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the stars are
young voices
in a park
deep into the
blue of evening
the moon atop
that sky
a ferris wheel
drawing them in,
cloud toward
the silver wood
and glades
of sea

i walk in
the glad
of their


july 2012
howick domain

A leaf fell from the trees

Lonely a road cold
Leave the critics to their retorts
This is no scripture
No ancient Latin definition
It’s a story of how they met
For the rest of you this is where it begins
She sits with an apple
Entices the serpent
The boy will follow
Biting into her neck
She eats the freshly picked fruit
It’s crisp, juicy and grown with care.

It’s a firework that burns with serpentine motion
‎We will ignite the sky with reports
‎Dazzle it’s story upon the trailing sky
Confelli will drop floating to the ground beneath us
‎Only if……

Shoal Harbour

Bright city light meets waking dawn

Incandescent shoal shimmers

Strangley symbiotic

Harbour bridge traffic an aural backdrop

To birdcall and lapping water

Strangley soothing

The puddles are delicious

Shells cut my feet

It’s all relative, I am content

on poetic composition

my word isn’t blood or milk

spilt or symbolical of it.


i’m cut by what’s

remembered, what is not

& the gap, a flat windy lot

that rings like wooden chimes.


for days, as mice play in the cracks

between my toes & fingers,

i lie in the hollows or high

billowing like wheat the colour of hair.


there’s nothing to it – the massive meditations

of sky & mountain

where i hear myself, think.

The Bookseller

The book seller

does not look up

He is lost

in the art of the non-sale

His book is held out:

it a prop and he the actor.

Here he rules, with Frame and Sullivan;

Michener and Collins

The air is stale,

fusty with his leavings

He manages a feigned smile:

‘’Looking, are we?’’

There is no escape:

not the poetry or cooking;

not Home Mechanics

A bell shakes above the door

Sea air enters, a buyer leaves

otago sky

otago sky

all the leavings of stone
and sky from creation
that fateful day
are dumped
i saw skies
in one
this early morning
stormings of cloud
long shores of it
burstings of gutted
pink torn out
of the pages
of genesis
poplar towers
poplar shoals
rocking in that
wind its flog
in shoulder
with the hard
eye of sun
on those
dry plains
felt out of
place to be
so near the
old birthings
of land
sky that
told histories
of itself to
the deaf
my view
to the hilt
of sight.


january 2012

Rats in the Attic.

The atrocity of sleep
its rasped, wooden cogs
turn greased and gruesome
atop me.
Leaving me slick,
sick in its absence.

A wonted tryst
with a vanished shadow
pending repetition –
a witch’s vigil
is at my windowsills.

Want is the moon,
the forecast – 23 floors down.
My faculties are static,
while rats scratch out torrid
letters – romantic,
in the attic.

Ali Baba (from the sky)

We are still

under the sky,

In the guest room;

Beast and cryptic.


Everything crawls.

A car flings us.

I see one peeling

The middle east.


Down there, it’s still

Exotic; an open sore,

With a mule-cart

Full of gold.


Still Loving

The quiet eye


our ankles,

soft against

each other;


idles in

the under-

ground tavern

I sweep

in my mind,

deep into corners

and back


the wall.


I see


and heavy

jaws of the dark;

a few words

sifted, careless.

I’ve seen them.


I’ve seen you,

fly into a

man’s eye

and out again;

nearing the rope

I keep

in the cupboard.


Distant now;

a thousand

coloured balls


across the



Out of the room

I see you – white;

splash a bee

on the brick-work,

kick on your back

and see me

at the window.


14 February, 2018

The Flexi-verse


In the flexi-verse l am a scientist. A lawyer. A policewoman. A murderer. A artist. A wastrel. A malingerer. A politician. A dancer. A healer. A brothel keeper. A serial killer.
Which one am l now?
A Netflix binge Her.

When l dream we touch. Blend a bit. Swirl. Live for a bit in each other’s worlds and then as if giant magnets polarized us. We disperse back to our realms.

That will do for now. Only in sleep can these things be discussed.

Last night l was thewastrel. It was good. I was happy down sizing my big soft bed for a little thin mattress to go on my tiny self. I was dirty but felt clean. Picking up cans instead of healing auras.

Yes No