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.