"tussock" poems
pageants of pageants
fractals and hype
of faceless terrors and faceless
inside
when rain on corrugated iron
when rain and the kettle boiling
i know i have taken too much time
i have taken time from time to decide
to realise i was only wiser before trying.
Patterns of paradox haunt
the terms of all desire
tussock grass on paths
that cuts the thin skin
and sticks
and a view to nowhere
some leaf in autumn
the hope of finding
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 4:50 AM UTC
from heaving waves i emerge
and wander, hapless, forward,
to shallows, to piled sand and
grasses like thickened tongue.
sallow and saltbreak, this heart
has set to mend.
across field and timberline,
teeth gnash; but now they
belong to i. now, the proud
stretches of tussock weave
song through my chest. now,
lonely is an auxiliary quantity:
heart in hand, my very own,
soft clay to mould.
let us get drunk on
the stars and burdock tea.
let me find your fingers
across a chasm i clamber
up out of, only to breathe and
kiss you. i ask not for long-
desired salvation. i have
poured my own. i've enough
left to bathe you in light,
or at least to pry open your
leaf-litter eyelashes. i can
separate want and caprice.
i can want you.
let my desire
face west and cast to bush,
to flint, to corrals of snowfall.
i've dined in all great halls, but
i'd rather sit in your room,
for now.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
skirts spinning in wind
on the hill I wave goodbye to the cityscape
lines and let the rain dash around on my eyelashes,
the warm grass lush under my bare feet I chase cloudshadows
and wander (searching for foxes) and the hunt is on, sanity escaping
and tranquility abounds as I bound from tussock to tussock, hair blazing little fox tail wagging and I lash the sky with open arms
home is where the heart is
and my earth is my den
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Across the blistered gibber plain where flies die in the sand
Through swamps of prickly sago where rotting death is planned,
To stride in windblown tussock hills where wind vanes carved their say
To saunter groves of green tree fern where moa giants did play.
In clearings cut with alkali, tusked elephant would loom
With crevassed hides, Methuselah, once aged in terms of doom.
Whilst high above the rocky crags of ancient mountain high,
The keening screech of kestral soaring up to deep blue sky.
Heavy boots in crusted sand where tiny lizards flee
Amidst the rust red rubble of volcanic rock and scree,
To clamber up the ignimbrite, great Vulcan's steps of stone,
Encrusted with thick epiphyte in lichen's mossy home.
Up into the altitude where dark cloud clusters here
And the threat of rolling thunder indicates that rain is near,
Torrential in it's downpour with sudden squall of gale
Surmounted, all quite suddenly, with a blinding blast of hail.
Staggering to shelter in a tiny alpine hut
To find hot coffee on the woodstove and a curvy, hot young ****
To find us frollicking together beneath a patterned patchwork quilt
Was quite beyond my imagination's comprehensions built?
And afterwards in slumber through the curtains of our room
I watched, in fascination, at a hanging, frozen moon
And wondered, in amazement, at the doings of the day
And speculated, sleepily, where tomorrow's prospects lay.
Blearily I stretch out from the covers, nicely warm
To nullify persistence of that alarm's intruding horn,
Yawning into morning I remove myself from bed
With panicked realisation....all dreams evacuate my head.
Vanished are the alpine hut, the dolly bird, the caves
The crash of rolling thunder and the plunge of mighty waves,
Gone are those phantoms which dwelt inside my mind
Devestatingly dismissed until re-dreamed another time.
M.
Pukehana Paradise
13 December 2014
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
A toast to the life of my good mate, Bill Massey
We toasted life with “steinies”
Watching Ngauruhoe smoke,.
We clambered over tussock
Laughing easily, “bloke to bloke”.
I Knew him as a good sort
Those forty years long past
But realised much later
That Bill’s friendships last.
To appreciate the standards
That Bill would always keep,
The quality of thought
That his ministrations reap.
