Thursday, May 1, 2014

Garden of Roses

There's a garden of roses
outside of my room
and the roses do grow
while new flowers bloom.
I keep planting more,
the flowerbed grows
with every new
and perfect rose.
But the problem is,
with perfection that is,
that roses will wilt
against every wish.
Into time's arms
the roses will fall;
eventually, each of them,
one and all.
But such is the grandness
of precious life:
it's filled with ups
and downs and strife.
It's the way that it is,
the way that life goes
for every single
perfect rose.
So forever, I
will plant one more;
an eternal garden
at my door,
and maybe time
will grant just one
that never wilts,
or until I'm done
it will survive,
a perfect rose
in sync with my
own crooked nose.
I don't need perfect,
just perfection
to echo me,
be my reflection.
I will wait
until it grows
amongst my flowers:
my perfect rose.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

On the Grapevine

My life is spent here
in the dark,
watching reds
and counting cards;
sending thoughts
and dreams and hopes
into the fire
and the smoke
in hopes that out
the other side,
I will see my life
I'd rather pity
than to be
behind a cloak
and never seen.
I know it's wrong
to feel this way -
after all, what would
my others say?
But the storm that keeps
inside my mind
is one that doesn't
fade with nights.

I'll love and fall
and start anew
until those reds
fade into blue.

Monday, March 24, 2014

The Arms of Possibility

Put down the papers
and turn from the screens,
pick up a pen or
take time to sing;
for you're damned either way
you direct your life,
but right now is unlike
all other nights. 
After so many evenings
of monot'nous change,
calm has, at last,
taken her place. 
Maybe forever
will never be,
but forever will surely
always see
that today existed, 
that a choice was made. 
Maybe it was absence,
or something as great;
but whatever lit up
the latest great dark
will forever be guilty 
for now's second half. 

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Beast Waikato

A concrete stronghold
holds back a giant of our land,
forcing forces of anger
to keep and build. The lords
and masters of the stronghold and,
ergo, of that giant monstrosity, that
beast, know of the building frustrations that could eventually 
overcome their powers. So
once in a time and again, the beast is
let loose. A short leash keeps
the beast from causing chaos,
but allows a tantrum of magnitude 
to reek havoc on anything 
foolish enough to stand in 
the beast's allowed wake. 

And we watch. 

We stand on a viewing platform and
watch as momentary Armageddon 
takes hold. Some watch in awe,
some in fear; everyone has their reason, but the feelings are hardly
without each other. Regardless,
we stand and we watch as 
destruction ensues. Like a storm's
torrential wind, life and rocks are
beaten down and battered. And then…
it's over. Heaven or Hell takes hold 
of the poor and unprepared. But 
ultimately, the lords and masters
retain control with a crack of their
concrete whip. For now, at least, 
the beast is retained, until we fall. 

Thursday, February 27, 2014

Passing Through

Dozens and dozens,
a hundred or more
seagulls are passing through
the sea-soaked bastion
of Shag Point,
just south of Oamaru. 
They call, they call,
they call again
as they glide on by;
a quick hello before they glide
into a southern night. 

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

One of Three

Why is it that miles add
to loss? A country between
two was enough to cause
painful realization, but
an ocean? I am lost here,
unsure of my albatross
because Coleridge can
tell me no more. I have
followed poetic instruction
but the steps lack finality.
I can no longer be without
this thought, it is a lesson
I daren’t unlearn. All the same,
it is something I wish I had
never been taught. Some say

knowledge is more important,
some say faith; I am of
unfortunate circumstance.
I am of the knowledge that
no certainty is known, yet
also of the knowledge no
known faith is true. As such,
I cannot put pain aside
for hope despite hope
being all I yearn for. I feel
every unit of separation,
and can do nothing to appease
distance or pain. I am a man
lost in a sea of unsurety,
desire my sole companion.

Monday, November 4, 2013

Of Quality: The Writer's Dilemma

What's the point 
When all that's asked
Are memories
Of days gone past?
This isn't why
The poet writes;
He writes for, rightly,
What is right.
But play the puppet
One frame more
And give a show
Of which they're sure.
These empty words
Will over soon,
And you can live
A writer's ru'n. 


Maybe falsehoods
Written down
Are no more real
Than playing clown 
To entertain 
The enter'd few
That care enough
To hear from you. 
The only point 
To write that song
Is for them all 
To sing along.
We only ask for
Eyes and ears;
They justify,
Or death, we fear.