"kiwi" poems
Friendship is to trust
Friendship is having the kindness to help
Friendship is giving to others without thinking
Friendship is being there when someone need you
Friendship can be just a smile that brightens your day
Friendship is giving more than you expect to receive
Friendship is listening
Friendship is offering your opinion when you think you need to
Friendship can be many things
Friendship is different for everyone
Friendship could be holding a hand for support
Friendship is lending your shoulder to cry on
Friendship is mellow
Friendship is giving back
Friendship is only taking that what you need
Friendship can be that voice of reason you give
Friendship could also be a boost of encouragement when it’s needed
Friendship stands the test of time
Friendship is show in many different ways
Friendship can be everlasting
Friendship is not always an easy thing
Friendship is hard to break apart
Friendship is strong
Friendship should never be taken for granted
Friendship is meant to be shared with all
Friendship is free and rewarding to share
Friendship can be unforgettable
Friendship is priceless to many
Friendship is a secret never to be told
Friendship is not having to say sorry but do
Friendship is not judging no matter what
Friendship is to share, the joy and the fear
Friendship is someone to run too when things are tough
Friendship is a hand to hold when things are so rough
Friendship is someone to laugh with not at you
Friendship is just knowing they are there
Friendship is very personal
Friendship is all of these things and many more
This is are how I see friendship
To have a true Friend is the best thing to achieve
We all have one but it may take a very long time to find them.
For You Kiwi, Thank You So Much X
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 5:57 PM UTC
Wistful lust and melancholy mangoes
Succulent decadence and still I am morose
A plum for pining, a kiwi for whining
Pineapple dreams are the clouds’ only lining
For in the resting realm the reality is nigh
Alas cruel consciousness eradicates the high
And thrown am I back into awareness
That life and love are not games of fairness
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
i have not spoken to you in
four or six years but
the hex code for the color of your eyes
i could determine from:
strawberry-kiwi juice, thumb tacks
CD rainbows
softball (
and kickball, hours of it)
chicago in 2007, white pebbles like teeth, and converse shoes—
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
I grew up in South Auckland, Takanini
the only Pakeha in the caravan park,
I learnt how to be tall, smart and skinny
how to raise the end of my sentences in an arc.
At school, we were told words held power;
but for teachers words were flowers,
and my friend Cruz had two brothers
Harley and Davidson - they belonged to Black Power,
their fists tattooed with something like “Smother”.
But there was never violence on our street, gang was family;
I usually never felt more at home around Bourbon,
loud Reggae, bags of **** and men so manly
they’d cry over love, and I wouldn’t get a word in.
Though my Father votes National and thinks Michael Laws is right
so moves us to Dunedin where it’s ninety percent white.
I stopped reading Lenin and picked up Rousseau
became a vegetarian, thought it was so cool you know,
even wrote a blog that discussed rise from below.
But I’ll never know below again
until I’m drunk in an old shed at 3am on a school night
singing along to Bob Marley in Maori,
sunk deep into the mattress propped against the Harley,
the one you and I would cruise on until dawn together
as police took to the streets in riot gear -
we’d get lost in the country and learn to smother
our thoughts in starlight then stagger over,
listen in to the darkness,
and just slowly breathe
the crisp, cool air of the kiwi tundra.
They say New Zealand has two flags,
but in the country, when you’re blazed
on the benefit, ****** on the disdain
for positive discrimination, you can pick out
all the small bright koru unfurling in the stars.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
There's a black cat
walking flat,
his back feet
dipped in
marshmallow droppings.
His tail flicks
like a reed in the swamp,
and he can't
help but run through legs
swiftly
hopping on furniture
daintily
belly all soft and white.
Silent is he,
catching the almost-full moon
in his bright whiskers.
Padded paws,
a black tail snaking
twitching as he
squeezes to rest
in tight spaces
wide eyes as green as
a kiwi fruit
with the seeds cut out.
He bats his toy freely,
ears up then
hears a rustle
at the screen door
and sits
transfixed
but only
for a moment.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
Enter the dragon with death and disruption
Pride and tradition cataclysmically thrown,
Magnificent structures reduced to rubble
Distraught people bereft of their homes.
Chasms of heartache with bodies of babies
Strewn with the bricks in vast disarray,
Dust in the air and the howl of the sirens
Shouting police on a horror filled day.
Christchurch is bleeding, her confidence shattered
Our keynote cathedral is lying in shards,
Vacant eyed people are clinging to strangers
Jagged black holes in suburban back yards.
