August 2015

On Richard Gilbert's 61st birthday
baby boomers rattle their sixties
chanting 'amandla!'
baby boomers ski 
the downhill slope
sexagenarians shooting blanks
I become
its alibi
no turning back 
on itself
Is this the way the world ends?
Is this the way the world ends?
Is this the way the world ends?
Not with a bang but with a boomer.

a seer at odds
with vision
strains the edges
of itself
astride dreams
horizons gather
to the flame
under the weather
my eyes acclimatise
to their ends
climate change
I feel the earth
for a pulse
optic pressure—
vision swells up
in words
the range of vision
and words
all dark!
between stars
my light

deep dreaming a plum tree blooms

a breath of light
wind ripples
the waters
see the light
in the undergrowth
where we dream
the moon returns
my shadow
sun shower
the otherness
of us
Hiroshima - 70th Anniversary of the Bombing
in flames of being
here and now
is this light?
a little boy's weight
on the wide island
rain fills
the space that was
once yours
on ones so silent
the full impact
of a scientific yes
silence falls
like a mushroom
from the Enola Gay
rings out loud
from the sky
i am
become death
atom by atom
mumbling sky
the build up of heat
to come
a true man
without the sounds
of agony
Nagasaki - 70th Anniversary of the Bombing
(dedicated to Kaneko Tohta)
where east meets west
treading fire
a fat man
implodes in light
the long cape
ground zero
a white wormhole
opens at mass
after light
dark stains of martyrdom
on stone walls
seared through
faces and forms
at worship
a fumi-e
in deafening silence
stomped under
kakure kirishitan
keloid hands break open
the bread of words
in light
the death of martyrs
after rain
pavements come clean
on where they led
deep-sea diving
moon-struck lovers enter
each other's shadows
childhood home
I left my otherness
within you
in her fingers
the daisy becomes
her ditty
late snow
for a change the change
is seasonal
haiku at dusk
my calculated foray
into silence
thought fall
into my child
hood's was
a rainbow
all around
long silences
the circadian rhythm
of cicadas
Nagasaki bombing anniversary
fat man,
in your rain of terror
we rust
turning leaves—
that to which I cling
stripped bare
night goddess—
a fantail's fanbase
grows less
when writing haiku 
must I learn to eschew
rhyme too?
a ripple of words
after me
spring haiku—
images more and more
sound wordless
primal scream!
this too, infected 
with words
far beyond 
Hawking's horizon
a silence
moonless night—
the distance that remains
of climate change

somewhere in these words an absence lives on


the statement in the next line is false
the statement in the previous line is false
of evanescence
dead sea carrion
stilling stars
of a foreign will
the flea bite
holding on 
to its becoming
a chrysalis
ice melt—
my descendants snorkel 
down main street
in the mist
te ika a Māui
takes my bait
the wind tonight
becomes a symphony
of native chants
wretched poet
seeding fathomless depths
with shallow words
mass war grave—
a universe bleeds out
of dulled dreams
wisps of valley mist
yield to the sun and are lost
to sky, to emptiness—
tell me again mayfly
just what has been the point?
El Niño—
mother earth brings us
to our knees
spring's early shoots—
brother sun, sister rain
reawaken me
Mulla Nasrudin shifts
a candle
fingering humus
again the innocence
I thought I once had
mate tea—
my first love reborn
and her lips
oatstraw tea—
the taste of reaping
what was sown

winter's end mist moving the light

through the puddles my progress

petal shower—
the words I’ll never write 
sounding distant
planting alone
in this too 
I am spring rain
after frost
the vividness
of being
from the soil
I tug away at
red on white
the cross-cut
I abstain from
wind sailing
a hawk
catches my breath
making hay
while the sun still shines—
Wall Street zombies
garden god
in-breathing the smell
of humus
awake with words fall from the soil
membering the dust
I am
down with worms
fingering the cling
of the earth
life-seeding the garden
with little deaths 
native chant—
a kumara quickens
in the void
ashtral projection
of an urn
ever now
the underbelly
of stardust
Southern Cross—
my albatross 
of exile
in meteoric fall
of darkness
in faith
the cloud cover
of doubts
light's burn-up
in coming
the background resonance
of silence
Examen - A Lament
finger shadows—
silent assassins
grip my pen
bomb victim,
your otherness
ends now
on deathrow,
your otherness
ends now
your otherness
ends now
black driver,
your otherness
ends now
unplanned babe,
your otherness
ends now
handicapped child,
your otherness
ends now
terminal patient,
your otherness
ends now
foreign pig,
your otherness
ends now
docile lamb,
your otherness
ends now
enemy ours,
your otherness
ends now
tangata whenua,
your otherness
ends now
brother, sister,
your otherness
ends now
future life,
your otherness
ends now
mother earth,
your otherness
ends now
and thou 
no breath at all? 
thou'lt come no more 
never, never, never, 
never more!
the pitter patter
of little feats
In Transit
I am
still welling up
within me
I am
I am
the all left out
of equations
I am
misting up behind
the I was
I am
a conjugal visit
of being
I am
the night sky without
a word
up to
my ears in
I am
digital dewfall—
haiku via hypertext 
transfer protocol
the one casting 
my shadow
my breath at one
with wind wheeze
sound break 
between lightning forks
in-gasp gone
the breath
I left
in the clay
dark matter
clogs the night
misty shore
nothing to grasp
but breath
the habits of being
breathe easy
winter ends—
a dark alphabet
shreds the moon
august end
a sacrifice of weeds
for the harvest
(to my daughter)
word by word
light withdraws
it has no self
cooing dove
the hedgehog
curling into itself
tip-toe through the death
of beached waves
somewhere deep
within the blast of time
a silence grows
her lightness of footfall
on the earth
Anzac Day—
war button-holed now
on lapels

the mea culpa

of dreams

a mayfly
before the beginning
of words
deep space field
dark matter shadow-plays
in my eyes

mindmapping unobservable universes

in the beginning it is as an old pond that looks as if there could be a before or even an after but within these words has neither although it could contain change if a frog were to jump in or out giving the water a sound it does not have of itself much like this earth we tear apart that may be 4.567 billion years old or the 6,000 years that we have been able to put our thoughts and tallies into a written form which takes these words circling back to what the word may have been

a breath of light
wind ripples
the waters