Sunday evening in GIZZY March13th 005

So in Roman times they came they saw they conquered
and when you gave me birth this life of mine you concurred,
another path
Or a flight of fantasy, when every whim as babe or being
became me
Oh, I was rather a happy chubby chanting child
not wild
School, fun, fashion romance all fell to place
and I did chase
the world
Grabbed the planes and landed free
where ere the air did take me
The sun set on Arab and African plain the globe golden
and sumptuous delight fueled joyous dusk
or sweaty dawn
Fallen heros in my days, sadness wends its willow
to improve our stance and light a path
to follow
And while I tend the waiting room my smile is broad
not hollow
Love has woven all my days
slipping in smiles or
For I can see the face of heaven in another’s eyes
glimpse their soul
which ever hand or land they tread
when alone
we face each other equal
in longing for love
when life ends will take us there

Adrift-‘the sea comes and re-writes our lives’-anon

IMG_1639 - Copy

I’m drifting with the wood upon an ocean
fleetingly viewing all I see
the deep and deafening rising of the notion
that we all are struggling to be
The jetsam of a wish to be a pilgrim
the refugee we wish along on side
an aide to help the derelict devotion
in giving help and loving without pride
the depth of all the blue threatens to drown me
Jonah an the whale has me to carry whole
swimming with the fish he appettises
regurgitated ebbing with the shoal
The tide re-writes the life that we are living
The moon and stars of heaven pull us too
I’m in love with all creation’s bounteous cargo
Sending clouds of sails to wing and woo
I have no craft of genius or wisdom
yet receiving /giving love is all I do.


Paint Portraits or Pastoral Scenes

Painevenings and mornings - Tongariro and home 034t Portraits or Pastoral Scenes

Photography developed
the world reflected in negative
on bitter truths that held high morals
low dealings
clear to their purpose
camera obscura now recording
mystical people
tradition held sway
culture and playWest captured their colour
failed to see their loss
focus on
riches educate the masses
learn nothing

colour tv
colour photography
know it all

In ages past no spectacles made vision clear
I’d smash them
Blind and bind our tongues
till we smell the rot we weave
till we feel the pain conceived

and hear it

Still life waits
hope has wings

People shining in clear light
Tides changing Faces ,
hear call of the wild
weather or not we listen
time tells

glittering prize

glittering prize

when god was
the glittering prize
and the day rose
like a mountain
and we had
nothing to lose
only everything
to burn to gain
the peak where
god was in the
hand and gentle
as thunder in a
far-off sky
a far-off sky
you look toward
in wonder thinking
of the bitter hail
and the wind out
there in those fields
where the cattle
sleep the sheep
with wind-parted
backs of wool
like the red-sea
and the canticles of
falling leaves that
never land
the glittering prize
we drank toward
talked toward
listened toward
smoked toward
a god with a
smile of stone
we could not
move to curse
to hail us to
laud us
as we did
each other
god was that
prize that would
stoke the fire
to a roar
the house sweating
in the furthest shadows
our eyes turned
to bone in staring
up into the chimmney
sparks flittering like
incendiary ants
across the bricks behind
the flames god was
in the evening bird
atop the fruit and
vine of its song
the cloud sunk
through with sun
god too was
god of night
rising and we
upon the
the razors
of our
sought to cut
out and lift

may 2015

Who walks with you

Who lies with you still

as the sun warms the slit

between the curtains;

walks with you, soft

along the hall, down

the stairs among the six

and sevens of dawn?


Under the rose-fingered

sky of twilight you stopped

upon the bridge (for what?)

and your head over

the parapet turned back

to stare, a face in water.


