Getting the best of our online publishing

This blog format works very well for building an audience but it is not that great at building a community. The aim is to create a vibrant online publication methodology that provides poets with interaction on the web while providing a history of poems submitted. One is very humbled by the contributions of some truly great voices. But all things seem to exist in time and people just come and go if there is no sense of community. By creating a central portals we can reference or index millions of poems to millions of readers. Potentially.

The advent of Web 2.0 sites like myspace make all this far easier. Go to blogger and start your own blog with your own poetry and link it into our site. By using our site to log links to your myspace efforts you will naturally build links in a site that has a long history.

On the new site: the grey front page generated by the Wordpress system - people can now join at will. You can join too - but the idea is that lots of poets may start to post their work and by allowing moderated comments, some natural editing may occur. From this may extract a monthly publication (incorporating the content on this site) for the most viewed poems. Our server stats programmes weigh your audience.

The WordPress platform naturally lends itself to building a Poetry Community. You can join and discuss, post work that is moderated by an editor or become an author who can post at will, comments are moderated, people can graduate from contributor to author - its quite brilliantly appropriate.

What do you think?

wrong shoe

Adopting the wrong pose at the frantic
momentum to tear the roof
from a child at a time
when blossoms seem at odds
with the humble existence
outside of sharp edges
and leaking worry
pleading with the icicles
leaping from waving tree
to wavering affection
dreaming of hot burnt tea
before the leaves have unfurled
placid in this intended infection
unruled by design no fault went blind
the wrong shoe is on the wrong foot
the steps are not in time
the blades that fall are not synchronised
they fall, so the heads that fall dig holes for themselves
under snow the money is so much like a river
it flows under the bridge and they cycle over
unaware of the swarm of bees erupting from both sides
of that large tree or its eyes that follow you
from birth until you are old enough to chop it down
or leave the cutting edge and its mark in the wood

Standing Still

Not
the vapour that leaves
the trees in the morning
that silent stream light fog
driven by limping memory
Not
the growth rings
natures spare tyre
marking age as though
it were an event in itself
No
more grain invested ceilings
or laughter at dawn
that moment before you smile
collapsed about my eyes

Bernie Kyle

The COACH
By
Bernard V Kyle
[C] 2004

In all fields of human endeavour,
When we strive as we do, for perfection,
What greater the need, than to really take heed,
Of someone, who'll give us direction.

A guide, a friend, and a mentor,
A council, one can approach,
One who is there to assist us,
Who's known to all, as "The COACH."

An Instructor who guides all our efforts,
Who helps, when it comes to the test,
Who'll have to retrain, & renew the pain,
When we perform well short of our best.

But the fans are demanding successes,
And support falls away when we fail,
So few are doubtng the adage,
That 'To WIN', is the real Holy Grail,

And when there's success - or there's failure,
The Coach gets the cheers - or the jeers,
But he keeps on getting reminded,
It's being 'Top Team," which endears,

So there's really just two kinds of Coaches,
The one, who's been summoned - and fired,
And the other who's watching & waiting,
For the day, whe he's likewise retired.
*********
[ He = She ]

New Zealand

New Zealand

by
Bernie Kyle
Copyright, 2003

Do you know where New Zealand is ?
Oh where, Oh where, on Earth ?
Is it big - or is it Small ?
Just How Much is it Worth ??

It's not so big, I must Confess,
It's in the South Pacific,
And Money isn't Everything !!
The Country is Terrific.

There's a green, green Land, & Mountains too,
Within the Easy Reaches,
And Walks and Lakes and Everything,
And lots of Sandy Beaches.

Without a Care, there's God's Clean Air,
And Nature's Gifts are Free,
There's Caves and Waves and Worldly Raves,
Why don't you come & See ?

So from this Land, of the Long White Cloud,
There comes, a welcome true,
We trust you'll come to visit us,
And enjoy our lifestyle too.

New Site

The new site is being switched to, and this site will continue as before under aucklandpoetry.blogspot.com

There is no need for users to change anything - just keep on posting poetry on this blog and it may one day appear on the main site.

Bernie has suggested we should edit the content - so I have installed a content management system and this will now be phasing in - and new content will be managed by an editor or a number of editors with more AucklandPoetry.com and we hope a continued standard of publishing excellence by our valued contributors.

