An Association of Excitement

Stood nervously, calm
outside the venue,
an old stucco house bleached
by years of sun,
windblown detritus surrounding
it's imposing grounds.

They came, not many
a gaggle of geese
on a fools errand,
every week, weeks on end,
dark haired maori girl,
indian maiden in orange,
denim guy, sweat stained
from exertion to get there.

She of ancient years, waddling
under the weight
of shopping bags,
she must be in charge
positive walk, brusque hello
to me, a stranger,
then the trickle died,
my moment.

Walked in and took my place
amongst the group,
polite smiles,
a wan hello,
and the association began,
orange top, she spoke a lot
chairwoman, and good, at ease
nodded affirmations
from sweaty guy.

Old lady sat and looked at all
and barely contributed,
I smiled and was made welcome,
parted some thoughts
and had a coffee,
with biscuit, offered,
she in charge, stood back
and brainstormed thoughts,
onto whiteboard pallette.

A sense of achievement,
nothing done
plenty said
the group smiled, laughed
and made plans for another,
next week,
same place,
same time,
and I affirmed my attendance.

Walked down the street,
footsteps dancing,
lighter with excitement
of being a part of something,
made plans to get there
to see orange top,
sweaty guy, old lady and maori girl,
and she in charge,
for the sake of association,
and a day doing something
different.

Woke from sleep,
wasn't a snore,
sound of twittering
then silence.

Dug numb feet from warm sheets,
wandered into one room
thence another, just the bloody cat
and a room full of black and dark green plummage.

The cat holds it
between maw agape,
a cat smile no doubt
"here you go, Master"

I shake my weary head, wondering
cat scratch fever, dead bird littany
pity consumes then buries in a move back to bed,
put cat outside first, and prey.

pray to bird god
ask for absolution
for the puss cat,
rolled eyes, slept.

Note for waking man --
add feathers to burgeoning pile.
Why me, cat?

Magnificent Tui,
bellbird with beautiful song
sitting alone in Totara,
seeds aplenty,
room to spread
and your song rings
throughout dense forest
for one to hear,
where is she?

You prepare the branch,
adorn, a floral tribute
and you sing, continually
for her, her heart
her mind, the Tui song
that settles in the soul
of all who hear,

some just don't get it, or know it, or care.....

she lands, a-fluster,
makes motions up, down,
and all along your prepped pad
dances to your song,
you to hers, she offers
you obey nature and take,
she flies to feed,

you start then, the nest, for the time is here

you build apace,
she admires, inspects
questions your expertise
but you build,
and sing a new song
ringing out through deep flora,
the song of union found,

and she sings along, mate for life.

Subtle differences

cracks

smears

blurred lines

futile indifference

if you look

long enough.

Sullen demeanour

moody

brown

cracked faces

Fallen fences here

if you see them

often enough.

Asinine posturing

morbid

frozen

broken promise

burnt offerings

if you touch them

with love.

The earth rumbles

we fear

shake

our resolve bent

you stumble

faltering

on your own steps.

Humbled by cracks

in a strong rock face.

Lonely,

like a bluebottle adrift on a sparkling beach,

lonely,

like a giant dying kauri in a podocarp forest,

lonely,

like a discarded husband in a broken marriage,

lonely,

Like a GM corncob in a Gisborne field.

Lonely in my reverie of life and death,

my outlook reflects my input,

stunningly empty of things,

those things needed to grow,

but not a failure, I stand tall

like that lone Kauri,

wash in and out with the tide

like that Bluebottle,

change with the science of GM

to fit a new environment,

grow with two families in my thoughts

not just the one that left me behind.

Yes, not so lonely, my abacus

weighing lifes equations daily,

with dexterity and skill.

I might die with noone at my funeral,

but my internet family will wonder?

Sips Champagne from a Wrought Iron Balcony

Two mannequins,
porcelain Cherise
swabbed in silk chiffon,
dapper Jean-Luc
penguined in coat tails,
a dance of evening lust in a glass
of bubbling champagne,
the lights of gay Paris
illuminating their passions.

'neath the the gas-lamp
on Rue St Lugiene,
Poirot in paupers rags smokes
and swigs from a paper bag,
rough sown grapes of faraway Portugal,
watches a balcony of love,
spits old memories onto
a cobbled pavement.

The four poster sways to the beat
of single lust,
a sanguine Stephanie rocks her fingers
to the image of her Julien,
he with the nightstick and the sauntering swagger
on Parisienne streets, her Gendarme
twice a week,
tonight he comes.

Julien studies the balcony,
his amour rising with each kiss
between the two beauties,
his mind swimming in his mission,
his sight riveted on their motion,
mindful of old Poirot and his gaze
Paris, lady of intrigue.

In another moment, they meet
champagne spilt and splashing
dribbling onto wrought iron spillways,
spilling on to passing couplets
pas de deus, a ballet of movement
whetted by the love of those above.

They move, clink glasses on cement tableaux,
waltz amour in two step
to the street below, arms linked
past poor Poirot, toss him a sou
and meander up la Rue
behind a sauntering gendarme,
in love, bubbling with intoxication.

