GREY EYES
I always thought her eyes where green
but they are sea-mist grey with a hint
of ozone at the edges where clear tears
of passion often fall with spindrift and
foamy surface.
Calm as the mirrored sea, reflecting
brother sky before storm, but have
mercy with anyone lured sail on her
silvery sea; tug at the anchor, but stay
in your bay.
And Hearts will Weep
The wars that Humankind has fought
Are seldom for a noble cause.
Some start upon a leader's lie,
Yet others through some legal clause.
There is no actual victory,
The end is just a hollowness,
And hearts will weep their tears of blood
While soldiers take their final rest.
We need the truth, not twisted tales,
To keep us firm on Life's tight track.
No guns nor knives nor bombs and mines
Can ever bring a true peace back.
Our posturing politicos
Have many sins they should confess,
And hearts will weep their tears of blood
While soldiers take their final rest.
To fight one's brother for some cause
Trumped up by those that we let lead,
Has never saved one mortal soul
From horrid anguish, solved one need.
Pure Truth's the beacon, guiding light,
The only more that stands the test,
So hearts won't weep their tears of blood
When soldiers take their final rest.
© Kim Randell 2001
Woodwork
Made mother a wooden spoon, didn’t hollow it out much
she said it was an economical spoon and giggled, I also
gave her a bread-board, with a pattern on, it had warped
and was quite useless, feeling futile it quietly left and
wasn’t missed. Mother used to laugh a lot when she was
young, once I gave her a painting I had made, called it
“night” except for a few stars there was nothing to see,
this caused great hilarity, she promised to hang it up in
the hall, never did, it ended up behind the wardrobe in
her bedroom. My masterpiece was a carved horse, only
its hind legs were to thin, one broke, the teacher glued it
together, it had black painted hooves, was fond of that
steed, never took it home to mother though; I mean, do
I look like a comedian?
BOAT
it’s just a boat
...a silly flaky old upturned
boat that someone has turned upside
down.
but look at how the keel droops with
the weight of so many voyages,
spearing into the shingle, he says.
this is music for the eyes.
look - can you see how each plank kisses
the other...softly.
as if they were born of the same
womb...
(they were, I interject)
come, sit beside me upon this ancient beam
before it disappears into the earth.
if you close your eyes and inhale
you can hear the murmurings of
old ghosts...
soaked in her bones.
the final breath of every fish;
dip your imagination into the haemorrhaged skies
of every day’s end.
he is silent now. i think he’s
weeping, tears rattling like
feet upon the stones, lungs tearing,
hands quarrelling like angry lobsters...
they had to take the sea into their hearts.
my children, he said...
the sea has swallowed them.
he chokes.
Now i am silent. i cannot bring them back old man.
but i will stay upon the upturned boat
with you
this afternoon
Happy Childhood
Since a boy I had been looking for fabled,
“happy childhood,” the one in books with
rich, sober parents, big garden and a pony.
Looked everywhere, was blinded by spindrift,
and white seas, climbed foggy mountains;
smoked a lot and fell into roadside ditches.
Trekked through Australia, crocodiles, and
people who called me “mate” they didn’t have
clue, nor did anyone in 42nd street New York.
Years passed desperate, asked a rich couple
to adopt me, they were friendly, but felt
an adoptee ought to be one not as old as me.
Settled in a green vale, adopted myself, I’m
my father now, he spoils me rotten and, at
last, 97 next year, I enjoy a happy childhood.
The Instruction
Cold feet paddle down street
The weight of rain tires muscles
yesterday's scorn washed away
down and out discord
words dropped out
they fell from songs
that stopped short of pulling
guns and knives but takes lives
by cosmetic force that seeping twisted sort
that thwarting jab in the ribs
that distorted lip
that sneer - trust tumbles
time is too short
the tide is leaving
the waters are rising
the drains are about to burst
the water main screams
the city will drown
- 1:59am
- 26 October 2006
IS THERE ANYBODY OUT THERE?