The new site is simple - just register and it you can write and publish articles. I will decide what is the front page. Go to it. Register and use the site, visit as often as you may and most of all, enjoy.

The Literatti

The Literatti @ The Wine Cellar 14th September, 8 pm.

Get a full hit of the show that had the Whangarei Midwinter Arts Festival raving. The Literatti presents a poetry minestrone of spoken word, music and theatre. Audiences will experience multiple poetic voices combined in this new evolution of poetry set to a back beat. Limited capacity.

Tickets $10 on the door or $5 pre-sale.

Contact creative director Miriam Barr on mims_53@hotmail.com to reserve your tickets or for further details.

Auckland Poetry

We are creating a new version of AucklandPoetry.com.

We always intended AucklandPoetry.com to be a live poetry site featuring films of poets reciting and recordings of poetry that sit alongside the written word.

Over the past two years we have invited poets to publish their own work and send contributions for this site. Some have done amazing things (check the Poetry Blog sites or use the search box above to find lots of excellent poems. For example to find my poems, search for my name, etc).

I would like to hear from poets who read live poetry in Auckland and who:

a) want to publish on AucklandPoetry.com
b) have their readings filmed by AucklandPoetry.com
c) contribute art, music and voice recordings to the site.

Interested? Watch this space and get yourself involved.

COMING SOON: Live Readings

Live Video

On the new main site we are featuring video. We will use the Live Video account for uploading these because we want poets to realise that to get page views they will have to use their myspace/bebo/digg/delicio.us or other networking pages and to be very clear here are the terms and conditions. The new front page part of the site does not replace the blog site - you are still invited to contribute to this, the blog site, from which content for aucklandpoetry.com is created. Poets published there - we track the hits via subtle google links which are attached to an income stream. If you have a real hit on your hands, we will pay you royalties. That is the game. Producing art on the internet. Let me know what you think.

Here are the terms of LiveVideo from their terms on livevideo.com. My account is called nalex


5. Harsh Words About Ownership of Content / Limited License to LiveVideo.

A. We consider all content uploaded to LiveVideo servers the property of the person who uploaded it. Therefore, you should ONLY upload content that you have created, you own, you have a license from a third party to upload the specific content on the internet, or content that is in the public domain. Content includes, but is not limited to: texts, images (both moving and still), photographs, music, and sounds. You assume all risk and responsibility for determining whether the content uploaded meets with the requirements of this paragraph.

B. You hereby grant LiveVideo a limited, non-exclusive, perpetual, worldwide license to encode, distribute, and display your content over the Site and to use such content for advertisement purposes as LiveVideo sees fit, in any medium, in its sole and absolute discretion, without any compensation to you. You represent and warrant that you are authorized to grant to LiveVideo all rights set forth in the preceding sentence. In order to revoke this license granted to LiveVideo, simply remove your content.

Poetry Live at the Classic - Tuesday 31 July 2007

It's been a while since I managed to drag me feet along to listen and if it felt right, read out one or two pieces at Poetry Live - the event which this site advertised for years - but which I guess some had taken a break and others had moved into that space. And how they have. Not only have they moved the gig from the odd box at Grand Central to a wonderful room with tiny little tables and lots of seats. Plus a great sound system and lighting. Reading poems in blue light was new. The guest poet was Jill Chan who read out her deep in the heart simple truths. There are a few poets that one can admire. Jill Chan read her works slowly sans affect but you will see why - when she writes lines like:

Sometimes the things 
we belong to 
don't belong to us.

then we already know too much. To be drawn by the words alone is the skill of a reader reading a writer. Jill Chan is a great writer and a mesmerising reader. Letting out just that amount of the art that things happen without showing anyone how.


Jill Chan read from her new work 'Becoming Someone Who Isn't', available from www.earlofseacliff.co.nz.

Montana Poetry Day 2007

July 27: Montana Poetry Day 2007 will mark the fourth birthday of The Divine Muses Poetry Reading, an annual event which this year features nine New Zealand muses: Iain Sharp, Harry Ricketts, Mark Pirie, Riemke Ensing, Andrew Fagan, Serie Barford, Olivia Macassey, Siobhan Harvey, Kirsten Warner. Each speaker has 10 minutes to showcase their poetry. There will be books for sale, as well as snacks, wine and juices. 7-9.30pm. Main gallery, Auckland Art Gallery, corner Wellesley and Kitchener Streets, City.

