first poem

1

As we’re on the road still,

dragging our heels, up–

hill,  and for all our toil

in the hot wind, and for all

the smart and discipline,

I’ll say this.

 

2

There’s something to be said

for a soft luxurious

bed in the first

spring of morning: the flies

affirm it, and violets, and birds

and the worm spilled.

 

3

I saw the black crows

circling the dawn even before

the sun tipped the leaves

of evergreens golden.

Storms of Nature

Rain and wind

create storms

Blow umbrellas

inside out

We survive

the norms

holding onto

our hats

our skirts

blowing upwards

We are stronger

for the challenges

of nature

that hurl us

unflayingly

into

Life

naked and undetermined….

 

heart rain

heart rain

i hear a heart
in the rain
whose heart
is it?
raining in
the night
the drip of
its beat the
beat of its
drops
i
next
to you
in the sound
of this rain
whose heart
is it?
yours
or mine?
the drops of its
beat falling through
our dreams the
dream of its fall
in a welter
of drips

whose love
is this
raining in
the night?
can it be
taken in
one hand
alone?
your hand
or mine?
what is given
only to both
the join of
its rain
the heart
of its
join

november 2016

Lines – 8

These are the patterns of madmen, in part random but

deliberate also, cuts delivered in cold blood.

 

I merely trace the lines already there

in the mind; run my nail across your palm,

catch the eye the way you like it.

 

 

Oh,

 

Lorelai                                   could I

 

be the one to find the gap, scratch those lines

across your back?

 

 

a natural death

 

This is no way to go, slow like food expiring;

tho it’s true, lesser men than you have managed it.

 

 

one man behind another

 

These are not the hands I knew

as a child/like skein unwound,

pale skin

 

alligator. Score those nails

across my wide pale-

skin thighs,

 

divide; I’m yours. My

Lord, I’m so…

excessively

 

bored. Part the seas,

intervene.

Like you used to.

 

5

 

When I close mine eyes I’m like

him upon the white

factitious cliff;

 

and not because I miss England,

her hills, green

fields etc; or

 

the southern shores

of Europa and there-

fore! sail the wide

 

desolate sky

of Antarctica,

no.

 

6

But I half expect each turn

to be, at last,

 

what it might be – the end

I set out for.

 

It might not come or has come and I don’t know and don’t care in the shadow down-town, death

etc.

 

7

The town is dormant, underworld of stilled houses and street lights, lined dead

straight (except when the road bends them out of shape), on a Monday night.

 

But what can I do, one man, out late?

 

8

Should I say I have sailed the wide desolate skies, the high

latitudes, of Antarctica?

 

if I’m not being literal.

 

And if not, what do I mean by it?

And if so, what do I mean by it?

 

I should have been a pair of ragged shoes

scouring the city floors; a fly

suckling the hard bread – enough,

I guess, to live by – and wine; a fly

 

-bitten mendicant dragging his bones

along the interminable roads of the middle-ages.

 

I’m just lucky I guess.

 

nov-dec ’16

Quarter to Four

Listen to the sound of souls
Slowly floating down,
A vast autumnal gravity
Draws us to the ground…
We land within a well of words
Where strangest allies meet:
A many headed Hydra
Using you and I for feet.
Here, we all march, paralyzed,
By a smug atonal laugh
That’s rolling off the silver tongue
Of a golden calf.
He’s selling us a story
Of a forward that leads back:
Back into a recess
In a corner in a brain
Where able bodied humans choose
To wear the mark of Cain.

See oily wings, slick glistening
In the slowly choking dusk,
Stripped of the flight and magic sight
That made it what it was:
An eagle bends its shaven head
Towards the gilded sword
And reaches out a withered claw
To grasp its next reward.
One angry eye has been removed;
Transplanted to a pyramid
That mocks the symbol of itself,
And all it ever claims it did.
An eye that peers at every one
But only sees the dark;
A light that will blind every thing
Except the human heart.

———————————————————————–

On ANZAC Day We Stand and Think

On ANZAC Day We Stand and Think is a poem dedicated to the millions of innocent civilians who lost their lives during the genocide of Christians in WWI. This is an event most New Zealanders are unaware of; yet Gallipoli and the Armenian genocide are inextricably linked. 

Ottoman Turk leaders insisted that the allied invasion necessitated the ‘deportation’ of Armenian citizens [meaning torture and extermination], in case they supported the allies. However, ANZAC war correspondents reported the capture of Armenians who fought for the Ottoman leaders (Pashas), as tens of thousands were forcibly conscripted.

Commencing in Constantinople only hours before the Gallipoli landings with the brutal butchering of hundreds of Armenian leaders, 70 Armenian, Assyrian or Greek Christians died for every ANZAC soldier who fell at Gallipoli. Even after the killing, all Armenian property was stolen and thousands of churches were crushed in what scholars call ‘Islamisation’ or ‘Turkification’. Let their souls rest in peace after a century of denials…

Genocide Statue

On wind-swept hills the Turks await,
Among sweet thyme and bush ablaze,
From distant lands men know their fate,
From ships they stare to hell amaze.

They stood for right against our foes,
To fight the Turks Great Britain called,
An Empire dying, its final throes,
Killing its people, the world appalled.

