September 2015

nature lover
with the windows closed
the screensaver

copulanded genitivals

orgaseismic knee-tremblor

climacteric change

À rebours
old fossils heaped up
on hot coals
dark energy
summing it all up
the name grasped at
an atheorist
strings it along
there! hear it!
line breaks voicing the void
within me
petal fall
I too am becoming
not being
without refuge
the other you are
is still me
for H. Gene Murtha (4th September)
final straw
we draw the dark side
of the moon

a free-floating comma eats roots and leaves

seminal night . . .
salmon thrash upriver
by the stars
eluding the names
they bear
my ancestors' stars
of paper-mâché dreams
of family
paper-mâché dreams
of belonging
your silence
after the universe
no longer could

An Anniversary Tribute
(remembering Svetlana Marisova)


silent bird,
shadows of your voice
stir the void
valley mist—
all the shapes words make
of light
empty now
the presence that once was
nothing but you
twilight sky—
the withdrawal 
of your veil
and still waning
crescent moon
wisp by wick
a candle
nameless moon—
spring light flitters
the shadows
after life
slow deep September
breaks the soil


speak memory!
the hush of first love
awaits your words
will thy will
also be droned in heaven
as it is on earth?
another piece—
in matching body parts
she finds her child
the love of the many
in a mass grave
big brother seizes
his cue
words of war . . .
a prayer wheel 
a revolution

recalling 9/11, drone bombings, Viet Nam, Hiroshima, Pukerangiora .........

dead silence . . .
and still the circus
goes on
“Heaven and earth are the inn for the ten thousand things, light and shadow are wayfarers of a hundred generations. And so this floating life is like a dream.”  (Li Bo)
Tens of thousands of generations have come and gone. In ancient darkness on cave walls we may see silhouettes of the hands that survive the people who left them.  These red ochre markings are the "I AM" of people who left behind no names, no words.

The earliest known form of writing appears in Mesopotamia a mere 5,000 years ago. People empowered themselves to record what was important to them and even to whisper their names across time to us.
What ancient wisdom, what poetry could no longer be contained orally but demanded that it be etched into time?  What words came to be carved into a clay tablet in Mesopotamia in 3,200 B.C.?
"29,086 measures barley 37 months Kushim"
Rulers, conquerors, poets and prophets slip away into history, while farmers, herders, artisans, and traders record what they own and what they are owed.
Is the written word, first and foremost, a technology for etching permanence into ownership, the movement from a time of the tribally-defined 'us' to the time of the materially-defined 'me'? 
Writing grew out of the need to record ownership and debt. Enforceable contracts became possible; the opportunity to exact interest on lending becomes irresistible. 
It is humankind's insistence on keeping track of ownership of barley, sheep, money, land, and property that determines the real history of the world as it has come to us.
five-fingered jack—
down the Mokau River 
dreams too bear no names
spring gloom . . .
the seeds once sown
still to die
(for Alan Summers on his birthday)
on waking
a candlelit drama
at wits' end
descendants of our now 
sift through debris
windowed moon:
with two of everything
the pauper's thief
homeless sky—
a shore-borne child dies
to free will
crescent moon—
intelligence sources
swap kill lists
the clarity!
dawn awakening
a nick in time
avant-garde dogs my words neither gnawed back to bare bones

post-literate decapitalation of conSumerian scripts

spring or autumn?
two thirds marked out now
the beast in me

in its wings
already the butterfly's

lengthening days—
childhood shadows stretch
farther away
water sound
without frog
without pond
in spring rain
the cries of the slain
also rise
dark energy—
in summing it all up
the words I cling to
spring rain
wiping agape eyes
free from tears
parting shot
sunlight glances off
the coffin's sheen
an ancient darkness
stirs the earth
haiku poet:
a low carbon worker
at the coal-face
of being
on earth too
nullified human
by moon mist
the black swan song sung
in some lake
gentle breeze—
a mist shadow drifts
across her veil
plum tree,
hold back with me
the passing day
waxing moonlight—
a spring concupiscence
invades the garden
spring seedlings—
with my ancestors
in the rain
spring rain now
and at the hour
when it falls
writers' block
no longer can they read
my Facebook posts
event horizon—
all the places
I am not
haiku party—
a frog distances itself
from its past
this body
how it breaks down
in the moon
just five senses—
how much more of spring
can I take in?
just for now
a cloud against blue 
is all that is
lips slip
the petal brush
of spring 
phone glow
her words become
once blossoms 
fall plumb darkening
the garden
and you, child
never to come past
your becoming
and you, child
never to come past
your becoming
the you
forever past
spring clouds
buried deep
a death denied
a headstone
only now
hearing the voice
that called my name
distant chant
a lawn mower droning
at a loss
to recreate such a dawn
I bury seeds
blood moon
eclipsed by
another side
and you, son
listening still to the song
in its egg
plumb-dark eyes
where all light is held
in thrall
these words too
my eschatology
of being
dead to words
the silence of darkness
within blue
full grown
in my memory
seeds sown
is this dawn?
egg sacs of light
in my garden
the dark side
of my garden
on waking
words from the dark side 
of the earth
what binds you, moon,
to the light and dark
of passing days?

the nothing I have to say is in my words

out to pasture
I chew over the cud
of becoming
the sound of
messages of condolence
after the tone . . .

on queue words line centre-stage 

eight legged dew
along silken fall lines
spread the light
to be
is the was
of seems
september ends—
native birds piece together
a war of words
barren moon—
unable to conceive 
a being 
greater than oneself
the spring once more
in my step
my neolithic age—
soil-dark fingers

a word
after a word
at war


War and Peace

the other
he has a lean 
and hungry look

how we come to bury
the knives

i think
therefore it is
light at last

a slice each
of crunchy cucumber
on her eyes

alas alack at all
a declension of nouns

the wrinkling skin
of vision

the lingering taste
of a death

the writing
in the tissue fold long

A spontaneous sequence with Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy