Winds of Tremor

Sacred Eyes
Known only to one
is a Gift bestowed,

Wondering if this is the right stage
where I should be,
A display for all to see,

Here I am
take me now
A ticket to the show is the deed
So please one of you,
send it to me.

Richard Taylor

the machine music moves mechanically as it must because it is
beautiful and is based on a legal system of repeats but nothing is
yet for sure why should it be after all the law of torts and the
thinking Thinking Thing is there, and we are part of it despite
seclusion like a sheep’s or a boffin’s head, in a vision of perfect
symmetry held in a white drop as if we could know’it all, and there’s
need for change, but who looks on, and who is who who he looks at who
he looks is who — but we need all these people who don’t agree because
of the machine, which, despite its penetential and inevitable
inefficiency, is heard to cry out at deep of night to the Great One
who is probably dead and ensconced in a dream of lubricated, or
lubricious cavortings toward spittle. and flesh, words that send
shudders up my spire wire’s spine loom; one would naturally much
prefer to be the vision inside a technical robot, whose doom scenes
see wire mass everywhere, and, how does the spider know, because he,
too, is a constructor - or is it because the music nags us back down
the drain pipe into a parallel universe of incomprehensible equations,
or a crazed jumble of electronic, electrical, and machine parts
pushed into an elected enclave, whose triumph is its denseness, or the
enormous significance of an endlessly looping musical track which your
great great grandmother could well have enjoyed: some post—
Stochausian, post- Varese etc, not something tame like.the Songs for a
Mad King: but it all passes, even the wind machines, and the ape-
shaped eyes, thoughts of death, leaves, corpse valleys, memories,
inscriptions.. .you turn back to The Romantics, for there is something
about you, something nobody can see: as if you were the one in the
centre of a gigantic sound-shriek, and batting up all hell, and no one
gives a fuck, especially with everything turning into grey
gold. . .something like a cat looking into your face.

'machine music' by Richard Taylor

Heather Haley

Whore In The Eddy

Gazes up at ballooning clouds as if imagining
frogs, giraffes, Corvettes and barns, as if
Neptune's head has heard her pleas, sent me.

She looks like a mannequin. As if by law of nature,
a stripped woman's body looks like a mannequin
after it floats to the surface in a rainforest
denuded by timber sales. All matter from the depths
is netted by log jams.

She stares at me, cannot see
the pebbles embedded in my knees,
or my face, not so sweet.
No bubbles, just the flatness
of still water. No trace DNA
or hard earned cash, only cool airstreams
of aspen leaves. My grasping hand
takes hers, skin gliding onto my fingers
like a glove. A device. We share features
any porno masticating, regular working stiff
joe wants in his garage
between the red pickup and the Crestliner.

We watch the rim of night, a spiral
arm of stars, their slow light two million
years too late. Naked eyes detect
Orion the hunter, Cassiopeia, the bright knots
of the Double Cluster. Mars appears.
I look the other way, to the North Star.

HEATHER HALEY

Bill Nelson

Lack Of Passion

How do you keep your fingernails so clean?
I don't, the dirt simply falls away;
I guess it gets disinterested and disintegrates;

How did you come by such an impressive vechicle?
I only drive it on Sundays, the seats are very uncomfortable;
I have a white van for driving to and from work;

Where else do you go in your van?
To the supermarket, to the dairy, to the fish and chip shop;
Places like that, easily locatable places;

Why so many pockets in your trousers?
That is where I keep my tools, every pocket holds a specific tool;
I can reach them easily in an emergency;

How did you get that scar on you cheek?
A long time ago I thought about something for too long;
That was a mistake;

Why is that timing device analogue?
Digital things require batteries, batteries fail;
My tools can not fail;

On your CV you put your name and phone at the top;
Underneath, only the words 'Lack of Passion';
I am confused?

In this business that is all I need.



Bill Nelson is a guest AucklandPoet who wants to know if the Tuesday night readings at Grand Central are still happening? Perhaps a google search will find out.

Jan Oskar Hansen

As we slept

the sea was endless and shone, in moonlight, heaven mirrored the sea; this was the moment, time ceased, they became one and there was stillness;

when the lovers parted no time had passed, land appeared and as the sea rippled on pebbled shores a reflective sigh echoed through the world.

Bernard Kyle

THE STAG

BY

Bernard V Kyle
[c] 2002

Oh Mighty Stag on yonder Crag,
Thy stately form Elates,
And shows the World and All Therein,
What He above Creates.

For the Silhouette, that there Unfolds,
Is a sight from Times Primeval,
Against a moon that's waxes Full,
And Shines on things Coeval.

That Haughty head with Antlers Poised,
A'reaching for the Sky,
Enables that most Noble Stance,
The Dangers to Defy.



Yet be Aware and take good Care,
For Terrors lurk in Hiding,
For both Man and Beast and none the Least,
In ev'ry place abiding.

But Stag and Hind and all your Kind,
Have Graced us down the Ages,
So Pray continue on your Way,
As the World with Terror Rages.

*************

Jason Page

AucklandPoetry:poems

Piggle de biggle who gives snot
Tongue tied tongue tried
Leaves me to believe! Not?
All this for “Charlie brown shoes”
That better be a disguised top
Make do to Pluto we go
What colour is your pot?

Lynn McPherson

Small Hooves

Slowly – carefully

So as not to disturb things

hidden in the dark

the shadows moved

dried leaves crumbled

beneath small hooves

weary green eyes peered

into the blackness

searching for signs

of danger – dynamite

a riffle shot echoed

through the valley

one shadow became still

dried leaves crumbled

beneath small hooves

a second shot rang out

she lay on top of her fawn

cherishing their closeness

one last time.

