half things don't weave bits of string
just water warmed up ready for steam
killing sound with a padding a horn blowing thumping
eating snow because you stuck your hand in the oven
language keeps guard of your child
bricks house your thoughts
imprison your feelers

Fresh, as a Daisy


Plucked at a late stage the bus travelled
down the forbidden lane grasping at glances
by passers by in their licenced gowns

and heavy sack as mat facts that rattle
the nerves of the bent silent one fast
casting his wares free into his flock

She lies on the silver beak of a storm
unaware of how its unseating her ways
as it worms its way in and takes all her things

Losing all that into dust the ancient
men sigh and gasp as they run
the sea is kind most of the time

20:00 NZT 24 March 2005 (09:000 GMT, perhaps)

Fresh in the memory

eventually the beautiful vague
reflections sharp on the waves
but for now stories about
things in the heart
times we hold dear
clear callings to hang dreams
better than the ticking in the hallways

So much is absurd that none of the birds
observe much except the nerves of the judge
and the vast ribbon that unfolds thus
the vast chain of reason that unfurls so
the liquid course of knowledge
mother to child

mooring more than the truth allows
unknown of the risk of loss
unbeknown of the passage of dross
the limiting screen unknown to the nurse
as she knelt down to help Uncle Henry
down the ladder
of verbs
before he breaks
out in a rash of
bad nerves

its a dream but the symptoms are real
there is nothing he can do
but sing
like he did in the past

The Lions at Dawn
Stretch their legs
letting the blood run
back to their heart
and then as the starting
rhythm starts and ambles
in silken gowns reflecting dark against tan
rippling brows of ancient sunlight
caught in the maze stalking its prey
failed to see the escape and free
the bird takes
to the sky
it takes
and it
flys
away

March 1st 2005