Beattie's Book Blog

Beattie's Blog
Info on Book Awards NZ Listener

Bernie Kyle

RETRIBUTION.
BY
Bernard V. Kyle
[C 2007]


After the fray, there cometh the day
To silence all Oz, & the mockers,
For the ABs & Ferns, have both taken turns,
And triumphed all over the 'Ockers.'

Now coming up, there looms a World Cup,
When poor play, just wont have the clout,
For no prize, is awarded for second,
And that's, what it's now, all about.

So gird up the loins, protect, chest & groins,
And with support from pakeha, whanau, & iwi
Play to your best, when put to the Test,
And give them a touch, of real Kiwi.

Jan Oskar Hansen

Yesteryear’s Summer

Rusty, padlocked gate, trees in the big garden need
trimming, on a swing, two rusty chains, it lacks
a seat. Autumn and there are apples unpicked on
the ground, fine rain has fallen, drops drips from
trees and glint on tall grass. Soon winter storms
will come rattle the gate and the derelict house-
unlit- will have to shoulder nature’s irate violence.

If you close your eyes and listen, can you not hear
laughter and see a child sitting on the swing?
Ice-tea and lemonade anyone? July 1956, no one
knew this was their last, a family was about to be
overtaken by life; ruin and scandals, “got what they
deserved,” the hateful said. The child, on the swing
disappears in the mist, rolling in from the sea. .

Jason J Page

Is Nothing Sacred

Three years and no phone call
let alone a knock on my door
I am lonely still
right down to the floor
For me it doesnt exist
thats why I didnt answer a brewers call
for me it means nothing at all
A sleeper I remain
working for sombre
I believe not anymore
she changes her view
my history no more

Nicholas Alexander

History Walk

the walk through the hallows saw storms brought
into gardens that tore limbs from living wood
ancients as large as buildings now lay on fences
cordoned off with tape to keep the public safe
from its own curiousity

when the mess was cleared what was missing
now relied upon memory except for the tree
that was cleaved clean in two. Its left side
was torn asunder by the terrible winds

its right side stood and watched its heart exposed
and the giant Totara that had grown from
a stump from the forgotten ages
perhaps two hundred rings and its entire
root structure lifted history lost

Gmail - Poetry submission

THE STORM.

By

Bernard V. Kyle.

[C] 2006

It's a threatening, grey, winter's day,
There's that leaking, window pane,
The gale is screaming,on its way,
And flinging, sheets of rain,

The trees bend forth, and back & forth,
The leaves, fly out of sight,
There's not one bird, seen, or heard,
Contesting, Nature's might.

The deluge seems, to never end,

The threat of flood, abounds,

So farmers haste, to move their stock,

Up to, the higher grounds.

The sea becomes, a foaming mass,
Waves race, before the storm,
While we just stay , & scan the scene,
And thank God, we're dry & warm.

But thoughts go forth to travellers all,
And those , upon the sea,
We trust good fortune's guided them,
To some place, of great safety.

The lightning sets, the sky alight,
Loud thunder's, close behind,
How near that last strike must have been,
Engages, every mind.

For in the path, of Nature's wrath,
With the chaos, seen this day,
The call is there, for care, & Prayer,
Till this storm, is on its away.

Scoop: Poetry in the city

Scoop: Poetry in the city

Bernard Kyle

You Win Some..... !
By
Bernard V. Kyle.
[C] 2007

There's a state of National mourning,
In response, to the grief and the woe,
For the ''Auld Mug'' is now but a mem'ry,
And that All Black loss, was a blow.

Now ''Old Nick,'' & mischance, had colluded,
And joined, in an unholy pact,
While Murph' & his Law, had come to the fore,
And hastened, to get in, on the act.

Yet one should recall, that despite, ruck & maul,
With no matter, the tears, and the yearning,
Though one be forlorn, the day will still dawn,
And the jolly old world, keeps a'turning.

So Please, don't remain, too downhearted,
Take pride, in achievements, to date,
For this Land, with just four million people,
Punches right out of its weight...

