Auckland Poetry.com

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.

Transvaal (love story)

South Africa! I remember her well. She came to my shores
a summer day, a voluptuous brunette, but I’m no longer sure
if she had green eyes. She was bright, had studied insects,
but hated spiders, and she knew who was the president of
USA. A tough girl who could look after herself, I liked that.
A perfect match, but why did she have to be so young?
September had met May, no future in that. I was in love but
for her I was perhaps a mere a summer flirt. I avoided her
romanced a woman nearer my age. That made her angry
but I had the heartache. She left, when autumn leaves began
to fall, my sweet South African girl. My dream was that she
and I should cross the Argentinean and see many sunrises
in our sleeping bag. What a fool was, I could have asked her,
but self confidence is not my game, she might have said yes.

Chiaroscuro

They say Caravaggio died in Port Ercole of lead poisoning.
How banal. He died, sword in hand, full of rage against
man, shadow and light. 400 years dead there has never
been a painter like him, so much brutality, beauty and
truth about the netherworld of life. But he lost his last
battle against the shadows, and fighting he disappeared
into the good night.

A Star.

I sit on the deck of my house far from the restive sea and see
a bright night star I have seen many times before. On rusty
iron decks of ancient ships where heaven and hell are fused
together in the gone hope of the lost. You were more radiant
before and nearer. Is it my eyes or you? I often thought if I
stood on my toes and stretched up, I would be able to touch
you and be blessed. So why didn’t I? You have followed me
in good times and in times unjust, quietly shining asking no
questions, just lightening up my path. My vanishing star soon
you will pale into the galaxy where stars go to pass away.
Without you my nights will be dreamless.

Drumsticks

On the food chain chicken score badly, millions of them are eaten every
year, I used like chicken wings; well they are not going to fly anywhere.
Soon chickens will lose their wings, not like sergeant loses his stripes, but
they have no need for them in a factory farm. All soldiers are brave- until
they are arrested for depravity- the bravest ones fight in Afghanistan, in
an army that has been mostly privatized. Soldiers kill people for us, even
If we protest, it is about duty and honour for them to do so. No one beats
the British in doing military funerals, they have such a long practice.
The Brits have a long warrior tradition, working class people are especially
proud of that. Like the chicken feed the masses, they feed the cannons.
I like chickens they put their heads on a block for us, chop, chop, chop.
The west fights war everywhere now, wants to make their presence felt,
but there is a quiet desperation in all this they are no longer in charge,
the Far East is the future and that is ok, when Europe is a byline, and US,
merits two lines, because its biggest industry is Wild West movies, Europe
can become a theme park, where Thailand’s single, or not or not so lone
men can come for a sex holiday

If I were a young Bard.

I wrote my first poem when I was about 13.I was taking a short cut home
when I saw a woman washing her herself by the fire place, few people in
those days had a bathroom. I was so enthralled by this that I wrote a poem.
My older brother found it, gave my ode to my mother, who said I was a pig.
This shocked me so much that I never wrote another poem before I was fifty
one. But all the poems I didn’t write came tumbling out it was like they had
been filed in my head waiting for me to pick up a pen. This particular well is
empty, the poems I write now are contemporary. I have a collection of
verses, edited by a friend of mine “The Tasmanian Tiger” when settlers came
to Tasmania they eradicated that animal, it will never come back and that
saddens me deeply. In Norway we very nearly killed off the wolf, my inner
ear can hear them, in a snowbound dale them when the moon is full and
I too can howl to a mythical past; a longing for harmony in a cruel world.

The last glass of Wine

This is ridiculous it has no name engulfed by sadness, two bottles of wine and cigarettes
and I’m drowning. Tomorrow no more, but I know when the sun falls so will I, succumbed
to a need to fly away to otherness. The pain in my chest is eating away, the emptiness of
my life feels like intolerable burden. I have created a world that is so small it chokes me.
The road to recovery, to palm trees and gentle sea is long. We used to laugh, my lover and
I, life was so funny; now all I can see is waste land with no oasis, there is nothing to lift
the spirit and the age old question asked by many before me:” what is it all for other to
bringing ones gene further into the future, I have not been able to do even that simple
task. The night is so long endlessly I flick from channel to channel to find something that
can bring the laughter back, but tiredness overwhelms me, l want another glass of wine,
the last glass that brings sleep. It doesn’t work anymore the more I drink the more sober
I get, Intolerable is the angst. Around and around I jumped on a carrousel and its engineer
has gone, whirling colours cacophony of screams, the undead will not be silent. Look into
the kaleidoscope of life and see a myriad of stars, bright and shiny but they are all a fading
illusion. But a voice whispers in my ear tomorrow you will get a new day, a sheet of blank
paper and crayon, so you can make clowns faces and laugh again.

gloomy Sunday