A polished khaki mailbox, stood post at the edge of his yard,

And every other morning, Old Pat would hand him a card,

A present from aunty Helen, a neighbour's wedding invite, 

A reminder about the insurance, with a rate that wasn't quite right. 

On Sundays, the local paper; on Wednesday, a Woman's Day, 

On Friday, a pamphlet for groceries; but nothing on a Saturday. 

Once a year, at Christmas time, he'd be dressed in a tinsel suit.

The mailbox, at the edge of his yard, stuffed full of festive loot. 

He didn't mind the busy times, nor the weight of his usual duty,

He didn't mind that he had to hold, not keep, the passing booty.

He liked the puppy at his leg, that barked and wet his limb.

And too the pigeon on his head, that trod and cooed upon him.

When it stormed, he didn't shudder, just held his ground in the wet,

For all the wind, he'd never fall, to do so'd be a regret.

When the calm of winter'd come, he'd snoop and have a reading,

Of dreams and hopes, of newly betrothed, and other lives worth leading.

A polished khaki mailbox, stood post at the edge of his yard,

Every family been and gone, ten years since he last saw a card.

He'd heard about the emails, on the tv across the street,

Just like he'd heard the telephones, and Zoom calls on repeat.

On Sundays, he'd sit there waiting, for a paper that'd never come,

On Wednesday, he'd wish for a magazine, or a comic, or something fun.

Once a week, he'd watch with hope, as a van pulled into the drive,

But the parcel was left by the front of the door, waiting for them to arrive.

He didn't mind the quiet time, he tried not to overthink.

He didn't mind that his job was done, much faster than a blink.

He liked the purpose he once had, he'd reflect come demo day.

A polished khaki mailbox, like a letter, was sent away.

There's a year that's waiting, just for you.

To do the things, you were meant to do.

To be the person, you've wanted to be.

To live the life, that sets you free. 

There's a year that's waiting, for you and I.

To explore new horizons, to laugh and to cry.

To unpack all the struggles of the past undertaken.

To rewrite all the choices and words now mistaken.

There's a year that's waiting, for us and all.

To embrace our inner truths and accept our own call.

To fight for the movements that lie deep in our hearts.

To love every other, even the broken misplaced parts.

On a Thursday evening, you caught my eye,

For I'd caught yours too, as you passed me by.

A friend's introduction, my cheeky slight grin,

A pause that hinted at what might begin. 

I retold my name, you retold me yours,

We drank for a minute, then tore up the floor.

You mocked my accent, I teased at your height,

Then we parted ways, and walked into the night.

We connected on socials, a sign of the times,

We didn't speak once, just sat the sidelines.

Our mutual friends pulled us out to the pubs,

So a few times again, we danced at the clubs.

One meet, in a second of feeling transparent,

We stole a quick kiss, the path made apparent.

Life became busy, with travel and such,

But we started to write, we kept in touch.

An evening of lust once crept upon us,

And it all felt quite certain, no worries, no fuss.

You soon then invited me on our first date,

A connection fast moving beyond just a mate.

A morning over coffee, a spin in the late,

The easiness between us, a meaningful wait.

Sleepovers at mine, a movie at your place,

Questioning the speed of our quick moving pace.

And yet, no discomfort, no outside comparison,

A bond growing solid, in a romantic garrison.

I trusted in fate, unexpected but able.

And as you then said too, we feel quite inevitable.

I’m going to jump, but I’m not on the edge, 

Not peeking over cliffs, not standing by the ledge.

My ears are popping, but my heart is calm,
My journey now open, my soul in my palm.

I’m already jumping, but I'm not in the air,
Not falling in limbo, not liminally there. 

My thoughts bask in light, knowing what's true,
My body feels right, my soul reaches too. 

On a rainy Sunday I turned eighty-three,

And right by the bed, you sat with me.

You looked at my hand, I looked at your smile,

We sat in the silence, then talked for a while.

I told you that you were my last old friend,

And I saw the confusion on your face extend.

I explained that we'd met over ten years ago,

On a warm summer day, by my Winnebago.

You had asked for a spanner, or a tool of some sort,

And we'd finished the day with a bottle of port.

At that point in time it had not crossed my mind,

In that moment, you'd be the last old friend I'd find.

Since we met I've known others, family and friends,

But quite often for them, I've been a means to an end,

People come and go, but rarely do stay,

And with that I'm reminded of you and that day.

