W.S. Vun

New Zealand

I'm a community Occupational Therapist in Northland, where I began writing in 2003 to balance the dryness of my clinical notes.  As such, I've found myself influenced by the landscape up here, although I also draw upon my history in Dunedin, as well as my love of older (including eastern) traditions.
This is only my second attempt to be published, so I hope you enjoy what you read.
Outside the Croque-o-dile

We listened
to the tick of a dream-fed engine cool,
while the day painted itself
from the palette
of the ceaseless;
reminding us that even sinners
need a little breakfast.

Our destination had yet to open,
and our thoughts, still jaded.

The clouds, in slipping
between the blank glass towers
would cross the fortunate,
hovering over the sidewalks
before changing our spilled themes

Look above, my love…
Tell me what you see
before we get on with our day.
Before the streets,
like the café canopies
fail to keep room for the shadows.
Tell me, are these our silver linings?

I see only indigo.


Ticking rhythm
in slow, sepia exposures;
I sense your salience -
hear the unfolding
of presaging quotations
laundered from the books
that lie littered
by our bed.

Open to the sun,
the pages quiver;
while origamic thoughts,
like butterflies,
spin around and settle
from your voice
to my head.

Passing the Time

The clock says two a.m.
and the horizon is bereft
of its gleaming radiance,
its pearly lassitude.
The moon, in particular,
is conspicuously absent -
distant, this night
from the other meaningful
reflections in the nocturnal
mind's eye.

At this hour the wind ruffles,
rather than lifts
seagulls of thought into the sky.
They rest beyond the cliffs, surrounded
by the waves that have lost
their insight
into whether they are new,
or simply echoes
of older emotions,
long misunderstood and gone.

Inland, the city offers no better,
no answers beyond
its solar-lit bluster,
a spectral palace.
The neon looks back
and communicates a message
beyond its buzzing,
red dimensions.

There is no vacancy.

Some Cowboy Scene

She said
we had an august agenda –
sprawling synergy
stapled with the smell
and hooves
of cowboy dreams.

We filled our quota of touches.

So I said
and she replied ‘takeover’,
tipping her brim
towards the shadows,
took the safety off her gun.

The distance lies unrehearsed,
blank under the sun.

Will the wind change our ways,
or will this be just
another cowboy song?
I’ve brought along my guitar
but I can’t sing,
can’t whip my dreams along.


Tinopai sits silent, with thoughts of
lovers swimming for the shore.

The radio’s luminous dial is voiceless,
as is the phone… 
A pleasant change to be
away from legacy
and history - tended by media darlings
who speak in different frequencies.

The air is salty, with a taste
that suggests the absence of
spills – oil or otherwise.
Our shorelines will not need scrubbing today…
not unless you feel the need
to be tongue in cheek.

Tinopai sits silent, with thoughts of
lovers swimming for the shore.

Desert Note

There have never been any castles, my dear.
The heights we sought,
they've only crumbled.
Our lives were but
beautiful indentations
scribed upon tear-stained sands.

Who knows the ways of the breeze...
Our memories lie in wait to chance.
Mulatto grains
we drift,
with or without
the need to understand.
Here, I have waited...

For you.


Jizo presides in austerity,
with black tables and grey views,
while outside the neon begins to war
with the cool but
taunting daylight.

Across the road,
the workers stare
at the sun’s remains, oblivious
to their bonds
as they will their bus to come -
anxious to turn their sweat
to fish and bread.

I kept my tongue silent
as I watched them,
stirring naught,
but the depths of my omiotsuke.

When in Winter


When radiance seeks the ground
and the raindrops cool,
thoughts will slide down
indigo trails;
to beat against the bow
of a glance unreturned...

Another 'what-if'
hovering on an eyelash.


When winter comes,
she needn't view
her map of fallen desires -
for surely, such roads
will lose their meaning
beneath the unblemished snow;
at least, until the warmth
of the spring.

For now, love will have to come
some other way.


When the birds have flown -
crossed the gulf
between now and then,
there will be no sparkle;
no gleam of affection
to take into the dusk.
Still, the ring encircles
and endures...

A cool weight on her hand.