Outside smells like rain

warm soil, wet road,
random scents, and sounds
of birds, beaks filled
with wriggling dirty worms
they have plucked from the ground.

Leaves drip tears
for lost Spring sunshine, drip
down to the weeds that rise
through the steamy forest floor.
Outside smells like rain.

I want you to be more

I want you to be more
but choice no longer mine to make
has let you become no more
than an item on the list
in my bag.

eggs

banking

library

Joe Blogg

And there you are
at the bottom, not even
top. It is as if some other time
has taken over, some other
life belonging to she who stares
out from the gilt-edged frame
on the side board. That old photo
a reminder that I am nailed
to this time, this place
where I am forgotten and left
to hold the silken web of dreams.

Your Word


As if there is not a enough of a muddle
down here to deal with, when I look up
I see spirals in the clouds. I wonder
if for once you struggle,
if you cannot fathom
why people have begun to spin
the wrong way, why
your grounding is withering. Perhaps
it is time to bring on another flood
to re-fashion a land in waiting,
to re-create the old guidelines
of your word.

for Jarry, and for me

It's been a year
since you left
and often I've wondered
if you've been watching
my struggle,
those dogeared days
when I've picked up pen
in anticipation,

and put it down again
when thought has not
followed through
to words plied into poems.

I remember your questions, designed
to work me to that red point
of realisation, of knowing
what I want to say, and how.

I wasn't ready for you to leave
but now, a year later, finally
I accept it, this loss

and the empty silence

that is not filled
with you. I accept the space

and the challenges you left.

No longer hesitant

It is there in the reflection
of sunlight on your pupil, the intent,
your purpose. You

are here beside me
hand on shoulder, that gentle squeeze
letting me know everything is okay,
that it is all normal, relative.

I've waited for some sign, a direction
you point and I walk
and now I know
I'll take the step first.

No longer hesitant.

I grew up

I grew up without alleys
to avoid. The only dark shadows
were stored under my bed,
or in the corner of the room
where they would come out
every now and again
during the night to remind me
there was a difference
between dark and light.

Back then green was my stable, blue
resided above, never slipping low
or stealing into my mind
and raping my thoughts thoughtlessly.

Yellow was delight, sunshine,
or daisies that sometimes seemed
like fallen stars on the lawn. Lazy
days on holiday and Christmases
where gifts overflowed from boxes
too numerous to count.

Red was something those kinds of women
wore, and black was for funerals
I did not attend.

What your body remembers

Skin remembers
the warm kiss of sun
chasing away night
and its cold, stiff memories
banishing them until later.

Palms remember
the crush of hearts
as they hold them tight
balancing their give
and take for tomorrow.

Soles remember
the cling of sand grains
hot, dry and black underfoot
like dreams and nightmares
that return in pieces in the dark.

The Wooden Pier

It can not be walked, the wooden pier
that once gripped land and stretched far
out into the sea carrying the weight
of young children and fathers, fishing. Now
fog claims its end
and battered boards repel footsteps.
Some misplaced timbers turn pleasure-walking
into land locked distant viewing. Perhaps
it is better this way, watching the water lap
the wharf, seeking the image
between fog-filled drapes, better seen
from the shore, better as our memories
embellish unforgotten moments.

Spring wind

The petals to and fro in answer
echoing the need of the breeze
and the psalmy lightness of Spring.

The whip of the wind stirs them
until the pink mix twirls
in the curl of unseen breath

and are whisked away to land,
to rot back into the land
as food for the future hungry.

Weeds

The weeds stand tall, stiff in death
after the spray as worked its slow way
from grounded root to sky-raised vein,
not swaying with dawn's gentle breeze,
not relishing the moisture the air carries.

There is no life among them, no green bud
promising to bloom, no seedlings bursting
from seed pods. Even the birds have left them,
knowing brown cannot mean feasting.