The camaraderie enjoyed
And the bounteous Joi de Vivre,
And the lengthy conversations
Over occasional cold beer.
Elements of friendship
That once won are not lost
Until cruel deaths intervention
Is counted heavily, as cost.
But the flip realisation
Is now readily made clear
That time shared gave value
That we both held as dear.
Bill was a good friend
In a firm, gentle way
And I thank my good fortune
For that long distant day,
When he entered my door
And smiling, held out his hand
And I entered the realm
Of a Gentleman’s Man.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 June 2011
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
That beautiful Wind as it howls from the pass
Blowing tussock in waves across hillocks of grass,
Causing red leaves to billow in curtains of fall
To gather in windrows beneath the stone wall,
Where the zephyrs play mischief in colour and swirl
And cascades of leafage fly skyward and whirl.
And the hawthorns sway in that beautiful way
And the reeds all bend in the lake
Where the concentric rings caused by raindrops and things
Cause the surface to shimmer and shake.
That beautiful Wind as it streams through the trees
Brings a tear to my eyes, makes me weak at the knees,
For the patterns of movement, the rhythmical sway
And the roar of the torrent in leafage at play.
And the impact of raindrops, so fresh on my face,
Make me laugh at the wonder of this special place.
And the starlings all heel with immaculate feel
As in thousands, they flock to the trees,
Where with cochophanous joy in full voice they employ
A concierto of birdsong to please
That beautiful Wind when it plays with the clouds
Where the mares tails extend in such glorious shrouds,
Then in furious plight, usually just before night,
Nimbo cumulous flashes electrify bright,
Where the lightening bolt snakes, from on high, where it makes
A most thunderous roar through the sky as it breaks.
With the wind in my hair and without single care
I celebrate Wind with delight
With the sound of the breeze blowing cottonwood trees
And my day turning beautifully night.
Marshalg
Inspired by "The Last Winds" a poem by K, Daniel Little Paw McCreight
@ the Pukehana Paradise
Epsom
23 March 2013
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
Beach shell varnished, kerosene,
A crack in coastal stain glass window, like a hair across the face
Disrupting the vast porcelain
“you’ve got a hair on your face, let me just”
and then it takes the lipstick with it,
a line printed like a paper cut,
“where’s the razor? Where did you put it?”
I put it in the bin and try and not seem too desperate.
We bundle into a car
Like some odd kind of sleepover.
A plaque on the wall saying the current prime minister opened it back in the day.
The old building is cracking like sedimentary rock in reverse.
The lemon lime and bitters clink in the bag and
I can almost convince myself it’s a summers day packing to go
Off to the beach, running down
With a picnic blanket
Sand in shoes
Tinkling down like an egg timer.
Seals, odd floppy babies about to bark,
The tussock a balding old man, spattered across the dunes
“let’s get icecream”
“let’s get fish and chips”
“let’s get out and stop take a photo”
the wind whipping your hair at your face
flicking icream off the cone onto your face,
why is it all so messy?
Let’s got to kākanui, let’s go to moeraki
Let’s stop to get a coffee.
You sure it’s safe to drive, this tired?
Let’s stop and have a nap.
You good to go?
Yeah
You sure?
Yup
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 9:54 PM UTC
belle, your skin wanders
for that's why the red yarn runs
not by your own hands
but by the gravel of its bare feet
belle, your head floats
pulled astray by arachnids
you know not why the web lines
your fingers— only that it does
belle, your neck aches
with the burden of a black cat
the wounds belong to him, not you
not you not you not you
belle, your eyes linger
seven lukewarm minutes
and a misaligned tussock boot
feed your grave
belle, your feet sway
catching baby's breath
from a newborn curtain
close
belle—
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 3:04 PM UTC
there is something you should do,
if you could
remember, but
history is bipolar,
each moment splits in two
rifts, opening
skylights in hallways
days go into days, go
into years
and still nothing.
