New Zealand Poetry - Publishing Poetry From Aotearoa

...Monday The First Full Moon In April. 1 it"s been nine years since and I"ve a heart-full of unexpressed wickedness dissolving in the Crystal Magnum of my chest so it can"t manifest and like a dripping icicle it takes a while this way, so when I picked up the water bottle and drank without checking it wasn"t something else I thought what would of happened if I"d swallowed four moans of Proof in a few swallows in the dusty working thirst of early Autumn? I may have gone back to hells" ago attractions. but the shortest routes aren"t always best. even this tempting the Imagination with the possibilities the colour wheel of loading stalls my c.ooperative p.ursuits u.nity. my bottle sat heating forgotten on the front seat in the carpark and there was no one to cover me if I left and the staff are such a mixture that it wouldn"t be bizarre if someone needed courage to get them through their shit from nights so remiss of common sense they had siphoned

  the hard yards to William ‘Pop’ Rumble  my grandfather on my mother"s side had the kind of look in his blue eye that put the wind up me, a sharpness that seemed to me, in my heedless and running years, said he saw to the bottom of me and what i was up to, and who knows, perhaps what i would and wouldn"t become. he"d done the hard, the rotten yards between trenches and from the merry-go- round of machine-gun fire at passchendale* carried his life back in one piece to drive his locomotives up and down the hard-won track our towns were stitched together with. his mates from old war days no doubt said he was strict, a sour bugger for on anzac day he"d walk in no dawn parade to let the chill of bugle call unhinge him, he"d enter no pub and no drop of beer would touch his lip that day lest in a moment"s foolishness, a careless bloody laugh, he might be seen to betray the catalogue of horrors he kept back in mind and nightmare, and even more, lest anyone think

What’s the good of rhyme or near rhyme when there’s emptiness.   I’ve tried to, hard, nail in a botched shack on a hill in my head, meaning. Net whatever specimens to fill – a bowl, an aquarium – with.   What can rhythm do to tell you that I’m falling into. I draw nice pictures of you with your hair pulled tight & your face plastered to the wall.   When you wet yourself my first instinct is to mop the floor. Is this idea right or wrong?   I’m turning in like I’m at the azimuth of understanding nothing. Which is wise, probably.         http://bit.ly/2LJ2pvX Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

blackbird lady to a favourite NZ artist, Susannah MacDonald this lady i know, have never met, she paints the things that come where your dreams leave off giant conical shells of the family volutidae large as touch in the brain the wrapt cape and spindle of their form decayed the growing mouths of shadow drifting with cumuli above a sea of island and blue reflection, painting what your dreams have left off this lady draws, have never seen, and wings begin to thrash she paints the blackbird as first you heard it tasting of blue dark drops of evening in the hearing in thicket of head when the moon blows silver round through the eye, know where your dreams go off their way her brush and pen take over, finding what your dreams left off april 2018 [caption id="attachment_894" align="alignleft" width="226"] by Susannah MacDonald with her kind permission [/caption]   http://bit.ly/2LJl1fF Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

The old man’s leg kicks The winger whips wide He is on the frosted field, taut frame and ten quid in the bank Big runs, cold air in his lungs Betrothed on the sideline He asked for her hand Planted spuds for diamonds. Fifty knicker if you dig ‘em yourself His arm swings The foe is in memory; the fist sinks in flesh Go on - go on - The screen flickers - He is standing alone The cheering has stopped http://bit.ly/2LHtRu9 Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

Leaves are stricken pale.   Gold (the interplay of cloud/moon, head- lights) - the flax shadows the letter box.   When shall the cat learn?   There’s nothing here to be frightened of.   The sudden rush of wind, feet, is no threat; do you think I’d let something bad happen to you?   It’s cool & you’re next minute all:           what’s   that? - A car door slams &   . http://bit.ly/2LGtGze Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

I was walking on a road , i saw a bird a bird who was finding someplace to hide his head in the stormy rain he was all alone looking for a shelter and a home A bird who don"t  know how to fly he is standing here , in a rainy night sky he saw a tree nearby asked that tree can i ? Tree replied in sweetest voice i am the shelter i am the home for millions who are new to this world world where birds like u always finding place in Que But here there is no Que u can rest your head till i am with you. the night passed by the bird took the shelter by the tree he knew this time will pass by the morning came with the new light though it was still raining outside there was no sign of sunshine the bird hear a beautiful voice oh it was a nightingale singing a beautiful lullaby the bird asked the tree is she one of us who got no place to hide ? the tree said we are all the same Just the same the bird went to the nightingale on the top of the tree he saw the world from different eyes rain fallin

Cold, Cold night No one to say Hi !! So I look at the sky Clouds passing by Cold, Cold night I look up high Calling my Name A Star in the sky Lonely, Not alone but, I am fine, Said I Stars shining Bright I see them in the sky Sitting on a tree I see them passing  by A stare the star gave me Asked me a question why? Sitting on a tree You’re counting us passing by? Hold my Hand Come and see How I am here and why Know Me, Know my life, know the Star who’s in the sky Some day you can tell the one Sitting on a tree, watch the stars go by He showed me his world I was stunned by its light Can I be like you, one of you? Asked I!! Yes you can, My Rising Star, My child But Not sitting on a tree Counting stars at night Wake up , wake up, My rising star Oh, LORD It’s a morning light A story , A dream, A Lesson of life A look at the window On my right The Sun is out Shining bright Oh yes my LORD In my mind Thank you for the dream Now I can see THE SUN, THE SHINE THE STARS, THE SKY No sign of clouds

This carriage groans with its own heft. It has been here too long: The paint falls from its flanks, The leather of its seats has formed patterns: Little stars spreading into other stars; white lines of split leather. Please be seated. Face forward. There is a clock in the platform window; black hands saying It is time to go. It lurches and yaws, and the luggage nets wobble. A child grasps the pitted stainless steel posts. Wobble and roll. A frail woman in a wheelchair waves as the carriage slides from view. Her man is aboard, beaming, sucking in the engine’s black smoke: Past the duck-back cottage, past the white church - Ever up the line. Tickets, please - and silver snips punch a hole. The young conductor gives them a twirl: There"s a gunslinger on the line http://bit.ly/2HHQJHx Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

1 five December two16— the PM key stops turning— resigns. 2 prepardernin Hindsight. tv cameras from helicopters, army supplies. the sluicing rains have closed the only functioning road. 3 located where I work, a landfill on a plateau, our store of clothing, blankets, was busted into (by my landlord, in fact, in his 4 x 4, to snap the chain off padlocks at the entrance, and through the broken gates the undressed evacuated backpackers that night the 7.8 charged bull-bar like from Waiau on through Culverden through gears of three dimensions beneath the white bull moon, screeching bull, roaring Kingswood stationwagon, 12.02 a.m., the sparsely attired people fleeing the sea-loud shore this almost Summer night, you will picture accurately tiptoeing in their cellphone torch lights over shards of shattered crockery and sets of glasses, mistletoe-remembered, frosted, shot-sized tumblers and shattered castle stacks of crystal from estates, four or five different languages, kicking through the Hu

After all; I am Possessive.   I should. Be alone. It stings. A year. Before. I’m grown.   Listen to the wicked wave hiss. It creeps up; whores.   I’m bare as a white sheet.     http://bit.ly/2HMwTLv Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry