sought by maidens for a mate
yet shy, sweet Thisbe was his choice
though she’d been dealt another fate.

In dark of night when non were near
they’d creep to where they found a chink
between the brick work in the wall
and each the other’s loving words did drink

Never touching, yet their loving grew
until it overwhelmed the youthful pair
Thisbe wept for love of him and he for her
they decided then their lives to share.

When all were sleeping, she would to Ninus’ tomb
and shortly after when the coast was clear
Pyramus would follow and the two would meet
beneath the mulberry tree which did grow near

Thisbe, she slipped quietly from the house
her lovely features covered by a silken veil
she did not hesitate or wander from the path
her love, her Pyramus she would not fail.

Pyramus, he was delayed by family and friends
he managed to escape their watching eyes
and hurried to his lover’s tryst with Thisbe fair
in so doing, they would sever family ties.

While waiting long for Pyramus
sweet Thisbe rested ‘neath the tree
until there came a fearful, terrifying roar
and scared, near to death, the maid did flee.

Her veil she dropped, in haste to run
to seek the shelter of a hidden cave
and unbeknown, until too late
it’s loss did end their plan so brave.

A lioness, fresh from a kill, with bloody maw
drinks from the brook ‘til thirst is quenched
she spies the veil and rends it with her teeth
touched by bloodied fur, the veil is drenched.

Now hurries Pyramus and comes upon the site
No Thisbe waits to greet him with a kiss
Where could his dear one be, what could be wrong
He sees the silk and then, a beat his heart does miss

Oh torn and shredded web of mist
is this the blood of maiden fair
are these the marks of lion’s claw
has it devoured my love most rare?

The Mulberry tree keeps silent witness
unable to convey the truth
of fleeing maid and lions roar
it cannot aid the distraught youth.

Pyramus is soldier trained and armed
with honour and his battle blade
He feels his honour now besmirched -
for being late has killed his maid.

He draws his sword and as a soldier stands
he drives the point into his side
and then upon the blade he falls full force
His death will save his family pride.

A fountain of his blood is sprayed
upon the Mulberry fruit so white
and thus it was the fruit turned black
the colour of the darkest night

Now Thisbe comes and finds her love
and drawing forth the sword from his torn side
she prays and drives the blade deep in her breast
then falls she too and with her love her spirit does abide.

The prayer she made beneath the Mulberry tree
is heard by all the gods and from their funeral pyre
the ashes of the pair are mixed into a golden urn
the two, at last, have gained their hearts desire.

A sorry tale of love that never was fulfilled.
Now, when you eat the fruit from any Mulberry tree
just spare a thought when fingers stained you spy
for that sweet Babylonian pair Pyramus & Thisby.

Posted by Midus at 07:36 AM | Comments (0)

June 23, 2000

The Old Red Barn at Hermann

Deep in the heart of Missouri wine lands
I found an old red rustic antique store
filled to the rafters with age old treasures
once loved by owners not here any more

China dolls with their paint faded faces
Pilfered road signs from old route sixty-six
Albums of photographs show a wedding
A magicians suitcase full up with tricks

An bent wood rocker that’s seen better days
embroidered linen and hand crochet lace
beer steins and goblets decanters and mugs
a walnut clock with a gold painted face

A stereoscope shows honey moon views
Wax funeral wreath in a tall glass dome
Dance cards and lace fans and ivory beads
a dozen stitched samplers of Home Sweet Home

Bridles and horseshoes and farriers tools
Spoke shaves and augers then planes and plumb bob
shovels and pitchforks wheel barrows and awls
Farmers and tradesmen used these on the job

Old valve radios in fine wood cases
A gramophone with an enormous horn
Telegraphers keys and a signal lamp
stamps and coins from the year I was born

Landscapes and sketches of old Missouri
Portraits of ladies and postcards from Rome
tables of bric-a-brac boxes of books
Family Bible red leather bound tome

There on a hook hangs a fringed Spanish shawl
Silken seductive and woven so fine
thrown round my shoulders it makes me feel grand
the price so low that it had to be mine

Outside in the evening the Yucca blooms
next to a sign that’s written in German
and when I look back as we drive away
memory imprints the Red Barn at Hermann.

Posted by Midus at 07:34 AM

June 11, 2000

Cheek to Cheek

Slow dancing in the middle of the floor
Hip to hip, his hands hold her to him
her arms around his neck
he whisper in her ear

The saxophone sobs in the background
as they move, as they turn reluctantly
she throws back her head
and laughs delightfully

a private joke a secret suddenly revealed
He strokes her cheek and lifts her chin
they gaze into each others eyes
unaware they have an audience

A gentle kiss between two gentle souls
the piano hits a high note in celebration
the music ends their dance
but they still stay on the floor

Wrapped in their love they are oblivious
until jolted back to earth once more
a child’s voice calls out
Kiss Nanna again Grandad!

