Auckland Poetry.com

Rendezvous with the Truth

I like this word it has a ring of intrigue and Romance;
to merely meet someone sounds like business, buying
and selling stuff, doing something for the world’s wealth;
make money and be looked at. It must be awful really to
be looked up at and given honour for being rich.
The rich know this that’s way they have such a cynical
glint in eyes when they hand over a fat check at a charity
ball and everyone applauds and they are showered with
the confetti of sycophancy.

There is no money in rendezvous nothing to offer except
friendship and love, lovers meeting in the park sitting
under an oak holding hands trying to stay afloat in a
world that are baying for their blood; for they are, oh yes,
make no mistake wrong, in their totality of love. Other
people will get hurt as love knows no middle way, a flying
bullet that hits the loser it can’t be helped for love is not
kind to those outside the ring. Yet on the alter of love
everything is forgiven and the journey is great.

A Voice.

I left my father’s house in anger
never to return, he is a shadow,
a voice that appears in dreams,
and the house is windblown ashes.

Today I’m older than him and my
mirror tells me that we are twins,
I regret his passing and mourn my
father’s ageing face.

Nite Life

Night took a long time coming, crept slowly
from the east and dumped its load of velvet
in my street, sleek, yellow wolves stood by
the doorway of dusky caves where
“I did it my way” is played again to losers
at the bar; the barmaid’s laughter is a shriek
of hate held up by a pink bra. Victims and
abusers are linked to a chain of nights; only
yellow wolves dance and see the moon.

The Miserable.

Morning came
and
flung a load of
sunlight on
the balcony,
shadows dripped
down to
the street
below
leaving tiny
white marks
on city asphalt,
unaffected by
the frozen silence
of the couple
indoors;
their summer
had long since
gone,
apathy keeps
them
chained together
even hate
needs heat
to fling abuse.

Time for Acceptance.

There is time for patience by the stream
of legends when fishing for a dream.
To see the reflection of undulating faces,
of those who can no longer cry, sad
eyes that wish to sit by the stream and
dream just once more.

Released from the shackles of their past
they are yesterdays leaves and from
the soil a dirge arises and the wind sighs
for those who can no longer feel its caress;
star dust of sorrow laments the passing
of sightless souls

From infancy and onwards remembered
faces are masks which never told their
stories and never had their wishes
fulfilled. So sit by the river of legends
fish for future dreams and let the breeze
whisper you a golden fable.

Ash & Victory

Father was coming home from the sea,
a long war had separated us and,
the excitement of seeing him was great.
when he finally arrived and entered he
was unsteady on his feet pointed at me
and said: “whose child is this.”

Jubilation died, mother cried as father
took another swig of the bottle swore,
left and slammed the door. I never spoke
to him again, got my revenge when he
was a flotsam by the shore of oblivion
and wanted to speak to me.

I looked at him with contempt, and
didn’t answer, he cried, my moment of
triumph turned to ashes. He was but
an old man who had wasted his time,
he deserved my compassion and not
my petty, adolescent hate.

A Day in May

Pearl spangled gossamer across the ancient path
Caught my thoughts as I paused and waited for
A rabbit that pretended it wasn’t there to decide
Whether I was a tree or not to jump away and do
What a doe does on Sunday mornings.

The aroma of newness so filled my lungs that
I threw away my unlit cigarette, which I regretted
When coming home and finding I had none left.
Moss on rocks was greener than the Arctic sea
And bluebells pleased their colours.

Ash & Victory 

Father was coming home from the sea,a long war had separated us and, the excitement of seeing him was great.when he finally arrived and entered he was unsteady on his feet pointed at me and said: “whose child is this.”  

Jubilation died, mother cried as father took another swig of the bottle swore, left and slammed the door. I never spoke to him again, got my revenge when he was a flotsam by the shore of oblivionand wanted to speak to me.  

I looked at him with contempt, and didn’t answer, he cried, my moment oftriumph turned to ashes. He was but an old man who had wasted his time,he deserved my compassion and not my petty, adolescent hate.