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


a snail practices
our absence

plagued by silence
a ruru mimics the sound
of the dark night

pond ripple . . .
the one I am
no more

still life . . .
all my colours
from dusk

still us –
sounds aflutter
enter the light

sultry night
my birthplace rattles
its chains

swollen night
the pre-cum of dawn
bends a leaf

"My eyes have been squinting."
"All three?"
"One after another."

gallows pole
a wind chime hangs
on each word


the darkness
of my mood
colours the toast

the reflections
of an alien species
out of my mind

the wind
winds up
a cat

ululations of immortality



up, down
a leaf adrift
or not

on manicured lawns
Sappho's ashes

windy day -
stretching the truth
across clouds


with age
the deepening pallor
of the moon

wormhole trip . . .
my shadow and I
splice genes