Jason J Page

Juan’s Anthem

“They” asked him to do
It
His homeland unsafe
Our haven here
He felt “impolite”

He was an import
But one of our best
And he had a gift

With me
He killed two birds
With one stone

All art is beautiful
All art is a gift
Art is the creation
Of what makes us tick

The words of a Nation

has all played a part in this

a long time coming
Let Me have My GIFT

COPYRIGHT 23rd June 2007

Bernard Kyle

A REQUIEM FOR A BOAT.

Lost Sunday 5th March 1995, America's Cup, San Diego.

[ with update 15th February 2003 ]

[C] Bernard V. Kyle , 2003.

"Well Bugger me," The Kiwi said,
The Ocker looked askance,
The Pom Sat up and stared ahead,
And the Yank, just did a Dance .

The Kiwi stroked a stubbled chin,
The Ocker didn't cry,
The Pom just had another can,
While the Yankee said, "Bye Bye."

Now this was not a pretty sight,
Upon the mighty Main,
A good ship going to her doom,
Where many Ships have lain.

For with broken back, alas alack,
That Aussie boat did go,
To see old Davy Jones & Co,
In his Locker, down below.

But the Crew all lived, to sail again,
For the Land, of the Young and Free,
By pulling digit, P D Q
And diving in the sea..!

Now Kiwis wept, and barely slept,
To see a sight so tragic,
But fate will have a trick in store,
For that Kiwi boat, "Black Magic."

Update America's Cup, Auckland N.Z.,
15th & 28th February, 2003.

Now Murphy's law, can sure apply,
To make one scowl, or even cry,
For you saw that Kiwi, with his bucket,
Oh 'Bloody Hell,' and 'Goddam stuff it .'
[there's a better rhyme !]

Now I've said before, in sport it's clear,
One day you'll win, and buy the beer,
Then comes the day, the mast gets busted,
Yep, the whole damn thing, just turns to custard !

So it's some day up, and some day down,
When that cheeky smile, becomes the frown,
But whate'er befalls, in that sporting quest,
You can't do more, than do your best.

And after all, you win, - you lose,
You're 'Cock A Hoop' - or got the blues,
But in days ahead, a few, not more,
You may hope to God, they forget the Score !

[Go, The Black Boat...]

Nicholas Alexander

Matriarch


Have we always got to do what we are told? she mutters
as this wind tugged our memory like a sheet in a tornado
and this is something we think we lose
but she left a story behind
that famous past is recorded

Our mothers were taken to safety
while blitz burnt life from the eyes of Europe
they found comfort in the kindness of strangers
as the bombs dropped, children were protected

Her world was burned but she was not
She learned with love in a world of hate
and from this we were all borne
children playing in the garden
watched over by a mother who knew

with our fragile selves exposed
we sense her pointing finger at
our shortcomings
summed in a gesture

Her love leads us to pathways
go down them with mischief in your eye

Nicholas Alexander

Lost Pearl

When she went, she left behind her family of six
Her blanket and bed she lay on for seven years

Old Bentley slept on the well worn spot
and her books lay open in the bright sunlight

but her pearl brooch was nowhere to be seen
Something strong she could take over the end

a grasped for thing that stayed with her
like her accent or that way of looking at you

Bernard Kyle

Ah, FRIDAY !

By

Bernard V Kyle
[C] 2005

This week's been somewhat unpleasant,
With great effort & little to gain,
Nothing's gone right in the workhouse,
So I'm hoping that I stay sane.
My Partner has gone & got stroppy,
And I'm likely to get sacked from my job,
The rates have come due & the insurance too,
So I could certainly use a few bob,
But the weekend is nearly upon us,
Then I'll switch off the phone & play deaf,
And I'll get me a brew & have one or two,
But today - it's T.G.I.F. !

Bernard Kyle

CALLING ''TIME OUT''
By B V Kyle [c] 2006


Deeds are reflective and hence the invective,
With bad mouthing & plenty of smut,
The great innuendo needs diminuendo,
In response to the Nations ''TUTT TUTT !!'

For the Country is in need of attention,
And we don't need any one finger wave,
The whole of the mob should get on with the job,
And the Beehive should learn to Behave.

Jan Oskar Hansen

The Hidden Cove.

I sit in the cove, where
the sea-foam is yellow and hard,
and lazy ripples clean
golden pebbles,
and carve a pipe;

with it I’ll blow bubbles
in the air, see them
soar as they absorb the light
till they are transparent pearls
and burst as bubbles do;

I’ll think of nothing, but
how wonderful it is
to be alive a summer day and
own a pipe that makes dreams
come true.

