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.

A First World Problem

Surround sound and polished waves

Keep reality from the crazy raving

Fantasy that we all fall for;

Us white sheep herded through the doors

Into a promised neverland

Where hope and love could never land

For fear of pop contaminants.

Such is the life us blessed are in.

Virtulove?

Do I trust in a world of sin
that love can be a happening?
I once placed hope beyond the screen
and ended up with ev’rything
that I cared for and I hoped for lost,
with dreams that forced to turn and toss.
I vowed to push lust to a place
and with it, that same screen away.
Now, in days where I can feel
that I am free of sin and devil,
in days where I feel I have won,
I see that same screen once again.
I do not think it is the same,
but there is yet no simple way
for innocence to recognise 
the diff’rence ‘tween two sets of eyes.
Can one set truly be those eyes
which I have yearned for, day and night?
Do I trust in a world of sin
that love can be a happening?

Sonnet of Hope

I pace among the masses while my legs keep me from home,

and a cloud of grey descends on a brok'n mans shoulders. 

It's not oft that I am left here standing on my own,

with haunting dreams of 'wish I could have' soldiers. 

Wish I could, wish I may, wish it would have bin;

wishing that these dreams of mine were gone. 

But that is not reality, a world I could have seen,

that is not the truth of my own bones. 

I am a brok'n man with a grey and heavy cloud

resting on my brok'n, nothing soul. 

And the grey gives truths I know a blanket of doubt,

endless dreams with ever-reaching goals. 

But in that cloud of grey, there will always be some light,

as true as stars will always light the hopelessness of night.

Sentimental

The waves between two foreign lands

Halt destined love from coming to,

But on those shores where lovers stand

Are hearts that beat with purpose and truth.

For now, they wait with bated breath

Until horizons disappear;

They’d hope for love until their death

When free souls could, at last, be near.

Such a heart is hell to find,

For true love is a miracle,

But when the heart does truly find

Such never, then forever’s real.

    Let men claim heaven is fantasy;

    They’ve never felt what I have seen.

A Smaller Picture of Bigger Things

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

But flowers are nothing

In the sight of you.

They say that absence

Softens the heart,

But never again

Will we be apart;

For the thought of your loss

In this world of ours

Is enough to turn sweetest

Of moments sour.

This is the plight

Of the common at home,

What the warrior fights for

When he is gone…

Wulf Young's Love

The waves play tag

As they criss-cross by;

A misplaced day

For a playful tide. 

A rainbow spouts

In the distant sea, 

But as moments pass

The rainbow flees

Beyond the silent

Volcanic giant,

Who watches tides

Fall and rise and 

Playing tag

On a winter's day. 

Volcanos, waves 

And rainbows play.

Almost Princess

My mind is clear,

Or at least enough to know

That today's hope of sun

Is tomorrow's promise of snow. 

But I need a hand

To reach out to me,

Even if it's a hand

Only I see. 

Because all that I'll love

Will be memories soon,

A moment faster than

Timeless noon. 

For now, she is my hope,

She is my dream

Until she is all or

Gone for reality. 

Leading Words

Formation of nations,
The waging of wars,
The world's nov'l narration
Or the artist's score.
The power of harm'ny
To lift a lost life,
Or power of hatred
That twists like a knife.
They made what we became,
Made us who we are.
Our lives, on them we blame.
On them, our lives craft.
    They are our gods, moments be damned.
    They lead us, hell-bound, by the hand.

Dream for Immortality

Perfection lying at your side,
With gold and green in ev'ry move;
To live the moment you're alive
And never any moment lose.
To have the body of a God
And live with immortality;
The world is yours, so come, take hold
And live without humility.
You are as young as in your dreams.
And thus, where failure waits for you,
For you are only just a gleam
Of light that through the world goes through.
   The man who has but a thousand dreams
   Will never achieve anything

Rats and Rainbows

This world is full of wonder,

Extr'ordinary things,

Resounding booms of thunder

And streams of white light'ning.

They shout, "Can you deny

The presence of your God?!"

But in my own flawed mind,

By Nature I am awed.

A name brings prejudice

To ev'ry mind of man.

Forget the words, the benefits 

Will halt you where you stand.

The rainbow'd is the brother to the rats of the sky.

Stop reading, turn around, see the beauty in your sight.

The Hunted King of Death

He paves the concrete red
And yet his hands are clean;
The children hurt or dead,
Forgotten for the green.
Unnecessary pain
For unnecessary gain,
But he just hides the stain
Of where the children lay.
This is cowardice
Of the most pathetic kind;
To destroy a wealth of promise?
He cannot be so blind.
He hides like a hunter behind his slew of guns,
But as the guilty hunted, he will always run.

The Music In My Blood

There's no songs for now

and I'm not a fool;

I know this time

will leave me soon. 

I know these feelings,

yet again,

will cease and leave me. 

I won't pretend

that this is right

and I don't know. 

I know the way that

my heart flows, 

but if distraction

keeps me sane, 

then bring perfection;

come once again.

Stardust In Our Blood

We idolize and fantasize about celebrities and cars.
We dream of, one day, being them and shooting for the stars.
When we're young, there's no such thing as a body of potential,
because we have no limits, we're unstoppable, immortal.

Our senses are bombarded at every single turn,
eyes blinded by the lights for which we are taught to yearn.
We are deafened and lose touch as we take in reality.
But the fact of the matter is what is what is nought but dreams.

What is in fact a fact, the real reality,
is unknown now to most, just a barren wadi.
What is important, the core of truth, can still be found if sought.
It is more and less than currency, something riches never bought.

The fact is, there is no point in reaching for the stars,
for the blood that runs through our veins came from the heavens afar.
This is not a cause to do nothing to aid in our progression,
but to realise that your blood is the worthiest possession.