You Left Winter Behind

When the autumn breeze cools
I will hear peace in leaf rustle,
a quiet, strange calmness
that flows between near-barren boughs.
I will feel the breeze on my skin
blowing and blowing and blowing
layering me in promises
that tomorrow holds, layering
me in memories from yesterday.
I will wrap the wind about me,
keep it as close as a blanket
in the coolest of Winter's eves,
held tight in my white knuckled fists
that refuse to believe you have left
me here, to make a lone stand
among dormant trees.

For a friend and mentor. Rest in peace Jarry, you've earned the journey tenfold.




double click to view.

Removing the Chaff

The wind blew yesterday.
Cherry blossom petals left
their boughs and flew across
to land on the grass
as if there was little care
that others would want to see
the gift of pink bursting
open, brightening the edge
of the deck like lanterns.
In the wet their landed colours
were muted, they held raindrops
as if cradling the tears
our aging bodies could not cry.

Morning

mist
on weeping willow leaves
river flood

Seasonal Shift

Under the blossoms moonlight plays
shadow sculpture with silver grass blades
taller there, near the thick tree trunk
that lifts life from the ground.

Shadows still.

The morepork's battle cry is carried
from the river trees to here,
where we toss and turn
in the thickened air,
carried to collide
with our heat-dulled minds,
carried to remind us
Spring has returned.

One of Those Days

Yesterday was like an abstract painting
where tree bark was splashed
up one side of the canvas, a silver eel
wriggled in the sky, an eye stared
from behind vertical blinds
that separated us
from the crisp air of Spring
and tomorrow. Colours splattered
in the way children's art splodges -
green patches polka dotted yellow,
bruised stars stabbed the grass, a cow
black and white, bent over the barbed back fence
tap danced in time with the restless cicadas.

Grandmother

There is a photo of her on the sideboard.
A black and white image, framed
with cardboard covered in brown age spots.
She was always old, weathered,

carrying the look of a farmer's wife
dressed for best. She has no foretelling
on her face of the potent mix of her mind,
no future hint of the mud flinging madness

that came before the white jacket
and the echoy corridors of Kingseat, the keys
that locked her away, the drugs
that stole the spark from her eyes

and limped her hand so it could not swipe
at some imagined wrongdoing.
She was a matriarch, a powerful woman

who years after the death of her love,
after the cracking of her mind,
passed away in a ward with a small bed
and a bedside table that held her glasses.

A Southern Spring

It is October and the morepork
seems to know Spring has drifted in.

He does not wait for the shadow
of night to graze the land,

he calls from the river trees
loud enough to be heard

over evening traffic, still enough
to be a lost silhouette

in the mess of twigs
that worship the first full moon.

Granddad Took Big Strides

I remember running alongside him
as he crossed paddocks,
my face trying to get in front of his,
my legs hitting the ground
four times for every step
of his boots. He would talk,
flail his arms, tell me
what was next, and I'd listen, answer
with that out of breath stilted speech
often my affliction,
until he'd stop. Abruptly.
And we'd collide
or we would be there,
at the next job.
We would be there, he and I and Tip,
the black and white sheep dog
whose tongue hung out
and tail curled around Granddad's boot,
until it was time to race again.

A Personal Pyre

I do death well. In public
I smile and wrap my mouth
around the words of psalms
until calm cools the pool
of hot tears lying in wait
for some forgotten freedom.

I suck up the grief,
snort it unsteralised
and live on the defiled scent
that designs the path
of my emotions,
hungering only for sleep.

Songs sustain me,
sung on stereo
in surround sound.

I pray for rain,
for the clouds that cling to the sky
waiting for me to choke
on pleasantries,
those inane gossipy gems
that swirl around
the black-winged crowd.

I forget to ask for peace.

When the dead are not forgotten

I felt their presence,
the way they stood behind
or in front of me, the looks
they'd give me as if one wrinkle
on a forehead would save me
from tumbling head long
down those weedless roads
that twisted and turned
on seemingly endless whims.
They gave me food for thought,
made me second guess
my first instincts, made me wonder
in the power of the past.

Tail-ender of the X Generation

I suggested walking,
noses brushed the blue air
we've done that

and I was stumped
to suggest more.

How could they walk a city
in a week? there's so much to see -

buskers hunkered
in closed shop corners,
gays wandering, arms linked,
punks glittering like fallen Christmas angels
and speaking of that,

do you notice how night neons
hide the gum stuck pavement,
how those coloured lights
excite piss scented alleys,
how those coloured bulbs glow
to promote their wares
to the night gods?

I wonder how they have seen all this
and yet their bodies slouch
as if they are bored,
as if such things are common place,
as if they've grown
beyond the city limits
in a week.