Poirot downs the last dregs of Port,
turns and follows with a stagger,
admiring her pear shaped arse
and the length of her slender legs
skipping a tango of happiness.

Stephanie leans out the bay window,
her nakedness basking in the warmth
of a Parisienne night, people laughing
and dancing in the street below,
there he was, his dark blue uniform flashing hello,
his look straight at her,
his awareness for those he met,
and she spied them then,
Cherise and Jean-Luc,
her loins stirred, their beauty and love
such a stirring emotion.

Poirot stopped metres from them and found
another gas lamp to lean against,
they'd stopped in a street cafe,
ordered Burgundy and a patisserie,
le gendarme strolled across the street
and danced up the stairs to who knows where,
he pulled the book from his greatcoat,
and began to write,
the poem transfixed in his mind.

The street was noisy Paris at her best,
yet above this he heard them,
Cherise and Jean-Luc talking love talk,
and the grunts of a Gendarme and Stephanie
from an open upper level window,
he wrote on and
all too soon,
the Port took effect,
the light dimmed,
the sounds diminished,
Parisienne night died,
a ragged street beggar slept at the base of a post.

In the morning, the balcony was sticky,
the sheets which held a sleeping gendarme, ruffled,
two mannequins slept peacefully alone,
and a street poet woke and wandered off
for another bottle and another night
on the Rue's of gay old Paris.

Had a brick home once,
71a Stagnant Street,
in a town called Nowhere,
lives came and went,
same doctor and butcher,
undertaker and cop,
Mrs Stillhere from 73,
spits on her dog the same way.

Funny how little changes
in decades, eons even
marvel at people happy to be boxed
and moving nowhere fast,
just living life,
don't know how I escaped?

Yes I do.
Climbed a tree when I was 12,
saw hills and the sea
and knew there was something else,
apart from next door and the likes
knew there were different people
than Nowhere people,
and streets would have vibrant names.

Tucked away in my memory now
is a place called Everywhere,
where everyone is different,
and this last fleeting visit to Nowhere,
to Stagnant Street, was to say goodbye,
to bury Mum and Dad.

First frost,
hanging in supine still air,
a mist of sanguine quality,
stirs a fruit orchard
bare of leaves
and sculptures dance suspended,
from dapple limbs.

The drip-drip-drip
of melt from the sun,
an icicle or three weep,
their shape moulded by suspension
and a sudden cold,
birds fly by, not many
shake branches in so doing,
the sculptures quiver
and break.

A glass tear stands alone now
shivering it's quiessence,
the rays filter and shatter
through it's gentle shape,
water song in icy throng,
for those who stand and admire.

An early frost, creator
if you want to see?
An early frost,
dream maker,
as it should be.

Eerie
sitting on a porch
snow wafting down
gently falling to ground
and I watch, frozen
as it hits the table
melts to water
flows away
gone.

Yet under a microscope,
it's shape suggests more?

Three of them,

stand guard on my fence,

mostly sullen and quiet,

yet give them a bit of wind,

and party time in Willow Alley,

see them wave about,

gesticulate all over,

throw discarded leavings

to passersby, curious.

If they could walk, they'd walk the talk,

willow talk on a silken grass verge,

verdant green leaves and blades seen

to be blending in a clash of sameness,

and the higher the wind activates,

the more determined the conversation.

Guess what?

Can you hear them whispering?

Or perhaps the chatter of laughter

as they bend and chortle loudly quiet.

Maybe one day, when you bend your ear,

you'll hear their latent Willow Talk too.

Sigh!

Ah! but I see it, the sign language is clear.

The Monument

Included in the ten foot slab,

of granite and marble,

those stark words-

"They died for their country"

every year, once a year

people are reminded.

Why only once?

Etched on the faces of those who parade,

a sense of loss, of wounded pride

and a memory of those that died,

carried in their hearts

and souls and minds

the ones who went,

Is it too much to ask yourself
what sort of life you'll lead?
is the bodiless mind that you have
ever gonna bleed?
and are the memories that come swelling up
torturing your lonely mind
A really happy existence or
a life you leave behind?

Is the machine what you really want
to keep your mind alive?
or the pulling of the power switch
your only chance to survive?
and why if you've been dead before,
can't you choose to be again?
What is this stupid folly of
the ones that we call Men?

Can you make it through the endless days?
Will the loved ones clear away the haze?
Is your life lost in the mirror maze?
Can they feel your heartfelt pleading ways?
and if the jury answers your earnest prayer
can they play the game, truth or dare?
and is the reality of the endzone
yours, and yours alone?

When you see the far off sun-baked hills
a-gleaming in the morning light,
will you try to move your once strong legs
and seek to scale their might,
and if the running river of your mind
stretches out for a midnight swim
can you move your arms and torso,
will they answer to your whim?

and if the blackened memory of your strength
fails to move your body on?
Do they understand the reason why, then
that you'd sooner be gone.

Will the doctors then concede your wish?
Are you out of water, floundering fish?
Can you move your will to topple the dish?
Is your philosophy a load of trash?

and if the jury answers your earnest prayer
can they play the game, truth or dare?
and is the reality of the endzone
yours, and yours alone?