We laughed and we shared, and we drank, and we cried,

And we held each other as our older friends died.

We visited each other, and wrote via letter,

And when you got ill I'd pray you'd get better.

As I lay on the bed, on that rainy day in June,

I knew I'd be leaving, passing by soon.

I never knew how important our friendship would be,

My last old friend, and the last one I see.

Two little fruits bats climbed upon a tree, 

A place to call home, they hung there with glee. 

The evening was quiet, the sky ever black,

They’d found a high branch, on which they could slack. 

Soon came the ‘morrow, but the sky hadn’t changed,

Darkness encompassed the view they’d arranged. 

A keeper walked sulking from the nearby abode,

Looked at the sky, and near fell off the road. 

For above him was a wave of wings and flock;

A sky made of feathers, it gave him a shock. 

For as far as he saw, no glimpses of blue, 

So he followed the pathway, the mass of birds flew. 

Straight cross the lawn, and right over a fence,

Down a steep gully, building suspense,

The flock had a target, the giant old gum,

They aimed for the branch with the bat and his chum. 

The plovers were nasty, all swoopy and dumb,

“You can’t hang round ‘ere, go back where ya from.” 

An owl tried to reason, play middle ground,

“There’s plenty of room, down close to the ground.”

Some lorikeets defended, “diversity is real”

While a Kookaburra laughed and left for a meal. 

“Why on earth, are you upside down?”

Asked a daft little Galah, wearing a frown. 

A magpie got clever, and tried on his tricks,

“Have you thought about sleeping on a pile of sticks?”

The crows joined the magpie, attempting persuasion,

“What if your old home was the place of invasion?”

Not sure what to do, the bats hung quite still,

To leave their new home? Or stay for the thrill?

“I see you up there,” called the Emu below. 

“Don’t worry yourselves with the Maggie and Crow.

They all called me names, just because I can’t fly.

But we’re stronger than that and I’ll tell you why.

That tree is not theirs, it’s for all wings to share,

And we’re all pretty different, from our talk to our hair. 

If they’re worried for looks, or where you were born,

They aren’t worth your worry, they aren’t worth your scorn.” 

And with that the great emu chucked them a smile,

Jumped off the ground and sprinted a mile. 

The two little fruit bats, a new sense of calm,

Stayed in their spot, on the tree by the farm. 

Eventually the rude birds found new things to hate,

But the ones who were kind, made a new mate.

Bernard was a bird, all covered in white. 

He hid in the daytime and glowed in the night. 

One day he decided he’d no longer chirp.

Nor whistle, nor squark, not even a burp.

He’d heard of a whale who moaned quite a bit,

She whined about nothing, but hunger and sh*t.

Wanda the whale had lived a long time,

But the constant complaining, Bernard thought a crime.

He once had some friends, when he lived in a store.

But never spoke to them. Not once, not at all. 

When he moved to a new home, his owner was shocked,

He kept his mouth quiet, he kept his beak locked. 

He wasn’t a Buddhist, nor from Verona.

Bernard was a budgie, with a modest persona.

Oh, toilet paper,

As white as snow,

You always helped,

At the end of the flow.

Oh, toilet paper,

With many a use,

For noses and bottoms,

You've suffered abuse.

Oh, toilet paper,

So rare and so sweet,

Who would have thought,

You'd become such a treat.

Oh, toilet paper,

You're making us nuts,

Fighting in aisles,

By hungry big butts.

Sticks and stones may break my bones,

But names can never hurt me.  

They may make me sad, discouraged or mad,

But that pain is mine to set free.

Rights and privileges, one and the same,

Rely on responsibility.

Safety for one, limits freedom for some,

That's a balance that simply must be.

Power is a power, an energy, a being; a way to conduct one's own walk.

Power is internal, external, everpresent; conversation, interaction, a talk.

Power over is coercive, inservitude, slavery. A government dictating speech.

Power to is autonomous, potential, bravery. An inventor inventing that within reach.

Power with is collaborative, united, growing. The teamwork that wins the game.

Power within is awareness, mindful, knowing. Choosing to protect that inner flame.

I cut my father's hair last night,

He wasn't very pleased.

I gave him such a great big fright,

He made my mother sneeze,

He huffed and puffed and yelled at me,

I was grounded for a week,

I went to bed without my tea,

And was told to stop my cheek. 

I like the way I made it look,

And all I had to do,

Was copy from a great big book,

Then say that it was you.