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
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cicada sounds oblivious to where they lead

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in this light
where we once were
screen-burn
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winter hush
a wanderer
in stone stillness
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the big bang
defines my limits –
night deepens
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in now our eyes entrance one the other's

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on what premises 
does my vision pass away?
this hell-hole of words
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my eye skims a river of stars

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summer fling
a mosquito conjoins
the lovers
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made to order the life before

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

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candidates pose with their election policies

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another dick erects his tower

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late summer rain –
perhaps I should hold on
to merely being
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dry spell
an earth worm turns
for the ants
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hear a mirror held up to better nature

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the hidden depth
of the best of us
in broken light
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out of place –
watching fruit rot
by napalm light
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hear them in stone utter silence

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bloated with a fly on afterthoughts

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

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greenness breaks new ground

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gentle breeze –
a rustle of being
no more
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