New Zealand Poetry - Publishing Poetry From Aotearoa

Where does sound go & when does it stop? [Note to self: research this]   I saw a boy with his hands torn off – a still, on impact.   The next shot is a girl opened wide; the mouth, the eyes call - .   The moment solidifies, is livid, remains what it is in the grave, dead but living.   I fold at the crisis, the crossroads, not up to it, unused to.     If I’m drowned, snuffed-out anyhow; abused, bum- rushed off the stage, I remain –   a boy that wants of course joy, love. http://bit.ly/2Hztak1 Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

filled     for Keikei   heard in the warmth the leak of cricket into summer a tap of darkness that can never be turned off the more you try the more it trickles soaking up through the dry grass of the hill and the wind filled us with secrets our hands told each to the other the islands were laid on sea like cloud about the sky by that wind filling us with secrets we told each other through the knots of the puriri trunk and branches waving the wind onward we turned the world around us simply by turning round ourselves where the ridge gave out into everything every green and blue and the wind filled us with secrets we parcelled in our touch the crickets leaking autumn into summer Duder regional park march 2018 http://bit.ly/2HwQ2EV Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

suffering gives reason to believe & not to. i’m bedevilled meanwhile   by symbols, images of death, martyrdom, memory, the clump   of body blows, curved steel on flesh; the severing of a boy’s   consciousness. i choose not,   not because it’s rational, but as protest.   i have striven not for correctness, philosophic   consistency, but to care less.   2 the ascetic starves himself, is mean, walks barefoot   to the shops, on hot sand; no   beach bum tho, on the road   to morocco or grey street, hamilton.   he, or she, has discipline; skin,   bone; eyes the size of   saucers, open wide.   fool. visionary!   3 & when it’s gone, you think: ‘did that happen?’, mouth open – o, stupid! marco is so stupid - o.   he might have lived - if he’d played his cards right - longer.   4 the stillness of the stem held between two winds.   the silence of the morning.   birds resonate like leaves on the plum tree; mute, invisible.   this evanescent miracle is nothing   really.   http://bit.ly/2HtN

Hold my hand, Let"s walk back.. Along the brinks of memories Across the rivers of tears Over the petals of hopes Under the clouds of dreams Passing through Harsh winter Lonely autumn Tear-filled summer The warmth of love in colorful spring To where we met To rewrite the moments Let"s walk back.. http://bit.ly/2Hs5G0o Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

The cat’s fur lights the dark on the other side of the glass. Her tail   disappears, like a swish white dress or a   fish, infinitely Dear - darkness   shows me …   Decidedly, I’m pre-Aquarian. I tell you I have flown   over sea & mountain. During the brandy, half dead,   I thought of it – the waves, & beneath the surface, in the trenches…/   The mind stops. http://bit.ly/2HuhD5L Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

DAMNED by Sonya Young He was a religion that no one followed A church with cold, empty pews He nailed himself to a crucifix Then waited sadly for good news He watched mankind marry the devil With no divorce papers to be found All these damned non-believers The emptiness to which they were bound The angels were bruised from falling Their wings were plucked and spare Feathers all blackened by brimstone Everyone gasping for fresh air He witnessed spontaneous stigmata People bleeding hope through little holes No help for the lost and lonely ones And no redemption for their souls Skeletons surrounded a makeshift altar Casting judgement with bony eyes The atmosphere was thick with hypocrisy So much hate, falsehoods…and lies His bible held no decipherable verses No respect for the long haired man No body of Christ, no compassion Bloated egos grabbing whatever they can The weary nuns all had bad habits And hearts that were devoid of love Anointed with a whole lot of nothingness Guidance sought

POW! a man like me but much younger, out- gunned, commandeered.   I’d cut you down from the suffering which humbles the spirit.   You never recover. In London, wait; take orders, bow & later, alone with yourself, feel like a tool, & struck down at 50. You gave your wife   6 children & 1 more to your girlfriend: 7 is my number.   It broke you. http://bit.ly/2u816lO Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

My feet move w/out thinking. You pass me on the pavement. Occupy the back room of. I can’t remember - not one step; heart-   felt -     ; moment; how I got, the way I went. It remains: the weight of -   One step - .I’m like a robot. Even now, & tho I’m conscious of it, my words are congenital; pre-   disposed to. http://bit.ly/2HXl45Z Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

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