(from Jan Oskar Hansen's Poetry Chamber)

Bernard V Kyle

POETIC PLEASURE.
By
Bernard V Kyle
[c] 2006

A verse may enthrall few people at all,
And receive, it would seem, the cold shoulder,
Yet that very verse, may achieve the reverse,
And enchant, some other beholder.

Now a haiku or two, may satisfy you,
While some, may yearn for the Quatrain,
A search for Lanturne, may then make one yearn,
To explore the lure of the Cinquain.

But with many a verse, in many a form,
There's a world of poetic pleasure,
To let one recite, all sweetness & light
The joy of some poetic treasure.

Letter from the Editor

Article

The Editor is calling for more poets from more diverse cultures posting their sounds to this site.

Newly Featured sections

Poetry Chambers including

Classical Poetry - check out Kim Randell's popular blog
Modernism - Chaos & Matter - try anything once
Post Modernism - Richard Taylor - sublime mastery

Article Links Preserved

At the end of any page, you can now navigate the articles we accept for publication. As this is a poetry site, articles are short lived on the site font page (one or two days maximum) but are listed following the poetry (for quite some time).

Archives!

By popular demand - the back catalogue is now open - for a limited time you can read poetry posted to this site over the past few years - or search for a whole load of poems by any one of our writers (or by subject matter for that matter).

Want to see more of this on this site ?

1. Bukowski - Armchair speak - WARNING - content may offend



2. Performance VIDEO - Tom Waits



3. Poetry Blog of the week

Read: Jack Ross's beautiful blog -

4. News

Shane Koyczan

Please comment on what you want to contribute / see more often on this site...

Introducing . . . S.Natarajan

So Powerful

My veins run like meanders
Arteries blossom up!
Crest fallen chief of
Circulatory system boomerangs
Nerve fibers clutch on their nuclei to show their fists
Muscle fibers arrange for a get
Together for a cup of blood
Pancreas and liver speed up
Their secretion for their part in the digestive system
Bones stiffened in joy
Enjoying with spinal chord
Skin abunds its
Production, sweat
Brain wraps red tape
To its worries
What these systems try to do
Oh! Each one wants to
Celebrate the occasion
The occasion of
Smile--Her smile



Copyright © 2007 S.NATARAJAN

Nicholas Alexander

Chocolate Coat

Long and hard he looks at the drain of cakes from the mould
the seeping dripping coat that annoints it so
the leaves and trees that form avenues for the soul
trips you at the door and beneath this
sense
there lies nothing more
than lost dreams
than lost pieces of dreams

awaken the voice
explore the possibilities of
structure lost at sea

pounding upon you like a heart
or a sorry scribe at breakfast
a dawn of silver possibility

unrestrained by sound

Modernism vs Classicism

Article

This is a response to Kim Randell's article

What Kim Randell is calling "Classical Poetry" is an art form.

So is painting. And so is abstract painting. Art is a moving target. It is not possible to proscribe to others how they may create. For me, "rhyme" has it's place and it is not always at the end of lines. I do not have time to construct a sonnet or do crosswords. I listen to music and write when the urge takes me. Obviously I would have not done well in Shakespeare's day - in fact I suspect it would be a burning at the stake for being this illogical. Art is a moving target. The world changes every day. And so does AucklandPoetry.com.

The new agenda is to post more good poetry. Contributors are free to post comments. Guests can post comments but they are moderated.

There are no limits or restrictions on style. We want people to contribute, to express their voices and make themselves heard. We have been asking for new contributors and have welcomed two new voices. Now we want to hear from more.

More comments! If you do not like a poem, do not complain to me, write a constructive criticism and post it as a comment.

Don't get personal! Your comments should never be insulting or you are really not getting the point. If you break this rule, your comments will not be posted.

Editors Note

Article

The recent articles posted on AucklandPoetry.com were appreciated, but contributors are reminded that they are most welcome to post poems on this site. If you want to publish an article on AucklandPoetry.com it must be submitted to the editor first. We try and keep articles few and poems many.

The aim of the website is to collect the works of Auckland Poets and allow them to independently publish a body of work into a communal blog site that will list their work on major search engines.