Come Home

It is with promise that I write to you. Bright
Spring sun on a cloudless morning cheers
the heart, lifts the soul to soar silently,

serenely beyond reach. I want you to know
the purity of the golden hour, how it caresses
tree bark, encourages cherry blossom petals to arch

under its touch. I know
you are wind-swept, swallowed by great sands
that wash your sky. Your gold

is nothing like this. Harsh to the eye,
a tainted turning of richness to greed, a yellow dust
that settles and rots like rust on a land

that doesn't want you.
Come home, return here to where water
runs crystal clear and cold, where green

is trampled underfoot, where fire kills
to breed new life, to give it pause, not penance.

graffiti

We drive by
and it's not the letters
that catch our eye, but
the curves and colours
of lines. Black
fills the gaps, shadows
the highlights, the greens,
the blues. They began
with yellow, now buried
in the darkness, hidden
as spray cans swarm
the wall, smothering,
until black is the new white
and daylight puts them on top.

graffiti

I would like you to

lay on the grass
sunshine on your skin, while I feed
you stars and moonlight,
watch you pet rainbows
and straddle mountains
you can ride until dawn
tomorrow. I would like you to sleep
and dream of whirlpools,
sparkles scattered on your fingers
that you spin into a necklace
I can wear when you are gone.

Keep looking up

Between the first floor pilings,
sunrise strikes the water. Oddly
orange, it casts an inner glow

into a home gutted. A solitary fish,
searches for food, finds a floating doll
still smiling with empty blue eyes.

It's lighter, the dawn, eerily calm
only the water rushing through the streets
belies the last lazy summer days.

If we keep looking up, we can believe
the day will improve.

The wake of Ike

The seat came from the coast road, concrete
mounds still stuck firmly to its legs. laid
on its back it looked like some star struck cactus
dragged through hay and netted in brown mesh sludge
the sea donated. It must have been some ride
to have washed three miles inland and settle
against the roots of the 100 year oak, a grey coffin
at its side. If the seat could talk,
would it ask to be put back, or to be left
on the roadside snuggled tight to people's possessions?

Paused

We are paused here, halfway
between heaven and hell
clinging to the landscape
like leeches, sucking the life
from the earth, unable
to stop the earth
from sucking the life from us,
pausing to take joy
in the smile on a child's face,
to pat the back of a friend
who's unsure which path to take next,
pausing mid-step to avoid
the pull of reason.
We are paused here amid the chaos
of choices and changes
that chain us to some other hot place
we can not escape.

Waiting

I remember you laying and listening
to the squeak of rubbered footsteps
as they walked the wide white halls,
remember your eyes moving to see

who it was that strode along
with such purpose, who entered
with such poise. I remember
the water held there, in your eyes

when the nurse lifted the blankets
and checked to make sure
your feet were warm, to make sure
that the skin that sagged over your bones,

was warm. I remember wondering if you
could feel their touch, their caring,
if you knew that they loved you too.

A more gentle era

I once looked at castles, wanted
their cool strength

that withheld the fight of swords.
I find the win, now, in the rise of steam

from my teacup, the smile
that a golden leaf brings,
the birth of praying manti.

Ike's visit

He raged and ranted,
deluged the shores
tossing trees and trash
this way and that, muddied
the streets, stormed
his way into homes
without so much as a by
or leave to rip roofs
from walls. He ravaged
a State but did not scratch
the surface of true
Texan souls.

A gathering

I don't know
if the hunch of distant clouds
will drift forever, aimless
wanderers crossing plains
where no mountains
ease their weight.

Blessings

Surrounded by storm clouds
I thanked Him for the lambs,
the calves that grazed
on green pastures. Looked
for the first Spring bulbs
and up to the sky to ask
how much longer
would I have to wait and there,
in the clouds, a heart graduated
from pink to red, from dead
to pumping, a blessing
to remind me that waiting
was part of life.

Girl/Woman

She has the drive
to join countries, the ambition
to walk from one to another
without looking back
and pondering those
what might have beens
that set pathways for others.

She thrives on joy
sucks it out of people
and spits it back
on pavements slick with oils
of previous past times.

I can see her painting rainbows
on the sky, no point waiting
for God to dip his brushes
she wants vibrant stripes
and she wants them yesterday

strong and unyielding and
it doesn't matter
that there are no shower clouds -
she will paint those too.

