e Marae o Hine
("The Courtyard of Daughter of Peace")
I go there,
this place in the Square,
a place to contemplate and reflect.
Two Maori carvings stand totem-like
depicting some long lost lore,
there's a modern time machine
cemented into grass -
the old with the new
past and future.
Around Hine's courtyard
the remnants of volcanic orgasm stand mounted
on concrete plinths,
ten spitball boulders
lovingly recreated by sculptors,
to depict their own essence.
Tomorrow I will sit by each,
then write their life story
for generations to come.
The Daughter of Peace is aptly named,
and so too her gathering place.
The Colour of War
There's a red poppy
growing in a green Belgium field
near a white headstone
etched with grey marble
under a blue sky
and somewhere after WWII
a widow was handed a Purple Heart
to go with her black one.
Dreamworld Overture in F Flat
Startled stunned mullets
swim through Dali windows,
break serene surfaces of leaden light
sending ripples across alive synapses.
Picasso throws a Jacobs Coat
across visions of Mona Lisa smiles,
dictation the order of the day
in monasteries mourning metaphorlessness.
I watched What Dreams May Come
and wondered how someone had tapped my mind,
look at your keyboard dear poet and wonder
at how the paintbrush has developed o'er time.
A sparkling white for me waiter
so my neurotransmitters may dance askance,
and I can stand back and pop the bubbles of ideas
as they dissipate into the ether of my passing.
Suck your thumb in a shop window,
pick snot balls
fling them at unsuspecting passersby,
make a hole in the tyre
of the car that you tracked down
that tried to run you down
on the "Cross Now"!!
Glare at a 90 year old lady
hogging the sidewalk with her conveyance
and trailer loads of unnecessaries.
Ask a no longer friendly cop "why?"
Why his uniform is blue
his mood is blue
his movies blue too
and why he's arresting you?
I hug a tree - my saviour
bared for life
and wonder why folks disagree
with my immoral behaviour!
Dayafter da noight b'fore
That's the bright light of day
invading bruised synapses,
the glistening of tears
stung into action by eye pain.
You hear the roar of traffic
thru ears normally numbed by life,
echoing the jackboots of rhythm
into a hangover that cries - "fool!"
the comfort of a soft mattress
the caress of darkened eyelids
and ears half blocked by pillow,
reach into your mind and cushion sleep.
Grays running for the cover of dark
the increasing blot of light
Stare intently at black radiance now
through black windows,
could turn glow orbs on,
could just stare
at a reflection devoid of shape.
Snake a stick of celery
with dexterous precision
at a maw equally darkened,
the taste of the hidden oak
fifteen feet from the house
jumps to cognitive memory.
Times similar to this I ponder,
why we can still see in the dark.
Life without a computer........
I chucked it in the bin,
I wrote poetry galore
via keyboard inspiration,
strike discomfort poses!
Walked in the park
between poetry busking rounds,
First hand-written poem for eons
in fact ever, maybe school?
worked a treat
you didn't see it - Damn!!
Must transpose it one day.