Auckland Poetry.com

For Ashleigh

Light-blue pushes through the blackness of the night, not a soul walks the street.
Buildings appear from the shadows, silhouetted by the grey
Remains from the night before.
The fountain still sleeps, flat as a mirror, crystal clear.
Slowly the day is born and night bows in the wake of its own death.

Soon the silence will be shattered and each building begins to change.
One, now two cars start rolling by.
The street lamps fold up in the threat from the morning
Sun and the flash of their souls hide for one more day.
A cycle begins and ends and “morning” is the prince of new life.

My eyes are heavy; yet dart to capture this moment of sacrifice and acceptance.
My body seems to give in like the night to the weariness, though I am
Thrilled by this beautiful light.

And someone, somewhere is waiting for me, in a little town not far from here.
Where my bed is empty but filled with her.
And for me there is nothing that can compare to her beauty.
Morning is just the start of each new day,
But it is with her, that my life begins.

© Copyright

In the southern sky
clouds infected by motion
bring forth weather through the
ocean winds and it lies now
an unravelling majesty
an unfolding myth
stories of intervening lands

Bird Migration

I see no birds today
Need them for my loneliness
Wonder why they flew?

 The birds which left
Built me a nest of feathers
A bed of eiderdown.

Birds are transient
Open the door of any cage
See them fly as dreams.

I once saw, where the horizon ends, a ship plough the sky.
White tears on pale blue, and I saw the waiting darkness;
I knew, before any others, it would be a starlit night.
Look, I said, but it was too late, the ship had cast anchor
behind a cloud loading mist for Dogger Banks, and take
onboard discarded dreams to plug the dikes of Amsterdam.
Sunflowers on mythical sea and red flying fish, my ship is
bound for the Saragossa Sea with a hold full of old sailors,
it’s here they come to stalk in the fog of the forgotten.

The stand off’s been set, to each other we look,
both waiting for the next move, in anticipation we wait.
Neither will back down, no weakness shown,
the king of this jungle, will soon be revealed.

Defiantly he stands, with a scowl on his face,
hands on his hips, he doesn’t sway.
Shaking his head with disapproval, he looks at me sly,
“I don’t have to” he states, with not even a blink in his eyes.

“You listen to me, just do what your told”
shocked by his reply, but amused by his style.
Contemplating my rebuttal, to regain control,
I need to choose my word wisely, in this is a battle of wills.

Not a shutter he makes, with that dirty look in his eyes,
the words just roll off his tongue, why am I not surprised.
“You can’t make me”, he claims, convinced with his words,
he thinks with that it’s over, boy! You never gonna learn.

I give him that stare, you know the one.
the one that tells him it over, or his goose is done.
“Come… here… now!” in that stern leveled voice,
this game is over, you’ll do what I say.

His last little dig, as he drags his feet slowly along,
“I hate you” he mumbles, his lips nearly hitting the ground.
This is the kind of stuff, that melts my heart away,
Me and my 3year old battling it out, to see who’s king for the day.

after rebuttal

when I see you

nowadays

I am

not

me

anymore,

rather

some

glib simulacrum

of my former

glory.

a pastiche

of motley

pass-me-ons

&

hand-me-downs.

it was the coldness of your dismissal

that sliver ed my hopes,

sli ced me up,

shard

boy,

shard

man,

a whispering idiot

FULL of hot air

signifying

nothing.

the has-been

who played on

well past

retirement,

just

another

bit-player

reduced to drivel

in his own B grade

movie,

sp  lin   te   re   d,

self-pitying

like   this

across                   the                   pages

here

and

there…

ad nauseum.



Our life comprises of pairs and triangles
It begins and ends with pairs and triangles
Life begins with infantile bond with mother,
Passing on to temptation & pain of adultery.

A hanging tale of pairings and triangles,
Dependency on mother is the first pair,
Culminating into a triangle as soon as
One enters into the world of his own.

In infancy this mother-child pairing
Through the triangular oedipal complex
Will get activated in adolescence and
Will resolve in the glory of first love.

This first pairing and triangle is lifelong
If one has guts to manage getting along.

Don’t tease me with just a sip
a fake promise of you
disappearing as you arrived
pushing my heart to fall
threw centre soul
threw deep outer space
leaving this tempered beating
pining
mmmm…………….your sweet taste
my being
my resolve
an endless tide of that sweet breath
the ebb of panting my neck
my whispers sensual only to you
you, you you you yoooouuuu my desire
burning
intertwined
reeling,….
so heavy the absence
of you,
taking with you
that part of me
only you……..
stay
I don’t care
Just stay
Be mine

Written by Vanessa Rare
5 March 08

I watch all the bobble heads,
as they whiz on by,
through, around, under and over
leaping in giant strides.
Not a care for the others,
just push on by,
stuck in the reality they call their lives.
Not a smile for miles bobble heads just bobbing along,
scattered in every direction like the four winds.
I cant help wonder why they conform,
to a society that make them unhappy, yet still carry on
bobbling each day in dismay,
caught in the movements, a symphony of waves.
Everywhere you look on any given day
you’ll see all the bobble heads flowing off the trains,
forcing their way through,
off to work they go
with all their heads bobbling,
bobbling in tune.

Moon lit Senryu

No moon is peace
Half moon is, partial promise
Full moon is heartache

Full moon is romance
Half moon is waning love
No moon is emptiness

Anemic moon
On afternoon’s azure sky
Is pale as demise

The English Rose (end of a dream)

I once met an English rose, slightly frizzled at the edges.
Her eyes was as green as the Atlantic sea, this alone
should have been a warning, ‘cause I know how untrue
the sea can be. Her voice sounded like tinkling bells and
her artistic hands could to wonders. Embraced we slept in
the good tiredness of exhausted lovers. But in heaves of
love she often whispered another man’s name, it filled me
with foreboding. I rang and rang, no answer, went to her
house, she wasn’t there, her neighbor said she had gone
to Spain and she mentioned a name I had so often heard.
The good woman saw my tears, hugged me and whispered.
“She is not worthy of your love.” Years went by I saw her at
a supermarket’s check out. Her bloom had gone, no longer
a rose, just a woman with a bitter lined face carrying a bag
of grocery.