4th day of Spring

Soon there will be blankets spread
on paddock grass, buttercups
to place under chins.
Dandelions will stand tall
in the fast growing grass
of Spring and blue sky
will blatantly bless our land.
Soon warm Summer noons
will caress the ground
and fattening buds will explode
to give shade once again.

Reality, yours or mine

I follow the path to your door
on the map with my finger,

crossing land as if it were boulder free
crossing seas as if they were nothing more
than shallow puddles easily jumped.

Reality acknowledges the distance
but my mind sees each house,
checks each street number, each garden
and searches for your vehicle,
your footprint on the grass.

It is as if I stumbled headlong
into some new world that resembles
my own, reality seeming similar

and yet different because in yours
I am new, not caked with age
nor remembering less
than perfect sunrises.

The peace within

The days inside my head
are not the same as those outside
they don't contain the constant clatter of rain.

Inside, it's calm and quiet, that special peace
that falls just before dawn and
in the golden hour just after.

In there it's not hard to breathe
there are no tired limbs or
frustrations that create chaos. In there

the sun shines on a meadow
where an ice bucket and blanket wait,
a cool breeze the only concession
to winter allowed.

Given time

My lamp is lit at midnight
and you drive by, wondering
if my dreams keep me up.

I store them close by,
don't let them go
the way of nightmares
that curse me in some darknesses
and kindle my nerves in others.

When you see the light
it takes me time to untarnish
the silver it sits on, to polish
the dreams until they gleam.

Beyond the pen

Stacks of papers, collected
dreams piled on tables, beside
the bed, in drawers. white

monuments standing still
as if in proof of living skill.
All those drills, those exercises

that stretched muscles,
printed on paper that will burn
just as easily as memories.

The stacks grow. A mirage
of memories dedicated
to reaching a point

beyond the beams
where we all look
at least once in a lifetime.

The old house down the road

The walls of the house still hold
the roof, though their peeled skins
lay bare wood to the elements.
I wonder if history leaks
from those exposed boards,
if with each rain, a little memory
is washed away and lost
among rivers that race to the sea.
Around one corner, where
two walls almost join, a creeper crawls,
holding the boards together, green
leafed and purple flowered, a pretty
palette punctuated by the sun's arms.

Older Trees

It only took one strong storm
to uproot the hundred year trees.

Three stood, together
against the elements, the westerly
whipped their branches

and thinned the weak and dying
leaves from their limbs.
They stood in murky water

barren boughs swaying
and then they were laying,
roots lifted, limbs straight up

as if asking to be rescued
from this drowning.

The power above

You top off one storm
with another, and riding them
becomes second nature. Lightening
and thunder war above
and below the rain fights
in rivers to race to the sea.

Winter

Children are the only ones left
who find joy in the rain, who splash
in puddles that great streams of silver
poured onto the earth.

Strain shows in the wrinkles
between brows on mother's faces,
shows in the clenched knuckles
on steering wheels, shows too
in the lack of smile and
shorter tempers.

The children don't care for sunshine
not when rainbows are simply
something else that can not be touched,
they prefer making mud pies
to the music of bare boughs scratching
and the empty coke can that rattles
its way down the street.

An Embrace

i
Words, images that flip through
like a cartoon replayed in the '70s,
reminders of why it wasn't good
to go to war, and
why it was. A stage of mind
playing songs and the scream of sirens
clearing sidewalks, the hiss of rain
silencing boots in swamps.
Words and images that needed burying,
memories picked up and shaken
until all the loose bones fall
to the ground, exposed
for a son temporarily blinded
by his own China Beach.

ii
All knowledge passes
through fingertips and palms
to the father, to the son -
the good and the bad.
Curved fingers tell of love
given and received. One
has grown, is enlightened,
the other begins a journey
with an embrace to remember
late at night.

iii
Mother started a scrapbook
entered images, goodbye
embraces. One day
your children's children will hold
the book, flip through its pages
and wonder at the strangers within,
the slightly familiar faces
that are a strong facade
for the leaking souls beneath.

