An empty pop bottle filled with ants
A Fall tomato plant blooming as if its children
even have a chance
A cigarette pack book marker in a Gideon Bible
Bits of blue sky laden with thunderheads
Shellshocked warrior discerning life from death
Shoot me while I sleep so the checks will continue
Remove my face from evils menu
Throw the oxycontin into the lake
To mingle with mud in a watery grave
Call me Wednesday longing for Thursday
Two a.m. contemplative over the dawn
Refuse strewn by wild dogs
Forage did I in hopes of sanity as do the midnight hogs

The creek partitioned the fertile lowland
The river-road split the pasture land above
The Conestoga linked the east with their western kin
But the railroad divided men by the color of their skin

To tarnished golden escapements ,
lonely eves dividing the days -
in hubris moonlight
For the taut brushstrokes of Dusk
Orange , blue upon red
Gray home fires on icy morns
To the carillon of October wind
Sunlight across brown grass ,
now estranged* ....

Trusted , clear-coated , cured cane pole
Can o' corn 'neath a Maple umbrella
Brown Trout skimmers popping the top of a runaway
river
Red , gold leaf boats sail the eddies
Painted hardbacks , soft shelled sinkers
Lolly-gagging Mudcats , sunlight in her
turbulent mirror
Cold water shivers , warm flannel shirts with
wet rolled up Levi's , Peanut butter -apple jelly
sandwiches with a peach Nehi
Cattle trails homeward
Honeysuckle boundaries , Red plum , Mimosa ,
Honey Locust companions
Brown sugar tended earth , June corn , young hideaways
Purple wire-grass terraces , wild Dove lining
barbed wire fencing with late hour songbirds escorts* ..

The Crows will soon cackle after confiding in
a Myna Bird* ....

road works have been there some time,
you came through before your diagnosis.

did you see the copper beech at gelligemlyn
where the house is for sale. i saw it yesterday,
as if it had never been. from the mist inside
it grew, leaves hanging a fragile thread. tudor
lace in air, few  fell. the light turned green.

we drove on our way, i have no photograph.

sbm.

Polished and refined,
With death I have found
A life below ground
A place I can call mine
Destruction and evil deeds
A breeding of pure hate
Is all that I can create
Out of all these heartless seeds

I punch them in
To the deep sullen dirt
Water them with vengeance
And a sprinkling of hurt
Tonight is the night
I find what dwells below
I don't have a key
But I can bargain with my soul
As I place it into these seeds
I am but reeds in the grass
I'm letting go
Only Heaven knows
The blackness of Hell's wrath

I plant my lifeless soul in this plot
To groom it as it grows
So slowly that nobody knows
It's the place the devil goes to rot
Watered with tears, warmed with fire
And as time stands still, never changing
This fruition of evil continues growing
Until the depths of hell can go no higher

Then it will bloom
A flowering gloom
Growing out of control
The ground will harden
In this here garden
Fertilized by my soul

Eyelids protect us from the unknown , blocking evil aimed in our direction
Closed in the stormy night , saving our minds from unbridled possession
Turning our backs on what we refuse to understand
Safe in a familiar , sealed room yet curious about the other side
Abstract shape and color leading thought to temporary rest
Opening doors carved into our walls , praying for the best*.....

The busy checkpoint at the entrance to Gate 21, the CY06 construction site in the north sector @ Waterview, is manned by a particularly nice bloke.

He, with his customary good nature, directs incoming traffic to its intended destination, controls access to far flung satellite work stations,

ensures, with deft manipulation, that pedestrian workers survive the incessant vehicular traffic constantly moving in and out of the site.

He knows what is going where and probably more to the point; he knows what is not going where it shouldn’t.

Errant intruders and jaywalkers are deflected efficiently and politely.

Seemingly catastrophic situations are dispersed harmlessly and with effortless panache.

Nobody here is offended…and the system flows like silk.



John@ the Gate is an under rated, key man in the organisation.

A small cog in this very big wheel who has quietly made himself, over time, indispensable…and indeed, a legend.



When, soon, the dust has settled, and the Captains and the Kings have departed… when the heavy plant noise has abated….

And when the traffic is flowing like a ribbon through the new tunnels and streaming smoothly over the majestic high flyovers…

The Spirit of John@theGate shall remain hovering in this place,

suspended vividly, in the memories of 1000 construction workers who have valued his contribution to the cause...

And have marveled at his, ever present, amazing, good grace.



Marshalg

Project Plant Co-ordinator

Wellconnected Alliance

Auckland.

1 September 2016

Vanilla tractors leave laden impressions upon Winter fields , hungry Crows forage turned ****-land yield
Diesel fired , mechanical Mules struggling in the Cobalt Blue December morning
Chimney smoke stalling at treetop level , clanging songs of the harrow , frosted furrow , Goose grease and burning , broom sage meadow* ...