Jumped from the nest

There is more than a hint of him
left in the room. Almost empty
it still carries his scent,
that particular nose
of sweat and soap
that seems to have seeped
into the walls, the carpet,
the corners now free of furniture.
It is almost as if he hasn't left.

The Dawn of Darkness

On this day of all days
I should stride into the ocean
let it wash up my body
in a final cleansing,
a last white washing
that will see all my sins
seep back into the sea,
fall between the cracks
and soak deep into the earth's core
where my birthing began.

On this day of all days
I should say goodbye
to the mists that threaten
to conceal my existence,
that warp my outstretched arms
ignoring my light, my warmth
my dedication to day.
Would I be missed,
or would you welcome
the extra hours of dark?

Winter Dawn

Each morning I search,
condensation wiped on my sleeve
nose pressed to the pane,
to see if gems have grown
in my garden.

The maple stands tall,
bare limbs stretched across blue,
hugs offered to angels.

Heraldry lines its bark.
In every vein and valley
a crest, history etched
and on the tips of each twig
dangles a diamond.

A Beginning...

There is no Madonna
on the wall in our church,
no mother holding her baby
in smooth alabaster.

There are no coloured glass windows
brightening the room with visions
from the bible we read,
no scenes of trial or triumph
to look up to,
to memorise.

There is a small plate
that passes from hand to hand
across the rows,
containing coins and folded notes,
donated during prayers.

There are tiny cushions for knees,
a silver cup for communion,
bread discs for the tongue,
flowers and white name tags,
tea and cake,
and a minister who preaches
his own belief.

None of it ties me
to this place.

Yet I return.

When there's hope in bubbles

I watch for light rings
in the gin and tonic,

those little yellow circles
inside the bubbles
that prove I wasn't laid out
under the stars.

They're not there
and when I look up,
the ceiling lights twinkle

as if to taunt me
to down another,
to jam my tongue
between the rocks

and drown my memories
as their roots
drag me under.

Winter Pastimes

There are traditions to uphold
when the power cuts out
during winter evenings.

Bread toasted by fire flame,
hot chocolate boiled
on the bar-b-que
and the jested cheating
of the bank manager
during Monopoly,
the game played by the light of candles
until midnight.

Sleep comes easy then,
the flickering street-light melody
is replaced by squally gusts

that rip the last Autumn leaves,
rain that pelts windows
and fluffy duvets
that share the snuggle
of skin.

At the Local Dairy

There is a television in the shop,
high up on the opposite wall
to the cash register.

The shop keeper watches
a drama unfold
between a weeping woman
and a man's raised fist.

The shop door chimes
and a customer buys an ice cream,
fingers her coins across
the paper-strewn counter.

His eyes follow the rolling money.

A long walk

Rain painted fence posts black,
a long line stretching to the horizon,
one of the sun's arms, tarnished.

An unappealing streak on the land,
the line is a parallel limb
to the washed out dirt track
where boots and camouflage khaki walk
to war.

Ever diminishing circles

I watch as he wanders in circles,
ever diminishing circles
searching for the good
he knows he carries inside
his reddened heart.

He finds a speck here
as he glimpses an angel,
chops wood for his mother
a good deed
outstripped by the next bad

one. Whiskey in hand
foot on brass bar,
eyes on guard, looking
for that sleek slim model,
refined and wanting. He can't help

but be dragged along
on the scent of her,
on the untouchable demeanour,
slightly lifted chin,
eyes that brush his forehead.

She's forgotten his name,
has no wish to recall it.

He remembers every detail
the smoothness of her skin,
her talk. He won't go there again.

Not without another whiskey.

A Peaceful Sun

I watch the sky
anxious for a coating of blue
to wrap my land,
the green fields of New Zealand,
to pull colours from the sun
let them settle in the trees,
the last of Summer's rainbows.
I imagine the sand of Iraq
the yellow, the orange.
It is as if Fall will never end,
as if the blackened graveyard
of trees will never be laid to rest,
will never be culled
to carry our soldiers back
to a peaceful sun.

Makarora (gold panning and greenstone mining)

The booted feet of a thousand men marked the route from east to west, crossing barren mountains, breaking rock to build the tracks that carried gold and greenstone, carried passengers and supplies. Their footprints remain, buried under the sealed-in stone of today, their axes left history embedded in the rock. If we listen carefully to the spring melt of mountain water, we will hear the collapse of villages when the raped rivers rebelled.

Facing the Truth

I want snow
and all there is,
are brown, barren mountains
unable to shed rivers
of tears for their loss of white.

I will amble among them,
the naked lands,
look to their peaks
for the answers I seek.

Their stark replies
will not hide
wayward thoughts.

Their scarred facades
will not mask
the blunt truth.

I will unwrap the rock,
chisel my future
on its face.

A gift

There is a calm at dawn,
a silent assessment of time
within place, lifting with the mists
that fade when the sun
warms the land.

Peace is reflected
in the small ripples of a pond.
It is heard in the call of the heron
and carried in the valley of the fingerprint
along the path of the sun.

There is a oneness between land and soul
that manifests itself in the gifts
we share,
in the beauty we share,
in the life we live.


Illustration by James Newman, Photographer

Caught in the path
of a streetlamp,
my blue shadow
races ahead.

A Last Stand

Just the tops of trees are swaying,
painting the sky autumn blue.
They add in clouds
as if painting by numbers,
lay a streak of grey on the green ground -
a heron hunting dinner morsels,
his long slim neck a third leg,
helping keep his body balanced above.

It is the turn of trees
to flare in anger,
to change from their summer calming greens
to take on the orange, red and yellow,
a fiery last stand while their leaves
chatter of the season passed.

Morning

The sun has risen, yet
the lamp brings more golden glow.
Through the wintered-shut window
I watch trees brush the sky silver,
see the birds
but cannot beak-read their words.

The grass looks suddenly longer,
as if during the night
angels had teased it,
untangled it
from its morning bed-hair state.

Daisies continue to grow
undeterred by midnight's downpour
and the ginger cat jumps up on the windowsill
irate at the late pause of breakfast.

Winter, clocked

God touched me there,
at the top of the mountain
while I sat on a rock, watching
the sun turn the snow into diamonds
at my feet.

He touched me. Gave me sight
so I could look across the country
at another mountain
dressed in white gown and diamonds.

I remember realising
that vision was not only what I could see
around me,
it was also internal,
as if the winter cloak I wore
kept it inside,
hid some sights that only I knew.

North v South

Colour for you is underfoot.
Bluebonnets,
painted Indian brushes,
lush grass, remnants
of winter's soot.

For me, it's above.
In that turning before death,
Leaves grasp the sun,
clutch colour close -
tree-rainbows of love.

Enduring Winter

There are wildflowers all over my bed,
outside, the clouds cry with their loss.

They were plucked from the ground,
planted in cotton - colour stolen
from outdoors, carried in
and scattered.

They almost writhe under the light.
Sacred rites of the storm scream
beyond the window. Forgotten
and in flagrant, the blooms lay
all over my bed.

There's always hope

Every new year coal comes in the door
and luck walks out.
Luck is meant to stay

my grandmother swore
on the family bible that it would,
but some perverse bending
steers it away,
scuttling down a road
I've grown tired of walking.

I remember once, when luck went,
when my brother left home
to join some ragged crew
that believed flowers
really did grow up damp, peeling wallpaper
and that smoking pot cured all ills.

I wondered then, if there was a point
to the tradition,
to the carrying of coal,
when famine and festering were prevalent.

Hope always underscored
the last word.

Me as a Memory

I think if I were looking for re-incarnation
I would come back as a dried flower
one that could be sat in a copper vase,
or perhaps plain plastic as copper
would likely be stolen, sat on the front edge
of a grave. I could see the mourners,
detect the true depth of sorrow
that some may carry, detect the fake.
I would become colourless, a mottled grey
eventually, that would blend in with headstones
and weathered concrete that only lichen
caress. I would watch you closely,
and determine how deep you feel
the passing, of friends, lovers, me
even though I know I am merely a momentary
lapse in your life. Perhaps
as a dried flower you would give me more attention
a glance at least, a tear, perhaps
you would keep me as a memory then.

Road Trip - Booking

Maybe I'll book in advance
for the renowned beauty
of the Chateau, where mountains
fill glass walls and sunsets
turn snow caps to gold, maybe

I'll take my chances
and stop en route
at a hotel, avoiding
the teal carpet and vinyl kitchen
brigade that are off the beaten track,
up lampless side streets
were there is little traffic
and a dozen homeless street walkers
sniffing glue and living dreams.

Two things are for sure,
the food will be cheaper
on sage green plates
and mismatched utensils
than on mahogany
and cream carpet, and

I can't wear satin
and pearls at a backpackers,
nor stoned denim and sandals
at the Chateau.

A miscarriage of justice

Twenty years ago today
I lost you, barely
a speck within my womb
aborted spontaneously
the doctor said,
while nasty images ravaged my mind.
All I wanted was to keep you safe
to nurture you and when you were ready
to hold you in my arms.
Why couldn't you wait?

Listen

If I listen carefully
I can hear the clouds race across the sky,
I can hear the parched dirt crack
as it waits for autumn rain,
and I can hear the liquid amber leaves
chatter of falling,
of their slow and brilliant death.
I can feel the excitement of grass
as it quivers in anticipation of the earth's cooling,
I can feel the arch of cobbles
as they rise up to greet the last days of heat,
and the sun on my back that says goodbye
in advance.

