‘When the Matata Dams Burst’

Council’s Dam Debris

 

 

 

 

(2005 Matata Debris Flow)

 

How life can turn in a second split

Felled logs, giant rocks riding silted floods

of denial and acts of negligence, the sham

Quarry sluicing is not to blame, they cry

No evidence exists that there was a dam

 

When 3 forty year old debris dams burst

Raining down upon a tiny coastal town

What part of life does one try to save first?

For twelve years on, the pain remains raw

as a Council buries all devastation, of before

 

I pray the flow of tranquillity will return

Bearing no debris of contention

Nor hewn boulders of deceitfulness

To this place, of broken beauty and hearts

To this place, we know as Matata…

                                                                             *` © 2016 Pearldiver~

No Room

TRUMPETS WILL BLAST, ANNOUNCING CHRISTMAS AT LAST,
NOT THE ANCIENT MASS OF CHRIST,
COVETNESS, BRIBERY, RESOUNDS THE NEW TRUMPET,
REPEATING THEIR EVERLASTING SOUND.
USHERING IN PROMISES OF HOPE, FELICITATIONS,
THE ORIGINAL PROCLAMATION.
NOW WRAPPED IN TINSEL, THE GOODNEWS,
GLITTERS, SHIMMERS, GLOWS, FLICKERS,
DISGUISES THE MESSAGE AS ANGELIC LIGHT.
BELLS RING FROM THE BELFRY TIDINGS OF GOODWILL TO ALL MEN,
NAGGING, TEMPTING, ENTICING, DRILL,
SHEEP WHO FOLLOW GONE ASTRAY WITHOUT FREE MINDS,
SHAME THE MASSES INTO DEBT,
GREED, STATUS, ALL FOR THE SAKE OF BELONGING.
NOW THEY PAY HOMAGE TO THE GOLDEN CALF GODS’
SANTA CLAUS, ADVANCEMENT, MATERIALISM, THEMSELVES,
PERCEPTION BY MODERN SEERS OF AN ENLIGHTENED ERA,
HOPEFUL MOTHER THERESA’S EMERGE,
GENEROISITY, SELFLESS ACTS, BROWNIE POINT LADDERS TO HEAVEN,
THE LATEST FAD OR CHARITABLE ACT?
THE STILL VOICE OF TIME, HUMBLE, ENTREATING INVITATIONAL,
WHISPERS UNSEEN, NO ROOM IN THE INN,
NOTHINGS’ CHANGED, MANKIND’S FALLEN NATURE REMAINS,
NO ROOM,
NO ROOM.

The beginning and the End

2016-flower-abstractimg_3454-small-hoiuse…. Alpha and Omega the beginning and the end,
Where did it begin and where will it end?
The voice that spoke, ‘Let there be light’ from
chaos, void, where the spirit brooded,
rang throughout the universe.
An instrument of the divines’ voice,
Tis music to those with ears to hear.
Cockles and bells on your toes, she shall
have’ Music wherever she goes’
What are the sources for the symphony…?
That waits; maybe a chorus will greet
from creations’ creatures,
A song from the tribe of birds,
The trill of laughter from a child,
Clatter, banging of cups and plates,
Radio blasting with a song,
Sounds of mornings’ orchestra have come.
The weeping as you’re touched in your inner core
whilst you listen to the magic source.
It moves, breathes, soaks, encompasses,
blankets, invades, resounds, surrounds,
permeates, births,
Everywhere we go, in all we do, are…
comes music, song, melody, tune, harmony,
Symphonies, orchestras, beat, rhythm,
Our bodies, minds, relationships, creation,
Instruments in the Creators’ hand,
Where long ago music began with choirs
Of angelic hosts who sang,
Good will and peace to all men.

…. Alpha and Omega the beginning and the end,
Where did it begin and where will it end?
The voice that spoke, ‘Let there be light’ from
chaos, void, where the spirit brooded,
rang throughout the universe.
An instrument of the divines’ voice,
Tis music to those with ears to hear.
Cockles and bells on your toes, she shall
have’ Music wherever she goes’
What are the sources for the symphony…?
That waits; maybe a chorus will greet
from creations’ creatures,
A song from the tribe of birds,
The trill of laughter from a child,
Clatter, banging of cups and plates,
Radio blasting with a song,
Sounds of mornings’ orchestra have come.
The weeping as you’re touched in your inner core
whilst you listen to the magic source.
It moves, breathes, soaks, encompasses,
blankets invades, resounds, surrounds,
permeates, births,
Everywhere we go, in all we do, are…
comes music, song, melody, tune, harmony,
Symphonies, orchestras, beat, rhythm,
Our bodies, minds, relationships, creation,
Instruments in the Creators’ hand,
Where long ago music began with choirs
Of angelic hosts who sang,
Good will and peace to all men.