iv
More words are withheld than spoken.
The air carries them, a soft embrace
that couples with ours, remembers
the firm touch, the pride, the fright,
and the fight that will bring the strength
to stiffen two spines. Both
will grow, will learn how to stand tall,
learn how to lean, to bend
to the will of others, to bathe
in the beauty of birthright.

v
It's not forgotten after the leave-taking,
the embrace will be remembered long
into those dark nights when scurrying insects
remind you, you are not the only living creature
on the planet and as the black wraps us
we will not forget the comfort we stole
in each others' arms, that brief moment
when we put all stoicism aside
and shared heartbeats that know
the sound of fear, the footfall of silence.

©K. Sweet

(photograph received from Texas T, thank you for the inspiration. my prayers are with this young man, and others who work to make our world a better place.)

Distant Friends

A long way from home
they may be, but if we reached
out we could touch them,

curl our fingers around their hearts
and hold tight so they know
they are loved. We pray

they don't forget,
that they carry us with them
along each road, around

each boulder, that they realise
our thoughts and prayers
are with them, giving them support

and quiet strong love.

I take a tonic of darkness

once a week to dispel
the notion that days
are not always filled with sunshine
that sometimes happiness
does not pervade every square inch
of our world. It serves
the purpose. Places my feet
more firmly on the cobbled walk,
my head more squarely on my shoulders,
and gives me a reality I can rely on.

Drift

I know the bottles
and potions that stand at the edge
of worry, know the spills of flawed skin
the scratches of unseeing, and
unhearing, the pull of lost memory.
I know the dull corners
of green glass, the temporary drift
that sets reality apart from dreams.

I know all these and succumbed
to each, feel humbled
but not hollow. I live.

I watch the sun creep over the hills
spread its fingers across the valley -
dropped spores bleeding and belching light,
puddling and pushing the edge of night
back beyond sight. Gold spills, pooling
at the roots of ancient pines, needles
stacked on the ground, a blanket
staked out ready
to nurture dreams. A pause
in the morning.

Myrtle

Every town has one
a crazy Myrtle who staggers
a little as she walks, and chatters
like the parakeets
that fly over in summer.

She'll mumble to herself,
stop you in the street
with a mad wave
and a shout or screech
guaranteed to sear your ear.

She wears long baggy socks, earrings
that dangle into another world,
red rouge on her cheeks
that doesn't go
with the purple striped cardi
tied around her waist.

She'll save a smile for you,
drag it up from somewhere
we'd forgotten existed, smile
and brighten your day
without thought.

Nelson Sunshine

Blue shot with cream, carries a dream
that today skipping ropes will come out
daisies will be chained to the sun,

that we will star in comedies
and cry at soppy movies.
Where the world revolves around me

and you, and the stars sparkle
especially bright for us.
Today we will smile
and be smiled at, today

we will lap the cream
and swim the blue
until we are marooned.

Dreams

Every one of us dreams, carries
a thought to a happy end. Even
the woman in heels, white satin bag
held to her face as she breathes
the glue through pain that strips
her legs of the ability to walk straight.
She might dream of sandy beaches
and sunshine where the waves
wipe away loss, where the sea breeze
blows in a new day of fresh
promises. She might long
for a lost lover, mourn his beauty
conjure him up through the fumes.
Dreams might be all she has, the
only other thing she can hold.

you

i walk on you when
i walk along the hall
unlit, it is as if you
are the blue in the carpet
as if the darkness in the hall
is your thoughts, dreams
having fled before sunrise.

The Elderly

We cradle them in our arms
as they cradled us, carry
them when their legs
no longer give them strength.

We feed them, their hands
returning to that delicate stage
where reaching does not mean
touch, where grasping
does not mean to hold,

where carrying
does not mean to clear a path
for footsteps.

Missing You

It is as if you never left
as if your eyes still cast glances
over my shoulder,
as if you continue
to pass on your wise counsel.
On days like today

where the bushes burn bright
against the green and blue, I think
of you, wish yet again
that you had not gone
before I was ready to say goodbye,
and wish again for one more smile
before the tears flow, unrelentless.

