Auckland Poetry

The Fingerprinted.

On the highway stretching forever, beset by
dumped cars and weed that cracks up asphalt,
a gypsy family with their tough little horses
meanders slowly through a road that is a sad
testament to a civilization that lost its way.
War of resources, everyone lost, has ruined
the economy and social cohesion, the people
lack the will to start again after the fat years.
Begging, theft and robbery are the norm, and
as usual the itinerants are blamed by people
who still cling to their bankrupt dwellings.
For travelers this means nothing, they were
poor before, and feel no triumph. Nomads in
the landscape of shimmering time.

A Portuguese Spring

Once again the almond petals snow their
silky abundance on the pebbled road in
the village, and the Nordic princess who
lives in a castle near a lake that houses
an old pike that has been here so long it
can tell tales of times, before the princess
came and made winters mild; when
the lake froze over and folks wore wooly
snakes as scarves around scrawny necks,
against the bitter child- dries her tears and
smiles again and remembers a childhood
up north were the snow was so pure that
god’s footsteps were seen by the devoted,
for the rest the silence hummed a lullaby

Haiku

Summer sunlight
Filtered through green leaves
Made old moss golden

Saying

Chase the rainbow
Not for its illusory gold
But its beauty

Senryu

The carob tree’s shade,
Soft as a dusky mistress
A tropical night

 
The Thing

In my home town they were closing down
the old library, going digital, giving away
leather bound book. I parked by the door
got as many beautiful old books as I could
carry, but I had parked in a no parking and
the police had dismantled my car, an officer
guarding the pieces said if I paid the police
would come and reassemble the car,

I agreed, but it began raining, they couldn’t
come before it stopped, staggered back to
the library with my book, but it had shut its
doors for the day. And did it rain, the books,
now a dough of damp leather and wet paper
gave birth to a ugly, slimy thing that tried to
crawl back into the library leaving a trail of
useless words and pompous poetry behind.

How have we come to be here now
you and i
still clinging to the burst of feeling that happened to us
long ago,
now gone,
but the cold fear terror hideous
of i do not know what
maniacally creeping
makes us desperately hold hands
like a couple in love

================

Stephen Tee c 2008

No Goodbyes

I grieve for the loss of what I thought would be
For all the times I had hoped it could be
When my heart cried for more than your company
For the times that I thought we really could be

Although years have passed and we’ve grown apart
Your legacy lives in your boys and my heart
I honor your choices you made at the start
For your two little boys to get a head-start

Now I grieve for our boys just eleven and ten
For their pain and frustration, for this happening
I love these boys and I can’t do a thing
For this time in their lives when they don’t want to sing

I crumble when I look in their eyes
When I hold them tight and I hear their cries
They have no understanding, there were no goodbyes
Such a tragic time when a father dies

Sound is at its best when in the form of music
Beats, rifts, melodies and tunes
I love all music in what ever form
Rhythms of music stir my moods
It leave’s me elevated when I’ve been listening to tunes.

Don’t get me wrong I have a day job
No music in my day job though
It makes me sad
A job in music would make me glad.

I must tell you though
There is a party going on in my head
It’s what I see when the lights gone dead
It’s not darkness but colours instead
Combined with music is an excellent thread
I express it when I’m in bed
Probably something I will do till I’m dead
Twisting, shaking moving to the beat
Sleep and slumber music is the engine
It must be time to do this on my feet
Bring on the crowd it will be sweet
The colours are electric especially with beats
An audience I will greet, singing and dancing
I’m a one man show, even with my devils glow
Some how I need to graduate this show
Tell them I love them I hope she knows.

In this widely journey of mine,
i met a persons
whose so lovely and dear..
they put me high when i am down
they make me laughed
when i am sad
they gave all i want
if in case that will make me happy
they were proud in every piece of thing i achieved
they are there to be my guide
and to support…
i know how much they love me
i know they will always care..
and i know deep in my heart
that i could depend on their love
and support no matter what….

You watch the weather, don’t you?
From the kitchen window, the patio
Even the office as it climbs four storeys
You drape yourself in whatever works
For the conditions
The weather has a major say in what you say
To the employer; the wife; the neighbour

If I were you I would keep a close eye on the weather
It has ways and means of interrupting; catapulting
Thoughts of innocence across mountain tops
Down to fears of catastrophe and calamity

There are paid people who warn you about the weather
Maps and grids and watchwords
They are concerned you might miss it
As it comes rolling over the hills like storm-troopers
The Gestapo knocking at your door
Tearing at your gutters; your roses

Make no mistake – the weather needs soothing
We stopped offering sacrifices and now we have
Weather bombs dropped on us repeatedly

I wish the weather would just go away and
Leave us with a benign void
So we know
Nothing will ever happen