I haven't heard a solitary Kiwi call.
No voices from New Zealand anymore.
It seems that they have all been frightened off
By strident statements aimed from far offshore.
A Viking voice from old Iberia
Chased them away then slammed the bloody door.
New Zealand's voice I don't hear anymore.
Come on you poets, let's make that Kiwi call,
Become Tamaki's true and vibrant bards.
Don't act as if in some strange spiritual thrall,
Get up and write, don't rot in your backyards!
The gauntlet's down, now pick it up and fight,
Or leave your mana cracked in useless shards
New Zealand's poems should shout forevermore!
© Kim Randell 2006
Sonnet To Peace.
Fog has descended, made the world hushed and tiny,
I’m bumping into Afghan opium peddlers, now in
politics, Palestine street fighters, survivors of various
genocides, and a wise cracking New York Jew who
tells joke against his own people, a goy couldn’t risk
doing that. Dampness has rusted all guns, tanks have
broken tracks and cluster bombs are full of confetti.
The survivors tell their stories, but refrain from making
capital out of it. The Palestinian understand Israel’s
fear and the Haifa dweller accept the Arab’s right to
a homeland; the drug peddler promise to grow potatoes
in his field. The New York comedian laughs. The men
agree to emancipation of women, but only if they will
stop pushing. The mist dispels and the world is as before.
Sonnet to Water.
It has been raining for days the cistern is
slowly filling up, this is splendid for
the tiny fishes that swim there; their leader
a big lad - the size of a small sardine- is
the king; swims near the surface and has
seen my face twice, claims he represents
me and can read my thoughts, the other are
in awe, except for a few sceptical ones that
skulk in dark corners and gurgle sedition.
Rainwater is free, good for your hair too, it
makes you feel smug, and thrifty, helping
to save the planet; best of all you can make
love under the shower and not worry about
the water bill and leaking pipes.
Captain Time
Thirteen hundred hours, now, how maritime is
that! The Chinese kitchen clock struck One with
a bird song, each hour has got its own bird, but
sadly they sound the same, like a bather whistling
when swimming underwater in Yangtze river..
Only a minute ago it was ten, so why this haste?
Captain time, I’m sitting perfectly still try to slow
down this unseemly speed (even take pills for it),
so much work to do, yet I know the undone is of
little consequence but for my misplaced ambition.
In the night cold wind, loaded with hard pellets of
rain, attacked the outer walls of my fortress home
peeling paint till it exhausted dropped into a coma;
and as my heart lay bleeding on the floor, captain,
time, when desperately needed, was asleep.
Lucky Draw
The white Madonna swooped,
picked up a boy, of hundred and twenty,
from a Malawi orphanage;
the infant lives in a mansion now
clings to his nanny, new mother busy,
he is too young to see the irony.
Hundred and nineteen hungry children
look up to the rain heavy sky and
hope for a miracle.
Livorno
Awoke in a bar empty save for the barman,
polishing glasses. “Any chance for a cold
beer? “Sure, but no glass, I’ve washed them
all.” The morning tasted of spring, pastry
and cut flowers, in the town square’s, water
came out of a petrified dolphin’s mouth,
I showered watched by a patrolman and an
old whore who had seen it all; Later, in a café,
near the meat market, the officer looked up
and said” Good morning.” The old tart, since
I wasn’t a costumer gave me a grandmotherly
smile, she could relax and enjoy the morning.
TEARS OF GOD
There is no glory in a person's death,
No hallowed shining light that I can see.
A bomber's act is Murder, that is plain,
Poor victims have no time so they might flee.
Dismembered corpses rotting in the sun,
Our children, mothers, lovers, ALL debris.
Those ones who preach that suicide is life,
Twist it from a vision that is black.
The universal truth that God is Love,
Suffers daily under their attack.
Our Maker weeps while witnessing their crimes,
But will not take His primal promise back.