If you have a video camera reading a poem to camera and posting it on youtube makes it easy to post it and feature it on this site and it is a most welcome medium. Just a microphone? Poetry is all about your voice. Let's hear it. Link your myspace page here. Poets with a "Chair" (the right to post, there are very few of you currently) can feature their myspace page on this site.

The blogosphere includes a site search bar, and try entering the names of any of our poets and see what happens. You can be included in our collection, we will still be building it in ten years! And your work will still be locatable on the web.

To become part of this site, just send me three poems, or one particularly good one and suggest you be considered for a tenure, a "Chair". There are limited places.

If you knock my socks off, and it gets onto the site - and when you have published several in this way, you may get an invite to post yourself. This means you are responsible for posting to the site yourself. Now it is up to you.

Those who want to read classical poetry should publish it on paper. The net is good for something else, and this site intends to produce it with you.

Jason J Page

A Protester is Born (every minute)

There is no fun being diagnosed as ill,
She is not set in some stalker’s fairytale ideology.

It’s what she represents that counts!
Like the cut of her dress,
The style of her boot,
Right down to the heel,
Like a funnel pipe
Something to presume!

I love her for what she sows
Let it be so

Her a Majestic Quartz
Material divorced
My enigma a cavort
Honey I must look like a dork

Talk rocker

Talk rocker - Entertainment news, gossip & music, movie & book reviews on Stuff.co.nz

Article on how to be a successful poet.

Jason J Page

All Women Are Beautiful

There is no such thing as an ugly woman
Beautiful curvaceous of all types and sizes
Their walk and talk
Holds me to ransom

I yearn for one to hold my hand
Hunger cringes due to starvation
On goes life and still no salvation

Like the handshake
Between one life time and another
Our seed to pass on
I think its time for Game on

I will deliver under the spotlight
It should be good on the night
For your love it will be a sight
Finally I will make things right

To M

Your words rest like
Feathers on a page
And I, a willing Gretel
Cradle each one
Fragile in my open palm.
I find you again

I met you first
In the desert sands
Where sun and dust
Pleased our skin
And the world disappeared
Behind a purplish haze.

I met you
Then in the mist
where we breathed in
nature's wash of life
Visitors to Eden
Close and warm
Beneath the limbs
Of forest oracles


I heard your voice
Whisper poems in the night
Your lips moved hot and close
As I tossed to find your hand
two restless souls dancing out
Some kind of synchronicity
Now powerless to cupid's will

And then as if surprised
Beyond these pages
Your heart was familiar still
As real as the tear upon my cheek
Your eyes as deep as the
Words I'd held with hope
And who can tell
How close these souls will keep?
©Julie Walker 2007

Broken Birds In A Shoebox

Scars sewn within a hairs breathe
Of our hearts
And some days you bleed
And some days I bleed
And we kill each other
just a little
With words
And with our past.

Why not scoop our hearts off the floor
Cup them in our palms
Speak to them softly
Warm between cotton wool buds
Feed them with droppers
With mouths wide for life
And a will to fly.

©Julie Walker 2006

Darryn John Murphy

New Zealand

As we unite as one nation beneath the southern skies
We will look to the horizon and hold our heads with pride
For the essence of our country
Is present in our cities, towns, and homes
And we will carry it with pride wherever we may roam

For we are a land of many people
But united we are one. We will triumph over adversity
For we are proud of heritage. For we know where we have been
As a nation have endured the greatest hardships
And yet the essence of our nation
Has always been present in our lives

For there is beauty in abundance
From our snow covered mountain ranges
To the wide open plains and our shores
The spirit of our country
Will be present in every brook and every stream

For the spirit that is our country
Will always be present in the hearts
Of every one of us who. Call New Zealand home
And as we look to the future where our hopes and dreams reside
The pride of this great nation will always be present by our sides
Darryn John Murphy

Angela Smith

Lunar Pariah

Waves rushing and rolling,
Crashing and thundering,
Giants of the oceans,
Leaving us wondering

Where do they come from?
Where do they go?
Were they always this magical?
What happens below

The ocean’s surface,
Their mystical haven,
Home of the waves,
Of the sea raven.

Strange creatures dwell
In the blue abyss,
Unexplored, unexploited,
Marked with the ocean’s dark kiss.

