country walking

this path standing

this one i’m standing on

once trodden by Victorian ladies

all crinolines

now gone to nature

I took my stand here

the miles had led me to

the one conclusion

not to keep on keeping on

throwing good love no return

was no longer worth the effort

no matter of promises made

time to take stock

never mind the past

the future needs to be remade

remodelled in free

I see

those sergeant major eyes

checking corners for dust

carpet for mud specks

kitchen for comparisons

to her spotless place

bigger rooms for size

she got a nice new lease car now

holidays in the sun on layaway

but I don’t see her laughing much

getting out amongst friends

doing the things you do

y’know like for fun

& I’m ok with what she got

I’m happy can live with the ways

we got the things we do

hoping one day she will find

her happiness too

it was late

I was talking loud

as I can do when wine drunk

aware with all tensions

as my words were not getting through

to my vino sozzled mob at the table

the death of the hippie my theme

giving in to passion writ large

the death of the hippie was an event

the Mime Troupe the Diggers

Emmett Coyote all the mommas

recognising hippie was done


taken up by the store greedheads

selling shit beads mandalas incense

paisley rags run up in sweat shops

too many kids had run away arrived

hoping to find a dream instead got hungry

exploited found the wrong drugs people

missed the message of inner being

but bought the fashion to fit in

never the hippie way

the substance the ideas were lost

in graphics music written words

& me you we were the losers

because there was a time when

love was all you need

& all that’s left is smoke dope

beads mandalas paisley patterns

promises made

bits of paper found

when preparing to thin the herd

promises made to her

& her

of fidelity

undying love


oodles of moon in June

romantic guff

thrown there on the line

from the low depths of self pity

anguish of being thrown over

& now?

I have no idea

of where she is

or her

no trace of the love

I put down

no irony there

in the phrases of eternal care

loose yellow

jealousy is a loose yellow dog

cocking its leg everywhere

shitting on any


& the happiest bit

is its practitioners

seem hugely unaware

they are taking apart

from behind their gossamer veil

I’ve heard them

claiming higher ground

morality utility

doing their best

calling out

pointing fingers

distracting attention

from their own conflicted


not daring to question


for the true answers


scent of evening

you can see them still

bent figures

foraging edges of woods

road sides

picking up sticks

fallen boughs

& if a tree should fall

blown over by winter winds

that truly is a windfall

out come the saws

mainly chain these days

but the bowsaw is still present

& in minutes short hours

all that is left

are drying vines

fluttering dead leaves

to mark the spot

& the smell

from the chimney pots

of woodsmoke

the smell of home

of sleepy villages rural small towns

still in touch with the old ways

if now

they have logburners

& not stoves

always needing blacking


caught sight of you

coming out of a

downtown supermarket

as ever

your man carrying your bags

you looked ok


& I wondered idle

who he was

whose money

you were drinking on now

whose car

you were slowly wrecking

walls gateposts ditches

were always your nemesis

that & putting oil in the things

I drove away slow


you were not in my rearview