She dreams in
wild green vines
that coddle and comfort
until they choke.
Her beautiful intent
grows so wickedly and ends
brown, withered, and withdrawn—
rotted roots that no longer
hold promise.
Not even a silent one
for the sun that once
kept her alive.

A tragedy miles of time away,
The anguish almost forgotten:
But pain is a stubborn stain;
Counselling never washes it away,
New love never smothers it.

Like a stubborn ****
It is always there,
Rooted in composted memories,
Finding nourishment in the briefest recollections.
The slightest trigger allowing it to briefly blossom.

Shot a rabbit two days ago, it was a good shot taken at distance from height. The rabbit died instantly, it had been digging holes in my lawns, it had to go.

I watched it die and I had cause to ponder the death from a religious angle, where believers say we go to another place when we die?

I know where this rabbit went, he went into my vegetable garden, buried deep with all the other varmints and critters that have crossed my path.

Over the years we, (my wife and I), have turned that patch of barren volcanic ash into a wondrous source of lettuce, potatoes, onions, rhubarb, tomatoes and leek..by adding the carbonaceous remnants of not only these creatures but of composted vegetation, seaweed and selected fertilizers. We also grow the most beautiful roses and deliahs and crysanthemums you will ever come across.

And do you know...in the dark of night other little rabbits and bugs and things come out and nibble those very creations...unaware that they are completing the circle of being.

This is the true spirit of creation, as I see it, where deep in the garden, the motes of nutrition transmogrify beneficially from one entity to another, eventually, for the common good of all.

This is the basis of my belief. Feet on the ground...
What is....most definately is!

M.
Taranaki NZ

she wanted my soul


so I cut off a finger,
noting that this little pinky offering,
came from the same hand,
who, who went to the market
to buy her a love poem
all her own, because,
it was from the self same hand
that wrote:

who, can cut a soul into pieces,
no one!
so one will still ask you,
who!
who will love you
in whole poems,
that are both past and future tensed
composite composted,
from words overly overused,
but still foolishly feeling brand new
when referencing *you,
so you can believe with new fool-thinking,
this is your sole composition

she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see me instead better,
so the visions she essays,  to write,
like when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!

they do not come from my heart pieces,
but from inside insight from of parts
that are blind to everything
but *raucous untamable invisible desire

she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
I simply said, here I am,
telling you I’ll love you the way you requested,
if only to be loved in return

so with one eye and one leg,
you will observe, two is not more
than the sum of the parts of one love,
as I count to ten on my nine fingers
fingers that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how many he gave up

she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere,
said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
when needed, now that I
see you’re needy for pieces,
but still mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit
and an overarching imagination -
no!

the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety

give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I, only I know exists, must exist,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself

if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine

I sailed the fjords between Powell River and
Drury Inlet to beyond the Salish Sea.
The land itself spoke from mountains, water falls, islets
From bird song and bear splashing fishers
From rutting moose and cougars sharp incisors.
The place has a scale that needs no advisers
But in our bodies felt, sensed in our story talking.
The Chinese spoke of sensing place by the four dignities
Of Standing of Reposing of Sitting or of Walking.
Indigenous peoples of the passage added of Paddling by degrees
For the Haida and Salish sang their paddles to taboos
To the rhythm of the drum in their clan crested canoes.
Trunks transformed indwelling people who swam like trees.
First Nations marked this land, made drawings above sacred screes
As they walked together, to gather, share and thank the spirit saplings.
So Dao-pilgrims in the blue sacred mountains of Japan rang their ramblings.
Now the loggers’ chainsaws were silent like men who had sinned.
I motored now for of wind not a trace -
I could see stories from the slopes, hear tales in the wind.
Modern hieroglyphs spoke from clear-cuts both convex and concave.
Slopes of burgundy and orange bark shaves
Atop the beige hills, and in the gullies the silver drying snags
and the brilliant pink of fire **** tags
A tapestry of  times in work.
A museum of lives that lurk.
Once the logging camps floated close to the head of inlets.
Now rusting red donkeys and cables no longer creak,
Nor do standing spar trees sway near feller notched trunks,
Nor do grappler yarders shriek as men bag booms and
Dump bundles in bull pens.
The names bespeak the work.
Bull buckers, rigging slingers, cat skinners, boom men and whistle punks.
…………………………………………………………………….
Ashore to *** with my dog I saw a ball of crushed bones in ****
Later we heard the evocative howl of a wolf
And my pooch and I go along with the song
Conjoining  with the animal call
In a natural world fearsome, sacred and shared.
---------------------------------------------------------­---
Old bunk houses have tumbled, crumbling fish canneries no longer reek.
Vietnam Draft dodgers and Canucks that followed the loggers forever borrowed -
Their hoisting winches, engines, cutlery, fuel, grease and generators.
While white shells rattled down the ebbing sea.
Listing float homes still grumble when hauled on hard.
Somber silhouettes of teetering totems no longer whisper in westerlies
Near undulating kelp beds of Mamalilakula.
Petroglyphs talk in pictures veiled by vines.
History is a tapestry
And land is the loom.
Every rock, headland, and blissful fearsome bay
Has a silence that speaks when I hear it.
Has a roar of death from peaking storms when I see it.
Beings and things can be heard and seen that
Enter and pass through me to evaporate like mist
From a rain dropped forest fist
And are composted into soil.
Where mountains heavily wade into the sea
To resemble yes the tremble and dissemble
Of the continental shelf.
Where still waters of deception
Hide the tsunamis surging stealth.
Inside the veins of Mother Earth the magmas flow
Beneath fjords where crystalised glaziers glow.
Here sailed I, my dog and catboat
Of ‘Bill Garden’ build
The H. Daniel Hayes
In mountain water stilled
In a golden glory of my remaining days.
In Cascadia the images sang and thrilled
Mamalilikula, Kwak’wala, Namu, Klemtu
The Inlets Jervis, Toba, Bute, and Loughborough.

troll tooth
oger toe 
flow stupid 
fistful of shiny carbon lattice wilt
and a composted halo too
beautifully torn derivatives slid
from this orifice
oven timer set fer 

office space wasted

noob cubed 
these are exponential times we're livin in, sim

yer prolly obsolete, so tap the banner below
for more there's more
trends friend then interrogate 
unfriend those has-been's for the win dim 
naked lightbulbs swing from
threadbare strings faster than light plus **** too 

there's ***** adorno

how right you were 
this **** is almost criminal 
art narcs on

the hole a' truth
so help me dog

im
the hominid 
that stood up 

this fiction.

slipstream hoolahoop no-show

i.

eyes on fire ,
i lit a match and
watched you burn

i don’t know how long i stayed
sitting down
.

ii.

when angels were still alive ,
did they look at
the clouds ,?

do they remember how they
died
?

iii.

my skin peels in the green grass —
composted , the
fence rots and the sun
shines gold ,

this is what they call
"giving back."

iv.

blue tears leak
like petals down your cheeks .
.

everyone cries with you.
//

Children in lust.
Riding rhythms with their stilt limbs
throwing their bodies
in a manner belonging to the young.

Youth clouds the mind
it rains out its brilliance
in the form of something
opposed from both ends.

They attach blinders to their offspring
narrowing the vision.
They pluck dreams
like nourishment from a tree.

Composted into “usefulness”
the children remain,
stubbornly concealed within
hiding  in shadows.

Interesting that we older men now flag our own decline
Composted in this shameful ruse enacted over time.
We point to prime examples of our keynote men of age
De Niro, Keitel, Clooney, Hurt…all class acts, on the stage.
Take Clarkson, Rush, O’Toole and Bean…they brim like vintage wine,
Having come to terms with baldness and the sagging paunch decline.
Like them, we’ve learned the lesson of absurdity of life,
Where the trick to aged contentedness, is to pacify the wife.
An awareness of fragility in that pending death is near,
Is offset by the peace of mind of subdued *** and beer.
We say, to Hell with gradual fade of hairline, health and wealth
When a crystal glass of single malt can smooth it all by stealth.
So quell the racing, thudding heart, lean back in wisdom’s shine,
Secure in that with shaky hand…We can still quaff vintage wine.
And should the youth lose patience with a hesitancy there
We can usually still their arrogance with a knowing senior stare,
And should there be a question of a competency still?
Remind them their tomorrow too.. is running fast downhill.
Don’t sweat it with the walker, for it all arrives too soon
And sweetly on the wireless there was Perry Como’s croon,
Take comfort in the fact that soon they’ll put us out to grass
When oblivion comes creeping in Altzheimers foggy clasp.
To tabulate the good and bad within this lifetime’s span
Leaves the negatives predominant, should truth reveal her hand,
It becomes a bit obsessive when the mind’s allowed to dwell
For around the corner, probably, …. is a one way trip to Hell.