Far above them,
The ocean’s furies ferment,
Lashes of lunar water,
Victims of aquatic slaughter lament.

These waves so enticing,
Rushing and gushing,
So magically charming,
Yet cold and forever crushing.

                                       HOARFROST

                                       White chalk wiping slate clean
                               Blackboard erased stardust glitter windswept
                       Flu season powder puff sniffles
               Runny pug noses snotty hanky-panky

                               Clouds clinging to each other
                       Uptight hugs squeeze box folds
               Polka dot accordion pleat bellows
       Paper aircraft landing strip plowed

                       Crystals sticking to outspread wings
               Seedpod flakes seeking absolute perfection
       Invisible circles undercover angel traces
Sparkly haloes disconnected nimbus radiance

One-way river of no return
       Lids pried open eyeballs drowned
               Hooked on transparent fish line
                       Shame dangling vertically resolved horizontally

       Grown cold transmigratory souls adrift
               Icicle splinters dripping lonely angst
                       Bladed feet walking on water
                               Making endless figure 8 grooves

               Wind-chill numbness exposing naked truths
                       Snowfall uplifting jacketed childhood spirit
                               Soaped sled rudders whizzing downhill
                                       Frosted cakewalk slippery eel pratfalls

                       Wild beast separated from herd
                               Trampled grassroots leaving no hoofprints
                                       Entrapped Minotaur inescapable snowbound maze
                                               Rebutting wayward hedged in tameness

                               Dr. Charles Frederickson

Rev Andy

Homeless

No place to call my own, no where to have a home
I live in the streets, dirt and filth beneath my feet
Occasionally into the shelters I can stay
Where if I kiss their Asses they let me stay
                     I AM HOMELESS

There is no trust in the dark and dreary streets
For over my shoulder I am always looking
Ever afraid of what danger might be lurking
Just living is not an option for me, only survival is the key
                     I AM HOMELESS

Into the streets come the fakes and the phonies
Social, religious and do goodiers too, all shower me with false love
Forcing me to give in to all their causes
Never hearing or understanding my anguished pleas
                     I AM HOMELESS

Those who are in the know, say I don't want to have a home
They say I like to roam and be free
That is not true, I do want a home and to be clean
To make a difference in a world so mean
                     I DO NOT WANT TO BE HOMELESS

But society is cruel, non-caring and elite
The world they have created, just can not be
Unless they make sure, they have people like me
In order to keep the world the way that it is, I cannot be freed
                     I MUST BE HOMELESS


Without Love, human society is in a very difficult state;
without Love, in the future we will face tremendous problems.
Love is the center of human life.


Rev Andy 4/5/05

Nicholas Alexander

The Lost Charm

We talk of lots and yet nothing comes to us
We walk a ways and come back and prays
it's gone to us
we talk in ways that make us stray but
its too long before her song lets him in
taste mocks the air that burdens a breath
make it sound heavy like crying when you sigh
and the loss of independence is soft
and unless you go to the post and empty envelopes
you are lost in falling stocks
your belief system
under shock, stops

Charles Frederickson

                               RED BAMBOO

Dense hard-walled thickets skyward bent
       Steadfast upright soldiers at attention
               Resolutely erect vertebrate spinal taproot
                       Hollow tubular echo bleeding green

       Plotting coordinates parallel lines merge
               Kindred soul mates clumped together
                       Reedy woodwinds shrill high-pitched flutes
                               Breezy swayback resounding moonlight serenade

               Exposed naked truths laid bare
                       Stalking lonely ghosts play hide-and-seek
                               Edible segmented worms timid creatures
                                       Peekaboo offshoots night crawler striptease

                                               Cylindrical ringed joints culm flexed
                                       Clenched fist brass knuckling underground
                               Entire grove singular tunnel plant
                       Antsy burrowers dig express subway

                                       Towering fronds holding up firmament
                               Interwoven fringe casting shadowy webs
                       Atlantean columns shrug shoulder blades
               Droopy nature terminal blossoms wilt

                               Elusive talc flowers flaccid cheeks
                       Six anthers fraying threadbare nap
               Seedy pollination sowing butterfly dismay
       Ephemeral fleetly existence spiritual regeneration

Dr. Charles Frederickson

Kiwi Writer in China

New Zealand-born writer Tzeming Mok says she is part of the "post-Amy Tan generation." For Tan, China was the faraway homeland, a memory. But for writers like Mok, "China is the reality, which no one can avoid."

