Terry Carson

New Zealand


Are you there
Is anyone listening
The door is ajar, a little
The first verses are being slipped out
To an unsuspecting world, like cowpats
falling from heaven to the barren earth below
warm, moist, full of promise, manure for the soul
or may be it’s something else, simple

Thoughts can be
Words are seditious
An idea can spark revolution
Any moment the uprising will begin
The flood surge of words, good and bad
A veritable tsunami of adjectives and adverbs
Sweeping everything before it in a relentless tide
An undertow of flotsam and jetsam

I love ‘em

Saturday Movies

I dream of gently rolling Tuscan Hills
And sunflower fields by country roads
The scent of laden vines outside the door
Inside wine, pasta and loud laughter

Ancient ruins appear around every bend
Of the roads the legions marched along
And history oozes out of every wall
To shimmer ghost-like in the sun

Here, rain lashes across grey suburbia
Leaves are splattered over sodden lawns
Vivid graffiti assaults our buildings, and
The dreamer awakening finds no thrills.


Rattle and shake on uneven tracks, past
Graffiti decorated lean-tos providing shelter
On grey, weed-filled concrete platforms, that
Form corrals for the souls of the dispirited

Deserted factories display their broken dreams,
Smashed windows stare out of corrugated walls
Grass grows in rusty water-filled gutters and
Brown stains dribble down broken pipes

Mangled wrecks of smashed up cars lie
As twisted crypts in vehicle graveyards
Over-shadowed by Cubist mountains
Of shipping containers, home from the sea

Pillaged trains moulder on forgotten sidings
Sprayed with vivid colours and designs that
Weave and splodge a subliminal message
Across the retinas of passing commuters

These trains ain’t bound for glory, brother


Two earlobes of dried blood sausage
Slowly congeal on a large white plate
Yellow fried egg eyes stare sightlessly
Inside fatty bacon strips that imprison
Moist red sacrificial breasts of tomato
That lie naked and vulnerable beneath
The eager executioner’s sharp knife.
The cholesterol-laden slaughter begins


Past the holy well in St Petroc’s domain
Old secret town on the hill
You keep your history hugged to your chest,
Strangers try to prise those fingers apart
But fail to reveal your inner soul

What must we do to release the ancestors
And bring them back to life,
To breathe fresh warmth, into those cold remains
Make the dead arise, speak out loud
And deliver up their secrets to us

We are the new seekers after old truths
A part of you is within us all
Our bones are made from your bodies, your relicts
Your life essence has filtered down
Like water passing through sand

You may be but one strand of our being
But Cornish men were rugged
Your genes remain strong forever, within all
Who travelled hopefully to young lands
To create a new family history,

We remember


Splendid relic of a long forgotten age
You still command the bay with your
Eight arched spans that step the waves
Proudly defying both time and tide

From the cliffs Victorian mansions
Now faded and with their glory lost
Stand watching as silent sentinels
Like you, they have hidden memories

You were built when the empire was young
Then wars were won, countries conquered
Fresh industries fuelled the nation, and
Monuments were raised to the builders

Gentry promenaded your sun-washed planks
Gay crinolines and dark suits their uniforms
Flirtatious laughter and footsteps echoed
Where little boys now fish in solitude.