Christchurch is bleeding, our torn, gracious City
The nation arises in hurt and alarm,
To face the challenge with strength and resources,
To nurture our sister with healing and balm.
Sympathy shown by the myriad faces
Racing to help from all parts of the globe,
Expertise offered with money and labour
Students with shovels and priests of the robe.
Sadness and torment for kin of the missing
Frustrated rescuers work till relieved,
Moments of triumph with lost resurrected,
Agony felt when the dead are retrieved.
Led by the strength of the Mayor of the City
Courageous citizens help where they can,
Moments of bravery, moments of agony
Inspirational feats of elan.
Poignancy shown by the sad Maori Warden
Guiding the aged through the strewn broken glass,
Aiding the ambulance crews in their labour
Proud to be Kiwi as folk show their class.
Christchurch WILL arise from the death and destruction
Once again people will overcome grief,
Pride and resilience will triumph with the passing
And time will repair with deserved relief.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
AUCKLAND
25 February 2011
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 8:26 AM UTC
Wake me up I'm falling
Stuttering and stalling
With nowhere to run, and no place to hide
A beast deep inside,
Is rising
Rise, like a tidal wave
Rise, to every lie they gave
Rise, for it is your time,
To slay all these haters with power of rhyme
Freedom of expression helps fight depression...
Moment of silence
On an empty stomach
Then comes a rumble
At the smell of apple pie crumble
Moon is out of this world
Annie is our favourite girl
I hope no-one else sees this
**And starts singing about my *****
****** mind in a slaughter house
Anti-Ducks about this life
But with a Kiwi accent if I may
Tis "Anti-Ducks about this life"
We went outside,
Still high
Decided to munch and play games
Forgot our phones outside
Smash the boundaries,
Tear down the walls
Won't stop tearing
Til' we seen Ben's *****
Break down barriers,
Smack 'em down
Walking past ducker-fuckers
Delirious like a clown
Smiling all the way
With a crazy little laugh
On this spectacular journey
Into the past
It's time to get to the end of this family rhyme
We all pitched in with whatever we could find
It's beautiful and grand, a real sight to see
This Mafia family of mine
It's our time our life
Crazy running red lights
Grand stand, stage band time to curtain call
But it never ends, we fam!
(Tight!)
*Annie's the funniest girl
Her hair blazes like sunset
But she keeps talking about my *****
I mean seriously...
She done yet???*
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 2:57 AM UTC
I have stomach aches
Caused from the hole deep within me
Where the butterflies ate away at the flesh that I was
You see butterflies are nasty little things
They like to come when you want…to come.
For that special someone
But I have butterflies for people that don’t know I do.
So I tried to fill the hole with honey
With vanilla
With anything that I could get my sticky fingers on.
The only thing my fingers got on was me
And then they got me off
Because I have this hole
This deep burning hole that gives me stomach aches
That I want to fill with peaches
With kiwi
With pomegranates
Sometimes the stomach aches come in the night
When I lay there in my peach colored sheets
Pulling at an old band tee shirt until it comes off
And I become a writhing mess in the witching hours
But sometimes my stomach aches for the boy that wears sweaters
It twist and turn and the hole will scream from my abdomen
“Give me”
I want to kiss his lips
I want to stain his sheets with my ***
But then the ache goes away
I’ll get an ache for the arrogant and snarky boy
When he sits there with long, admirable fingers
I want him to dig them into me
And sometimes my stomach aches for me
It aches for the day that I can completely satisfy myself
In every aspect a human ever could
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
I have two vines
with nodding heads
they look just like giraffes ...
long necks peering in
heads curled up in loops
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
I keep it in my pocket
in case you lean in for a kiss.
You'll smell it
before you taste it
but you'll never forget it.
Maybe you'll crave it,
maybe you won't like it.
Either way it's on my lips.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
Oh you know
The usual
As
_
The usual
As
Well- copio
_
As
Well-copio
us amounts
of
_
us amounts
of
LSD, Listening
_
of
LSD, Listening
to the
Doors, eatin
_
G to the
Doors, Eating
Sum
_
Doors,eati
ng sum
yummy
_
ng sum
yummy
kiwi fruit
_
yummy
kiwi
fruit
with a big
_
kiwi fruit
with a big
mug of
_
with a big
mug of
Tea- and
_
mug of
tea- and
The glow
_
Tea-and
the glow
from the
_
The glow
from the
mobile is
_
from the
mobile is
COZY
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 5:26 AM UTC
*Flashing willow, spinning ball
Four million screaming Kiwis call
You champion of this far flung land
In World Cup Cricket’s greatest stand.*
Tomorrow at the MCG
In Australia’s hostile field,
Black shall battle Green and Gold
To seize the Cup, to make them yield.
