Jahmon Heta Lensen Untitled 1 Society neglects the one whom needs to be nurtured as if they were blind. Like a flower no-one waters it ; when it is a bud. But when it comes upon this world no-one can be too far from it. Untitled 2 Internal fire flows like a shark In the sea. Destruction lays in it's path One time walked by peace No man can stop. Only one who will right wrongs Will reign. Merciless warlords Honouring themselves Will come to an end When the warrior of peace Fights with mind And soul. Norma Hayward War The despair of tragedy Who is to blame for Such destruction, is it One man who's beliefs Tear into the souls of The innocents and leave a nation filled with terror. What to make of it As we sit Watch the lives wiped out Cries of disbelief Shatter our screens We are helpless. Not all is lost, for in some Strange way this has made People see, that we are all Just Humans. That make mistakes That think revenge is sweet Is that what we are Looking for Revenge ? This is such a waste More live's lost, more terror Raining down on the Innocent lives That have been brought into Our world, A World of War. All works copyright . |
BMP4 nzpoetsonline |
BMP4 nzpoetsonline |
Photography: Bill Perry; Africa 2000 |
Naphtali Sis Tane Tane ~ see him when he clothes his father with stars so he won't be naked. That's a cool thing Tane te Waiora Ae, a very cool thing. Tane ~ see him when he brings the forest to life with all the creatures he placed there. That's a cool thing Tane Matahi Ae, a very cool thing. Tane ~ see him climb up the heavens to retrive the Kete Wananga Ko to Kete Tuatea Ko Te Kete Tuauri Ko Te Kete Aronui That's a cool thing Tane te Waananga Ae, a very cool thing. Tane ~ see him all around us every day That's a cool thing Tane Nui a Rangi Ae, a very cool thing. Do not rouse the sleeping Dragon Do not rouse the sleeping dragon Fiercesome even when asleep Slip quietly by, show no emotion They will flare up if they see you weep Mighty protector of the battered Dragon moves with fiery speed To shield dreams from Being shattered Woe to those on whom Dragon breathes. No desire to enter battle A secure Kingdom is what They seek So keep the peace if you are able. And leave the fiery dragon sleep. Benji Babe flow slow I was in the Jungle A lion was chasing me I turned around To be deceived A black soul woman With hair like the dead of night She rocked me, she rocked me I got on my knees, she blocked me What a feeling, I still haven't recovered Oh baby you've got me Oh please, please never stop me Cause you're hot , hot like candle wax, burning inside me Flow slow & and have sex S.E.X. She's got me hypnotized, mesmerized, by those eyes Baby, baby your lips, oh yeah they kiss. Like red hot chillies Which burn through my taste buds, Hot There's no way a man feels this way alive! Oh baby, you got me running Running for my life A life to live With U. Ripples and waves His song it brings Such Beautiful music Lovers unite A language in which only 2 people speak Without words Winter nites so cold Hot passions Present on a blanket of water Ripples and waves Hands locked together A moment of ecstasy A glow of light Just blowing smoke Words spoken Then broken With a kiss Ripples and Waves Hot like ice running down Hard nipples Ripples and waves. Sarah Reed death of season summer is dying here on this sea-cradled land beyond the borders of tomorrow nature she weeps in the flurry of falling leaves torn from grasp of wind-sullied trees flapping like boat sails, sorrowed matrons grieving the loss of their children with moaning, keening, calling on every gust hurry home, hurry home how heartless the wind to snatch like a theif such priceless treasures from natures boughs, tossing them cruelly above our heads to be tumbled, crumbled by humanity's stampede tears of the fallen are these broken shadows, swept by the gentle rake, gathered into funeral mound beneath the very trees which gave them life, now lifeless, faded, skeletons without breath or substance wasteful wasteful, wail of the dying autumn heralds the beginning of death throes with thunderous applause, shaking fists at the carefree warmth. the moon and I the moon and i held hands tonight as we skipped across bare-bottomed fields, tiptoeing through flowerbeds gently tucked away to sleep, we danced with the wind as she knocked cheekily on strangers doors, we laughed away our fears the moon she clothed me in her silken lashes, my landscape awash with her milky gaze, sumptuous moonlight spilling onto every pore, nude with beauty, we kissed Mannie seafont The Prayer of the bushman Lord, if you grant me one blessing, at the end of my time, then grant me the strength, to make one last climb. Guide my step to the mountains, where they come near the sea, to a majestic place, with the tallest of trees. There to watch the day long, through high canopy, white clouds against blue, racing by on the breeze, The mists of the forest, swirl their way through the trees, and lace ferns, move like magic in sun's filigree. To hear the song of the tui, announce dawns new light, and the calls of the Kiwi, and of Ruru at night. To take in the stories, told me, by the stream, as it babbles its way from the mountains to sea. Piwakawaka, little warrior, with your taiaha tail, grant me one last wish, at the end of my trail. The ultimate challenge, with your flashing about... The Haka, you dance, with neither leering nor shout. The breeze, read my eulogy, through the leaves of the trees. Forest mists,be my shroud. Wrap yourself around me. Let living things dance in the sun's filtered light. Lord, grant me