Nothing in the daisy fields,
nothing in the fields,
white hills vanishing
behind clouds
us, here
on the side of the road
and the wind whines
through the tussock grass
and cars drive past,
bright lights speeding through darkness
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
snow
floes
on a
vast
crevase
create
the
tiny
brook
bubbling
down
the
high
meadow
through
wild
flower
and
tussock
it merges
with the
mountain
stream
water clean
refined
burbling on
its wending way
through the
soughing pines
it flows into a
river which
goes its lazy way
getting ever wider
on its path unto the sea
in the mighty ocean the sun
creates the cloud . which the
winds take to the mountains to
make a snow white shroud
the same snows melt
and create
a brook
the
maker
of
the
rain
for
the
entire
cycle
just
begins
again
soulsurvivor
(C) 7/5/2015
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
Vermillion streaks in stratus, dark
Against the very heart of night,
Bands of deep red in the shroud
Portend approaching cyclone's might.
Morning shards of fractured cloud
Stream across a shattered sky,
Smothered sun in shadowed orb
Against where apprehension's lie.
South East winds arising now
Tussock billowing in dale
Trees commence a windward thrash
In lieu of kiss of coming gale.
Greyness of a leaden sea
In the lee of storm's approach,
Beneath the streaming sand dunes
The seagulls shelter, in reproach.
Mounting gusts of boisterous wind
Cascade along the lamp lit way
Schoolgirls shriek as skirts fly high
And ominously, skies turn grey.
Supermarkets, in the city
Teem with queues in panic buy,
Grab bags now the urgent item
Just in case the flooding's high.
Traffic blocks the bridge and byways
Wan in headlights falling rain,
Anxiously, the need to be home
Frought anticipation's pain.
All the birds have disappeared
Vanished, in the sudden still,
Eery in the misting rainfall
Frightening, in a mystic chill.
Havoc as she sets upon us
Howling wind and teeming rain,
Horizontal onslaught blasting
Gabriella's Song by name!
Bridges under siege with flooding
Trees down over roads,
Monstrous waves in tidal surging
Causing coastal overloads.
Imprisonment by sandbags
As flooded rivers overflow
In blinding rain of maelstrom teeming
Anywhere and everywhere you go.
Inundated cars on freeway
Flashing hazards submerged deep,
Rescued souls lost, bewildered
In sudden-ness disaster reaps.
Massive trees are torn asunder
Blasted foliage thrashing wild
Torrents rage through streambed gullies
Gabrielle, destruction's child!
..............
Aftermath of horror's silence
Hollow eyed and gaping jaw
A nightmare for your sanity?
Nay, Gabriella's Song.... is flawed.
M@Foxglove,Taranaki NZ
Feb 13, 2023
Feb 13, 2023 at 8:04 PM UTC
There's a mist in the air in this beautiful place
And the cows in the meadow are grazing, apace,
The light hangs thinly on threadlets, serene,
In curtains of diamonds' oblique blue screen.
The frost clings white to shards of grass
Sculpting rolling hills a-gleam like glass.
For wherever I travel, wherever I roam,
There's nowhere on earth like the Hills of Home.
Yonder the green-ness rolling in hills,
The beauty of which, immensely fills,
My heart with a gladness, my soul with joy
A replete-ness my spiraling mindset employs.
For whether in Spain or the peaks of the alps
Or delving in tussock or diving through kelps,
Wherever the wondrous, whatever the thrills....
Nothing approaches.... my Homeland Hills.
A tingle abuzz, All my senses a-flair
Anticipation's delight is filling the air
A feeling pervades as I gaze out the door
Seeing mountains and blue skies, majestically, soar.
Watching rolling white clouds and the green hills, perform
And the pounding pulse in my chest, is the norm....
And the brilliant smile which beams from my face
Makes these Hills of Home.... My Most Wonderful Place!
M.
Foxglove@Taranaki,NZ
28th December 2022
Dec 28, 2022
Dec 28, 2022 at 5:30 PM UTC