Baby waits alone
Baby waits alone In sandy shallows lying, – wretchedly crying Dam marooned at sea Aware her calf is dying Precious time expiring Biped mammals strive Distressing trials appeasing Cold denial teasing Infant but alive
Silvered In The Dying Light
Silvered in the dying light she lies A silent sleeping twinkle coloured Eve Who heaves and breathes a sinuous sigh Beneath her oiled and shimmering skin. Upon my sandy feet she laps a gentle
Key economy
Words today are How’d you say, In sad retreat, Or obsolete? They slide around Conducting sound, Deferent To moving ground Where once they were As referent To common sense As having common meaning; Misuses
The Beer Was Cold Enough
It is amazing, while I lay in bed, I had the lines Roaring through my head like locusts on the wing, The unabashed extravagance of such a flock Of stunning words shocked me out
Dead poet
I’m sure it would be easier to survive as a dead poet, I mean it in the surmise that I won’t be tempted To revise or rewrite the poem I wrote last night, or
Night's sentinel
Even tonight will pass into memory’s oblivion, Doomed, despite an ardent reunion Of once estranged yet precisely matched parts, To a guiltless verdict – a foregone conclusion. As you dissolve twice-blessed In a kaleidoscope
Nothing ever is the same
Gnashing teeth, A grinding meet Of molars crashing Cuspid on cuspid And the fracture of a piece, Of pressure not intense but awkward In an anxious, unintended sense, Then giving way, the rapid play
The Price Of Parting
Will they be there for you when you die? Will they hold your hands and cry until you’ve breathed Your last? Is it too much to ask? While love is free In tearful task
The light was always you
In the beginning there was light, Abundant light that truly lit the way, Time was never lost in dodging flights Of feckless shadows and darkness seldom Ever blight the brightness of our days. And
Hidden dangers
Which things excited you the most when you were young, Can you recall the pleasures they would bring? Indulge Yourself, dispose your mind of daily care and take The plunge – but beware, there’s
Echoes in an empty room
The strident sounds of silence echo In a darkened room, a beggar’s tomb Of emptied space and barrenness, a Shameful waste, a bitter sadness. It violates all sense of being strips aside All causal
Rangipo Desert
Whangaehu waters, hot-spilled from the cauldron Of Crater Lake, swirling mud-green from the cup Between Tahurangi and Pyramid Peak, Sulphurous, sibilant among purer daughters Of the snow-line, Plunging eastwards down broken-faced ravines, Boiling between
Seven suits
Seven tailored suits, matching shoes and socks, A brace of muted ties with subtle breast pocket Handkerchiefs descried, you wouldn’t credit how Badly they governed you in days gone by. And the shirts, the
The Logic Of This State
Marking time in pencil strokes across a virgin page And waiting for coincidence of heart-beat and second-hand, Keying to the electronic blips that phase The passing time; visionary states of grace Do not deluge
Forsaken promises
Nothing came to claim my muse, instead I dreamed Of freedoms neatly folded in a treasure chest lying in the debris Of a crater; the best were simple choices, the rest forsaken Promises bombed