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.