The cradle of our faith becomes our grave
While those with blackened souls still have our ears.
Go wash yourselves and pray to NONE but God,
Whose patient love of us will cleanse our fears.
"You MUST all love your neighbours as yourselves."
This Law of God grants peace for ALL our years!
© Kim Randell 2006
Burning Bush.
Last evening, big news filling the screen,
a plane crashed into a building in New York,
The great country cowed and trembled in
self inflicted fear, haven’t they seen a plane
crashing into a building before?
Doctors and athletes, supreme confidence,
tend to fall down from the sky, in their little
aeroplanes; a dead a pilot strapped to his seat;
Icarus has landed, he was a Yankees pitcher.
and not son of a god.
Fireman walking purposefully towards
the flames, aware of their status as the top
of the working class heap, act as in a movie
wonder if they have brought their own film
crew, great entertainment, though.
Houses, and whole towns on fire in Palestine
and Lebanon, cluster bombs galore, children
in ruins, dust in open eyes; all this killing,
gets to be tedious, as an overlong, war movie
directed by a leviathan.
The Enemy Within.
Walking passed the big mirror in the hall on route to
the kitchen, I saw, in the corner of my left psychic
eye (the right one is blind)) my image turn and look
at me with dislike. Lately it has been trying to invade
my mind with easy, illiberal thoughts:” the poor are
poor because they are lazy, AID victims have only
themselves to blame, Africa’s plight is her own fault,
the Palestinians must stop attacking Israel if they want
peace, Moslems are trying to subvert our democracy.”
I stopped, confronted my image, the stern judgmental
face faded, made way for a slightly more dishevelled
one. No, I’ll not take the easy route, injustice concerns
me; looked at my teeth, yellow, I really have to go
see a dentist… soon.
Be
Look underneath the ground
see how it began
the twisting embers of life
in the rush of laughter
is, being taken seriously
we watch as you escape your life
of a humble leaf, not
the storm that shakes the tree
but, the firm grip
the earth has as it holds
it, cast aside like old toes
left behind, useless foot
nuisance leg, rejected
crippled mass of bones and skin
left behind to cope with
rebuilding of a world
composed on the weblog
aucklandpoetry.com
12:21 on Friday, 13th October 2006
NIGHTFALL
Grey and white ramparts edged with fire,
Violet mountains in turquoise sea.
Scenes shift and darken as I watch,
Last rays of sunset turn and flee.
Dull red echoes of daylight's demise
Brush the horizon as night begins.
Stars call each other from places far,
Fair maiden moon stirs velvet limbs.
© Kim Randell 2001
Ephemeral
She sat on my steps, blown here by good fortune
and morning breeze;
gave her a bath of foamy essence made
of collected dreams,
my home became a palace.
She stayed with me for weeks, but
When I opened the window wide, she flew away
on silky wings.
She will soon sit on another old man’s step, if he
hasn’t forgotten how to dream, be grateful and
don’t ask her to stay when she
wants to leave.
Fashion Workers
Hundred and ten naked women
stood before me, a scrawny lot,
hips like reefs in treacherous
waters, and in their yellow bird
eyes hysteria lurked, ready to
flay me with tongues of spiked
leather, if I dared to be critical.
Then, as by magic, they wore
high fashion prancing up and
down a plank, exotic buzzards
smiling to their inner self. No
earth mother with sturdy thighs,
milky bosom and a Bermuda
triangle amongst that lot.
UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
The many cosmic levels of our world
Reflect the truth of unconditional love.
The petals of a shining Springtime flower,
A feather swimming airstreams far above.
Rough lichen patterns etched across hard rock,
The irridescent colours on a dove.
There's far more order in our universe
Than random acts of chaos can destroy.
Bright logic really has the upper hand,
There is no senseless beauty in the void.
Disorder counts as evil in this world,
Creation's state of structure trumpets joy.
It's only Man who qualifies his love,
And so puts limits on his very life.
At times he sees no further than his nose,
Thus wounding those nearby with spear and knife.