at this moment, my eternal night. Nyree M Burt "Myst" Rebirth Soul deep words Of glorious bliss Falling lyrically Off the tongue Earthly blessed With heavenly kiss Majestic song Full heartfelt sung A rapture, deep from Nature's bounds Of earth, of sky Of sea, of air. A cry, a moan, Deep deep sounds As creation unites In voiced despair Oh Creator On this new morn Make this the day we are re-born... Mandi Reid Song of the Wayward Wind Before I left that wild land, Before I left, I promised I would set them in a song. My mentors, all of them, the tussocked hill, the fuchsia bushes clung to craggy ridge, and all the warm round rocks along the swirling river... To all that wild land clung about with blackberry wayward as wind, I promised they would hear their child's voice again. You, all my mentors, every one, My sighing river, bubbly, weedy spring, Your voices underscore the song I sing. Listen, tussocked hill, and ring again! My song for you is tossed about again with cheeky echoes double talking back. I see your straggling sheep caught in biddi-bid and dirty too, from all your muddy tracks but bleating pride again in the season's snow-white crop. And you, my toi toi plumes along the sandy dunes, What mardi gras you danced on windy afternoons! And you, dark forests, Haunted in the evening's falling light with lonely bird calls dying in the night. You knew the time before my father's time, and my father's, father keeping your peace, Keeping my secrets, still. And frogs, I see you there tucked down in rushes, hiding under rocks, waiting for the cold Kumara nights to start your bleating chorus in the dark. The raggy tunes you sing on starry nights are just the same! Last, not least, You, mighty river, Teremakau, rushing melted ice down from snowy peaks, roaring brown and swollen after rain hurling down whole trees, but shrunk to a burbling stream, to splash across in a dry summer. Often I sang for you, hopped about your smooth round rocks warmed in the sun and poked about the pools you left behind. Always with your sound sighing in my ears, your sound, hushing to sleep, my little town bedded down in smoky haze and twinkling lights, sinking down against the smouldered Alps, fading, in a dusky, purpling sky. Behind it all, and through my promised song today, a chorusing of all your voices, sighing. Mark Young A Recipe Start with a word. Any word. Or a phrase, even if it's in Greek or Latin & so obscure that you have to go back & look up the meaning of it after only a couple of days. Start with anything, but if it seems to be leading to a dead end, then fence it off with * * * * * * * & move on. With another word or phrase. A sentence even. It doesn't need to relate to what's gone on before, doesn't even need to make sense. Some thing may fall out of it, several things perhaps. Or reprise the first phrase, invert it as if it were a Bach canon. Even if you still can't remember what it means you might recall what you meant by it. It gives you pause either way, a breathing space in your line of thought, & from here on in you can improvise, embellish, go off on a tangent, imagine you are Jean Genet writing the script for a travelogue. Add anecdotes. Quote or misquote from others. Leave road signs for later travelers but cover them with graffiti until the original meaning is obscured. Let stand for thirty years. Scar Tissue We cannot leave emptiness alone, even a space so small it is beyond most common definitions. Who knows the provocation for such actions. Start large, & there's certainly ancestral memories - agoraphobia controlled by inventing animism, filling in the gaps by ascribing godhood to everything in sight & gods to everything beyond. Start small, learning as schoolchildren by seeing blood or pond water under a microscope display such levels of intricacy that we automatically allocate to all such spaces, even those we cannot see, an infinite number of inhabitants. It used to be a metaphysical conundrum, determining how many angels danced on the head of a pin. Now it's called neutron flux & we have invented machines to measure it, but use the language of Dada for description. Phonoms, leptons, quarks & quasars - these words were all originally Tzara's. A Pause, a Reflection If you can't dance then don't play the music. I have moved away from spacing my lines across the page to reflect the length of a breath or a pause or the pace of the words as they are spoken & which at a poetry reading would be the choreography that I followed - a step here a step there the throwaway phrase & the occasional line that reached out from the stage or the circle of light to touch the audience. Now I align them down the side of the page as if they were pieces of a jigsaw puzzle where you do the edges first & then fill in the rest of it later. Rae Pater Life's Work I've been coming down these stairs seventeen years zig zagging pots on water shined floor, steam sweats off walls, and food, busy chefs beat, whip, cream. Lazy girl sloths her feet idles motor leaves obligations to others. Drama queen laughs overloud watches from corners of his eyes, weighing, measuring, calculating effect. Dishes clatter phones ring busy bodies blur one day into another, year into year. Rosy Dawn Dawn breaks like the day. Hangs the wash stifles a yawn, changes a nappy speaks to a child. Runs fingers through soil dark fragrant thoughts crumble and fall looks beyond the horizon waves distant curling on faraway shores draws pictures in pastels vibrant shapes shifting scenes sleeps curled like a cat and dreams, of dreams. |
BMP4 nzpoetsonline |
BMP4 nzpoetsonline |
