Auckland Poetry.com

under the hill that was once a mountain
beneath the sea that fell from up there

the air felt hotly majestic
sticky to the touch
hard to remember the must
as it floated about like fingers
running through sand

moving at a rapid clip through the dunes
the wagon chewed away at the patterns
so randomly and beautifully laid by winds
nobody had predicted or marvelled at
they were winds from the ocean stored on calm
days for days like this great rolling wave
after wave lumped mounds of water in

Cold lucid eyes look up through the needles of
dancing light under the waves
fish juggling at each side of the mask
the diver with a broken cable must know
rescue is still there right until the end
passes

And that terrible tsunami event
on boxing day millions and millions of lives
damaged by one shrug underground

The titans sleep
and we play on the mound
think ye could
tred more carefully
now?

Driving back north
Running away
From running away
Back to what I know
The tears were tearing at my stomach
I could not drive any further
For the weakness in my legs
As I  faded into the darkness of my soul
And it’s labyrinth of ruins
I stopped to rest
The beach was beautiful
A storm was brewing
To match the one inside
I was tired
Tired of trying
Tired of failing
Tired of being tired
The waves wild but wistful
Foaming, lulling, rhythmic
With ancient song
While the dunes cradled me
In the hollow of their arms
Alone
Just as I came, I’ll go
And I wanted to
Lured by the siren silence
Of the depths
I lay there for a day
And a night
Sleepless as the cold set in
Blanketing the mountains in snow
The next day the hunter came
Too early for the season
With his dog just as eager
They plucked a swan from the sky
It fell from grace
With downward spirals
Sinking into the deep
They left it there
Just like the men
Who hungered for my body
And upon satiation
Left my soul to bleed

The Way to Faith?

The horror is in the mirror it reflects
and reports the obscene that hides
behind human beauty.

Fear of death and stench of the crypt
for those who rely on mere physical
allure, and haven’t yet accepted time’s
way to rot and grind all down to finest
dust. Doomed to panic stricken roam
the world seeking a cure for old age
and loss of lust.

When a selfless act of prayer can
beautify our sad souls and set us free;
redeemed we can find Paradise.

A Portuguese Spring

Once again the almond petals snow their
silky abundance on the pebbled road in
the village, and the Nordic princess who
lives in a castle near a lake that houses
an old pike that has been here so long it
can tell tales of times, before the princess
came and made winters mild; when
the lake froze over and folks wore wooly
snakes as scarves around scrawny necks,
against the bitter child- dries her tears and
smiles again and remembers a childhood
up north were the snow was so pure that
god’s footsteps were seen by the devoted,
for the rest the silence hummed a lullaby

Disagreeable Day.

Rose petals and golden leaves on my terrace,
sparrows fly about, twitter insanely, fauns have
danced here, in the heat of the night. I look for
a broom must keep things tidy or neighbours
may think I’m slothful; can’t fine the broom.
My desk is full of shiny sheets of papers with
chaotic words, merrily free of grammar.
Must act now fling them into the bin and go
for a walk, I have to polish my shoes first or
people will think I’m a vagabond.
Order, there isn’t enough of it around; the day
is too young and unforgiving, chills my bones.
I’ll go to bed and only get up when the day
gets older and less demanding.

War Poems

War poetry is easy to write, it is about daring
do, death and bullets flying through the air
People like to read about wars, which is odd
after all it is a natural state of affair; there is
always a war going on… somewhere.

To write about peace, now that’s difficult
it is so illusive, momentarily not being afraid,
too good to last; man was made for war,
a price we have to pay for progress; peace
is a delusion, mans dream of Paradise.

Tell a Stranger.

Midmorning, the sun was shoveling
aside clouds that threatened to shed
rain, clearing a path that got bigger
and bigger till it had the sky for itself;
that was ok as it was in the middle
of August, when I murmured to her:
“I love you”

Even though I meant it at the time
I managed to embarrass myself by
sounding insincere. Demoralized
when she laughed and hit me with
her handbag; I felt like a speck of
dust-more- a broken matchstick in
an ashtray full of masculine cigars

The last I saw of her was a proud
neck entering the bus going back
Beck Street. Walked into Rose&
Crown for a drink and to weigh up
my future. “I adore you” I said to
a woman sitting on her own, her
eyes lit up, she had a pretty smile.

An Overcast Day

When my lover got up, at dawn, it
rained, she went into the kitchen
and wrote a poetic shopping list

Egg, milk, butter and a fresh loaf;
coffee, marmalade a bottle of wine
muesli and low fat yoghurt.

She came back into bed and read me
the list slowly, till we sated fell
asleep in each others arms.

When we awoke it was afternoon
the list was a crumbled piece of
paper at the foot of the bed.

A Ghastly Day.

There wasn’t anything jolly about that day,
the sun was glued to a pale sky, just like
a Guantanamo torture room’s lamp that by
fault or (kindness) had a fifteen watt bulb.

A thin day, the only good thing about it
was that it wasn’t going to last forever; not
a freezing day but dripping humidity which
chilled the old bones

A mean day and faces which walked about,
on unwilling feet, wore no smile to brighten
a time when even traffic cops were too tired
or comatose to pursue a speeder

At home the telly told of a plane crash,
wallowed in details, showing us a blood
soaked pilot’s cap; depressed I went to bed
and hoped to be spared more nightmares.