From the rooftop
I see the houses sleeping in moonlight

(My chance ascent to the roof
for a space to be aloof
begets this poem)

I know this stillness is deceptive

behind the half glow neon panes
or the wooden ones shut tight from light
beyond the dumb walls of white
tears and smiles are flowing
also grunts of despair
moans of flesh upon flesh
stopping at the skin
or going far down to that misty spot
and even far past all them
two hearts holding the flame
of years buried on the bed
a child still in their head
or there but really not there
somewhere too wide to build a bridge

(Thirty minutes past nine
the toy houses in the moonlight shine
in their chambers holding life not seen)

And I atop one such house know
it's time to go down the stairs
to take up the script again
and write and act and write
for the length of night.

Biden come and goeth now , quickly doth he run
Whilst wielding compulsions deadly smoking gun,
Coercing this allies need to restate
Defiance to China’s political take
Of tactical ****** in the South China Sea
And belligerence spat…. when we all disagree.

Like meat in the sandwich we twitch and we squirm
When thrown on the spot like an early bird’s worm,
Risking primary markets of pine tree and milk
Midst Asia’s burgeoning tourism’s ilk?
Kiwifruit’s sales meeting China’s demand….
Risk all this ….for America’s leveraged command?

Do we sit on the fence in a balancing act?
Or throw caution to wind, redress or retract?
Do we hang like the Swiss in neutralities’ air
Attracting contempt…. as both parties stare?
With superpower leverage approaching white heat
The decision demands that we’re quick on our feet!

A questionable pleasure to dwell in this spot
When the wrong moves consequence, clearly has got,
Too disastrous an outcome for Kiwis to call
Should China’s great markets vanish and fall?
Or the Western Big Brother’s umbrella withdraw
Leaving us, militarily, adrift once more?

Strong armed tactics, they both brandish here,
The quandary posed is starkly clear….
Shall we tip toe through the tulips, soft,
Or tell them all to.... GO GET LOST?*

M.
23 July 2016
Auckland N.Z.

I keep asking
"don't you remember?"
and he thinks I mean
a walk in a mountain park
my bare toes in a cold stream

you would think
he could see through me
by now

there are lifetimes
behind this one

and if I can remember
why can't he?

Carla said we must talk about love.
If it doesn’t define, it doesn’t exist, she said,
And pulled the two nearest stools away from the bar.

Has anyone you have ever known- anyone-
Ever offered you even a pitiful explanation
Of this bewildering word
She asked me,
In that way she has
Of not asking me at all.

She lit her pipe,
Her first exhale a ceremonial cloud,
A white tobacco fog,
A linger that purchased my childhood memories,
The pungency of three fingers of scotch, neat, at dawn,
The south face picture window ablaze with
The painful flood of an early sun,
A tin can stereo in full lament about cowboy love
And the inevitability of betrayal,
My father off key,
All his memories a libel and a calumny.

If I say I lust for you, you know what I mean, Carla said,
If I question your loyalty there is no obfuscation,
If I tell you in my sleepy voice the wine is delicious,
You are tempted to sample,
But if a man tells a woman he loves her
What conclusions will she abide,
Carla asked me with a stare.

Do you even know anyone who can utter the words I love you,
Without feelings of hysteria, near mental collapse,
Or worse-farce, she asked.

We tell people we love them to calm them,
To manipulate them,
To play magic tricks on them, Carla said,  
Love is an adolescent stage,
A toxic teenage mix and of oestrogen and testosterone,
Romeo and Juliet were children for ***** sakes, Carla said,  
As she drank half of her breakfast scotch,
And began to blow perfect smoke rings
In the mirror still stale air
Of the Rock Hen all day, all night, all the time bar.

I just know I love my dog, I replied,
And I held my finger up,
To see if Carla could circle it perfectly with a smoke ring,
Which she did.

And I don’t even know why, I said,
I guess I love how he needs me and doesn’t resent it,
Even as I disappoint him and neglect him,
Forget to feed him, force him to *** in the rain,
He still wags his appreciation with gusto.

Perhaps we can only love our dogs,
Carla replied,
Or perhaps we should all have tails,
And she ordered us lemonade and tequila
With scrambled eggs, french toast and a *** of blueberries.

I'm not a perfect person
I still have rough-edged vice
Although I've sought and I've been bought
By the Lord Jesus Christ

On my last poetry venue
I was sure a geek
I made many enemies
On the website Poetfreak

I was green as new-mown grass
On the internet
I also dropped my med therapy
Was as crazy as it gets

I posted several poems
Of suicidal bent
Not one person commented
Not one message sent

So I said I was in hospital
For suicidal thoughts
I even had an alias
Who said that I was caught

In a cycle of depression
That I needed help
I needed people loving me
Yes. I did this in stealth

Then I felt so guilty
That shame had so much clout
I posted an exposé of what I'd done
So the truth would come out

Most people were quite good and kind
They understood my pain
But some were mean and hateful
And my guilt remained

So I made another alias
His name was Steelrelease
I wanted for to be a man
So I'd have respect at least

And boy did that become the case!
You know how males are
They respect their stronger ***
It looked like I'd go far

But there were flies in that ointment
As it did ensue
I became so popular
The women liked me TOO!

I met a little teenager
Who was suicidal
A little waif of a girl
And I could not be idle

And so I befriended her
I had her full respect
I should have known the outcome
Due to my male ***

When I did discover
What she began to feel
I could no longer lie to her
And so the truth revealed

Again some stayed by me
For they understood
But others were quite vicious
In that poetic neighborhood

I knew that I would never have
Chances to write free
So I made up other avatars
Other people I could be

Again and again I was found out
And I became blamed
There was a poet "Lucifer"
Who thought I should be shamed

He made several postings
Detailing my sins
Had many of his own
But poets he did win

Though I was repentant
He hounded me no end
I tried to get away from him
But he posted again

Then all of a sudden
Some ****** SPAM APPEARED!
Under my own avatar
It was very weird!