© 2008 Keith Nunes

Emotionally, spiritually and physically connected
This man I can never have

One day my heart will stop breaking
One day there will be love again

under the hill that was once a mountain
beneath the sea that fell from up there

the air felt hotly majestic
sticky to the touch
hard to remember the must
as it floated about like fingers
running through sand

moving at a rapid clip through the dunes
the wagon chewed away at the patterns
so randomly and beautifully laid by winds
nobody had predicted or marvelled at
they were winds from the ocean stored on calm
days for days like this great rolling wave
after wave lumped mounds of water in

Cold lucid eyes look up through the needles of
dancing light under the waves
fish juggling at each side of the mask
the diver with a broken cable must know
rescue is still there right until the end
passes

And that terrible tsunami event
on boxing day millions and millions of lives
damaged by one shrug underground

The titans sleep
and we play on the mound
think ye could
tred more carefully
now?

Driving back north
Running away
From running away
Back to what I know
The tears were tearing at my stomach
I could not drive any further
For the weakness in my legs
As I  faded into the darkness of my soul
And it’s labyrinth of ruins
I stopped to rest
The beach was beautiful
A storm was brewing
To match the one inside
I was tired
Tired of trying
Tired of failing
Tired of being tired
The waves wild but wistful
Foaming, lulling, rhythmic
With ancient song
While the dunes cradled me
In the hollow of their arms
Alone
Just as I came, I’ll go
And I wanted to
Lured by the siren silence
Of the depths
I lay there for a day
And a night
Sleepless as the cold set in
Blanketing the mountains in snow
The next day the hunter came
Too early for the season
With his dog just as eager
They plucked a swan from the sky
It fell from grace
With downward spirals
Sinking into the deep
They left it there
Just like the men
Who hungered for my body
And upon satiation
Left my soul to bleed

The Way to Faith?

The horror is in the mirror it reflects
and reports the obscene that hides
behind human beauty.

Fear of death and stench of the crypt
for those who rely on mere physical
allure, and haven’t yet accepted time’s
way to rot and grind all down to finest
dust. Doomed to panic stricken roam
the world seeking a cure for old age
and loss of lust.

When a selfless act of prayer can
beautify our sad souls and set us free;
redeemed we can find Paradise.

A Portuguese Spring

Once again the almond petals snow their
silky abundance on the pebbled road in
the village, and the Nordic princess who
lives in a castle near a lake that houses
an old pike that has been here so long it
can tell tales of times, before the princess
came and made winters mild; when
the lake froze over and folks wore wooly
snakes as scarves around scrawny necks,
against the bitter child- dries her tears and
smiles again and remembers a childhood
up north were the snow was so pure that
god’s footsteps were seen by the devoted,
for the rest the silence hummed a lullaby

Disagreeable Day.

Rose petals and golden leaves on my terrace,
sparrows fly about, twitter insanely, fauns have
danced here, in the heat of the night. I look for
a broom must keep things tidy or neighbours
may think I’m slothful; can’t fine the broom.
My desk is full of shiny sheets of papers with
chaotic words, merrily free of grammar.
Must act now fling them into the bin and go
for a walk, I have to polish my shoes first or
people will think I’m a vagabond.
Order, there isn’t enough of it around; the day
is too young and unforgiving, chills my bones.
I’ll go to bed and only get up when the day
gets older and less demanding.

War Poems

War poetry is easy to write, it is about daring
do, death and bullets flying through the air
People like to read about wars, which is odd
after all it is a natural state of affair; there is
always a war going on… somewhere.

To write about peace, now that’s difficult
it is so illusive, momentarily not being afraid,
too good to last; man was made for war,
a price we have to pay for progress; peace
is a delusion, mans dream of Paradise.

Tell a Stranger.

Midmorning, the sun was shoveling
aside clouds that threatened to shed
rain, clearing a path that got bigger
and bigger till it had the sky for itself;
that was ok as it was in the middle
of August, when I murmured to her:
“I love you”

Even though I meant it at the time
I managed to embarrass myself by
sounding insincere. Demoralized
when she laughed and hit me with
her handbag; I felt like a speck of
dust-more- a broken matchstick in
an ashtray full of masculine cigars

The last I saw of her was a proud
neck entering the bus going back
Beck Street. Walked into Rose&
Crown for a drink and to weigh up
my future. “I adore you” I said to
a woman sitting on her own, her
eyes lit up, she had a pretty smile.

An Overcast Day

When my lover got up, at dawn, it
rained, she went into the kitchen
and wrote a poetic shopping list

Egg, milk, butter and a fresh loaf;
coffee, marmalade a bottle of wine
muesli and low fat yoghurt.

She came back into bed and read me
the list slowly, till we sated fell
asleep in each others arms.

