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
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
Woe to those on whom
No desire to enter battle
A secure Kingdom is what
So keep the peace if you are able.
And leave the fiery dragon sleep.
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
Ripples and waves
His song it brings
Such Beautiful music
A language in which only 2 people speak
Winter nites so cold
Present on a blanket of water
Ripples and waves
Hands locked together
A moment of ecstasy
A glow of light
Just blowing smoke
With a kiss
Ripples and Waves
Hot like ice running down Hard nipples
Ripples and waves.
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
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"
Soul deep words
Of glorious bliss
Off the tongue
With heavenly kiss
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
On this new morn
Make this the day we are re-born...
Song of the Wayward Wind
Before I left that wild land,
Before I left,
I would set them in a song.
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
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.
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,
rushing melted ice
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,
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,
against the smouldered Alps,
in a dusky, purpling sky.
Behind it all,
and through my promised song
a chorusing of all your voices,
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.
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
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.
I align them
down the side
of the page
as if they were
pieces of a
where you do
the edges first
& then fill in
the rest of it
I've been coming down these stairs
zig zagging pots
on water shined floor,
beat, whip, cream.
sloths her feet
watches from corners
of his eyes,
busy bodies blur
year into year.
like the day.
Hangs the wash
stifles a yawn,
changes a nappy
speaks to a child.
fingers through soil
dark fragrant thoughts
crumble and fall
beyond the horizon
waves distant curling
on faraway shores
pictures in pastels
vibrant shapes shifting
curled like a cat