*Flashing willow, spinning ball
The Black caps, as a team, enthrall
With inspirational de je Vue
In self belief, we’re backing you.*
Tomorrow at the MCG
In Australia’s hostile field,
Black shall battle Green and Gold
To win the Cup, to watch them yield.
*Flashing willow, spinning ball
Humble, proud…none can recall
A better cricket team to hand
To represent this Kiwi land.*
Tomorrow at the MCG
Beneath Australia’s hostile sun
Black will hold the trophy high
This Cricket World Cup
SHALL BE WON!
M
Auckland, NZ
28 March2015
*Black Caps v Australia,
Melbourne Cricket Ground.*
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
your George Klooney appeals to your filter.
you brunch with Tungsten and straight up toxic marriages.
the mob rules the Jupiter, so therefore and ever after
you mop Hell's kitchen while you slideshow
your thumb through the wreckage
of your tender aggressions in the marsh
where the hard sky lobs acid and false globs
of character... we blur the chi chi's and wiz bang
the last dirge
we incur the wrath of our blissful innocence
and sweeten the Lama
with our Lambda, " all back of the bus, and **** "
we betwixt the twain.
and that's the grease
in the varmint. the tuft of luscious.
you gob-smack the kiwi and chip away at the porcine thunder
of our pagan banquet.
the lungs you drum with; are even now
less equipped to sermon the mount
where your meek inherits
lengua tacos.
and your life means nothing, really....
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Sunday-empty Auckland my pre-breakfast escape,
Sheep-spotted mountains in early morning mist,
Whangarei marina for a cauldron of cappuccino.
Shop of metal sheep starts a day of Kiwi weirdness,
Of customer requesting glassblowing lessons, and
“All Blacks” silk boxers, unworn by players I hope.
Driving to Dargaville for Mr. M. Ujdur museum treat,
That late gum-digging, Esperanto teaching, vintner.
Beside a colossal collection of accordions with muzak,
Playing an instrument-impossible Whiter Shade of Pale,
Plus coins and buttons and stamps and Scotsmen,
Left feeling stunned, like I was tripping on acid.
The possum cull with prizes seemed almost normal.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
I must be incredibly wary
and alert
and I gotta follow my gut because there’s a reason to why
it aches
or jumps with excitement;
it knows
much more than my head does;
and I must hold myself firmly like a proud statue, but I can’t just stay in one place
I need to tiptoe on a tightrope
I mustn’t fall, but if I do, I mustn’t fuss
just get back up again,
just get on with it
I went to an art gallery this afternoon
and the theme of one small contemporary art room
was,
“just get on with it”,
(I decided that myself anyway);
there was a painting of an airplane, resting on snow,
that one was obvious
I said, “just get on with it, then, fly”
there was a painting of a snowy road,
that one was obvious too
there was a painting of a sad girl
again, obvious
but then there was a painting of a person
with a large smudge of green on his face, he barely had a face
and a large smudge of white on his waist, he barely had a waist;
I concluded,
“sometimes you don’t have a face and you just need to get on with it”
because my mood was easy breezy silly this afternoon;
but now I’m thinking
sometimes you lose your identity
and you just need to get on with it
I can barely take anyone serious when they ask the question,
“who am I?”
the answer is obvious if you allow simplicity into your heart,
“you’re what you are experiencing and feeling and being right now, and it’ll change all the time in every moment”
so,
I feel kind of commiserable
and much of a parody
for sitting in a busy mall foodcourt, with a cup of coffee I didn’t even buy at that foodcourt,
remixing an old song on garageband,
then looking up and realizing I’m surrounded by all of these kiwi strangers
and finally asking the question
“who am I”
oh I’m a lunatic, aren’t I?