I till my fields, cull the weeds
until I am left with stark skeletons
and it is only when you nudge me
as they stand shivering,
I realise they hunger for warmth. Now
even the wind has left me,

and on days like today
when the sun has forgotten to smile
I practice acting, nod, listening
to all, still wishing you had not left
so soon.

Every Day

You have become predictable, every day
collecting the wind between leafs,
tumbling rays to daisy petals
raindrops to puddles. Every day

I gather you close, use your shoulder
or your ear, for my sounding board.
Every day you listen, and guide
in silence.

You have become predictable,
and I believe.

In dying

..........you lay almost flat,
mirroring the bared boughs
of long sleep
staging the last lonely stance
between aired veins
and empty.

..........You lay,
eyes unfocused locally,
mind fastened to a schoolgirl
in braids and braces,
one whose fast-paced dreams
would forever be
partially filled.

..........You lay
quietly waiting
and watching something
we can not see,
some promise
yet to be chosen.

Promises

Lazy smiles and smokey eyes beckon
from the glossy covers of tomorrow's mags,
print promise on my eyes
and repaint my blood red.

I watch them drape, curve
skin across fold-outs touting
cheap perfume that stinks boardrooms
and makeup that masks
blemishes deep as the soul.

I turn the page, leave them
waiting like the dreams and hopes
in my handbag. I want
world peace, and I want
the promises too.

Seven Lives Lost

The river swallowed their tears
just more drops to swell its sides
as the churning of seasons
begets freak storms that steal lives.

The river swallows them
takes their thoughts
and tosses them from it

in splashes. Rejection catches the sun's eye
before returning to its silver
arterial view.

It is there

It is there in the weight of unshed tears,
that understanding of parting,
the knowledge of permanent separation
that will be the peace of growth. It
is there in the Christmas smile
of a toddler, in that moment of delight
when one more gift
is placed in their hands.
It is there in the holding of hands,
in clumsy, squeezy hugs
that remind us friends and lovers
care, that they are only as distant
as our eyes see them
and as close as our beating heart
feels them. It is there in special memories,
the flashbacks of good times
when the sun rose with each dandelion,
and in challenges when we worked
alone walking in the footsteps of no other.
It is there, in the weight of yesterday.
It is there, in the eyes.

A cooler breeze

A cooler breeze catches in the space between leaves
turns them out, sets them whispering, flying,
caught on the bow of Autumn
pushing the warmth towards the tropics
where the sun embraces palms and white sand.

Here in the south, birds fluff chests,
peck sparingly at the cabbage tree berries -
great star-burst flowers that poke the grey
from the sky. Black birds fall

to the ground to break their fast
among weed and worm,
stretched worms
reluctant to leave the arms of the earth.

The breeze is cool, and the sea slips
across the beach, laps the land
that dawn sifts in light, cleans the track
where footprints walked to the sun.

The Morepork


The morepork calls
after dusk sets the day.
Night trails open for snails

to make their way, silver threads
their map, outlines their journey
from lawn to moon-glazed window.

Beyond the wind
where lack of sleep twists
the sheet of night, binds
us beneath the roots of day, beyond

the spider webs cast across black trees,
beyond the crush of waves
that turns rock to sand,

the morepork gives life
to the coffined edges of night.

San Francisco - Treasure Hunters

Rubbish plies the street edges,
spills from the bins
and they work it over

quickly, thoroughly,
collecting any useful object -
half a sandwich, or

a Starbucks cup
they can shake two copper coins in
when the theatre crowds
move in for the evening.

They move on to the next bin,
and the next,
and drag their shopping trolley
hope chests with them.

click to view

San Francisco - the newspaper stand on the footpath


In a round room sits a man
surrounded by daily newspapers.
He doesn't smile
and I think Christmas
cannot be carried
on his shoulders.

I ask if he would mind
my taking his picture
and he grunts 'No,
too many have taken it.'

So I smile, and thank him.
But I have taken
the memory of his carved face,
a frown with weariness in eyes
that have read enough,

a body bent to fit
the tiny round room
lined with its new thousand words
each day.

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.