Christian soldiers forced to fight,
For the Ottoman, threat to rear,
For the Pasha, using might,
Against Armenians, full of fear.

On ANZAC Day we stand and think,
Why fight here now, this blood stained cove?
Excitement gone, in a blink,
Into horror, brave men drove.

Now we read a mournful story,
Of tragedy and tales so bold,
But do we remember history,
Or only partial truth we’re told?

ANZAC soldiers, muddy trench,
Cry for our fallen; heaven sent,
The smell of dead and dying stench,
Weep also for the innocent.

You can hide it, fog of war,
Preaching murder it was not,
But it’s a truth we can’t ignore,
Christian suffering never forgot.

On ANZAC Day we stand and think,
Of sacrifice at Gallipoli,
But we fought for right, thus the link,
Blind to genocide we cannot be.

Len Wicks, December 2014

http://originsdiscovery.com/genocide.html

24 April 2015 Protest at the Genocide Memorial because of Australia and NZ’s silence about a crime against humanity
The leaders of New Zealand, Australia and the United Kingdom are deaf, dumb and blind, while WWI allies Canada, France and Russia (and even the Ottoman’s allies Austria and Germany) have the courage to recognise the worst of crimes – genocide.

The Three Monkeys of Gallipoli the leaders of New Zealand, Australia and the United Kingdom are deaf, dumb and blind, while WWI allies Canada, France and Russia (and even the Ottoman’s allies Austria and Germany) have the courage to recognise the worst of crimes genocide.

Turkey effectively blames invading nations like New Zealand, Australia and the UK for the deaths, saying it had to ‘deport’ its Christian citizens in case they supported the Allies (‘deport’ means to kill more than 1.5 million Armenian children, women, aged and unarmed male citizens by burning, crucifixion, bayonets and other gruesome means, steal their property and crush more than 2,000 churches).

The truth is that Turks have been massacring indigenous Christians since they invaded Asia Minor in 1064 because of their Christian faith, while New Zealand, Australia and the UK shamefully appease Turkey, instead of defending human rights.

Lest we Forget (the genocide of Christians – Armenians, Assyrians and Greeks).

Note to veterans: the NZ, Australian and British cartoon figures are representing political leaders, not courageous Gallipoli soldiers, many of whom recognised this crime against humanity.

Note to publishers: the cartoon may be freely reproduced but must have the following credit: Len Wicks/Tigran Hakobyan. A larger image is available at http://originsdiscovery.com/Cartoon.JPG.

A Goodbye

The grass has struck now

In its narrow shape.

It is green yet sparse;

No time yet to prosper.

We all stood here

Over the silken oak

To weep in our hearts.

Do not mourn, she said.

I’ve had the best of lives.

You can’t say goodbye

When love clutches the throat.

So we stand, the wind in the west,

And offer nothing more than

Our broken, broken hearts

meaning what meaning

let’s suppose a purpose just for fun
say perhaps that there was one
that for a second had undone
all we’d done with all we did
with every bidding we forbid
love perhaps and no reaction
nowhere nothing could get traction
nothing dug-in nothing etched
no single sorrow to regret
theist, atheist or agnostic
no diagrams or diagnostics
and in the place of all this meaning
there was space for space to be in
just a little left of centre
in the chest of the inventor
me and you unpaying guests
living in our messy nests
our miraculous mirages, our succulent selves
our sour grapes, our thirsty wells
if this was all there were to show
for all the evolution of the soul
I don’t mind, let all be forfeit:
Your warmth within my warmth was worth it

————————————————————

dreams i think you have

The fruit fly dreams the empty glass;

the organisms in wine,

the flies.

 

The dragon fly skims across the surface of the wine;

the padded paw across

my boards.

 

My cat with her wings out-spans

the highest bird;

 

the cumbersome bear tears the throat

of the antelope, caught off guard:

 

an eye fixed upon the blade of grass;

the other, glazed, is miles away –

in the field he once lay.

 

12/11/16

sun heart

 sun heart
for Keikei

sun on the
sea sun in
the heart
the blue of
that sky was
the trough
of those
bantering
waves
the shadow
lasting only
their lift
and fall
we were
sitting on
that smoothly
pitted sandstone
outcrop
smiling
in the hope of
all we are and
the fact of
what we
shall be
an afternoon
a breeze around
your hair in this
afternoon for
all afternoons
forever yours
for this chip of
time in which we
nest will always
be
and there will
be sun on the
sea sun in the
heart

  te naupata (musick point)
september 2016

auto

and when the birds quit their song,

she said:

 

You have the soul of a poet.

But the discipline…

 

I know:

 

You have sat at the head

of an empty table, lit

candles for the dead,

 

and said – at length –

nothing –

 

to no-one; distracted

by the silences…

                of cicadas; lain

 

on the bed, spent

in the afterglow of…

                lightning? and,

 

as the morning, rose

alone, and the heart

beat like wild.

 

And yet…

 

It’s not enough to sing

for the wind fingering

the curtain; laid

on the unmade bed,

legs spread, drinking beer,

or playing solitaire

as the bugs crawl along

                                the ceiling.

 

I said: Ok,

fair enough.

 

Nov ’16