Posted by Midus at 05:20 PM | Comments (0)

May 19, 2000

Dust & Ashes

I’m wandering around the house
with a duster in my hand, trying
to control the accumulating dust.
Attempting to undo the ravages of
wind, dogs and neglect.
It’s a thankless task
there’s only me to see
the end results.
Anyway it won’t stay clean
for long
it’s a far cry from the sparkling
glass and crystal I took such
pride in polishing until it shone.
Where has that pride gone?
Oh, I know I’m talking to myself
but I thought
today being your birthday,
I might just have a word.
I don’t know why I bother
you’re not here, nor have you been
for coming up two years.
I’m trying to vindicate myself
to me.
I’d meant to give you
flowers for you birthday,
but it rained
and it I just couldn’t see the point
in getting soaked putting flowers
on a box of ashes in the ground.
I’ve not forgotten
just moved on.

Posted by Midus at 05:58 PM

May 16, 2000

Enigma Variations

I prefer daydreams
I can turn them off at will or return them
to a more pleasant path if they detour
from where I want to go.
Dreams? I thought I’d stopped dreaming
then I found love again
Well, it found me, I wasn’t looking for it.
Sure enough back they came to disturb
my sleep and leave me drained
tossing and turning in disbelief
that my uncontrolled mind could take me
on such a rollercoaster ride
I hate rollercoasters!
The gut wrenching, drops, the G-forces
imprisoning me on one terrifying spot
long enough to see distortion in myself.
Dreams huh? They take my longings
and turn them into enigma. Puzzles
twisting and turning into mazes
where I’m lost. and no one provided
a map!
Infinite variations on a theme intent on losing me
Personally I love Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody
on Paganini’s Theme but I seem to be stuck
with Elgar’s variations of his own enigma.
Dreams huh? Windows of opportunity?
I’ve heard them called that, but I can’t see
through mine. I wonder how you clean an
intangible?
Occasionally, just occasionally, I find a dream
I don’t want to leave, beautiful, overflowing
with peace and loving and then the alarm rings
and the snooze button won’t work!

Posted by Midus at 06:01 PM

May 14, 2000

Dream Weaver

When all the world is sleeping
except for me it seems
I’ll read your poems in my keeping
a skein from which to weave new dreams

I’ll tease my memory again and spin
a twist of magic through my hand
so long and fine ~ a wish is held within
each silken spiralling strand

Attached to the loom by tacks of trust
the warp is fixed to hold the weft
interlacing shimmering love & lust
a pattern forms from weaving deft

Flowers gleaned from a secret Eden
are strewn throughout the length
and golden strands of stolen even’
inter-woven make for lasting strength

Now shall I cut my dream cloth sheer
and fashion a mantle bright
to wear for you in your dreams my dear
when I come to you in the night.

Posted by Midus at 05:56 PM

April 25, 2000

Sundown

The seas are rough and unforgiving
the sky is grey as slate with rain
Come mariners and do my bidding
bend your backs, don’t heed the pain.

The rocks of North Cape close at hand
with jagged teeth to tear our craft
let’s man the oars boys run for land
while the sails hang tattered at the mast

Let’s all sing a shanty brave
then we’ll not hear the Sirens song
for if we listen, it’s a watery grave
that we’ll be sleeping in ere long

The lifebuoy drifted to the shore
at sun up on a calm clear day
the vessel gone for evermore
It bore the name Marie DuPree

Posted by Midus at 07:42 PM

April 18, 2000

Turn Up the Volume Please!

Just caught a memory on the run
Bing at his best
pleading for April Showers.
Turn up the volume please,
I can’t hear it for the rain
on the iron roof.

Posted by Midus at 07:42 AM

April 12, 2000

Stars & Rubber Bands

She stood high on her imagination
reaching forth to pluck a single star
to place it in her blue black hair.
A clasp to keep the heavy curtain
From shrouding her eyes

In reality she used a rubber band
on mouse coloured wispy strands.
I watched sensing her dreams
and longed to tell her
I love the colour of mice.

Posted by Midus at 07:46 AM

March 05, 2000

Sunday Service

She inclines her head
not knowing she’s the object
he worships each week
basking in her radiant glow
light pours through stained glass windows

Posted by Midus at 07:19 AM

March 01, 2000

Yesterday... So Long Ago

Why are my yesterdays so long ago -
when all I did was close my eyes in sleep?
Are they gone to dance with youthful step
and flirt and lead a merry chase
amongst the memories in my heart -
to come again as joyful dreams
when they are needed most?
Will they greet me with a smile,
when conscious memory fades
and then become again
the present…
my today?

Posted by Midus at 08:00 PM

February 20, 2000

How Strange

How strange
Not to love him,
Or even to care.
My day starts,
As usual
With him not there.

How strange
Not to wait for
A single short word.
My day ends
As usual
I’m glad I’ve not heard.

How strange
Not to bother
If he breathes or does not
My dreams are
As usual
He’s not in the plot.

