calling

calling

the stars are
young voices
in a park
deep into the
stone-washed
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
frost
of their
voices

falling.

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

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
here
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
wind.
my view
sunburnt
to the hilt
of sight.

 

queenstown
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.

Still Loving

The quiet eye

underestimates

our ankles,

soft against

each other;

 

idles in

the under-

ground tavern

I sweep

in my mind,

deep into corners

and back

caressing

the wall.

 

I see

mid-tones

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

spin

across the

pupil.

 

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.

Sea Here

The sea slurps

beneath the wooden slats,

near the bobbing boats,

little masts and care-worn flags.

Crates of fish come up –

hefted on swollen muscle;

grey and white flesh

slick with the sea, mouths

open too late;

jagged on lines.

The gulls have come –

red sea legs and tiny eyes

watching – always

for a slip, a morsel.

The sea behind the bay

rattles the stones,

flips the tiny shells,

they wink at a watery sun

mervyn

mervyn

mervyn miro

merv worked in grey lynn
in the shoe factory his job
in the storeroom turning
big uneven pieces of leather
back and forth in mind on
the wooden table to count out
see clearly just how many uppers
the flattened spread of the upper
part of the shoe could be
cut from one such
piece all day
turning the leather
thinking a headful
of Miró
protozoan
shapes under a
bald
electric light
come winter
summer in an
air that fairly
sweated
come back in from
lunch i’d tell him
times it was
beautiful out there
he’d always reply
“i call this kind of
good weather
‘grey lynn weather’”
and i’d think what he
meant the blue out
there all uncut and
clean yet perfectly
edged along rusting
iron rooves of
left-over paints.

merv, i’d like
to think, well retired
now alone in his
mother’s house is
looking out on a
garden he fusses
about in under
a sky that times
looks like his
typical grey lynn
good weather
nothing to cut
just the days
to fit into
a smaller
piece
now.