Poetry

At Peace

I'm at peace in the wind,
Its whisperings, its voices,
Demented howls
Sad hootings
When it wants to pass right through me
When it wants to knock me off my perch,
Blowing me quite over;
Wants to make me quake with fear
Tip and tumble, nervous.

I'm at peace in the world
In its circlings and its spinnings
Found my point of stillness
Where I can stop
All breathless,
At peace in the world
Smile at the earth,
Relentless
When it continues turning,
Turning round all dizzy,
Pirouetting planet.

Tauranga, NZ, 2005

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Breathe Through Me

Breathe through me
Be through me,
Deep, salty deep,
As the mist in this air becomes sea
Becomes me,
As the love in this breath becomes me
Becomes you
And these bodies are taken
In rapture.

Breathe through me,
Be through me,
Pure as the moon
lights the clouds till we're dancing in bliss
What is this
And there are no more tears in our eyes
Diamonds smile
Smiling inside
We are captured.

Yellow chrysanthemums spice up the air,
Air that was white as salt.
Inside we glisten as raindrops on leaves in the sunlight
Seem to listen, see to listen.

Breathe through me,
Be through me,
Deep, salty deep,
As the mist in this air becomes sea
Becomes me,
As the love in this breath becomes me
Becomes you
And these bodies are taken
In rapture.

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Hyacinth: Perfume Of A Blue Breath

Green life bursts through
Skins of still brown bulbs,
Release
Anew.

Joyous notes
From a bird's throat,
Release
Through.

Life to death
Life to death to life
Life through death,
The slim, small slit of a door of death
A light
Through which you slip.

We sleep
Deep and still inside
The protecting womb in a nutshell,
In a kernel,
Vehemently pushing wide
Through to a breath,
To live the scope and scape of a life,
To flourish, diminish, die, survive,
Until we are small enough to fit
Through the tiny door of death
Slim, small, impossible slit
Vehemently pushing through
Bursting through old skins,
Release.
Perfume of a blue breath.

Tauranga, NZ, 31 May 2009

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Nirvana And The Lunch Group

Christine likes a ritual,
Diana likes a drink,
I like to write a poem
That makes people think.

Pammy likes a party,
Ann and Julia discuss,
Robyn likes to craft things
And I guess that's us.

Each unto her own I s'pose,
As everybody knows,
In the matter of religion,
For me that's how it goes.

Somehow you have to find it,
That narrow way,
This eye of that thin needle
Somewhere stacked in hay.

And when at last you do find
What you're looking for,
That soft unction to anxiousness
Nothing's as before.

Keep it warm around you,
Clasp it not too tight,
Let not this distract you from that
The whole blind night.

Tauranga, NZ, November ‘06

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The Gardener At Her Death

(for my mother)

I have loved.
I have loved the earth
Flowers, fruits and daughters,
Husband, lovers, sons.

The leaves I have loved,
In new growth and in turning.
Have sung, have sinned, have suffered
In sorrow and in bliss,
Have often danced thanksgiving
In the cool wet mist.

This day it's raining sweet and soft
The earth accepts caress.
And me, I go to my grave today
In pleasure of my death
In adoration of the earth
For I have loved.

Tauranga, NZ, 2/8/2010

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Beautiful

She     is       beautiful
She     is       beautiful
She     has     beauty
Fine    silver   beauty
Hair     flies    back
Grey     and    black
Walks   with    grace
Walks    with   rhythm
So arresting now that you turn your head from driving your ordinary car and - -
Look.

She      is       beautiful
She      is       beautiful
She     has    words
Fine  sparkling   words
True     as       oceans
Wide     as      light
Po         e       try
strik     ing      gold
deep     in       veins
So arresting now that you cease your process stop breathless where you are and - -
See.

She      is       beautiful
She      is       beautiful
She     has    Schizophrenia
Well   settled   in
Part    of         her
Hears  the      voices
So      many    words
Clamour  ing    clear
So arrestingly clear as good poetry spewing words that shine and screech for all to - -
Hear.

She is beautiful She is beautiful She is beautiful. So.

Tauranga 2005

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Caramel

A bird bullets through
the swirling caramel leaves
falling to cold lawn,
The burnt sugar of our love
Going to death.

There is another love I have
No sugar
One that has been close to death
Yet dormant
Awaiting ressurection.

Resurrection is a gift
Blown in from somewhere else
Beside, outside
Foreign and exotic
Despite all attempts
To revive
Renew
Resuscitate
Relight
Repeat the honeyed delight.

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My Old School

Merely passing it by,
Its' artless agglomeration of buildings,
Soulless structures of misguided sanctification,
I still feel victimized
By my old school.


My sense of education,
Inspiration and attainment
Still reverberates with disappointment.
My sense of justice and the good in life
Still feels victimized
By the perversion of the English Mistress
Who, sensing my love for words and sacred utterance,
Awarded me a ' D minus' for my poetry,
My young and growing poet's soul
Not needing of a knife.
I still feel victim.

I still feel victim
By their inspection of my legs, hairs removed,
By the shaver and the pressure of my peers,
As they checked the length of my skirts,
And as I ran faithfully in foolish bloomer-shorts
Upon the grass that grew passionately green
At my old school.

I still feel victimized by my last Latin teacher,
A scraping from the bottom of the barrel,
Whose conscience saw clear to assess my Cicero
With a ' minus forty'. Minus forty!
When all the words were present and accounted.
Bludgeon from an intellectual mouse!
And the German teacher who announced, quite proudly,
That she would rather be 'selling cabbages at Woolworths!'
Why didn't she go, along with the History Mistress
Who taught me precisely
Nothing, but who had tidy blackboard writing.

And a victim I also was
When from the Choir evicted,
Ratty-tatty pulseless choir,
Whose mistress told me clearly
That I could engage in one form of music, never two,
And my love of Folk music was the culprit,
Even though I had enjoyed
The sumptuous Tchaikovsky before breakfast,
My precious sense of right and wrong
Offended still.

And victimized we all would feel,
At never having talent recognized,
Encouraged, trained or formed,
Just minimized.
In all the 'shows' and musicals
Artless and sorry as they were,
At my old school, only the ' darlings' had a part,
A song to sing, not I.
Why not? I was tuneful, and with talent;
Later, in the glory of a double University degree
And a Musical Career, I was told why not,
Why I had been failed:
They just didn't know
My father was a chartered Accountant in the town
Otherwise....
Too late, my confidence and sense of worth
Fell victim.

And why I am I telling you all this,
Wounds all septic still?
Simply because, then powerless, so young and green,
I could not tell them,
The ones in office,
That failed me, flawed me,
So that merely in passing by,
My old school,
I shudder and am victim still.

Tauranga, NZ, 6/8/2008

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Paradise Perhaps

Perhaps paradise never was lost
Perverted, or never found,
Hiding out behind a star.
Perhaps there was ever always
Merely planet earth, place of struggling life
Predators and prey
Competition, even hate, abhorrence
Emergence and evolution
Labour, pain and death.

Perhaps it was always that,
With glimpses of sun,
Hope, glory, love, joy,
As of light through leaves
Sometimes,
At non-predictable placements;
With glimpses of that other state
We seem to know
Remember or envision,
Somewhere
Past the road of death
Another place,
Paradise.
Perhaps.

Tauranga, NZ, 2007

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Is

My poetry is in the wisp-of-a-word.
the mere whiff of a word,
wafting waif through some mist-of-a-word,
wafer-thin-to-disappearing word
almost mine or yours to grasp soul of a word
glimmering light of a faint gleam of a word
airy smell of the perfume of a word
the near-forgotten feel of the touch of a word
elusive slip of the hold of a word
the ghost of a haunted corpse of a word
ressurrected spirit of the life of a word

               Mine is.

               Your is:

the magnificent inter-grow, the whole of the world.
Yours is,
the seed, the soil of the world
the sure surge of the pronounced said and written of the world
the vivid flare of colourings of the see-able world
the fine fit together, the flirt, the weave of the world
the exhale, inhale of the world
the step, the growth, the heave, the thrust
of the whole of the world,
the lush, the show, the throb
the hum of the world
loud-soft, flame-ice, green-straw
song-scream, storm-still
the flagrant flaunt of the world
yours is
itself creation, itself the life
the Real, the Made, the Is of the world
The Is
Yours Is
Is.

Tauranga, NZ, 2004

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