Lynn MacPherson

Bernie Kyle

To the Trees - FAREWELL.

By

Bernard Vance Kyle

.

They were trees of more than a hundred years, on a central city plot,

A legacy from days gone by, but not really worth a lot,

And now they ' hindered progress,' or so some tried to say ,

By growing on a building site, & being in the way.

Yet despite the protestations, of caring city folk,

The wish to save those ancient trees was rated as a joke,

The chain saw hummed, the trees succumbed,

In a rabid fierce onslaught,

And the retention of a heritage, then simply came to naught.

So on this butchered city site, yet another tower will rise,

Apartments soaring upwards, sixteen stories to the skies

No leafy bough will be there now, no bird song as before,

Just the concrete jungle, engulfing more & more.

[C] Bernard Vance Kyle 2006

jerryb

[All your words]

The day you had died, I found
An open door

To your sanctuary.

All your words…
Those inestimably brilliant portraits
Your rooms, deep in wood smoke and oiled leather
Those books, dusty windows onto other people’s worlds.
Even the worn carpet where your feet would wait anxiously,
fidgetty as mice, fretfully exploring other outcomes.

Your world was formed, as you were, by what others wanted to
say.

You feasted upon their experiences…

I once left my fingerprint in soft dust on a smoothly painted sill,
Hoping you would summon me, demand my simple explanation.

Outside rain hung like winter-sleepy bees, visiting the elder
and tiny courageous apple one last time.

They have out-waited you, who were not my friend.
And all your words,
Not of encouragement or even love.
But of condemnation, the way impatient storms
brush aside empty dinghies,
hungry for larger shores.

We never danced in syncopation, you and I.
Instead we stepped within each other
And grew separate…

[The crows upon my tongue]

It’s a cold place inside
a discarded man
Do you remember the first morning?
You brought me juice and a flower
I lay across your thighs
and counted your smiles
Your eyes warmed my skin
Your hands led me across
the adventure of your body
We were children for a day a week
Was it that long?
And now those same eyes
are broken windows
as barred and forbidden as caves
beneath the waterline
Last night we fought again
Two insects leaping at the glass
Bruising splitting with every blow
Today we limp uneasily
My tears puddle uselessly inside
A silent haemorrhage
Whilst yours are greedily drunk
By your sisters
What will you tell them?
How much have we forgotten?
There are two ends to every journey
Two threads unraveled
Two lives pecked apart
by the crows that live upon our tongues

[Whimsy number 1]

There are morning when a man awakes
to find that he has lived the wrong life.

All his friends are fenceposts
or have lost themselves among queues
of willow.

The soldiers came last night, they say.

They smelt our fear and made a soup of it.
Still the sparrow visits each tree, stopping to
compose a poem upon the barbed wire.

The oranges hang gladly in the orchard
behind the moss and bricks.

the rotten, rusty bucket

dreaming...

Jason Page

Does Home Exist

Honey! Ignore what I once said.

Suicide lies in this bed.

They show themselves,

from time to time.

Its a symbolic thread,

darting in between my mind.

Honey! I see them,

them the dead.

They choose the colours to display,

its part of this gift I sway.

Believe! if you would,

it scares me worse than it should.

Honey! help me,

I need you now.

Nothing else matters,

but you, me,

tell me how.

Because soon it will be dead,

I am needing you,

enough said for now.

Christopher Mulrooney

Incidentalism

the progression features
a whole like this
host of characters
Armagnac the baker
of living goods
Beelzebub who manufactures
cakewalks in the rain
Cornhusker the world-beater
and his theatre of cruel ties

an Alpha Beta of assortments

Devlin the mongrel wear
of debonair defalcations hawks
Evangeline who sings in the shower
of golden mythology
Franz the pipe merchant
laid end to end to end
Graham of the dyspeptic crackers
mercifully really keening
Horatio wandering endlessly
in a forest of speculation
Iona with a room out back
and a hayrick bed
Joseph wandering aimlessly
and plumb tuckered out
Kevin who wants to know
whither you are bound from where too
Lyle the oceangoing sailor
and his travelogues so fair
Montgomery the placer-mining
company man upon his feet
Nils who never seems to know
what is expected of him anyway
Olivia the trade school mascot
barking up the wrong tree
Quentin always asking just when
no wrong questions are needed
Ronald who wants to know as well
what wonders world last where

size more than actuality
is a persistent claim to fame

Susanna would like to hold fast
to the adherents of malefactors
Tompkins wants to know still more
than daily bread and wine and water
Ursula has her cave and friends
who keep a time clock stamping

these are the professional elements

Veracity has her place keep clean
she says the memory of that
Waldemar has this to say
upon the rocks seals bark like dogs
Xenos has a friend in the business
wants to know if there are any connections
Yarby has a steeplechase to ride
around the track (was here to there)
Zeb has this to say at last
my friends there was a man here once

at the tradeware conference they sing
and submit their papers on the thing

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- Nicholas

Copyright © 2006 by AucklandPoetry.com

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Nicholas Alexander

For her song

to have never seen the bark protect the tree
or have neer seen the wood underlying it...

the difficulty is where we are
stranded here between one another
locked in doors that stay any breeze
adapting to new songs
between the weeks
passing by
ludicrous assumptions
turning back the steam
inverting the process
swaying the location
for the point of view
shaking the ground - in other words

turning heads as we pass
placing names in the new phone book
that arrived in the letterbox
as we pass through this time booth
and laugh at our mistakes
we face the future
with our eyes

7:36am
1 April 2006