stolen from us

when minds have changed
filtered through years and
whispered words
grown to believe in goodness
in the dark
grown to believe in letting go
and moving on
and leaving the lost
behind
sitting on a bed
in a room
in a faraway place
where the people
who once were there
have been stolen away
and all that’s left
is that void
to curse into
that the future and
friends
have been
stolen from us

the breaking in of the gifts

a pristine page
unwrapped and untouched
ready to be pounced upon
with pencil or ink
or careful strokes of both
inhaling the scent
of parchment imagined
papyrus dreamed of
soaps wrapped too closely
time for desecration

(just realised that this is the sixth to last piece of this crazy year long project. my god. it really is quite astounding on so many levels that this has come full circle, all things considered. let’s see if we can make these final few really count, hmm?)

auckland summer dreaming

grounds heavy with pohutukawa
and melted ice cream
and gritty sand traipsed
from beach to grass to
asphalt too hot for tender soles
janus of the isthmus
iron sands and blond
one face of either colour
talk about arabian nights
enter the aucklander
fifty shades of blue and grey
and white curling around
each other as paints
swirled on a practice palette
lightning struck and
hail in sunshining weather