soft blue
and maroon

that’s my
room, what

colours have
come to me

– – – – –

bottle green
i haven’t seen
you for a while

now in a blanket
you used to be

a knitted jumper
i could draw
down to my knees

– – – – – –

dolphin blue
i wish i was you

caught up in
childhood fantasy
feeling it were true


Peace is in the blue shoulder sheen
Of the pukeko, forgetting that it
May have been he who ate the ducklings.

Peace is in realizing the lawn grows in clumps
Like bamboo forests, with clear spaces between
Where duck’s feet fold the blades down like weaving.

Peace is in the way the fern fronds leap up
Like karate masters with multiple arms
Holding their elbows high in seeking the light.

Peace is in the dreaming sea sparkling tide
Quietly creeping along the mangrove shoreline,
Breathing through a blend of pale blue and green.


None of the other tulip flowers
Has been as singular as this one
Bruised beetroot ruddy red layers
Lit at the tips by silver morning sun
It reaches out on steady stem swaying
Nodding in the air its head as if to say
My cup stretches catches light playing
Through my depths adoring this day
But my neck is strong leaning long
From the heavy bowl holding my body
And I open to death gladly scarlet song
Of my surrender my breathing nodding
Upturned clapper of a bell tolling the time
When these petals will fully open fall away
Break against a wall crucible of will chime
In resonant waves radiating reach to eternity

Hollow In The Grass

Sitting down in the long grass, now there’s a start
How often does one sit on the ground at the very least
And here one was sitting down in, the long grasses
They swirled in arcs accentuated now by the hand
Waving, pawing, patting, sweeping, grading

The counter-clockwise matching of body and field
Lying, sitting there like the girl from ‘Christina’s World’
By Andrew Wyeth, hip leaning into the movement
Torso twisting, right arm passing over the seedheads
Exploring the sensation, the symbiosis of being

Enveloped by this place, and now noticing the way
The stalks and long leaves folded in and further down
Disappearing into hollow in the ground, weaving
Like the pull of a hole, like a plughole and the water
Leaving this shallow land, seeing now the circle parting

At the centre and an open sky clear for miles below
Where a river wandered across a land quite clearly,
The banks where earth was exposed, the realizing
Of this second place, reeling with vertigo now, and
Definitely heading into this breathing of false surface

World and strength of landscape on flow of outbreath
Below, becoming part of this primal earth, what was
Before now just a show, mistaken identity, somewhere
Just out the back of a place behind a house by a road
Behind a picket fence and an old concrete path that

Lead out to a washing line and a chainlink fence where
One day one finds oneself on the ground alone, beyond
This, out on the backlot, the unassumming and forgotten
Field, with the world now just the intimacy of seedheads
And ants and the warmth of the past and the present,

And into this world you must go, one must, one finds
Oneself parting the grasses to the strangeness of the blue
Below, the open sky on another, prima materia, the body
Becoming the landscape, the river meandering, the sound
Calling one closer, folding in, enfolded, no longer hollow.


Yoni (Poem Erotique)

Pudendal cleft (Cleft of Venus)
My love’s (mon amour)
Purse of pussy lips
Goddess garden grotto.

Mound of Venus (mons pubis)
Covered in wave of soft hairs
Tongue licking up left and right
Interlabial sulcus valley grooves

Of softest skin.

From the bottom starting place
Singular bass-note dark dark-of-the-moon
Butt-on-hole, touching down and in where
Luscious labia lips part at fourchette.

Then inside such cleft edges
Majora then minora then vulvar vestible
To frenulum clitoridis and clitoral hood, the
Feminine foreskin, then little woman in the boat.

After The Laughter

He’s hearing laughter coming from a neighbour’s house.
Two female voices in such a conspiracy of sound,
That he reacts as if to danger.
Are they up to no good?

Perhaps they have fireworks, that’s not too many weeks ago.
Zeroing in now to the sounds of splashing as well,
And still the rolling giggles.
Breaths catching in torments of glee.

It is the far neighbour’s swimming pool so nothing can be seen.
And closing his eyes he dives in to the dream,
Drinks it all in, the intimacy,
The torment and the fun.

The silken sounds are like bubbles erupting both lithe and light.
Chastened by the intimacy in that horseplay,
That generosity of glee, the spontaneity
Of gaiety, the freedom, the innocence.