All media can never do this!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Gladies In My Kitchen Window (for ANZAC Day)

Never thought I’d see the day when those blooms
that from Belgium came in pockets of Pop
after apocalyptic Passchendaele doom.
“To your death” ordered British nincompoops.

He defied them, and with those hands he took
the seeds of life from war-death’s useless worth
and packed them well, like leaves of a book.
He planted question marks in innocent earth

that sang all summer in quiet Normanby.
Choirs of colours in row upon row,
part all of my grandfather’s family;
me, these gladies in my kitchen window.

(Written at my last address in New Zealand, 2010)

I Missed Our Dreams

I missed our dreams

like fashion misses a point
like forever misses anticipation
like ad-libbing misses music
like gossip misses meaning
like belief misses seeing

like an echo misses itself
like a painting misses an end
like a flag misses a pole
like water misses the fall
like desire misses it all

like being in misses out
like a worm misses the late bird
like a shower misses the singing
like a heart misses transparency
like shade misses a tree

like corners miss speed
like a leaf misses summer
like a lie misses the bus
like a knot misses the tie
like an oh misses the my

like youre misses the ‘
like thoughts miss gaps
like zero misses one
like a lighthouse misses a storm
like the guitar misses Stevie Ray Vaughn

like thinking misses happiness
like loneliness misses the self
like love misses simplicity
like horses miss home
like roads miss Rome

but missing missing
misses the fun
misses a point
misses the words
I don’t miss those dreams anymore.

If Every Day Was Christmas Day

If every day was Christmas Day
Would you buy more stuff
If every day was Christmas Day
When would enough be enough

If every day was Christmas Day
Would you make your peace
If every day was Christmas Day
Would all your wars just cease

If every day was Christmas Day
Would you give to the homeless
If every day was Christmas Day
Would you make it anonymous

If everyday was Christmas Day
would your love be shown not spoken
If everyday was Christmas Day
Would you leave your door open

If everyday was Christmas Day
would you think before you speak
If every day was Christmas Day
would you turn the other cheek

If every day was Christmas Day
would you stock up your ammunition
If every day was Christmas Day
would it be a rung for your ambition

If everyday was Christmas Day
would you fatten on gravy and ham
If everyday was Christmas Day
would you convert to Islam

If every day was Christmas Day
whose beliefs would you follow
If everyday was Christmas Day
Whose place shall me meet tomorrow

END

 

 

 

 

 

 

Honesty

Honesty is love’s daughter,
the same devotion,
the same clarity,
honestly.

She doesn’t come with baggage,
comforts you like a feather
landing on water,
surprises you like a bird
hitting the windscreen,
floors you like a wind
that has no breath,
redirects you like a ball
hitting a wall.

She owes no favours,
offers no credit,
collects no debt.

She is a revolutionary,
usurping all the wannabes,
maybes, uncertainties.

She is socially inept;
knows
no right time,
no wrong time,
all the time.

Being patient and wise,
she does not persuade.
She will not speak
without you –
in love,
in doubt,
in desperation.

But when you do,
honesty is always
a blessing
on your tongue,
on your ears,
in your heart –
always
her mother’s daughter.