Brief Bio:
I have been writing poetry for 12 years and in that time I have looked after peoples gardens,painted houses,cleaned the interior of buildings,lectured at a Language school,attended two tertiary institutions,worked in a Library and sold second hand books.I have used these occupations to help gather ideas for my poetry.Currently I frequent and support Auckland's longest serving weekly poetry venue Poetry Live. - Gregory Brimblecombe
Night
The evening sky awakes
stepping into
its immaculate navy blue
coat and trousers.
It lifts neatly off
the tallest building
hanging high above
silhouetted clouds
needled daylight moves
away through padded seams
and deep pocket
along the trouser lining
stars soon twinkle
like cufflinks, far above
nervous lines of traffic
slowly shuffled
beneath this tailored sky
while waiting for my warrant at a Cafe in Upland Rd
Remuera grins at me
with 200 lbs of eye make-up
and cut up cocktail frocks.
Cafe Bleau jumps my mind
through upbeat sounds
smooth talking people and
perfumed 50 dollar bills.
Chubby waitresses move past,
tall upright on the coffee cat walk
with flab's of skin peeking
from beneath black costume.
Pretty people can look ugly
in cardies and Calvin Klein
I follow a cafe sound while
sipping my breakfast tea.
Remuera life dips its hat
as I leave Cafe Bleau,
I glance back then shoulder
my burden of a central mind.
No business like war business
(an anti war poem)
killed in action,
dead from wounds inflicted,
dislocation of battle
'a civilian lies'
equality of dying
life's solacing emotion
beyond corridors & archways
where death pushes against life's wall
mud stained white crosses
stand in rows like silent corn
pushing weeds and flowers up
in untidy simple rows
closer to home
returned servicemen
stare on classical obelisks
stretching high, pointing to the Gods
one states thirteen names-written
in genuine font of the day
we claim victory for these men
who died defending murder
outside the corridor of life
slouched soldiers remain uncertain
civilian's stretch forward hands
to ask the question why
strung out behind rumbling vehicles
a banner and flag float leeringly
reflecting shadows over stone cold gates
moving particles of natural light
Operation New Republic receives
no more than a painless wrist slap
for incarcerating helpless individuals
into permanent death shelter
memories will linger then burn on
searching for the heroes
as civilians waving white cloth
after soldiers weather the storm
Urewera Mural 1999
Autumn flies footstep
On rolling waves of
Canvassed mountain.
Polemic oils enhance
Moody Native green
Atop virgin white surround.
I grab a moment
To wander through these
Tall Green pinnacles
Then stop to see new urban art
Fighting for identity
In small gardens
Of age old Bohemian soil
The Inorganic Collection
Auckland art installation
Marking important changes in New Zealand art
Offering free admission
Visiting a suburb near you.
I gain automatic entry to this event
long rusty pipes angle high
over stained flowery mattress
damp musty smells pervade.
Lack of appreciation might suggest
low back chairs with peeling legs
discarded behind single stacks
of assorted board.
Three wheeled perambulators
Exhibit more than broken spring
As a cuddly bear shows its ribs,
buttoned eyes say all loved out.
Computer screens prop up sideways
Along a small red brick wall ,
imitating television sets
burnt wire treats concealed
Some purple underwear hang tough
From the corner of a damp cardboard box
above rubber hoses snaking around
lounge furniture into blistering drawers.
Terrified appliances huddle in groups
retaining an effect of spontaneity
joined by 3 ceramic toilet bowls
presenting new narcissism in art's organic arena
Whose got the biggest pile?
Are my carpet tiles looking kitsch enough?
Does it look like McCahon?
Will people understand?
Old Bicycles pretend to push me away
as cardboard cartons strain to hold
light steel frames, over future
urban development in New Zealand art