A massive task it is to shed constraint
And grow his soul past all Man's selfish strife.
Our Maker gives His unconditional love
To every part of this vast universe.
His thoughts are spirals of galactic arms,
His songs, the scales upon a tropic fish.
Mankind is a reflection of His soul,
And so should write His poetry verse by verse.
Now to the heavens we all must turn and take
Good notice of God's unconditional love.
Go cast off petty thoughts of narrow self,
And see the whole wide world as He above.
There is no place for hatred, pain or fear,
Whilst beauty's found in feathers on a dove.
© Kim Randell 2000
Moon Lady.
Under a yew tree
I kissed her,
silver mask,
black lips
her dead eyes
reflected glares
from passing
cars.
She crumbled
became ash,
dispersed
in placid air;
a nebulous silk
scarf
slipped through
my hands
Summer Grass.
The TV is in another room a Portuguese woman
reads the evening news, I used to be in love with
her till she slimmed herself scrawny, the only
thing left of her is a pair of enormous lips, while
the dog noisily dreams of chasing rabbits.
Is there life on Jupiter, Mars or Saturn? I do not
know not do I care, but I do know that the man
on the moon is a drag artist called Alf Luna.
Once saw two enraptured hares, sat on the stub
on a dastardly felled olive tree, watching the sun
sink into the sea; even a blasé sparrow hawk was
so impressed that it stopped, for a few seconds,
chasing lesser birds. On a grassy knoll a beautiful
mare stood looking down into the dale soon she
would be mother again, doesn’t care about the sex
of her baby, as long as it’s a healthy foal.
Once I saw an elephant, conducting a symphony
(the whole works) but only it and other elephants
could understand. My dog wakes up by her, own
bark, I do not laugh that only makes her mortified,
but look up to the ceiling…If I could communicate
with animals, share their knowledge (not the one
you need for driving a taxi in London) and music,
I would surely be a better man.
The Vigil
Constant rain on the calm sea
makes it foam and hiss like fruit-salt in a glass,
the world has shrunk precipitation, me and
a window keeping us apart.
One o’clock, my best friend lies in the coffin
in the chapel his other friends are there,
they sing religious songs with unthinking ease
although, few of them believe in God.
I sent flowers.
Took time write, a note with the posy, kept
addressing them to one that wasn’t going to read
them, wrote “regrets” and my name.
Rain has ceased I can see the horizon the world
is bigger now; my friend was a kind man and
will be remembered.
TEENS
by
Bernard V. Kyle
[C] 2005
Its not too late, just rising eight,
And tonight's the night it's on,
The end of year and party up,
The night of the Senior Prom.
They've got together 'fore the ball
All dressed up in their best,
There's finger food, a joyous mood,
And a drink or two, you guessed.
The music drums, a guitar strums,
There's sneaky Alcopop,
The voices rise above the din
And the deafening Bebop.
A good time's being had by all,
As the time arrives to go,
To the much awaited old school ball,
For young lasses and their beaux.
So its down the path and into cars,
With engines revved to roar,
There's no seat belts worn that's for sure,
When the pedals hits the floor.
The young bucks strive to beat their mates,
To hit the front at pace,
And though it wasn't scripted,
They're in The Great Car Race.
There's fearful screams and joyous shrieks,
From scared and whooped up kids,
For a chance to halt it, looking back,
We'd now pay quids and quids .
But the speed that thrills is the speed that kills,
And a car can't take the bend,
Six young folk have come to grief,
Young lives have reached their end.....
EPITAPH
The VIGIL.
They stand each day by the Motorway,
They make no strident cry,
They remain a fleeting vision,
To those who speed on by.
They watch in mute observance,
And wave no hand on high,
Yet their misery is plain to see,
By all who've yet to die,
For the message clear, for all to hear,
In this Life of Gains & Losses,
Is one & all, please hark the call,
From these small, White Wooden Crosses.
******************
