June

upturned leaf

the silence of God

finds its voice 

 
 
Zeno enters a wormhole by reducing halves


a worm turns on an early bird


Maui worms wholly into his end


word by word 
a worm breaks a haiku
down to nothing

just two notes
and a rain forest is born
from a tui

in halflight
an owlet's whirr
of wings

like her smile
a simile for dawn
cracks the sky 
 

dawn hush
aborted birdsongs served
sunny side up

Matariki

morning rise on the tips of our toes

all that remains of us will return 

to be our story without you 

a memory yet not yet and yet

remember when now was when

in reduced circumstance winter solstice

know now less than no thing

if missed light less present

Still Extant

On passing a mirror in the foyer of a hotel that I cannot afford to spend a night in, I recognise myself on some parallel path to that which I am presently on. I know, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the reflected image is not another person but a moment's apparition of myself and, most certainly, not a duplication of me in the flesh.

As a member of the seven thousandth generation of the not-yet-extinct homo sapiens species, my use of language continues to open up an infinity of meanings from a finite range of words, just as if my words are being reflected back and forth endlessly between two mirrors. 

My stringing together of words to penetrate the understanding of others empowers me with a capacity to represent things and happenings that are not occurring in present reality to take up residence in the shared imagination of our intercourse.

I take and eat
bread broken
on the altar

vigil candle tears hardening up

in silence
a frost-heavy web
sounds like praise

[insert what you see here]—
it remains to be seen
when it's gone

wolf hour . . .
her absence reassembles
in the mist

winter storm
a fa'alavelave
breaks the bank

final words
his clod strikes a hollow tone
on her coffin

(shortlisted in H. Gene Murtha Senryu Contest 2018)