November 2013

In these moments that wash up wave after wave over my sand-gritted toes, I am redeemed once more by the coolness hidden within the sound of the Pacific's lapping infinity.  
What resonances of the body's memory awaken? 
Does it manifest once more the taste of lime freeing up the papaya's secrets? The refreshment of springwater trickling over my wrists? The face of the dawn goddess haunting the man-devouring night? The universe unearthed beneath the windbreaking macrocarpas? The delirium of summer honeysuckling through the wind? The quiver of the compass needle's endless yearning? The mildew creeping along the wallpaper? The words that once blew a universe into life? The furriness of childhood-raided peaches? The shiver of penetration? The smell of a long unopened book? The diurnal ebb and flow of a haiku? The pause after a nocturnal breath exhaled? The pain of nails tearing the flesh?
without wind . . .
the music that once
knew my soul
I was born and raised on a post WW2 rehab loan funded farm in New Zealand. My father and his brother pooled their loans to buy and break gumland scars into a livelihood. Dad was an ambulance driver, based in London up to the Battle of Britain, and my uncle was at Tobruk. Another uncle perished on a farm near the Belgian border after a reconnaissance flight over Berlin.
rehab farm —
unspent shells weather
into ploughshares

dying wind —
the dandelion now
just a stalk