Stubborn as Stone

I sent my love a naked lithotint,

gold print on stone. 

He says I’m a kind of rock

plants grow on,

a stone swallower,

rock borer,

fossilized fruit,

a concretion in his veins.

I assert that

for my fire I have flint,

to furrow the rows of my garden

I have a small stone adze;

live and worship in a stone circle.  

A stone that falls to earth I become

phosphorescent when heated.

reasons for silence

so the wheel barrow
full of star frequencies
can speak

so the energy wave
that is body
may be seen

a table cloth may
embroider itself
with grub roses

soliloquy
of the sewing box
may be heard

thunder of rust developing
on the hollow legs
of picnic tables
rattle the trees

the harmonic of frost chimes
resonant in the lacunae
within the leaves
of felicia amelloides
calls the followers to prayer

so that a rush
of seedlings heaves
the clay aside and terrifies

so the crackle
of thin bible pages
is delicious

so that as you
breathe out
and I breathe in
we synchronize

fuse at the sternum
with a seam of gold
in the ore of our bodies
the sound
of silent lightening

My Wedding Shoes

The cobbler couldn’t squeeze my foot
into the standard last size no matter
how much sweat beaded  his forehead.

So he went back to the drawing board.
He made a new shoe last.
He cut a new pattern;
cumulonimbus for the upper,
plumes of pampas grass for the sole,
and a wedge of utopia for a heel.

The shoes reach for my feet.
First the broken left one,
the shoe strokes my scars with its dainty
leather straps calming the angry
swelling before buckling
with the sound of lips on lips.

The right shoe is more teasing,
pretends coyness before
it invites my foot to tango
giggling when I tickle the buckle.

My wedding shoes are wrapped
in delicate linen and boxed.
I stumble across them when
I put away the winter woolens,

open the box, nudge aside the fabric.
My shoes glow with a wake up
smile and hold out their hands to me.

child's play

as snake
beautiful but blue

as snow
remembered but black

as human
innocent but almost
born inside
a monster
a child
a bird
a cry of wings

waiting for a lover on Rabbit Island

This poem was published in The Press, Christchurch, 24 December 2010

love knuckles up
in knots of bulbing young cones
on pine branches beyond
yearn and reach

the sea hurls  shells
at the roots I collect
them my flaw is patience
I bury and wait

my flaw is dauntless and
alone in the thick scented
pine forest perfectly
still salt water covers my
feet shells bob nudge
and whimper for embrace

Gap Filler

Following the September 4 earthquake, we have gaps in our city scape. For me some of these places were special. 'Through the Keyhole', on Colombo St was one. The entrance had the original cobblestone paving, the weatherboard stables intact. It was once a staging post on the arduous journey over the Port Hills to Lyttleton. A piece of our heritage.  TTKspecialised in antique and vintage salvage.   I spent many blissfully happy hours rummaging in the back rooms for keys, pressed metal, un-identifiable objects and shapes that spoke to me and might use one day use in mixed media jewelry. The building is gone now, the site leveled, no trace remains. It was heartbreaking to see.

Gap Filler is livening up some of  these sites with film, poetry readings, music, food and more. I'm happy to be a part of it as a reader and urge all those in Christchurch to go and have a good time. Celebrate life, our beautiful city, the vibrancy of the arts.  The site is 832/834 Colombo Street, previously South of the Border restaurant and Denis Moore Auto Electrician. Enjoy summer at Gap Filler.

love letter #1

I felt the lack of simple things today,
of animating when I tell them aloud to you.

It was a breezy sunny spring afternoon and the poets
told this day like an abacus bead,

I buried my face in sun-clean towels
the day captured in the cotton.