Who stands near as you think

of this; connect with it

some loose fact; begin,

resume. What is there

more to do, and who walks

with you? soft in midnight

blue, up the stairs.




thanks for your comments. unable to reply or make comments, or private messaging. have tried many times and failed. no good at this sort of thing 🙁  will keep trying tho 🙂 Please bear with me


Pathways 001

Tread softly

For the Spirits rise to Paradise

where the branches

cease to tangle and the Light

a strip of brilliance

slanting across waving grass


‘Here, the Place is reached’


Tread softly

For the Spirits rise to Paradise

where the Winds of Time

cannot disrupt the Glade

between the  place where

a print may be formed in the grass

and the place where no imprint

marks the progress of  Soul

Tread softly because

You may walk on the Dream

Before it has ceased to be….


June 2012

Art: Acrylic and Aquarelle pencil study on Canson paper. June 2012



Music… is the liberation
from a lonely prison of Matter
the elevator of the depression
of the tyranny of the human body
with its demands, desires and hunger
It is the Voice of God
singing through the strands of Time
reminding us that we
are not these bodies…
that we are not prisoners in
bone and sinew…
but Spirit in action
dancing through eons, galaxies
singing through Humanity



november skies 007

A high west wind
shreds and feathers
the white gauze of cirrus clouds
in rarified mesosphere echoes
from space.

An invisible hand pulls
like so much spun sugar
of celestial confectionary
against a sky
of melted forget-me-nots
in high summer sun
which shimmers on the blades
and heads of
cabbage tree leaves.


Date Scones


Dates ….

those inexpensive Kiwi standbys

those thousands of sticky dried fruit

worked into thousands of masses of dough

like this indigestible slab.

It is giving me a serious dose of heartburn as I wonder…

who picked these fruit….

who are their names….

what pay to harvest these dates

what heartache…

for my

Date Scone

slowly disappearing under a

thin layer of butter from one of those

silly little containers …

you know the ones – they tear

and you hook the butter out with your knife…

I idly

think of the Date Pickers

the Tea Pickers

they who grind the cinnamon quills

into powder ….

which go into the

Date Scone


Amid the café buzz of unintelligible conversations

think of the Fresh Dates which cost

more than these sticky dried fruit…

The Date Scone

is almost a memory

save for the indigestion….

The Noble Kiwi afternoon tea


One or two of those dates

picked by the Date Pickers

are left beside a buttery knife

still encased in dough….

no the Dates not the knife….!

Think of the Date Pickers…….

Copyright 30.9.2010


The Grapefruit Tree

Spring Storms 027


It must be enormous now …

that Morrison Seedless beloved of the Kiwi gardener

a gift from my grandpa

for the house – and my birthday.

My man used

our supply of demolition bricks to make a path

to the leafy infant

its protection, a low brick surround

as if for a nursery

its botanical companions

some lavender cuttings from the hedge

I knew since childhood.


I hope the owners of that house

we once owned

have not cut through its gnarled trunk

nor felled the giver of those golden

juice-filled fruits

… fruit which makes marmalade

for breakfast toast

eaten in that cobbled suntrap

by the French doors.





The Diamond Map

Phil Tayler – December 2015
The Diamond Map

To understand the outer world, we tend to gaze upon it;
many options present themselves, to elucidate perception.
One image of the world; mere colours upon an atlas
two dimensional spacial, paper mapping information.
Three dimensional fractal, holographic light in form
Four dimensional reality, with limitations merely time. .

To understand the inner realms, we need reflection deeply;
for truth is like a diamond, the most precious of the gems.
Cut with many polished faces, each facet like a mirror
reflecting back to all of us, beliefs we cherish dear.
It takes a very open mind, to see opposing facets
never mind the deeper truth, the disregarded faces.

So light reflecting from within, illuminates the seeker;
shining on the gem of mind, the clarity of mappings.
Yet one can never disregard, the physicality of existence
bound together seamlessly, with bone and blood – the mind.
Yet imagination travels far, our thoughts yet further still
colliding with our sleeping form, intuition in our dreams.

So mind it seems, is paramount; surmounting all its boundaries;
our electro physical senses, mere appendages for its usage.
Emotions come and sensations go, yet only memory remains
of gems of truth and maps of light, experience won at cost.
As years go by we learn at last, we accumulate our actions
loves we’ve known, compassion shown, embedded in our being.