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.

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

glorified.

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

Or…

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.