I must be open, but not too open
and easy to get along with, but not too easy to get along with
I must catch a wave on the first try,
but if I wipe out, I mustn’t turn red;
I need to watch what I say
before I say it
but also find the courage to speak
when I’m shy
and I must be considerate
but not let people walk all over me
I can’t be a pushover, and I can’t be too much of a leader
because I don’t know what I’m doing
here;
I can love but I shouldn’t fall in love
at least for awhile
because I’m still high from the transition and I’m dubious of how
authentic and sincere
my falling in love
would be
worrying is the most unnecessary thing
money isn’t an issue
(right now)
and loneliness is a blessing
but it’s also a sickness
and I must remind myself that I’m worth not being lonely
and instead being free
and above all,
I am capable of anything I set my mind to,
even if I forget
“who I am”
or “what I wanna be”
above all,
I must always be me.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
ANZAC CHUMS AND THEIR MUMS
In Oz the possum grinds on thorn and gum
Far too stretched to visit mum -
Things are hard outback of Bourke
And there’s no time for anything but work.
But Kiwi possums like to visit ma
With flowers for her crystal jar -
They’ll even take a shopping bag of buds
With some greens and beans and spuds.
In Oz the possum is protected
As indeed might be expected -
Beset by fires and drought and prickles
And parched out creeks that slim to trickles.
But Kiwi possums are heaven sent
To slurp and scoff to heart’s content -
When they dine they have the best
And not surprisingly are deemed a pest.
In Oz a treasure - in NZ an imported glitch
There are mixed opinions either side the Ditch –
Mum’s the word on making possums able
To visit home with veggies for the table.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
A Granny Smith
a day etc.;
pears left to ripen
on a window sill
are worth waiting for;
1 kiwi = 4 oranges
in vitamin C -
do eat the skin!
Fruit for the eating -
elliciting a little homesickness
for our lost Garden of Eden.
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 7:07 AM UTC
I drew you on
the back of my
work schedule
and left it on
the counter
when I
clocked
out.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
The day my great-grandfather deserted the German army because he was a proud Austrian and no ****
The day my grandfather was given away by his own mother because he was born out of wedlock, and shame to the Chinese gardner.
He grew up a half cast in a white family in racist 1940s New Zealand. No kiwi accent could hide his oriental blood.
The day my grandfather stuck by my grandmother's side, two kids barley 20 and not even that. He held her hand, looked into her pale blue eyes and said "I do". While she stood in a loose suit concealing her 3 month bump.
The day my grandmother took my grandfather back after receiving a "Dear John". Only three days. Then only a few years until she left his world and the earth.
The day my mother decided to fly home to rise a family. Boarding the plane with fragile luggage: me.
These memories form tangible family members will always remain close to my heart.
Those lost in a sea of faded photographs, told not to smile because the exposure was too long.
The melodies of a&t; g&c; will build my body.
The actions, thoughts, mistakes and growth: I will inherit today.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:17 AM UTC
Ex's
I am a part of all of them
even the ones I hate.
Maybe especially the ones I hate.
They are transferred paint
after the fender ******
at the unfortunate intersection
of fate and bad timing.
Not enough damage to make a difference.
Not even enough impression that
you care to be bothered changing your schedule
to repair it.
But every time you leave the house,
and on every lap around the chariot,
you see a trespassing color screaming
of either their bad decision.........or yours.
Sometimes it seems there are more accidents
than pleasant Sunday drives.
I suppose most encounters must be accidents
until we find the uncluttered road to our destiny.
L.E. was life shift
and napkins.
I didn't even know I needed napkins
when I had paper towels in the house.
I Jones for napkins these days.
D.B. was college
and fashion.
Shiny shoes moved her to the soul of my feet.
Now Kiwi polish
smells like foreplay to me.
N.R. was forbidden
and my piano teacher.
I hated practice, she loved to kiss
The oral exam was one of my best finals.
I like tests more than most people today.
J.T. was a cougar
and Tchaikovsky connoisseur.
Maturity was uncovered, along with adult lessons
about carpet knap and fireplaces.
I am Pavlov's dog in the strings of Symphony #6.
L.J. was adventure
and abandon.
She is a grassy carpet over a live train tunnel
in a memory I should regret, but don't.
She is the crossbeam in my permanent smile.
I am an estrogen inspired creation
finding purpose in soft fleshy motivation.
I am who I am
because of their compunctions and compulsions.
They scraped off on me
in the kamikaze journey to fight loneliness.
But in the dive I learned -
grace is humbling when you don't deserve it,
toilet paper has a perfect delivery direction,
I get the right side of the bed,
you shouldn't say anything
you don't want to hear again,
it's my job to take out the trash,
shutting your mouth sooner than you think
is almost always the better choice,
you can never have enough closet space,
and some experiences are so good
that you should never try to repeat them again.
She may be gone forever.