Tick tock …Tick tock

artTick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time resounds in my ears,

I stand on foreign soil,

A barren plain looms before me,
The splendour of my body dims,

I question my womanliness,

I spend many hours

Analyzing the worth,

The value,

Of my life.
Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time,

Vicious robber,

It lessens my agility,

Threatens the things I enjoy,

The things I love,

Though not clothed in black,

I mourn,

I grieve

The loss of youth.
Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time,

Society honours and adores

Youth,

Aging is scorned,

Pitied,

Ignored,

Forgotten.
I silently scream,

Youth you have nothing to offer,

Although you rule supreme.
Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

The sound goes on.
I stare into eternity,

Grieving,

Like a woman at the graveside,

I struggle with doubt,

One part desires to stay,

The other prepares to meet God,

Death

Calls to all,

Yet it brings fear.
The enormity of my humanity

Bursts forth as the dawn,

Reminding me this world is not my home,

I will,

I must,

Complete the task,

So I can face a loving God

And live with Him eternally.
Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time’s up.

The Most Loved

5eddd6495c2ce198afd9c5d63f8d7fdad06a0d8cb92a288fcepimgpsh_fullsize_distrAs I look into the world of your eyes, I see the silent grace and the happy peace.
The beauty you have within and the most peaceful outlook shows your love of all.
You sing and you hum each day and the most happiest woman i know, as it brightens even the darkest day.
It is like the wind whispers your name and the flower open as you pass by, the birds sing to the highest they can as your life has so much meaning.
The passion you have for life and the care of other is unmatched, even the care you give to me feels like I am floating.
The soft touch of your hand and the sparkles in your eye, it says more than words and is like a big book ready to be read.
You are like the moon that controls the tide and your love moves the oceans of my heart.
You are my love, you are my life, and i will always cherish you forever.

Te Werahi Beach & the promised land

           *Te Werahi Beach & the promised land

from the drenched shadow of the morning cliff
looking west it lay out on the running ocean
Cape Maria van Diemen,
a name scratched down once of a time
by restless europeans on parchment,
a promised land of the dawn
mapped in early gold
sand hills forged as
simple as cloud along
the still pink rim of sky west
or a rock on the inward rush
of a wave the beach wide
hid a city on the other side
of old things,
missing friends, lost stories, altars
laden with fruits and burning meats,
old sailors of the pacific
and further seas in the tavern
dead drunk in their mermaids’ clasp.
streets that drop away like winds
in the folds of a mainsail
a city that cannot last the sun falling
from higher than the tip
of the ridge, a whole city
gone like dew in the curl of the
marram grass whipped back
and forth on the sand
the ocean riding on in
foaming across the hardened
sand, bubbles and sunken
sky in tow.
a promised land of quiet prayers that
turn across the sky a flock of birds
of terns painted like wave tips
a land of plenty, time stopping
when your thought does,
your brush, your pen dipped
in the cupped well of your silence
earned in the dripping together
of hours
a promised land
that is promised only in the little
time before the sun moves
on those sands, those hills,
and the wind overturns
it all in bare unshadowed
light.
gone like a feather
off the back of your hand
remembered.
the door
to the
dead
open in
the day.

northland
beijing february 2011

*Commentary:
A poem for me is a collision of coincidences between language and memory, language and feeling. I have noted below some of the associations which this piece has for me that came to light in its writing and afterwards. I would not normally do so for any piece I’ve written, but for whatever reason, felt prompted to do so in this case.

restless europeans
reference to the following talk between C. Jung and a Hopi indian elder: At the Taos pueblo, Jung spoke for the first time with a non-white, a Hopi elder named Antonio Mirabal (also known as Ochwiay Biano and Mountain Lake), who said that whites were always uneasy and restless: “We do not understand them. We think that they are mad” (‘Memories, Dreams and Reflections’, Jung, 1973, p. 248). Jung asked him why he thought the whites were mad, and the reply was ” ‘They say that they think with their heads . . . . We think here,’ he said, indicating his heart” (p. 248).

a promised land
I was reminded by the beautiful profile of the sand hills of William Blake’s poem ‘Jerusalem’, a wonderful chariot of English words, sturdy and unbroken after 300 years

early gold
early in the morning, and a memory of gold just valued for its beauty, rather than monetary value

hid a city on the other side
couldn’t see the other side of the sand hills, but precisely for this reason I imagined a whole mystical city there, like Blake’s Jerusalem’ – not really existing anywhere

old sailors of the pacific
and further seas
all those sailors whether polynesian, european, asian or whoever else, who made it everywhere over the waters by star and sextant

streets that
drop away like winds
in the folds of a mainsail
streets of white houses in the cycladic isles, that drop off steeply down hillsides, like wind spilling out of a white mainsail I’ve always thought

gone like dew in the curl of the
marram grass
all a dream, some obscure reference in my mind to the Japanese story translated by Lafcadio Hearn (early scholar on Japanese culture/literature) about someone dreaming beside an ant nest and becoming a king in his dream, waking and realizing everything in his dream was in fact just a reflection of the ant nest (king, soldiers, castle etc)

the door
to the
dead open in
the day.
of course death is open any time for business, but somehow the image of the arch over the entrance to Agamemnon’s tomb (referred to as Agamemnon’s tomb but apparently an unknown king’s) that I saw at Mycenae some 30 years ago came to mind after thinking about this poem for a month or so, and also that I was at Te Reinga where the Maori dead depart Aotearoa to return to Hawaiki.

Cape Maria Van Diemen

Daylight

Pink dawn, rose through the palm and plum tree
Silenced the Tui
audience bowed to suns entrance call
Her curtain fixed us
Peace reigned and cast reflections in my glass, till it was full
I will sip it
savoring its taste
and beauty