"koru" poems
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
When ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memories lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Beneath equatorial skies,
And the tactic used to keep me indoors
While the missionaries rested their eyes.
My mother was sick with malaria
The curse of the tropic zone,
And while my dad was away on the hunt
Their station became our home.
And after lunch when the sky was hot
And the morning’s work was done
They took my shoes away from me
To keep me out of the sun.
The veranda air was still as a grave,
Not a sound to could be heard outside
Save the click-click-click from the beetles
And the grasshoppers jumping to hide.
Or the scratching scaly slither,
Of a snake on the flowerbed verge,
Or the distant cry of the crested crane,
These are the sounds that merge.
The sight of the distant Koru hills
Shimmering in the haze
Beyond the frangipani trees
Return once more to my gaze,
And the prickly spiky Crown of Thorns
That lined the garden ways,
These are the sights that ribbon back
From my early Kenyan days.
The smell of the room was a mixture
Of scents on the garden air,
And creosote coming up through the floor
From the pilings under there,
And paraffin from the pressure lamps
Which hissed as they gave us light.
With the hint of oil of pyrethrum
Sprayed round the eves at night.
The step to my door should I venture
At noon was as hot as a stove,
The soil on the paths and driveway
Would burn if ever I strove.
And the thorns in the earth would pr ick me
As I cautiously picked my way through
To the shade of the frangipani tree,
From there I took in the view.
So, when ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memory lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Where the images I find,
Set smells and sights and sounds of
Africa sizzling in my mind.
Redding, California July 4th 2005 temperature 105° Fahrenheit
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
Dance has me stirred but not shaken
From here the depths of my soul reawaken
I arise through the expression of this sacred art
Stepping into the light protected out by my open heart
The magic of silent rythym has me in a twril
Like the koru of a fern I release I unfearl
Dancing with beings not on this plane they teach me the ways of moving with no shame
Slightly mad I may seem
As I smile upon the ones who remain unseen
The freedom of dance invigorates my being
Silent mind
body moving
spirit dreaming.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 12:04 AM UTC
God's Mercy rushed
over me,
enshrouded you
in its grace.
It washed us
clean,
its tide so calm, so pure.
It was my mother’s breathing,
your father’s laughter,
their chests rising and
falling.
It tore off our
skin
in another war of charity;
it peeled us
to the holy core.
Then all I knew was that
I felt safe with you.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.
Tanrı benim gücümdür.
Tanrım, lütfen beni koru.
Down from the imposing
basilica's dome,
to the pulpit's
booming drone,
to our soul's
cold sweat
after the angels have gone
to bed.
We saw it all with bloodshot eyes,
wondering how
we could flay ourselves
further yet.
Then all you knew was that
you were scared of yourself.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.
Tanrı benim gücümdür.
Tanrım, lütfen beni koru.
May 4, 2019
May 4, 2019 at 10:17 AM UTC