It's past rabbit season

Every day is summer [speaking of seasons], sunshine
dries the sand between cracked cobbles, cooks
the skinks' skin as they lay lazily on garden mulch.
Much remains the same - shadows disappear
at midday, rats feed on blown flax seeds
and the grass gradually grows, although always slowly now,
until it too is taught to conform.

Behind the bright, seeps a river of doubt
maybe it'll be okay now, maybe
there's no need to make drastic changes, maybe
I won't have to do anything
and it will all sort itself out in the wash.
Yeah right. Before the tuis are gone,

before the nip in the air warns of autumn's approach,
before the river becomes a torrent, uncontrolled
and unguided, that beckoning bootprint-logged path
overgrown with punga ferns and cabbage whites,
will have to be walked.

The clothes my poems wear

These days they are dressed in tailored
truths that will fill black caves with a light
so eerily bright one blinks. Once

I draped them in gowns and masks,
muslins and facinators to catch
the eye, beautified them

hoping to enhance their look.
The appeal was fleeting.

It is easier to endow them in a well cut suit,
pearls and elegant heels that click
and scrape occasionally on concrete, just

to see if they can still capture your attention.

What happens to our memories when we are done with them?

I am reminded of grandmother's hands,
the pale wrinkled backs she gentled with lotion,
the way her hand held mine, when we caught
the bus to shop, how her hands steadied
my back as if she were an angel protecting
all sides of me, how her hands brushed
the hair from my eyes, patted me on the back
nudged me forward. What will happen when her hands
are no longer a memory? Where will they go?

Tagger

This isn't Broadway
though every kid with a spray can
thinks he's a star, climbing
buildings and bridges
to leave his mark
as if he's the most important one,
as if he needs to prove he is the one
with the upbeat future, and digs
too fancy to soil.
He'll hang around big-noting, skite-ing
of the daring danger, how the train
near-clipped his ankle as it passed under
his fancy paint-job. Another night
there'll be a new decoration, some other kid,
some other gang battling behind the tags.

Achiever

Somewhere between suckling at the breast
and now, she grew up
gathered her skins close, lit
the leftovers with a blow torch
and marched on through
non-stop until her print
was etched in black and white
and framed on a prominent wall.

Treasure

I find you washed up on the beach
skeletal, blacked, a contrast
to the white waves and wavering sun
that glares less than gold

broken, yet shimmering
feather, shell, leaf, pumice, drift-
wood, scattered along the sleepless shoreline
waiting for the name, treasure.

Unpreventable sunset

In dying you became vibrant,
rusted reds clamour for the outside,
blue is banished to above, where we look
askance as if every question
deserves an answer, every bird
the ability to fly. In death
you smell of lillies, of fresh sawn pine
that returns memories of forest walks
and sunsets we could not prevent.

Duct tape

It holds the page together,
makes my pen a one-piece
and yet when I write
the day becomes scattered
between lines, scrawled
to the edges, unstuck
and dangerously close
to the graffiti decorating
the wall under the bridge
where empty needles lay.
If it weren't for the tape
torn white remnants would blow
down the street, sweep
up to the city, mache
the tallest building
with pieces of poetry.
If it weren't for the tape
my words would be
singularly spoilt.

returning from the past/never look back

She marches in, all burnt orange
and exploding smiles, a loud siren
calling, warning of impending calamity
that's already hit if she but knew it,
marches, leading the assault
to the table where she plonks and reigns
until one by one they leave
her preaching to empty chairs
that no longer sing her praises.

Made Up

There is a lady who paints her face
with such skill
that it bars neighbour's smiles,

stops them in their tracks
forcing them to step aside
as she passes from home

to car, to shops and back
as if she had no care left
no concerns of time, or food,

or dwindling money
that will be replenished, eventually.
No amount of tears

changes her stance, her face
must go on, regardless
of the memories that visit her

at night when it doesn't matter
if her eyeshadow is green, or blue.

Yellow Rapt

Smoke curls from his cigarette,
a carefully rolled papered tobacco
that will send him to his grave
sooner. He still speaks
his opinions, loudly, as if daring
others to disagree.
The yellow on his fingers
mimics the yellow that crawls inside
keeps him from calling bluff.

Earthbind

A dandelion opens itself to the wind
and sprinkle of first Autumn rain,
bows solemnly so the rush of sun
plays upon its petals, golden fingers
waving to the last monarch
that hovers in the garden, waiting
for the slow grind of seasons to pass,
the supple tease of wind to release seeds -
new plants for next Spring's confinement,
the slow death that binds us to the earth
from birth.

Change

One glance out the window
is all it takes
to send me scurrying out,
a craving for the green and golden
of Autumn. I know it is better

out there, better
than the purple and blue within
the unpolished panorama put on
for players each day who do nothing
more than fold their hands

and look up expecting answers
or at the very least, a release
from daily woes. Out there
they are all the same
looking for better, easier lives.

In here they strive one against another
as if trampling is the foundation
for change.

Fallen Sun

A walk along the beach
yields no treasures amongst the broken
shells, no dreams

of far away lands with Zeus Gods
or Amazonian women, no
bones to cross and lament
as we would our unseen dreams.

Instead we find the water-lapped sand
worn just enough to trick us
into walking over a fallen sun.

Seasons

I like the change of seasons,
search for the first leaf bud,
the first blossom, fire tree,
snow fall.

I watch for the ground to cool,
the cracks to close
to silence the crickets. I count them
the seasons, each as they pass
and wonder, does my body shed
seasons like the land?

Do I wear rain on my lips
flowers as eyes, fall in my hair?

Is my hearing cold, deathly silent
as it is in snow with only the wind
ringing the ears and numbing the nose.

They wait for roses
and I wait for the dawn of storms
that precedes the turn of seasons.

Rainy Night

Tonight the rain spatters
onto the tin shed roof
tree branches scratch
its side - a tormented protest
cries the end of Summer. It

is still hot. The cat
stretches and circles his nest,
the chaise stands steady
under his prodding paws.
Night gives voice to crickets,

wings to leaf that Autumn shoves
as if one brief flight
will render them free
before they are caught by the pull
of unsettled puddles.

New Zealand, a Country

of Spring waterfalls tumbling to rocks,
rivers swift and creeks babbling
tales of Summer's end, curling
across the rolling green countryside,

of mountains lording over the land
of crystal blue waters cradling
the islands and people
brown, black, white, round-eyed
or slanted, heads covered,
or not.

Of a country bathed
in the light of the Lord.

Things that are Important to Me

it was a birth of sorts in the summer
blue sky seemed to slip in
after cool dawns, slide through
the day and it wasn't until night
pushed it beyond the foot of the horizon,
that i realised another had passed,
one more day to add to the others
that centered me then disappeared
only to let night's haunts
drag me into a bad dreamland,
where black marks gathered and stuck
like ear wax on cotton buds.

Things that are Important to Me

Moon Pull

To wander with nature,
unadorned, listening

to the morepork's mournful night call
to watch the stars tuck in the sun,

to watch its downfall
at the horizon's foot.

It is not enough to believe blindly
the earth is round, I have to watch

the arc of the moon, to feel its pull
of tides, its push of night.

I am woman and no longer bleed.