Dear wide, comforting
McMurdo Sound.
The beautiful nowhere.
Perennial comforts high above.

Here is cold Ross Dependency.
Here is Erebus.
Surface landmarks:
hawk moth mirage
--malevolent trick
of the polar light.

Orphans of the sky.
First impressions in the snow.
Mountain tomb, angels sing.
Coffins full of ice.

They say the smell of kerosene
never leaves you,
and that on a clear day you can
still see the debris.

Flax blades
Howling birds
The tears of strangled mountains

Flip a coin
The land of the long white cloud
A sun so bright
The shadows are buried
7 feet below
Alongside those whose eyes
Were convinced
The coin only flipped one side

Look at this Mess the Messiah made
You’d think He’d have kept up with things
But all he’s good for is bringing good honest people together
In a place where it’s easy to ******* shoot them

Tomorrow New Zealand's
beautiful sunrise won't see
some forty plus lives that they too
never expected to miss.

The rose will flower for them too
brimming with brightest hues
to colour the wind.
So are the nightingales have the lyrics
for them to sing.

Not to mention like yesterday
people around of all walks and colours  
expected to greet them good morning!

Alas, it won't happen tomorrow
one openly fired at the peaceful setting.
Killed them all in one go
loved by all the humankind around
and naturally nurtured by reality!
Because we have an enemy within.

Attempting to make the memories,
of these moments last longer than the moments themselves,
but at the end of the day I’m just a loner with some poems,
because we all lose everyone close to us including ourselves,

what the Hell,
what the Heaven,
running out of Time and into Luck,
what an interesting combination,

they say,
necessity is the “mother of all invention”,
but I’m a ******* child running wild,
so I have no mother nor father at least not that I care to mention,

only have the pen when,
writing these verses constantly,
that and the accompaniment,
of the associated memories,

feel like all of this was meant for me,
which reminds me of a saying they have in India,
“You’re always where you’re supposed to be because that’s where you are.”,
I couldn’t have said something so complex any simpler,

simply speaking pause,
take a moment to spell the flowers,
simply speeding past,
sometimes it feels like I have more lifetimes than I do hours,

which I guess makes sense in a sense,
because time is only relative anyways,
and there’s no way something so omnipresent can be explained,
in a way that’s so linear in it’s emphasis,

anyways where was I with this,
this poem about nothing in particular,
well I guess I was as in am,
on a plane south of the equator,

passing over New Zealand,
also known as Ateorora,
still attempting to make sense of this,
of all the sounds and the colors,

still attempting to make the memories,
of these moments last longer than the moments themselves,
but at the end of the day I’m just a loner with some poems,
because we all lose everyone close to us including ourselves…

∆ LaLux ∆

Nelson, New Zealand
Jan 18th, 2019

A velvet topography,
Of ridges and furrows,
Undulations of light and shade,
A land born of upheaval,
And tectonic collisions,
With a fault line for a spine.