Rain washes down my window
and clouds the view beyond
but I know that far off
the hard walks are trying their best
to make good
on bad ground.

Before the wet the sight was clear
and unobstructed but
now the trees are hazy,
lost in fear and worry
at making progress
in the winter wet.

Even when the rain has stopped
the doubt remains
that good ideas have been born
and that in the soapy sun
they can be acted upon to
change my life forever.  

By Mike Tolhurst

Shadows in the Wind

The sandpaper water surrenders to the fence-line wind
stopping us in our tracks and sending us
a reminder of nature’s power
to hold back the rain
and to bring it on again
just like the instant that I saw your face
almost forgotten to the point
that I was fooled into believing that
my love for you was gone
but just like the rain
it wasn’t

you and I, sitting on the dock
fell into the sky
while talking about death
and what comes after.

you and I fell into the sky,
our backs left the ground and
we flew head first towards the
stars and Neptune.

you and i talked about death
and our evolving relationship
with God,
or whatever you decided to call it.


you and I spoke of what comes after
the stars fade
and we are left floating
in a lightened sky.

you and i closed our eyes
so we could miss the sunrise.
we are finding footholds
on the rings of Neptune.

We threw our voices into darkness
Expecting a response
Getting only echos
Fell in love with stars
Already dead
Red giants make for disappointing soulmates
We are on a galactic level of
“Wrong place, wrong time” of
“if only’s”
I am running as fast as I can
But I will be
Five hundred thousand years late for dinner

On Tuesdays I dream of moon-soaked swims among bay-big moons
Silver saucered jellyfish that ripple through our hands
Wednesday nights are underground-
Straight whiskey at the Cantab beneath a canopy of Marlboros and Parliaments
(I’m imagining the cigarettes-
I’ve always romanticized death)
I only think of Sunfish on Thursdays,
Just a single sheet and us and the water
And the thought that we are propelled by more
Than the wind and less than physics.
Fridays are midnight walks through Central Square-
That tree on JFK by the metal gate,
The cab I chased after. Your jacket.
I awake early on Saturdays to your blue wall
And freshly made yerba, lectures on nonlinear differentials.
On Sundays we sleep late,
Wrapped in sub-letted sheets
Waiting for your lease to end before Sunday does.
The ground is gone on Mondays, the sidewalk on Sydney street has crumbled
I feel first-trimester-morning-sick
And the sky is dinosaur-ending dark, thick with resentment.

On Tuesdays I dream of moon-soaked swims among bay-big moons
Silver saucered jellyfish that ripple through our hands

Inside me there’s a story  
of countries left behind beneath silent sails
running before trade winds and storms
enduring unthinkable hardships
and suffering deaths before they had reached their destination
or left their mothers breast

Inside of me there’s a story
of reaching a strange land
encountering a people steeped in war and hostilities
experiencing winter’s bitter bite in manuka huts
and putting up with it all in the
faint hope that the land would bring a better life

Inside of me there’s a story
of hiking across mountain ranges
rafting down icy rivers
tramping through bush and mud thick with mosquitos
to seek out safe harbours in which to build
towns and clear the way for others

Inside of me there’s a story
which dwells in the history of us all
to enrich our very existence and our being
telling of the strength of our ancestors
who came to this land of Aotearoa  
and made her name great

This place is void of sound I walk
at night to catch glimpses of your
stunted wings through Akatarawa and
Whakatane I walk through darkness
waiting for your call your weak
reminder that you have not left
this place your plea for remembrance
in Aotearoa. Little bird, where is
Tane Mahuta now as the trees come down
for wider streets in Muriwai I walk
under moonlight trying to be unseen
like you trying to be mistaken
for the landscape in Rangitoto.
Little bird, I wonder what you
have done in a past life to deserve
no flight I imagine you are Maui
and were sentenced to a land-bound
life among the Pohutakawas and
Wheki-pongas and we have made
you our martyr thank you for the
fire.

The other day
In English class
My feet were itchy
So I got up
Walked around
And even scratched them for gods sake
But the itching
Would not go away
We read articles about oppressive society
And androcentric culture
But no distraction could make the itch leave
After the bell rang, I got up
But I did not go to my next class
Instead
I rose from my seat with my itchy feet
And walked to New Zealand and back
I crossed oceans and stepped through valleys
And mountains
And deserts
And streams
And there was not one thing
In this whole ******* world that I didn’t see
And that was when
I noticed that my feet had stopped itching
Or
at least
Not as much as before

Fill my palms with New Zealand
And I will rub it in the cracks of my wrists like lavender,
Violets, purples, milk and vineyard greens,
Pools of yellow-gold sunlight fall on bronzed skin,
The land’s soft mouth gently presses into my thighs
leaving an earthy kiss,
Lakes lie still like the moments between seconds
with an eternal youth,
Hills bend for us as we breath between them,
The petals on flowers relax,
they’ll leave when they’re ready,
The smell of suncream lingers