February 2016

February marks the third month of the New Zealand summer.  The month started off with the publication of three of my pieces in the Right Hand Pointing haiku special issue and ended with the publication of another three pieces in John Martone's newly launched Otata ezine.  

Temperatures rose to record-breaking levels between 25 and 35 degrees Celsius while cicada's thickened the already sluggish air with their sound.  The harsh New Zealand sunlight pounded the earth into a soul-baked lethargy.

I spent most of these days reading and migrating the Living Haiku Anthology to a new web hosting server seeking to improve its functionality and ability to make available with ease a vast treasure-house of global haiku.  Don and I have been blessed with a great team who share our vision.  Richard Gilbert joined us this month.  His keen eye enhanced by his academic and literary skills are very helpful in bringing the original vision to an even greater and enduring fruition.

The reading month was capped by the receipt of a parcel from Sheila Windsor in England containing a copy of her first publication, Totem.  I continue to savour the contents as I treasure the gift.

sticky heat
my breath stumbles too
in its tracks

cicada sounds oblivious to where they lead

in this light
where we once were
winter hush
a wanderer
in stone stillness
the big bang
defines my limits –
night deepens

in now our eyes entrance one the other's

on what premises 
does my vision pass away?
this hell-hole of words

my eye skims a river of stars

summer fling
a mosquito conjoins
the lovers

made to order the life before

wordless night –
an ichthyostega
crawls ashore
Shrove Tuesday –
the pantry stripped bare
for emptiness
ancient tree –
will this ash soften
my forehead?
pre-dawn light
a hum of cicadas
quickens it
apprentice rule –
is passionate intensity
to take precedence?

measuring manhood by election

candidates pose with their election policies

another dick erects his tower

late summer rain –
perhaps I should hold on
to merely being
dry spell
an earth worm turns
for the ants

hear a mirror held up to better nature

the hidden depth
of the best of us
in broken light
out of place –
watching fruit rot
by napalm light

hear them in stone utter silence

bloated with a fly on afterthoughts

is the compost
of my words
leap day . . .
the sun warms to
Miss February
most of the surplus
is bullshit
post mortem
a sanctuary lamp
on the time before
beyond this gap
I am lost also
amid words
maggots devour
our reverie
at first 
there seemed to be
a never more
stooped low
to retrace the words 
only I see

my breath still at the end of it all

greenness breaks new ground

gentle breeze –
a rustle of being
no more