a cicada
clings to silence

a lisp
lip thinking

a sea breeze
encrypts messages
from the edge

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

what has no voice
daughter of mine

advent silence
speaking our language

after rain too
the sea has no colour
of its own

alive - dead
astride a whiplash
of silence


am I to be the words no more

an imprint
of Hiroshima
shadows me

as it falls
the intonation
of the night

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

a child washes away
from her death

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

dead - alive
astride a whiplash
of silence

dead silence . . .
an ancestral wisdom
in so few words



DT shakes
the cold-turkey of

ever present –
is this too to be
our pretense?

eye contact . . .
particles appear smaller
than their wavelengths


eye to eye
the bottom line
still there

fog bound feel for the real



forget them
lest these very words
linger on

from Light Verse (a work in progress)

before light
when to be
is just that

in darkness
a candle

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

for now
a spark
just that

Saroyan's candle

night breeze —
the sound of light
on a wick

the light
that lies
in words

a candle deifynes the darkness

good news in the ends of now



grave silence –
a distant fantail
barely heard

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

in becoming the loss of now

in the awe
overspilling her eyes
our smallness

inaugural flight
the eagle switches to
autocratic pilot

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

it is here
a vacancy of sky
and now
a bird

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


less of more
the stream entered
more than once

midnight hunt . . .
every pulse pledged
to the prey

midsummer night
the moon hangs about
like a suicide

moonlit sea
bound to me in this ditch
of ownership

my heartbeat
on mesolithic time
once more

my shadow
in the shadow
of no-self

n! = (by
olfactorial equations)
the rose known


new notebook
an abyss yawns open
to my voice

New Year dawning
my mind reassembles
the sound of light

news of war
teens eye their figures
up and down

night falls on
night falling on
a dark sea

no more mind
just the ebb and flow
of a sea

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

now here in a nick in time

olive stone -
a mass surveillance branch
all but snowed in


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


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

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