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We watch beauty in leaves falling
Carpets colour in time
With grace we farewell our loved one
Trusting they are now thine
Calling to you calling home

When we answer you are listening all the time we run by
Seeking solace and some comfort
Then your arms open wide
Calling to you calling truth

Rising currents sweep the carpet
Leaves a ‘tumbling, winds are blown
And we take heart in your loving
And the friend we have known
Calling to you calling home

If we listen for a moment
we can sense on the air
Our friend calling and we answer
Go in peace with our prayer


coming to terms with death and the natural world © 2 years ago

Waking Wanting Words

When the mind as in the moon takes waning phases
The melodies and tunes stay undefined
Edging  closer to its  pages
The book stays closed
tethered leaves on branches intertwined

Then Spring will rush the head and bud the blossom
Deep within the soul the spirit calls
Lending colour to the brightening day time
Breathing life in cells and nature pours

Songs hover in a haze ,
The muscles of my mind flex
And  what I seek is  the involuntary movement of the strings
That hold the beating of your heart


what stirs us from our slumber? © 2 years ago   spring poems


Night Moves

I am sitting on a one way bus to nowhere
open- topped in desert screams
are heard or lost in rushing moments
No one listens, eardrums bleed.
Jumped on in night with hopes of homeward
recognized no one it seems
Lost in plight I wake this morning
mystified by my night’s dream

Actors on a pumped up stage now posing in a haircut rage
Who defines their pomp and glory
how did they climb up, this page?
Mystified we watch in trepidation
held by what, no one explains
Money, power, greed in bouquet, tossed to them ……….it pains!
The bus I travelled let me off though
others held in endless plight
deceived, derided, dumb submission
holds them fast, they seek no fight
Who gave the tickets for this show now?

Who conducts orchestra or bus?
How do we relieve those stars now
of the pinnacle and thrust?
Voters voted. Regimes changed
on the stage the words unceasing
audience in pure disgust………………………. …………

It all started with a big bang
man began……..

If we keep it up
this ruck
will end in one…………..

Philomena reworked April 2017


my tale – can you guess  the stars in hair cut rage?


If time measured love
Instead of hours
hearts would not cease
Sun would set embraces
Moon would light belief

The clock could not tick
it’s seconds
Childs’ play not end or chase
old couple’s smiling presence
Young lovers full intense

The garden grows unfettered
by chiming of a knell
each tree and mountain climbing
the ocean tide and swell

Second instances of feeling
milliseconds of sublime
Creation fettered not by motion
sand is shifting,seeds will climb

Peoples, melting into moment
hearts sinking in the sun
Stars gaze to blaze the darkness
Creator sighs an all is done


What are we running to? what are we waiting for where do we limp ???? © 7 months ago


I get a long-distance call from a girl who says she knows me.


Years on, I’m in a room that,

in the abstract, is familiar

with its combination of walls

& furniture.


It’s late summer & the sun’s low

yellowing the moth-worn



The voice I know somewhere & a face starts to form,

& part of a name.



The stars are up & my

lens slips from Saturn’s



fumbles about her

kitchen window. I take


notes, co-ordinates

as her shadow practices

a monologue or rattles dishes.


I’m curious but

disconnected –            I

look     but




from Workers Of The Hours


I have brokered time out of a rut
to forage for poem in the half caste,
half-pulled down places, where the yellow and dark,
the golden sheen, of some, their faces,
lean, or fed the red meat

white men grow empire on: extreme
rut of a dream,
rut of emotion expressed,
rut of a bad decision, how I am dressed
everyday, workday, hiViz
and steelcap, or gumboots
up to ma’ kneecaps,
white-soled fishing roots,
the rubber yellow and blue suit;
a comfort of known groove,
how to act, and to move,
and move where, at what cue;

a hundred hooks, and 90 fish;
that this is how the needle tells you
I said, poeting time out of rut,
how it stings—to not move, the whip
sings in the air, you feel
these things I feel: ‘things’, I said
repeating what I meant,
comportment of a wheel,
resistance of the stanchion

at the wharf, the pull within the flesh
at the whip tip splitting your wetsuit;
the moist suction of the mudfoot,
the feel-remembered kisses,
the weighting diamond needles
with the gravity of coins;

stillness, all I ever meant
when I drank beyond the usefulness
of alcohol, people getting drunk
happily, releasing as they go,
the feared absolute silence
of Eternity: telling me,
be skilful, taut, be full
of flex, shock-absorbent
pacifist, but not forgetful,
develop an excellent left; kill,
if you have to, the wasp or mosquito

of memory, do something
unexpected, foster an evil
you can trust to haul you out of trouble
when emoting or receiving hurt
and no one offers transfer
from yourself, in time out
of an expectation
to be ‘good’, these coins
keeping noses in their groove,
in the black dust of mines,
in the uplift in the Van’s suspension
as 6 Samoan Bro’s
exit Sth Auckland,
shopping menfolk, made reliable,
in matters as arranged,
man-manoeuvred, through whatever woman
‘it’ is, what their’s means: They: magnetics,
of an earth moved, be still, within, the field
exist as attraction, as yourself
and your duties, once perceived as much a
pleasure as the sandfly
to the touch, light as this is actualised

burning on

burning on

the sky was
grey and low
the smoke was
of the sky
the flames of the
garden fire burning
were richly of
the earth
the woman was
tidying up the garden
gathering up gloved
armfuls of dry
branch the cat
was helping in a
silly way balancing
along the rim of the
tipped-over wheelbarrow
falling off into the
long grass
the flames wove
a stitch of the
hidden sun into
the day
that felt slow
and gentle
while you
sat there
the cloud like
a low tide world
raised to the
the fire
poking its
way on
into the

29 october 2014

Mother’s Grief

Mother bird is back.

She has dinner,

Served live in a red beak

She bobs, little eyes darting.

But baby bird is not there.

This happened yesterday,

When she stood in the rain.

It will happen again tonight.

How can I tell her, the effort is for nought;

That I found him and I carried him away;

That as a mother, soon she must grieve


to Frank Le Baige

how many of us
have scratched
such names.
i go down
to the beach
and have a
look at the
foot of the
sandstone cliff
where it arches
over a hollow
hollower then,
a spot i’ve known
since childhood,
for that my
brother’s name
he dug out
deeply, i
thought then,
some 50 years
ago with stick
and blade and
bragged it good
for a ‘100 years’;
one of his usual
i’d long stopped
to believe in.

i imagine
i do
see something
faintly there
like something in
the tidal shallows,
the shadow of a
flounder moving
out, imagine
i’ve found a letter
and he was
right i can
go on dreaming
i’ve found it
even 50 years
from this life
into the maybe
a name as
good as
his word,

which was
never to
be believed

april /december 2016


‘use it
to the small
black end
so you
are holding it
by your

I was going
to say
as they bicycled
past me

on the footpath
while I filmed
from the grass
a blackbird

with a small
clear stream
in its glossy
yellow beak
amongst the last
of the leaves
to the fallen

because I thought
she said
to her friend
I thought
I heard her
say ‘what
do you want
to do
with your life’

but she didn’t,
close, something
resembling but not
requisite the pencil
comment, they would
have thought I was

poetry is
offering unsolicited
but we have
this agreement

hanging on the estuary

hanging on the estuary
inspired by reading contradictory reports on the state of the
Tamaki estuary and a late stroll along its eastern shores

maybe it is
getting better
maybe it is
getting cleaner
along the estuary
toward evening
spotted a heron
every hundred
yards or so
fishing in
the stillness
a sunset up
from the

tamaki estuary
dusk, 25 july 2015

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