In an empty playground I hear the echoing throng
 Tui’s clicking din mocking tui’s mechanical song
I see whispering ferns and a lonely kauri tree
 Playing in the winter sun, the intuitive bird and me
A Kauri Tree
teara.govt.nz
How silently they cast their lies–
The deadly bait awaits
The unsuspecting little bites
Nibbling at their fates.
How carefully they set their sights –
Finger poised to shoot
Just above the little calf
Its mother rendered mute.
How joyfully they come and go
All smiles and platitudes
They punctuate their carefree lives
With deadly interludes.
(first posted last July)
When invited to a friend’s “bach,” I was surprised to discover that far from being the comfortable, relaxing cottage by the sea where the children could run wild and free, it turned out to be an imposing, sterile mass of straight lines and strict rules, and woe betide anyone who forgot to wash away every grain of sand before entering.
It’s like something out of a magazine;
A precise rectangular sun-dried dream.
We are met with porcelain veneer gleam,
wide like the rich marble slab running through
boundless glass paneled unparalleled view.
Anxious not to let the surrounding sand,
settled in our wild children’s crannies, land
on this desert of weekend luxuries;-
A chrome shower ~ outside please! ~
head strategically poised,
ready to wash away envy and noise.
| bach— n | |
| 2. | a simple cottage, esp at the seaside |
I witnessed a birth of words
as he read aloud
deep bloody wounds
gaping and closing
mouth like womb
lost in that moment
meaning was numb
drowned drum of hypnotic sound
heavy and urgent the words poured
shattered and proud
I yearned to cradle them in my own mouth.
a poem I wrote last year and decided to rewrite
I wrote this poem in response to The Guardian’s Poem of the Week, – a poem which surprised me with its very modern style and attitude, despite having been written 150 years ago. The commentary is enjoyable too, “it’s as if the scene bustled with ghosts from the future.”
Now modern lovers like to fill their houses
With character, reminders of the past
Period features and things built to last
Salvaged from those shipwrecked eras. We browse
Through toughened-glass windows of woodburners
And see ourselves reflecting, warm and smug
On planting natives and foolhardy shrubs
Reframing John Constables and Turners
Pleased we’ve unearthed such secrets. Who else knew
Neutral tones and a glass of Chilean red
Could hide disappointment and thoughts unsaid?
We have mint and thyme where daffodils grew.
The truth is revealed on luminous screens
“Ah, love dies, but wood floors are bound to last
And wine spillages can be mopped up fast!”
You and me shiver now in other dreams.
This is a poem I wrote last year. I realise now that it has less to do with the 2011 Rugby World Cup (here in NZ), and more to do with living with the threat of an Earthquake. We had a fairly strong one recently!
Dinosaur clouds, slow heavy ships sailing the day’s burnt orange lake
Pterodactyls like gossamer, veiling the night, urging white in the wake
Anxious not to land upon the monsters minds make.
The black underbellies of these suspended reptiles reflect the flare
The floodlight of a menacing stadium’s slow erupting glare.
A warning to this funeral pyre free-falling into some nightmare.
Desperate, dispersed wildebeest, crushing blind unheard into hilly black sky.
Listening to the bubbling stadium’s volcanic victory cry,
Eyes wide, I’m sleepless and silent as the black clouds hasten by.
(photo: AFL/ Fairfax NZ News)
[Credit: NASA/JPL]
Whole or by the slice
A meteoric doer-upper
A star buy
Quick!
It’ll be gone in the blink of an eye!
Imagine ~
Your own infinity pool overlooking the blue planet
It can’t get better than that, can it?
Navel gaze in your own star spa
Come on, dig deep, it ain’t that far!
Your own private beach
Within easy reach
Of most spaceports
Don’t just live the dream
Live on the dream-making machine
An out-of-this-world investment
A shimmering, cosmic asset
You’ll be the envy of all
Can’t you feel the pull?
She’ll be gone soon so don’t delay
One moon for sale – BUY TODAY!
Cry tomorrow.
You can’t sell me, the moon cried
As they sliced her up like an onion
And dried rivulets filled with tears
But only Earth could hear
They can’t hear you sing, my moon
They never heard my song
They can’t hear a thing, dear moon
They’re all but dead and gone.
Â
(NASA)
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