There are white wings in my garden
holding tight until age
times their release
allows them to fly,
to capture the breeze
that will carry them far away
on a day when the sun
catches their intent
waves them on with warmed fingertips
and watches them settle
to sew,
to seed,
to grow.

Looking Forward

Perhaps the cicada is my totem,
my icon I should seek each mid-summer
month. Perhaps I should surrender
to its call, let it take my mind
and allow it to lead my thoughts
until the falling of leaves
lays a softness over my path
and the silence of the cicada
in the garden deafens the onslaught
of winter's death.

White Notes

White clouds traverse
the sky, moving slowly
as if they were white notes
sliding along the pavement
under a light morning breeze.
Notes to and from lovers
that tell of longing
and leave the taste
of missing you in the spaces
between creases. They'll fold
when they reach the end of the road,
pass beyond the horizon
to drop away from the life
of here and now leaving blue
as a reminder
of what might have been.

Thanks

I want to write about the heat,
the humidity that seeps into pores
sets the face paint flowing -
the glowing dewy look
bestowed by summer.

I want to write how the cicadas
call at 10,
set teeth to grind,
how their piercing scream
waits for mine to answer.

I want to give thanks
for Summer, for the sunshine
that permeates all corners,
dries all ground cracks,
the Summer that set smiles
on faces.

Thanks.

Paraglider

I watch you peel away from the cliff's edge
holding steady for a moment
as if you were a marble carving
in progress, feet not quite carved and free.
Your chute collects the breeze, billows,
a brilliant rainbow against black jagged rocks
and you float
finally free, finally
untethered from the earth
that nourished you.

I see it in a child

When I was younger
I wanted the wisdom
of my grandmother
the things she knew,
the baking of cakes,
rearing of boys from babies
to brats
to men,
the controlling of patience
and unending caring.
Now I am older,
I wish I had the wisdom
of my daughter.

Prayer Walking

Like the dry washing of hands
I wait impatiently
for the coming of autumn,
the cooling of land,
the colouring of leaves
that decorate dying trees.
There is heat in the wind,
warm easterlies
undermining sensibility,
pushing pride
beyond patience,
shortening maybe,
to never,
prolonging the agony
of searing skin prints
as souls land on iron sand.

Nearly wrecked

Torn blue tarpaulins
barely cover the breaking boat
as it sits by the bridge
in the harbour. Rain pelts the roof,
there are no buckets
underneath to catch the drops
to carry the water
away from floorboards
that remember wet salt
as polish.
It floats,
barely,
empty.

Its captain
lives behind bars,
not for illegal smuggling
or drug trafficking,
but some other offense
equally effective
in allowing the elements
to reside in the ship
that soon will know
the feel of mud
against its keel.

A special day

I've spent nights studying the sky
wondering who hung the moon
and stars just so
I could watch them silently tiptoe
from horizon to horizon
beyond the reach of fingers.

I've waited to view McNaught -
a thief who stole light
from the sun
ran across the universe
to be seen once,
or twice,
before never being seen again
by the same eyes.

I've cried at missing the comet,
grief tightening the tourniquet
of disappointment
around my heart.

Birthdays come around annually.

Feb 5th, 2007 will never,
ever,
come again.

Free Words

Why hide the words?

They want to escape
from behind the welted minds
that bar them, to break
the bonds keeping them prisoner,
secreted away
where blind eyes no longer feel them.

Free the words!

Forget the penny!

Flood the world with thoughts!

A leaf

I found you on the carpet,
small enough to fit my palm

brown, giving away the notion
that you were one of the weak ones
that fell first,

shadowed, with mysterious crevices
hills and valleys all your own

shriveled, no longer youthful
but bent with age and dried
with your dying.

I find you beautiful.

Living Conditions in a Glass Bubble, A Raindrop

Can you see what's hidden,
what it must be like, living
inside a glass bubble,
dangling from an orange stem
fat,
swollen,
pregnant without the pauses
to pale into insignificance.

I see a single white eye
a side view of a womb
softened, containing
an entire world. Not a replica
of all on the outside. More
choosy, as if hand-picked and placed
like old furniture in a new room.

I see you.





Illustration by Arlon, photographer

Facial Masks

Rolled oats and wrinkles
curve the corners of my mind
release the pain of hunger rumbling
and smooth the frown
between my brows.

How apt it is that something I eat
becomes a mask where only eyes
can see and mouth mumble,
where skin crumbles, softens, falls away
so all is left are the blatant lines
that hold the mind behind skull bones.

Wash Day Blues

It's as simple as black and white,
put the washing on the line to dry
on a perfectly blue sky day
and clouds will clamour
crumpling the margins of the horizon
in their cumulus frenzy.

Saying Goodbye

Steel rose into the blue
engines burned fuel,
fuzzing the landscape so
mountains bent
and shimmered in the vapour
stream. Words
stuck in my throat
as if the tears swallowed
had drowned my voice.