Auckland Poetry

A quiet world –
Where the music is the shimmering light that ripples across the coral reef.
A magical dance crackles below its surface –
The tail, the fins and the Angels’ all know the tune.

I rock like a baby in the wind –
A lullaby hammock to quiet the storm that rages within my soul.
My forgotten quest –
For Peace and Happiness.

Numbness only remains –
Washed away by the warm waters and the tears from heaven.
His skin is moist and glistens in the sunlight –
A bronze God a whisper away but lifetimes apart.

Desiccated by monstrous winds –
The husk remains, the shell of life that clings to the fount.
I must return to the dance –
The magic that crackles below the surface.

Find the light that ripples –
Even in the depths of despair.
A secret world –
Where the quiet music embraces even the deaf.

May I hear the Angels’ chorus once more –
Touch me. Ecstasy.
Let the joy embrace –
And overwhelm your senses.

My Love

By Vaughan Shepherd © 2007

Take a wooden stick and hit a pole with it
Listing to the sound it makes as you fly
into rage the detail and shortness of breath
as the wood breaks against iron its age outnumbering
its flex 3 to one and tearing its fibres now dried and unconnected

the eye moves in the socket with ease but broken
by a lack of control the scholar’s ear that opened
like a butterfly wing and raced into skylight

Tortured ribbons silk threads dragged into patterns
could not recover quality nobody to reorganise them
until you started trying to undo the mistakes
unpick the threads and put them back into order
something I thought would not do without you

on the spinning world, unconfessed thieves chased the wheels
and plotted to collect insurances on the world coming to its end
there they queue up to collect their sacred dividend

Copyright © 2008 by Nicholas Alexander

Tanka

Moths play outdoors,
Street light and a summer night,
Not in the wardrobe
Where they are safe and cozy
Eating Uncle Fred’s old suit

Tanka

I sit in the yard
The soft night rests on my lap
String photos of you
On a necklace of memories
And I think of dawn and love

Tanka

The moon cannot fly
It asks of you to be its wings
Imagination;
Not so very difficult,
Recall the buzz of first love.

An ancient moon lay warped, fluttering,
In the moss-reeking fishy pond, flickering.
The cool night air raking archaic sentiments,
Stale, evoked only hollow consequences,
And it looked as though my mind was reflecting
In the rippling glassy darkness,
As I searched for the two,
the mind and the moon.
A frog-like thought leaped in on to the surface,
Deranging and scattering the images.
The water seemed uneasy and nervous,
Incompetent to deflect radiance and
The darkened glitter basked in the gloominess.
Up in the heavens the clouds shrouded the glow,
The firmament a black blanket of holes.
Reality of life, the sheaths, the five domains
Prohibited love to enter the remains
Of old age’s distrustful psyche, to which, a breeze,
Now tried to respond in vain, to mellow.
The facade of the make believe, made no efforts
To defend and delude with its time worn enticements
Lasting only the life span of the trembling moths.
Looking up and down, there was no trace,
Inside the blanket or under the rippling glass,
The dismal haze, of a round, scarred face.

The static is great
The edgy horizon looks like a dozen beers
I creep into folding bed linen
Wishing I was dead 20 times
She is snoring
I’m growing a beard
The teeth are decaying
The limbs are shortening
I lift the book to read
And see I can’t see so
I put on the $2 glasses and
Glimpse lines that finally make sense

Keith Nunes

Pictures…

Of sunsets on the dawn,

Birds serenading the moon,

Wind sweeping the stars,

Of liquid blue ice,

Of footprints on water

Sketches on the mind canvas…

Words…

That are tripping down a sound

Forsaken by Father Time,

Or drifting above the sand

Frozen in white light,

Like handprints on the wind…

With random thought,

And manipulated words…

The pictures of poetry are written!

Samantha Braum

Slow time may quickly pass into waiting arms

But sometimes what has been left stays fresh

And we come to find it has been meted no harm

Which I had expected I must confess.

There is change in each of us; we’re different, less free

Which happens and isn’t to be good or bad

Thankfully we still speak the same tongue eternally

We cherish our past and still we add

To the legend of us unravelling over time.

While we disappear to parts we also last

We both know that neither us, nor life, is sublime

But why remember mistakes when slow time moves fast?

Unravel tongue thankfully

“Life sublime happens eternally” but

Make mistakes in the same speech.

Time’s waiting arms meted harm. No!

Legend mistakes slow time for what is preserved-

There IS cherished change.

And more- a confession; we both know.

We both know what stays quickly fresh

Good or bad expectation; less free life

Still some slowly sublime change

And now we are suddenly told by children we are old

And referred to as ‘that man’ or ‘that woman’

By people we don’t know.

As a retort I have decided to age gracelessly

With humour, and exaggerate my deafness

Laughing when people who don’t know me shout at me

So I can reply “easy, I’m not that deaf”.

Those who do know me will roll their eyes and

Expect me to remember something I really didn’t hear.

But I am still pink and squishy on the inside.

In short- pretty much the same, maybe a bit dirty from the poisons

Our society enjoys. And I feel the same as I always have.

What is it to feel older? At most I realise I can handle

The shit things that happen in life

Which I might not have thought I could deal with.

But for all that one gets educated by life

Some people have more living to do in the same period of time.

Age is experience.

And I feel the same as I always have.

Our society expects me to remember something

I realise I can handle. But I am still on the inside.

Pretty much the same, maybe from the poisons

a bit gracelessly I exaggerate dirty humour

Educated by life I might not have thought

I really didn’t hear ‘that man’ or ‘that woman’ but

I’m that deaf.

As a retort I have decided to age

And now we are suddenly told by children we are old

my deafness laughing and What is it to feel older?

to experience Age is At most The shit things that happen in life

So I can reply “easy,”

when people who don’t know me shout at me

Those who do know me will roll their eyes and

I have been referred to as pink and squishy

By people we don’t know.

Which I could deal with but for all that time one gets.

And In Some people living With short of enjoys

do in the period more same.

And and Our old older legend living less: I as I. But But I am all woman and children and always man

why when We reply We quickly find Some Educated eyes

who know (dirty unravelling know gracelessly poisons people I Thankfully don’t know).

be good or experience much bad society

may I not hear or remember Those There things. time period to time harm

To to the the I have the tongue. is it been? it happens

I have had humour. I exaggerate life So realise

deafness mistakes neither the now nor the eternally squishy.

shout is As shit is easy sometimes; will we know,? no us decided different.

my meted sublime maybe and (add) And And mistakes

who we’re with when we laughing life Which I gets one of.

and still The same time And still the same us

that time the same Pretty people Which are we

Which enjoys expected life and feel
’ at a are are short Slow Age age arms a At been by But be By both bit but but I have handle has have I on., I do deal deaf didn’t do don’t by I ‘must most moves me me more me made might me ‘I’m. happen have in “,”.into In. in. is feel fresh fast free from for to I. in each;, of our of over. us same as is inside slow isn’t still speak stays some something suddenly remember really retort roll referred pass pink past passed preserved people to that that that thought told to that their to to that to There can can cherish change come confess could expects? we we What With waiting what we

Livorno Mon Amour

Livorno this dreary harbour port, not Rome and now in

winter a ghost town, every window shuttered telling not

of life inside. Into the bar came a young woman, long legs

like a colt, she was frozen warmed her hand and fanny by

the fire. I thought she looked like the American I had once

seen the shadow of in Trieste, I offered her a drink, she

had a coke, then she left to resume her lonely profession.

Later that night I saw her by a corner and as cold rain hung

In the air; I took her to an hotel, got heating going, she

jumped into bed ready to do her duty, but I was pensive

waiting to write a poem about Trieste.

When I awoke tired morning light seeped through holed

curtains, the girl had put a blanket around me in the night

I was grateful for that. We breakfasted; she had fried eggs

and ham, I drank coffee and a little brandy. Saw her dance

down the street, yes she looked like an eager colt. Hoped

she would meet a rich man, marry him and become his

respectable whore instead of ending up an old diseased

slag begging drinks from men who are ready to debase her.

Two days later I took the train to Trieste, I asked around

but no one had seen the American girl and the poem was

never written.

The Sea

Silent sea dark and deep, on your surface I skimmed
for years, feared you too sleepless nights, mountainous
waves when my only defence was luck; romantically
thought that you had secrets to divulge when hearing
whispers in the tropical night. Now I know it isn’t so
and that makes life sadder than it ought to be, endlessly
wet you are Saragossa weed, fog and terrifying sharks;
like everything else, you suffer from advanced pollution
but when I hear the melancholic fog horn sing, late in
the night, I wish I were skimming your surface again.

Planets aligned, stars shine
When I see your face
It brightens mine
The lights burn
Out in the distance
I never knew a love like this is

All my worries seemingly disappear
When ever I can feel you near
Just a clichéd rhyme
Without reason
For you my darling
I’d commit treason

As the waves crash into the sand
I think of you and smile
Down by the sea
Something I haven’t done for a while

Waters shimmer, lights flicker
Suns rise and set
I can’t see you right now
But that feeling I won’t forget

You make me happy
You set me free
No matter how hard things get
No matter how tough
Knowing you still love me
Is more then enough

I sit in the car
Writing this poetic reflection
If I could only put music to this
It’d be perfection

If this is as good as it gets
Then honey why are you not you here?
If this is it why have you gone away?
I would leave flowers on your grave if I knew where you died
May god save your soul and for all who know?

Love leaves the man blind, he is of our kind
Hungry to be more than one
More than one this time
He can’t take back what’s taken from him
Now she has gone away there is no red left in the blood
The blood that flows full through his veins,
Into his mind the land of dreams
But a song comes from the heart
The heart that’s burnt a thousand times every time he mentions her name.

There you are
At the foot of my bed
You’re so beautiful
My lady in red

The shape of your body
And beautiful curves
You’ve never let me down
If memory serves

Your voice
Sounds like an angels harp
You are my guiding light
Leading me through the dark

The colour of your skin
Never fades away
I know you are there for me
Any time
Night or day

You’re faithful and sincere
You wont cheat
Or betray
You’ll never lie to me
No matter what I say

The way my hands
Glide gently
Down your body
And up your neck
There’s a connection there
That has nothing to do with sex

I feel dehydrated
You’ll always be my first
I need to hold you again
Just to quench my thirst

You’ve been here all along
While I’ve been running
Around the world
If I find true love or not
You’ll always be my girl

You waited
Patiently
For my return

There you are my lady in red
Sitting pretty
At the foot of my bed

A Trolls Poem

The Smooth, flat stone I threw, skimmed the lake
seven times before sinking into the lake, where it
will be safe till the lake is drained.

Child of the black berg which was so lovely that
men with bulldozers came…and no more said;
now it is almost just another big hole.

You can call it an eye socket, watery, misty not
unlike the eye of an old troll re-reading a poem he
remembers from his youth.

Senryu

October’s dawn
Sorrowful as a bedroom
Reeking of booze

Senryu

Dark hotel room
Lit up by blinking neon light
Paid sex and silence

Senryu

Echo of Terns’ shrieks
Empty row-boat in a fjord
Spooked is silence

Deadly sex

I knew she was seeing other men but pretended
I didn’t know didn’t risk confront her,
It pleased her ego to have sex with many men.
She wanted me to know about her infidelity it
made her lusty. She hinted she teased, bloody
games she played and our love got more intense,
anger was involved, left scars on our mind and
our bodies. It was love that kills, I didn’t play
that game, her next lover strangulated her… how
easily it could have been me. Desperate to win
her love I nearly killed her twice

If They Could Talk.

The walls in the bedroom were once creamy
reflecting the former occupants middle class
pretensions, now they were just winter grey
and sad as only walls can be that have had their
favourite pictures removed and placed on walls
unknown, in a new home in some out of town
housing estate.

Not only the bedroom but every wall, ceiling
and floor of this two story house were bare, it
only housed a ghosts that was adapt at stealing
copy pens, it was standing there by the curtain
less window in the living room (what irony)
contemplating if it should move into the office
block across the road only they didn’t use pens
there anymore.

People wrote words on a screen and sent them
into a void or to people who deleted them before
reading what had been written. Morning now,
the common soul of every plank in the house
and waited for executioners, in overalls, to come
end the old order of things and build a shiny new
city centre, with rings roads, supermarkets and
a grand opera house.

The Thing

In my home town they were closing down
the old library, going digital, giving away
leather bound book. I parked by its door
got as many beautiful old books as I could
carry, alas, I had parked in a no parking zone
the police had dismantled my car, an officer
guarding the pieces said if I paid the police
would come back and reassemble the car,

I agreed, but it began raining, they couldn’t
come before it stopped, staggered back to
the library with my book, but it had shut its
doors for the day. And did it rain, the books,
now a dough of damp leather and wet paper
gave birth to a ugly, slimy thing that crawled
back to the library leaving asexual spores of
dense, computerized words behind.

