Untitled.

I actually saw the alarm go off
Just for a moment, before you hit the snooze button.
You know as well as I do that you should be getting mentally prepared,
Because morning is well on its way.
The bulbs are doing their bit, peaking sleepy faces up out of the cool earth
Dozing by the river, by the letterbox, up in the Park.
Almost time for you to lumber out of the long night
Pull on your garments, put your face on and
Join the living.

Lyttelton

I never tire of the port

Of the sea birds, smell of fish and chips, accents, hippies and white trash dogs.

I never tire.

I never tire of it already humming when I arrive,

Brimful of oil tankers, container ships, fishing boats, ferries, tug boats, ships carrying logs or cars or fertilizer.  I never tire of the port, keeping itself busy with trucks, buses, cars and tiny yellow helmeted people driving forklifts and other lifting, carrying, moving, shifting, stacking and unstacking machines.  I never tire of it quiet and empty, sea hovering placidly around the wharf, not bothering to look busy.

I never tire of the port, of the rocky outcrops on the hill tops, pushing their scarred faces into the soft bosom of the sky.  Of the yogic clouds sinking lower, lower, a little lower, over green-gold hills, of the glassy sea coloured sea, routinely defying description, or of the rocks, or of the heads, or of the fall down, tumble down jetties.  I never tire.

Hiatus

Poetry's gone sour in my blood

Words stagnant and moulding

Big black dog been sitting on 'em for so long they 

unfurl slow, folds in all the wrong places

Crooked and cold and stiff, like myself.

Untitled

Deep down in the deepest part of the deep end I am.
Tucking myself away I am.
Holding my own heart, stilling my own hair, smoothing my own breath.

Coalgate #1

I came reluctantly this time

Frugal

Not wanting to unnecessarily spend my energy on others

But here, I am unfolded 

By a quiet hum of something that is not quite joy

Bandaging me in peace

Deletion or All the Grace I can Muster

I want to take your life in my hands and
Scrub it clean of me

Erase my songs
Send back my poems
Do not even think of me

But, there is love
Although not between us
And that love-that-is-not-between-us
Compells me to stand very still
And do nothing at all.

The Monthly

What I long for is
A chest to lay my head on
Hands to hold
Arms to rest in

West Coast # 1

My bag is extra heavy today
Filled with stones.

I have come here
Where everything is perfectly in its place
And it has made me long for pieces of that belonging

I will take the pieces home and
Put them on the sill
On the shelves
By my bed

I will see them from time to time and think
I, too, belong.

I see another and add it to my bag.

Tauranga Bay, West Coast

Rocky hull of a ship

Upturned

Abandoned

Mired in the sea bed

Just off the coast

Hide and Seek

I write it down

Prayer

And draw lines around it

Prayer

Then I undraw the lines because

Prayer is not the thin thing I once thought

It is a big, wide, deep thing

An endless movement from many places

In, to one place

An open door between my heart and your heart

A trickle, a river, a flash flood

A quick dash for high ground

And a quiet wandering in a sunlit summer dusk

Prayer is an ache I carry in my heart

Wordless and deep

A waterfall making its inexorable way to you

An angry sea returning

Over and

Over 

To the constant shore

Prayer is a bird song

Quick and telling

From back behind me in the bush

A yellow flower floating on a millpond sea

A shell

A leaf

A seed pod

A word

An image

A blue light

Inside me,

It is the pull toward you that never lets me go

Prayer is me waiting for you

And you waiting for me

Untitled

You took a precious thing
And used it recklessly
And I was that precious thing.

Every Night

I reach out/stretch out my
fingers/soul to you.

Searching around in the dark/silence
seeking you in the old
places, where you no longer live.

I an tired now, from searching,
worn out/disillusioned.

Find me, I cannot find you.

No. 8.5

That old, old pain of love
never returned
touches me new
with its gentle fingers
No stab, just a
slow ache steals
over me, just
an old, familiar
malady.

No. 9

I caught a glimpse of heaven
today, on Brougham Street
Sun rimmed clouds, shafts of light

It stilled old grief, like a
finger on lips.

No.8

I sing a true song
And it takes my spirit up
Away into the
Deep green mountains
There to wander, naked and free
between the dark trees
playing in sweet trickling creeks
Where sunshine streams
through in shafts of light
and the dust mites
dance in awe of all created things
And You, the uncreated.

Through the Passes

Farewell then, to the coast
As we turn inland
Into the mysterious Island
Shrouded in rain
Dark hills hidden in a stormy haze
And a green maze of mountains
Trails wrapping round them
Water falling down them
Glittering silver in the
Dim light at noon

No. 7

There are moments in the day
When I think of you
And the world lights up at the thought

As Promised

1.

There we crawled from our shell
From the old bubble life
We were afraid of being noticed
After a life of practised silence
We shed our grey skins
We tried on new, ill-fitting ones
We stumbled, we cut our knees
Our elbows, we bruised our hearts
We found our sea legs and
We walked on water

2.

I do not know how we found our way
When there was no guide, no one to follow
No one before us
I do not know how we survived
In this foreign place
Or how it became home to us
Or when

3.

I do not know if we wanted to belong here
Or if we wished to return, as some did
I do not know why we did not return

You would not know it if you saw us
You could not tell from whence we came
We do not tell you, only just a few words
Hidden under laughter
We do not talk
Even to each other
We were children
Now we are not
We have left
So that there cannot be a return

4.

But I remember, my kite
My skipping rope, my hiding place
Under the macracarpa tree

We cannot return
Because there is no place to return to
Just faces on streets
Just a few words
Just my life
Shaped by your life.

There is a Pretty Girl staring at me

I suddenly realise
How excruciatingly
Inadequate I am

(aesthetically speaking)

No. 6

I know it may seem affected
In one so young as I

But sometimes, when I think of dying
I get excited.