Out of town guest: Tony Lewis-Jones

Drivetime


A day of not quite making connections.
An accident on the dual carriageway
And much attention given to the details.

On the radio at rush-hour
My automatic words spill out
Which simply mean ‘I need you. Call.’

Tony Lewis-Jones
January 2007

Bernard Kyle

WHAT'S POETRY
By
Bernard V. Kyle.
[C] 2007


One should review and never eschew,
The genre of poems that please,
Blank verse you may curse, or even worse,
Vers libre, gets you down on your knees.

But 'joy to the soul', is the ultimate goal,
With no need for any dilemma,
But through high and low, one really should know
Si metrum non habet -- non est poema

Jason J Page

Dusk Shadow

And the penny dropped
is there really something
for dinner tonight
No said the man
He had already been
served tapestry from
the table cloth
Pungent purple shimmered
into sight

The man stared into
the moon unable to
share his sight
hunger his weapon
a belly full tonight

Jan Oskar Hansen

Bikini.


Nice to know Britain’s upgrading
Trident, to be nuclear armed will
protect us against those who hasn’t
built the bomb yet, that’s ok then?


The world is a different from yore
the Chinese drive Ferraris, I have
scooter made outside Beijing (turn
left, on the main road to India.)


Used to take girls granted before;
critical, couldn’t make up my mind,
now, are oblivious of my charms,
they are beautiful and I’m alone.


As time knocks on my window,
dreams are meek, nothing about
climbing mountains, but still hope
to inherit brother’s Armani suit

The Cherry Lake (alternative 2, amended)

Still, silent water
Crystal Depth
awash with leaves
(of cherry trees)
lying on a sheet of glass

The Cherry Lake calls
and out of sight as quick as that

the strands of music fall
and spring arrives without delay

The silent morning breaks
into birdsong and ripples

The light comes to invade the senses
with a vibrant colour spray
that tickles

the eyes of morning

The Queens Violin

Erin was the one from the bus
Not that guy called Gus
Mum scolded me in disgust
The way I treated her once
When she was gone it all turned to dust
For thats when people started treating me rough
But now I am ready in this stance
A fallen "Angel" with a Glance
Broken wings a dire dance
For her I will die a thousand times
Before the day turns to dusk

"Happy Birthday Babe for later this month dont think I can make it on the day"

Jan Oskar Hansen

The Sage.

Train explosion in India, many dead and
wounded, black smoke, chaos and people
milling about; it was there on the news,
yet India, far from here, it looked unreal.
in the crowd I saw my brother, had been
dreaming of him all night, he didn’t look
like me, small white teeth glued to red
gums, in no special order; delicate hands.

A learned man who lives on the flesh of
calves, and drink goat milk for breakfast.
He looked straight at the camera willing
me to recognize his existence, I looked
down, put two teaspoon full of sugar in
my coffee and when I looked up he had
disappeared into the noisy crowd, and it
was time for the weekend’s football results.

Jason Page

Some More Graffiti

If we were supposed to talk
More than we were to listen
We would have one ear
And two Mouths!

I am
What I be today
Without you
Feels lousy
To only to start to say

This undying lust is hard to maintain
The choice of reality or innuendo
Passing us day by day
How am I going to play?

Transfixed between two points
When does this end?
This state of flux
It’s getting hard to gage

Something is missing in my life
Where do I belong?
Why is this taking so long?
Honey, please help me get home.

NEW Posting Method

Poets!

You may have received a link from the site updating the posting interface (blogger.com) to a new version. The new version seems the same as the old one, except that posts are instantly updated, the interface is much faster. You can also edit a post immediately after posting it.

A new feature is that you can now add labels for your post. These tags are for search engines.

Any questions - please contact me

Cheers
Nicholas
info@aucklandpoetry.com

Jason Page

Internal Lusts

Two Poles
and I am dangling
inbetween

I cant see you
and on goes the war
I forget your smile
Demure at best

I love you honey
your the best
All the others
Mean nothing let it rest
Without you
Means nothing
to say the less

Yes Honey
Your my hope and love
Without you I dont know
how I am going to get on

Please help me get back home.