Somebody had hacked me
And posted that foul spam!
I know I didn't post it
FOR I KNOW WHO I AM!

I guess it didn't matter
That I posted again
That I had not done it
But that poem did not trend
It really mattered not
I tried to make amends

I had written poems
For poets on that site
No less than 50 people
Got a special write

I did not do that out of guilt
For I found that I enjoyed
The gratitude of people
From my work so employed

In the end I left Poetfreak
For he kept up his stuff
Lucifer was ruthless
And I had had enough.

So that is my story
I have now come clean
Some folks are unforgiving
Some folks are downright mean.

But I was in the wrong, you see
So they still laid claim
To my very character
They still rail and blame

Here on this good website
I'm friend to age and youth
I don't do what I did before
And I tell the truth

But you all know that there is talk
By a crazy one
That I still have aliases
In many minds has won

I don't support this person
But neither do I blame
He is bold and he's a troll
But he's totally insane.

Please forgive me people
I want for you to know
Now I am quite honest
Wherever I go

I am a minded writer
And I am a part
Of the HP community
And I have a HEART!

So can you have compassion?
I want for you to see
I have a arranged to be so changed

Please folks. Forgive me.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/8/2016

had it run just straight
with no turn on either side
we all would surely fret
life is such a boring ride

life is so dully made
that's all we would say
the road is clearly laid
same looks every day

no bumps and no holes
sharp bends of surprise
the way blandly rolls
we don't fall and rise

thank god ain't so made
life has twist and turn
in search of what's ahead
we persist with the run.

It might have been beautiful, and certainly smart
Born with your academics and my poet’s heart.
It might have been witty, pithy and wise;
possessing your nose and my two emerald eyes.

It might have been evil; it may have proved kind;
the first of our brood was the last of our line.
Not that we ever will know, I suppose.
Just idle questions  geneticists might pose

It would have been born with ten fingers and toes
If left, unimpeded, for nine months to grow.
We were both too young, both too unprepared,
This life, unintended, was not to be spared.

Forty winters have passed since that fateful decision.
It was swept from our path with a clinic’s precision.
Now you, too, are gone, and that leaves only me
To mourn for our child not permitted to be.

I was never going to be that person,
you know, the one tightly closed like a rosebud
pushing away all signs of blooming
the gloomy defeatist drenched in the blood
of the past like an English economy booming

I was never going to be that person, I decided
at eighteen, black jeans, idealistic and slightly misguided
I never understood the funny commitment-phobe trope on TV
not even when I got into poetry
and saw someone language fantastic weave webs of words about feeling dead
I could never get my head around it

I was going to be passionate and opportunistic forever
feeling everything to the very core of my being
I figured detachment was something that they felt
when they decided somehow to give up believing
and that pushing someone away was a choice
unearthed by some sudden urge to fly
and if you don't give fear a voice
it can't swell and crash and block out your sky

But you don't just stop seeing good in the world
and it starts innocuous, easily dismissed
they don't like me, he didn't call back
okay, move on, you won't be missed
They don't mean to hurt you and you know that
but you become the person who doesn't call back
It happens like that, careless encounters that you couldn't care less about,
in fact you prefer it this way, never stay over,
never let anyone stay over, always play the game
and always win, never care much, never care enough
It's what everyone's doing, it's meant to be fun, and love,
well, what is love anymore?
You don't know. And that's when you lie to yourself at night
because half of your bed is cold and the places you go,
they get old, and people finding excuses to leave
leaves you unable to stay awake or sleep.

So I became that person.
I didn't mean to, it weaves between vague memories not important enough to catch a hold of you for a second,
and apathy is easier than fear and loathing I reckon
and second guessing is second nature
I was a creature of habit who accepted nothing greater
but my walls had blocked out fear and anxiety;
no waves of panic nor joy could break the fortress in me.

I became the tightly closed rosebud,
and when I met you I still was
when your expectations are on the floor, you don't feel worthy of anything more
So it was fun at first,
with no expectations came freedom,
my nerves quelled by a casual reassurance that this would lead to nothing better or worse,
calmed by my own demons.
And then you said that you loved me.

And the walls didn't immediately crumble,
and my eighteen year old self would've grumbled
and not understood me at all
And the fear raged like a tidal wave over my sky and around me
and I boxed myself in and bricked myself up
Immune to the pain and the joy that had found me.

You reached through the sea and you banged on the walls and you screamed and you screamed and you screamed,
and I could only love you from a distance,
or else drown in the storm I'd dreamed into existence.
I placed my hands against the walls and felt you on the other side,
I thought you'd have gone by now,
left on an outgoing tide,
but you still said that you loved me.

I couldn't face the storm alone so I shut it out and shut myself down
but it hadn't swept you away and you clearly weren't afraid to drown.
How anyone could cling to walls like that I never understood,
but I started to build a door from bits of old driftwood,
You told me from the outside that it wasn't as bad as it seemed,
the storm was quieting a little and the horizon gleamed
I built that door with everything that I had, gluing together bruised and barkless branches
working towards a time where we could stand together on the threshold, facing the whirling ocean
a time where I could turn to see that the door was not still broken.

Opening up that driftwood door was like waking up from a dream,
you stood there smiling, relief painted across your weather beaten face, seawater still dripping from your hair,
and the threshold was mine to step across,
that little step toward solace, scary storm be ******;
and we stood together, facing the ocean.
It wasn't whirling but reflecting sunlight for the first time since the walls went up,
and I turned to you and said
I love you.
And then I started blooming.