M.
Pukehana Paradise
Auckland NZ
May 7 2014

At the time as the leaves turned colour
a hushed  slither of an acquaintance
brushed by as Autumn rising.
Healing beneath his tongue
He tasted Marchpane again .
Dazed by the impending changes,
temporarily taking stock.
At the time as the wind stood still
he found his trusted keys
for his Autumnal hut
and opening its door
he felt a rush for those
composted stored Tubers and rare cuttings
as they awaited his thoughts
an outpouring
his selection an inspired command.......

my work sprouts from the simplest indeterminate sense




                                               depicting more than verge death organisms


         freshly ground expectations are composted alongside considered
                                                                ­                                          traditions


          ­                       allowing our vigorous grip of normalcy to disperse


    changing infancy energy into visceral landscapes of amplified color




                                                       ­                                       a falling into rest





where we can blossom into our own embodied environments

I'm so sure
there is a world out there
for me, in which
you are not the sole light source,
or the green leafy gaps
in the trees. Where

the composted earth-
warm and crumbled
under my feet- is not
you. A place
where you do not live
in the foam
on the ocean waves
or in the hollow of the conch
shells.

It's a 4AM start
on the sofa, still drunk
and heading to bed.
And you're there,
in the hallway.
So I rub my eyes and know
you'll be gone when
I take down
my hands.

I press my fingers into the sockets
and say
"I miss you"
I can smell you as if you're there
keep my eyes closed for two more
minutes, breathing.
Then I let go
and go to bed.

my words aimed down the scope as heated blankets feel more like frostbite when hurriedly fired.

what if benevolence is not an adequate source of heat when the power lines topple?

when these ideas run rampant, they are an uncontrollable current-
a social trend picking at gnarled vines of dead skin,
a pair of open eyelids constantly looking at the only two pictures of you still saved on the cloud-
the remnants of your sapphire eyelids cutting my brick femurs like passive ash.

what if my words immortalized your fluttering agility-
a glass universally unbreakable?
what if the punctuation composted your faith like fresh coffee grounds in a drought-stricken garden?

would you aim once more,
or would the circuit breaker gather dust?

You got me all wrong
even misspelled my name
walking on my heart, your twisted game, but I am resilient
bounce back like memory foam
you'll be forgotten, composted with my garden waste, beautiful flowers will grow all over your sorry face

while driving up the coast on rt. 101 the other day
i happened to look out of the passenger window
and saw this
  weird
patch of sea
that was -still- and utterly

p l  a c i   d.

ebb and flow had become
  static nebula mirror,
penetrating the
apparent
blue sky lie; and my sad looking eyes,
were, now, less observing:
looking through  

g l a s s melt

and: my rotted heart composted forth
the most beautiful lilies wi l t ing;
its petals falling
upward
into the glinting red circle circled in the mirror below it.

Putting pieces of books together
Hidden messages between pages of composted life
Last poem, his greatest work

We play with minds
but the mind plays us

don't use it enough
only when convenient

or when it's too late
when we've been suckered

bamboozled into thinking
too much about nothing

The only reason you are here
is to be composted

Recycled into something
that will in all hopes last forever...

Blue marble,
lifeless eye.
Rotten cherry scented earth.

Nuisances poking up,
being pulled out -
composted for new dirt.

Don't you go getting sedimental on me.
Grains of insignificance ingratiating themselves in want of new life.

Rotten blueberry orb.
Fermented fungal stink.
A world in full decay.
Eyes that cannot blink.

As I pry the hardened grey idea
from her attachment,
divorcing my mind with exploited appearance,
my pen pinches paper.
She has risen. Freed.
Hear her roar! Feel her scream.
She insists on being listened to.

Show me the sun, prisoners of my mind!
Find me a truth so high that I may live in awareness pure, transform in justice to the scathed world.
Give me words to describe
the fierce composted glittering insane expanding ferocious female idea I see before me!
LET THERE BE LIGHT!

"You can't spell gonorrheal without heal," the ***** proclaimed.
  "Thanks," I said. "I'll keep that under wraps till the next time I infect a Pygmy." [New cutting-edge toilet technology turns composted toilet waste into delicious chocolate cake for the American ***** community. Jackamammies love it!]

Viscous and tender
These moments around 9pm
Upside down and gazing
Feet like a rowdy symphony
All moving in raucous allyship
I simmer in the delicate effervescence
Teeming vines thrilled and dancing
Swimming through viscosity
Thickness perhaps birthing from relief
Oneness poured on hands cupped
Oneness, soupy with depths as rich as each commits to be changed
Devotional maillard reactions
Steam and aroma and fond and breath and hum
Seasoned bounty poured, glazed, caked, sprinkled, contained, admired, held, extracted, celebrated, loudly slurped
the rah crescendos, ebbs and flows surely settling as the hours pass
Doors open and close part way
Grateful glances bid adieu
Oneness composted little by little
I’ll meet you again, perhaps anew and teeming with new spirit
Until next Thursday

A tragedy miles of time away
But pain is a stubborn stain
Counselling never washes it out
New love never puts it out of its misery

It is a stubborn ****,
Rooted in composted memories,
Finds nourishment in unwelcome recollections;
The slightest trigger allows it to blossom.