Posted by Midus at 07:37 PM

February 11, 2000

Attic & Cellar

I climbed the steep stair
to the attic
you followed
just in case
I slipped
The air was dry
scented sweetly
chilli dehydrating
on wire wracks
A keg of apples
fermenting
cider for warm
late night drinks
bunches of herbs
crunchy to touch

In the cellar
deep below the kitchen
the potatoes
we dug yesterday
still cling to the dirt
loathe to let it go
Apples and pears
wrapped in brown paper
settle down side by side
in cardboard boxes
waiting for winter.

Posted by Midus at 04:51 PM | Comments (0)

February 10, 2000

The Ancients

Do you hear it
in the howl of the wind
in the shifting of the sands
the soft pad of yucca sandals
Anasazi the Ancient Ones
walking in the seasons' change
The death of the Earth
the quiet time
the white time
only survival matters

Do you hear it
in the drip of melting ice
in the music of the stream
the soft clink of turquoise beads
Anasazi the Ancient Ones
walking in the seasons' change
Rebirth of the Earth
the planting time
the growing time
soil tilled seeds sown

Do you hear it
in the rustling grass
in the summer storms
the chatter and the laughter
Anasazi the Ancient Ones
walking the seasons' change
The Earth abundant
the tending time
the toiling time
anticipating plenty

Do you hear it
in the fall of leaves
in the crackle of the fire
the trading and the stories
Anasazi the Ancient Ones
walking the seasons' change
Harvesting the Earth
the feasting time
the storing time
the circle joins

Do you hear it
in the canyons echos
in the whispers caught in time
the voices of a nation gone
Anasazi the Ancient Ones
walking away
the Earth abandoned
the drought time
the desolate time
sand drifts cover tracks

Posted by Midus at 07:25 AM

January 29, 2000

Vinegar & Bitter Herbs

The taste of vinegar
sharp upon my tongue
(Please, don’t let my hurt,
pour acid,
burning out your sun.)


Bitter herbs
a vile and odious brew
(Please, don’t let my bitterness
of heart,
prove damaging to you.)

Oaks astringency
to stop the bleeding .
Marrubium to banish gall

Hops, bear forgetfulness,
in nights of peaceful sleeping.
Please, let me share them all.

And, when the bitter taste
has left our lips

Here’s Rosemary,
for remembrance.

Posted by Midus at 04:57 PM

January 15, 2000

The Lost Generation

She broke a tribal tradition yesterday.
She spoke her dead mother’s name
on national Television no less.
It was a plea for an apology
from white Australians.
Ordinary people.

Ordinary people,
with little idea of why.
Why should they apologise?
It didn’t happen, not in their time.
They didn’t settle here way back when
the land was roamed by the Aboriginals.

The land was roamed by the Aboriginals.
Seduced and robbed by the white man,
they lost their own, one true heritage
Condemned to live in segregation
then force fed missionary zeal.
Far worse was yet to come!

Far worse was yet to come,
The came in big black shiny cars.
They came and took the children away.
A generation, stolen from black families.
Their intentions were good, educate the kids
turn them into pseudo whites, train them well.

Turn them into pseudo whites, train them well.
Forget the grieving mother the angry fathers
who had lost their loving happy children.
Ripped from their parents with no say,
they lost their families and identity.
They lost their Aboriginality.

They lost their Aboriginality,
until education, a new generation
began to wonder about their tribal past.
Where is my family mother? Who are we?
The stories were told, anger ignited hot blood.
Where is my land, what is my name, my tribal name?

Where is my land, what is my name, my tribal name?
A call from the children of a stolen generation.
The courts are filled with Land Rights claims,
no easy answers, few settlements are made.
An apology would be an admission,
with deep regret it is not given.

She broke a tribal tradition yesterday.
She spoke her dead mother’s name,
Looking for her sisters, her family.

Posted by Midus at 07:30 AM

January 09, 2000

On Losing Love

Each time I lose a love
I find I gain
experience and feelings
on a different plane

the act of letting go
though filled with sorrow
releases mismatched hearts
to maybe love again tomorrow

Old loves remain as friends
feet of clay and foibles known
they assist me on the path of life
love moves to another zone.

Posted by Midus at 07:26 AM

January 06, 2000

Windbreak Pines

Sentinels standing in a close ranked row
tall and straight in silhouette against the sky
Soldiers steadfast in their task a solid shield
against the screaming scarifying Winter gales.

Spring and the pines take on a different guise
soft sunlight filters through their outstretched limbs
draped in shawls of splendid silver tracery
each intertwined with next all in a stately line.

Steady soaking rain and cyclone’s blast
make scant impression on the stalwart stand
stolid and stoic they maintain their ground
guardians of the growing sugar cane.

Autumn stays but a brief season in their lives
there is no change but in the shortening days
the pines serenely wait in single file
to fulfil the special reason they were sown.

Posted by Midus at 07:55 PM

August 14, 1999

Sleeping In

I’ve decided to mark time today,
Stay in one spot in eternity.
I can’t retreat,
For surrender spells defeat!
To advance would mean
I have to face the mirror
Aged by yet another year.
I think I’ll stay right here,
In bed!

Posted by Midus at 07:43 AM