a cicada
clings to silence
ripening

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a lisp
lip thinking
whithpers

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a sea breeze
encrypts messages
from the edge

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a sequence for my daughter

jigsaw child
fitting words
fall together


only this
the flicker of blood
barely glimpsed


singled out
by silence
our mutable feast


in the world
if only of it
daughter buffalo


echoing
what has no voice
daughter of mine

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advent silence
speaking our language

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after rain too
the sea has no colour
of its own

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alive - dead
astride a whiplash
of silence


 

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am I to be the words no more

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an imprint
of Hiroshima
shadows me

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as it falls
the intonation
of the night

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awake again . . .
has dawn recreated
the am I was?

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beach-combing
a child washes away
from her death

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before me
a future who's who
of non-being

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dead - alive
astride a whiplash
of silence
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dead silence . . .
an ancestral wisdom
in so few words

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distemperarmament


 

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DT shakes
the cold-turkey of
twitter-feeds

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ever present –
is this too to be
our pretense?

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eye contact . . .
particles appear smaller
than their wavelengths


 

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eye to eye
the bottom line
still there

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fog bound feel for the real

 

 

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forget them
lest these very words
linger on

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from Light Verse (a work in progress)

before light
when to be
is just that

in darkness
becoming
a candle

let there be . . .
ta ta ta
strike the flint

for now
a spark
just that

Saroyan's candle
sputtering
lighght

night breeze —
the sound of light
on a wick

the light
that lies
in words

a candle deifynes the darkness

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good news in the ends of now

 

 

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grave silence –
a distant fantail
barely heard

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heaven-sent . . .
vernix enfolds the word
whispered in doubt

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in becoming the loss of now

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in the awe
overspilling her eyes
our smallness

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inaugural flight
the eagle switches to
autocratic pilot

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insomnia . . .
I yawn my way through
some parallel dimension


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it is here
a vacancy of sky
and now
a bird

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Why was he looking up at the night sky?

In the frost-crisped night of central Taranaki, when light was evanescent at best, he foot-crunched through a paddock to exteriorise the dark that had been suffusing him.

What filled the night sky at that moment?

Just stars. So cold was the air that the darkness was clear and starlight was breath-held in its stillness. The Southern Cross was risen there. Night-dew christened his beard.

Was he seen?

None knew of his presence there let alone the nature or length of his existence.

What could he see?

Only a chill arc of stars, a rainbow of night, creating its own light out of nothing.

Why the tear?

Because he could see as he is seen.

Did this precipitate any change?

He was strengthened to endure all that is still to come.

Will he depict that night in words for others to see?

He will learn how to do without words.

 

at the end
the beginning
of the end


 

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less of more
the stream entered
more than once

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midnight hunt . . .
every pulse pledged
to the prey

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midsummer night
the moon hangs about
like a suicide

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moonlit sea
bound to me in this ditch
of ownership

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my heartbeat
on mesolithic time
once more

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my shadow
in the shadow
of no-self

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n! = (by
olfactorial equations)
the rose known


 

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new notebook
an abyss yawns open
to my voice

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New Year dawning
my mind reassembles
the sound of light
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news of war
teens eye their figures
up and down

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night falls on
night falling on
a dark sea

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no more mind
just the ebb and flow
of a sea

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notes towards an end


always now
before it has a name
morning light

does it live
the other I think
in the word

vital signs
the form conforms
to the word

eye to eye
what comes to pass
with a yes

no room now
light without end
fills the night


to be
what is hidden
and seen

 

Otata 13 - January 2017

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now here in a nick in time

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olive stone -
a mass surveillance branch
all but snowed in


 

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on a narrow road
to the heart of the moment
before time began


 

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open hand . . .
her call curls out from
the unheard

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paper cranes . . .
I bend time and space
a thousand times


 

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