When we awoke it was afternoon
the list was a crumbled piece of
paper at the foot of the bed.

A Ghastly Day.

There wasn’t anything jolly about that day,
the sun was glued to a pale sky, just like
a Guantanamo torture room’s lamp that by
fault or (kindness) had a fifteen watt bulb.

A thin day, the only good thing about it
was that it wasn’t going to last forever; not
a freezing day but dripping humidity which
chilled the old bones

A mean day and faces which walked about,
on unwilling feet, wore no smile to brighten
a time when even traffic cops were too tired
or comatose to pursue a speeder

At home the telly told of a plane crash,
wallowed in details, showing us a blood
soaked pilot’s cap; depressed I went to bed
and hoped to be spared more nightmares.

 Nadine Spalter

There’s a Blackbird
in my chest cavity.
It screeches at me
to let it out
flapping wildly
at my insolence.

If I let it out
it will bang into walls
and smash into windows
leaving tables upturned
and piles of panicked
shit all over my stuff.

I will never get it out
of my house. It will build
a nest out of my fallen
hair and clipped toenails.
It will take strands of clothing
and electric cables.
Soon it will take over my remote.
I will be powerless.

Sometimes when I open
my mouth wide enough
I can see it’s black
head crowning.

    wishing well

why wont you work for me!
its just a wish thats meant for me.
everyone has a wish that they keep secretly
and noone can stop it from happening repeatidly
like a diary that someone has written
to anyone else my wish is forbidden
no one knows whats going on, they can’t
judge you for right or wrong
since I was just a kid, I throw pennies in
the wishing well, then I kept it secret
the wish I made I never did tell.
but sometimes it depends on whats inside
your heart
it never matters what the dream was about
or when it started
when ever i pass the wishing well dountown
I cant help but throw pennies in and listen to the sound
most of the time I wish the same thing
I hope it comes true , its like a dream
this wish is for a special love, i wish i could see again one day
I miss him so much since he had to go away
it’s where he is, that he must stay
we were just kids when they took him away
the wishing well brings him to me on special days
thats why I’m waithing for the wishing well to work again
thats how my dreams come true and thats how it all began
he knows I love him dearly and his image I don’t fear
I can almost touch him and smell him whenever he is near
I cant change nothing down here where im living
but nothing will stop me from accepting the love he’s giving
oh!precious wishing well what will you do, your all the hope I keep
Im gona continue throwing pennies in , watching them float down deep.
I’ll go on and make more wishes just like I did before
hopeing you will grant my wish for the love i most adore
even though its in my dreams, he still belongs to me
I’m the only one that sees him, he’s everthing to me.
this is a special kind of love, and no one has to know
Im asking you to send him back, to satisfy my soul
Oh wishing well I depend on you, it’s something
only you can do, I know you understand  me
you have mad me happy  and I have a
lot of faith in you , you know what i’m saying is true.
I’m gona keep on coming back , You’ll see
and each time that I do , I’ll throw in more than three
I’ll never stop this love you see, cause it’s a love
thats true to me
so would you please just work for me
and send my love so I  can see, that he
has not forgotten me.

One of those girls in school whom you can count on if silence is the language..
Because she is so quiet in one area but have that smile whenever the need arises.
At first you would think that she is an “angel” that nothing can move her from her “autistic world”, yet only to find out that she is one of those “energetic & crazy girl” if conversation already crops up…
she will never stop from asking until the question is given an answer or at least the conviction is already reached..
a single day is not good enough to totally describe her..
she is one of those who can make your circle “complete”.
she is someone whom you can talk to & lean on..

this girl is someone who will make your day complete.

Rendezvous with the Truth

I like this word it has a ring of intrigue and Romance;
to merely meet someone sounds like business, buying
and selling stuff, doing something for the world’s wealth;
make money and be looked at. It must be awful really to
be looked up at and given honour for being rich.
The rich know this that’s way they have such a cynical
glint in eyes when they hand over a fat check at a charity
ball and everyone applauds and they are showered with
the confetti of sycophancy.

There is no money in rendezvous nothing to offer except
friendship and love, lovers meeting in the park sitting
under an oak holding hands trying to stay afloat in a
world that are baying for their blood; for they are, oh yes,
make no mistake wrong, in their totality of love. Other
people will get hurt as love knows no middle way, a flying
bullet that hits the loser it can’t be helped for love is not
kind to those outside the ring. Yet on the alter of love
everything is forgiven and the journey is great.

A Voice.

I left my father’s house in anger
never to return, he is a shadow,
a voice that appears in dreams,
and the house is windblown ashes.

Today I’m older than him and my
mirror tells me that we are twins,
I regret his passing and mourn my
father’s ageing face.