our dad would
tell us his
mother held
him in her
arms i wonder
what sleeves
what frilled
cuffs telling
him that star
out there a
kerosine lamp
in god’s hand
on the dark
of the invercargill
night was
haley’s comet
and he would
remember it
he did
we do

the comet
goes on
us too
i believe
the turn
of a life
in its
out and

a ‘dad in arms’
i smile

october 2011


*my father was born in 1906. He remembered his mother holding him on the balcony of their house in Invercargill and telling him that the brilliant star out on the night was ‘Haley’s comet’ and that he would remember this moment his whole life. That must have been the comet-sighting in 1910 meaning he was four at the time. The comet returns every 75 or 76 years, and he passed away in his 76th year.

Press Lane

Steam and stains

pave the way

for the late man,

whisky breath,

yesterday’s hangover.

He has been out

hunting for headlines.

His are buried in doubles,

grasped with a tremble.

He is sought – now.

There he is, in the lane

where hustlers hide

in the falling cold.

Snap the red door,

get up the endless steps.

Front pages come this way,

squiggles and lines, tatty pages.

They are dressed, primped.

The late man does that.

A rye eye on the words,

a flick of the wrist


Without a skinned nose,
ostriches – the lucky
that reliance has not graced
upon staggered
lines of feet,
the worm-like
the warehouse
road front
where the humble waits,
and fear
becomes the heavenly home
you leave.

Go on and roll the tints up
in the window, block the embers
losing glow
for unforeseen

There’s oblivion
for comfort, hope, for not yet
zero self esteem.
Even after
it is
5 O’clock
there is no dream,
and there is

© A2Kdavis (K Davis) 2017



the sum
of love
is never
death tears
the page
the simple
symbols of
its gathering
tear kiss
and hand
the heart’s
forms to

the sum
of love
is never

You Are Not My Entire Audience

That music is turning my brain to mincemeat,
That Japanese chick screaming those lyrics,
“Bee bop around you”
Too much longer I can’t handle,
Vomit from the eyeballs at her sound,
It was going cool until she took the stage,
She’s lost the concept,
She was there once but not tonight,
She’s lost the moon whilst counting the stars,

The Last Bridge Home -draft

She thought she had better race home beat the incoming storm
The lightening struck her a bolt from nowhere
Knocked her from her bicycle
Jolted as a bucking horse does its wrangler
She bounced into a car coming in the oncoming traffic
Slammed in to a brick wall leading on to the bridge she had to cross home
The bicycle twisted spokes impaled her spine
She lay paralysed by sciatica in the gales of wind and oncoming rain
Her feet felt cold
Broken spokes impaled into her spine paralysing her everytime she tried to move
Even to lift her head piercing agony
The mangled bicycle lay a strewn
She lay starring blankly at the people over top consoling her
Deaf to their words
Her head bleeding profusely
She was never afraid of his darkness
She saw the demons dance round his eyes
Momentarily she believed he was still alive
Slaps to her face she made out an ambulance was called for
She lay on the road beside a stream beneath the overhanging willow trees
Gustily bracken trees
The cold crept from her feet into her torso now
All she could do was lie and wait
Breathing and exhaling gulps of blood and crucifying pain
Slipping away
She now understood her fate
She knew it was moments left to live…..

11th Feb 2016

The Bunkern

Sometimes you have to lead the way
Way back they went
West Auckland friends best off they lived
But the “funky fruit fly” and the musican go back further
250 years tunneled underneath deep deep deep
He’s trapped inside a bunker
Driving fruitless projects labeled a lost cause
Stuck in an underground cell
He is an independent cell
When you are trained as a terrorist
You become one
He missed the panther
Painting sessions the type of long lost souls
Am empty poet who slipped away
Her conversation now aloof
She bounced the jukebox
It had set free to his mind
Where it goes down a rabbit hole staircase even further
deep deep deep
She would be Queen if she had wanted
He knows it wont
He is a loner but he laments so what?
Tell him you know loyalty and respect
Tell him you hold the keys to these passages
He”ll pick those who earn it and the ones who think they have it
The people like him dead the those dying.


3rd March 2017


Dead Rabbits

The past is the torch that lights our way,
Where our fathers have shown us the path,
We shall follow.
Our faith is the weapon most feared by our enemies.
For there by shall we lift our people up against those who will destroy us?
Our name is called the dead rabbits dead rabbits dead rabbits dead rabbits.
To remind all of our suffering is a call to those who suffer still to join our ranks.
However so far they may have strayed from our compound across the sea.
Both great numbers must come great strength and the salvation of our people.


~ Stolen


Silver Teapot

Were it not for the silver-plate teapot,

the sky reflected on its creased flank,

you would not know the grave was there.

It is just a bed of pale dirt, seed striking

among the scratchings of a little bird.

This, though, is a fine place to lie;

where any wind makes the trees shout,

where you can hear the river’s swell

and feel the rust on wrought iron.

He lived here all his life –

just across the road.

His was a little house with a tiny porch.

It had no frills, and neither he.

He sought nothing more than sun and food,

a place to lie old his head.

He walked the square section,

thought a garden would be nice.

Not that he bothered.

He did make tea, though.

It was always his hand on the pot.