And we may not be able to have
a decent conversation for the rest of our lives.
But God knows
I'll always have napkins.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
In flashes,
her face dances
on top of a
broomstick body.
She refills
coffee cups and
her stomach with
butter pecan ice cream
and lovers' saliva.
But her lovers are
strangers
and her mouth is a
place
where secrets are locked
behind smoke stained teeth.
In flashes,
her ambitions escape
into the jet black night.
Cigarettes dropping like
sputtering fruit flies.
A size seven New Balance
buries a Marlboro corpse,
burning out like the light
in her kiwi eyes.
She returns to the diner.
What echoes reign free.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
I realized I'd never really visited a hospital bed.
I'd been once for the birth of my sister,
but all I remember are the boxes of krispy kreme doughnuts
and my aunt, who'd not yet had a child of her own,
scolding and snapping at my brother and I
just four and five
to stop playing with my mother's adjustable bed.
And I remember the face of my grandmother,
joyous, though not quite smiling;
but perhaps I remember her that way
because I was always a little bit afraid of her,
and still was when she died six years later.
But it was sudden, and she didn't even make it to the hospital.
I don't even remember my sister herself,
or my mother,
just her bed and trying to climb into it.
But now here I was,
filing past the numbered blue doors
in the halls that didn't smell like sickness
or loneliness or anything poetic at all--
just cafeteria food, close and a bit *****
In the room, there are two women
lying on their beds, each watching a TV.
They are watching the same show,
but they are each wearing a set of headphones
and watching separate screens.
It looks a bit lonely
and I wonder if maybe they'd like to watch it together.
I kiss her hello
and her eyes are watery, her voice broken;
but I am assured this is not her normal state.
but it's the only way I've ever seen her,
so it's hard to imagine her otherwise.
There's a kiwi and an empty yogurt cup on the table
and I start to zone out,
probably wondering whether they're from her lunch
or already her dinner.
But I let my mind wander
and soon I'm picturing everyone I know in turn
lying in a hospital bed.
One is missing all her hair,
another has an IV,
and I ask myself which ones I would visit.
The woman in the bed is smiling crookedly;
I've been told the tube in her arm is morphine,
and she's speaking about the dinner she had at our house
while my french sister assures her that we'll do it again
when her four days of rest are up.
And I go back to my game.
It's a bit cruel, maybe,
but life, I think,
is all a story of sickness
and who would visit you,
brave the stale air of your hospital room
and tell you stories of the future.
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:03 PM UTC
I'm in la-la land where
My dreams are
'ON FIRE!'
NEW and DIFFERENT!
ON Sale, 2 4 1!
I wouldn't buy myself
But I'd work a month
Just for that NEW iPhone 10!
Mattel bought my soul
For 50 seconds of ad-space
I feel hollow
But know this,
It's plastic through-and-through.
You've got it bad.
The billboard people stare
The radio DJ secretly knows me
The loudspeaker at Dillard's
Just told me it can make me thin
And can cure my brain cancer.
Everyone wants to be the Joneses
I'm not ashamed.
But in spite of it all
In spite of the unbelievable hopelessness,
I still have
*The Cosmo-girl Secret to staying happy!
Our NEW Extra-Large Jumbo Everything Pizza!*
The NEW Strawberry Kiwi Chewing Gum!
It's the Stuff your dreams are made of!
your dreams are made of
your dreams are made of
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
I am from no place for I have never had one home
Having packed too many suitcases and saying goodbye to just as many friends
I am from cheesy Italian pizza in Melbourne to the smoke of shisha in Arabia
From raw fish and coconuts in Fiji to Aunty's famous Kiwi pavlova
I am from the aroma of coffee being breathed in my face as a child
And from losing my breath chasing dad as he drove off to work
I am from long, quiet chats with mother by the ocean
To ferocious one-way conversations as she screamed from the sidelines
I am from a family choir whose desire for perfection spiralled me into years of silence
And the learning the guitar to compensate so I wouldn't feel like an outsider
I am from laughter and I am from mischief
From throwing the sister's cat out a two-story window to emulating the Mask of Zoro with steak knives in the kitchen
I am from hours of swimming laps and hours sprinting on the track
I am from the dewy, green grass of a rugby field upon whom I have many times laid writing in agony
My body has eleven scars from the surgeon's scalpel
And I am a survivor of divine heart surgery as I processed shattered dreams
I am now in pursuit of change everyday
Change to be more like Him who took my sins away
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC