Auckland Poetry.com

There is nobody left there

a throng gathered waiting

The people you came to kill

had vanished into thin air

they came and they called on their plastic box device

and flames we took for games fried brains and let us leave

waiting for them ask for more expired days
important truncated oats and wheat chaff to the feedthe quiet afternoon

the endless glory of minutes

Here, at the Ruinscape – we wonder at the minds that

brought us this hiddious expanse warped thoughts

executed in explosive charged seconds shades were sent

over the eyes made of silver cement

the pain left behind by thieves

and

the wooden bench

They all came to collect their debts

one by one

they left

in a queue

bent

and

harried

by death

mystic island

A Voyage

The ship was loaded we were going to
an island in the Saragossa that cannot be
seen by radar as it is always surrounded by
a miasma of sadness, here daybreak is
only a five second glimmer in an endless
night and only expert navigators are able
to find this island…

Our cargo consisted of discarded dreams
the islanders had lived so long in peace
that they had lost the ability to think of
esoteric things, their word expanse was
of seaweed and monster cods; but they
needed this diversion if not they would
sink into apathy and die

When the ship blew its siren for the third
time and the gangway was lifted, I was
hiding behind a warehouse that was full
of dreams destined for another island,
I wouldn’t like to be a part of this, giving
people second hand dreams when the could
consisting of clichés and spent phrases.

I could have lived with this mild betrayal
if it hadn’t been for the rule that no crew
member were allowed to dream or read
or sing, but be, as often long time sailors
are, men who have lost their ability to
remember that once they were children
and not blinded by endless tediousness.

Worst of all, perhaps, it was said that ships
going there were crewed by the world
weary, men who are shadows of themselves
who drowned when crossing the vastest
expands, too far away from a priests soothing
words where love had lost its meaning and
the last thought was of a whore in Santiago.

A walk through the park does it
When it rains and then shines
there are trees speaking a foreign language
and some that, like trees, stand up straight
if I were a bird and alighted on a tree
I would want to know all about it
Trees have no idea what to do except
hang on for dear life
the corruption of innocence happens commonly in clear daylight
there is nothing you can do when its a tree that has bent on its resolve
but a will of the wisp dragonfly is easy to brush aside
its far more likely to have taken the time to explore avenues of escape
it has darted this way and that
made a flute whistle under the willow
and sucked fig sap from the tree
nothing was out of range by extending its filament wings
new ground appeared but it never settled very long
so its ideas were grand and tended to be forgotten
like enthusiastic laughter
And in between, we have the union of the King and Queen
Henry and Winifred the reigning monarchs of the monkey
These bipedal beings that breed huge families – they
grow roots and settle in the forest
some just sit there and stare at the trees
during the rain the wind pushes great branches about
they wheeze like aching lungs whispering a chorus
and yet minutes later its calm again
the sun clear and sharp
The monkey had developed a new trick
it could consider the tree, drink and flick
a dragonfly onto its waiting tongue
the trick was to be both quick and still
Its luck improved with the
development of skill

14 October 2007
9:50am