And the tube that settles in your throat
that pumps your useless lungs,
and the tube that pushes useless food
into your fucken useless gut
and the bloody useless head
that holds your stinking useless brain
and the useless flipping body
that tries to ride the train
is the hopelessness of your life
going to be your sad refrain?

Will the loved ones who care for you?
Reach out and do what you can't do!
can they answer Gods fate for you?
and If they don't what will you pursue?
and if God answers your earnest prayer
Does he play the game, truth or dare?
or is the reality of the endzone
yours, and yours alone?

Hey there Vegetable Man,
don't let them scramble the salad,
cause if they do, you'll surely go mad,
hey there once strong guy,
take your right to die!
Only God' can ask why.........

Seven thousand feet above the ground,
humanity, States bound,
flies under the heaven,
silver bird, seven four seven.
All tucked in
very long flight,
humanity soars on an endless night.

The preacher stirs in his seat up front,
drunken git, pulls a stunt,
in the toilet,
did they feel it,
smoke roils out, alarms go off,
Hostess looks in, breathes his hacking cough.

Cholera spreads it's deathly wings,
Celine Dion starts to sing,
Death reaches out
kids start to shout,
Preacher offers Gods hand,
two hundred'll be dead ere they land.

The couple down the back, under blanket,
continue to go at it,
death all around,
she continues, up and down,
Old lady going to see her son,
shoots both heathen, with her gun.

Who's pulling the strings, making the plight,
of the passengers in endless flight,
a deathly trip,
no ones hip,
to the plague that rages,
even the bright and now dead sages.

If a dog wandered the lonely aisles,
and saw the deadly smiles,
would he take a piece to chew,
with nothing else to do,
the plane continues unabated,
God's will is terminally sated.

Is humanity trapped on its mindless mission?
can the change be moderated derision,
some mad smoker,
starting the choker,
killing the innocent
just as God wanted it, will he relent?

The fighters pull up alongside, peer inside,
yellow eyes of the Peoples Army deride,
the unwanted intrusion,
standby, nuclear fusion,
Flight one oh three
goes down in unrecorded history.

United American held to ultimate blame
for torching the flame,
setting the missiles on course,
no fate worse,
than a smoker with a hacking cough,
killing the world, wiping humanity off.

Can't speak,

mind tied in barbed wire,

can't type,

hands handicapped by numbness,

can't reach the paper,

thoughts too far away,

can't die,

the knife is empty and pale.

No words,

can prepare you for indifference,

no words,

can chop through the mire,

no words,

issue forth from my finger tips,

I am empty,

like a well sucked dry.

Yet I got this out,

been struggling for days

nay, a damn week

and the discourse of loneliness

is the only language I speak,

take a course in discourse

WINZ'll pay,

but I got to speak, another day.

No words,

a scary damn feeling,

seeing others talking

your lips move but you say nothing

whisper monologue to the wind

no words to bring you back in

Right before bed,
she made it,
his favourite orange muffin,
moist and warm,
on the bench cooling
ready for his morning tea tomorrow.

She did this,
for him,
every night, every day,
and he never acknowledged,
just grunted a gruff ' morning
and shucked it in his bag
out the door and gone.

For forty years,
then one day she did it,
she baked a banana one,
for him
and his placid ways
he walked out the door
as usual, gone.

She was on the stoop,
waiting,
as his hunched coalminers body
trudged up the path,
"alright" he grunted passing without looking
she turned, the groan and sorrow
etched on her furrowed brow.

She stood by his coffin,
his mates surrounded it,
tossed crumbs from muffins
on his casket, and she wept,
not understanding the significance,
later, at the wake, she asked
and she cried.

For forty years,
George would take his orange muffin
to the coal face,
and feed it to the canaries,
the life savers of the miners,
for forty years he never tasted one,
never knew her orange.

Worse still, never knew she had tricked him,
and she cried,
and to the end of her days,
she baked a muffin at night as usual,
took the fresh one in the morning
and spread crumbs on his grave,
so the birds could feed on his kindness still.

Yes, I sat through it,
Three hours eighteen minutes
of pure cinematic bliss,
the third in a trilogy,
that leapt words
onto a wonderful landscape
of screen action.

I watched all three
sat transfixed in awe,
at the mastery of a New Zealander
bringing the second biggest tale
of all time to reality,
wondered at the plethora
of his skills and depth.

Wonder no more,
the brush stroke finished,
complete in it's magnitude,
and hope we of Middle Earth reality
have turned fantasy
into a playground of the mind,
for days, nay eons to come.

I wrestle with the liquid fusion

of water in motion,

lack dimension in my thoughts

as shapes transgress aquatic form.

Battle cold lands and snow flurries

hands swiping aside frozen fluff,

throw demented headlocks on icebergs

as they floe, escaping the ring of water prison.

On a steamy day, I breathe escapism,

form floating clouds in clear blue skies,

my mind reaches up and ruffles serenity,

causes disruption as I catch solid steam.