Haiku

Summer sunlight
Filtered through green leaves
Made old moss golden

Saying

Chase the rainbow
Not for its illusory gold
But its beauty

Senryu

The carob tree’s shade,
Soft as a dusky mistress
A tropical night

The Long Delusion

I sat in a café when she came in, hadn’t seen her
for ten years, she had aged badly, used to be slim
now she was scrawny, and her glorious red hair
had lost its lustre. Her eyes grey and bland, they
used to light up and shine as diamonds in the heat
of the night, perhaps they still did. She sat down
we had coffee talking about harmless things

Then she said: “Why did you always give in and
agree with me when we had an argument?”
I was going to say: “I wasn’t interested enough in
the cause to argue about it” but said: You know
me dear, everything for a bit of peace in the house.”
I thought it was because you didn’t love me,” she
said and for a moment looking lost.

I was an island in a stream of people, but hear and
saw nothing, what a fool, how deluded, I had been
all those years, of course I didn’t love her, it was her
warm embrace I had yarned for and still did.
When I looked up to agree with her for the last time
She had gone she had gone, her scent lingered in
The air, then dissipated as all things must.

Helping the Banks

The night is as obscure as homemade wine the TV screen
casts a grave light in a room that has no shadow; presidents
and prime ministers appear tell us of financial woes, even
the forgotten George Bush is there; they say they are doing
the best they can and that savers money is safe; but I know
they are as powerless as I’m, but they were the ones who
let lose the beast of a free market believing in the myth that
it would correct itself that is to ask a drunk to stop drinking,
gallons of booze and it are all free. “And your money is safe”
is not true, when a bank goes belly up the savers money is
the first to go. Had I money I would take them out and place
them under my mattress but since I’m broke I tell you.
They will try to stop you say it will make matters worse, so
let it; withdrawing you money is the only power you have,
you have little to lose, they will lose everything for without
your cash they are nothing

Cena De Amor (Love scene)
By IBN BAQI ca 1145
translated from Poruguese

When the night curls up
Its tail of shadow and
Drinks dark wine so thick
That is as lunching on dust,
Absorbed through nostrils;

And it tightens around me
Like a brave man grips
His sword; and its pleats
Hang like standards from
My shoulders;

That’s when I give in to
The sweet weight of sleep
It breaks up our embrace
And I push her away from me,
The object of my love,
‘Cause it is impossible to sleep
On a pulsating pillow

The Dancers

Went to a dancing competition, but little did
I know it was naked dancing by grotesque
old people, the audience, all young, laughed
violently, great fun this, till their faces
became a mask of horror, when realizing they
were looking at their own future.

Someone pointed a finger at me and shouted
“he is old.” and hundred hands began pushing
me to the dance floor and tearing off my suit,
but I was able to jump out of an open window
were I landed in a stream five fathom deep, of
tears that had forgotten why they had cried,
and crocodile tears shed at gravesides;

I drank it all went back to the window spewed
it over the shameless old people who had let go
of their dignity in pursuit of eternal youth, and
fled into the woods. Torchlight, barking dogs
and angry voices: Get him, he isn’t a democrat
wants to stop us having innocent fun, would
have been a good nazi, string him up.”

Pale sunrise, still- life- forest- a deer grazes
in the clearing, suddenly it jumps in the air,
a red rose is born on its chest, and as a single
rifle shot echoes amongst trees, a day begins.

October

Woke up with a start, the night was cold
a dream had disturbed my peace;
a black hole in the ground loose soil from
its edges kept falling into its endlessness.

Got up looked out of the window into a street
of pale light, my breath fogged up the glass
I saw a distorted image of my youth;
“How old you are,” it mocked.

I pressed my head against the glass, tried
to make friend with my tormentor; and
behind stillness I heard the hum of
the long sea rippling on nirvana’s strand

twilight invades

the cool silence

with long shadows

in birdsong

I want to go

far away to where

sunlight glows amber on the sea

where children

flash their teeth at sunset

devouring the evening

with laughter.

the sky is so far

and my heart is strung over

so many skies.

Who can offer solace?

or even a pause in the rush

of sensations

tumbling my chest

against an unknown shore