Sometimes

a
cache of
pleasure moments is

required so I
can retrieve
them

Growing up too fast

I watch you
as your drunken mother
staggers amongst
the crowd of
rock music diehards.
Her tired shoes
which you
clutch in your hand
are the least
of your burden.
Your ten year old body
bends with the weight
of anxiety
and the backpack
carrying promises
and food.
Your eyes dart
with embarrassment
as she weaves
back and forth.
Your plea
of desperation
"can we please go home"
not heard
over the crowd,
the music and her
oblivion.

Alone

As he moves
he bundles it up -
the flotsam, jetsam
of thoughts, letters,
photos, and the sleeve
from the t-shirt of a
good lover.
Old jewellery
and some gold jewellery
gets tangled up
amongst itself
He is reluctant
to relinquish
the bundles and tangles
scared that in doing
so a piece of himself
might also go missing
Like others, he seeks
someone who
will finally look, really see,
truly know, wholly love
what he has been,
what he is carrying,
who he is now,
and will accept and cherish
the bundles and tangles.
Turning the corner
along the street of
aloneness he
finally recognises
who that person is.
In the reflection
in the glass
on the other side
of the road
is a man
with a bundle of tangles

Change of Heart

She reached premises
based on promises
made when love
was in bloom

life changing moves
were then effected
and then he
changes his tune

How can she dance
to this new song?
Listening to lyrics that
hurt heart and sear soul.

Holiday Weekend

The water flows in
and flows out
washing the plastics,
and glass from city
boatie’s picnics
to this night’s tideline.

The island's seaweed
heaves and sighs
while in the distance
phosphorescence glistens
in the enlightening evening.

I also sigh
as the gibbous moon
droops over the sea
pointing towards a return
to the throng
of the metropolis.
This is the last night
of a perfect island
summer holiday retreat.

New School

I
made a
decision in May

basing
your future
on my current

dreams.
My hopes
beget your change.

Changes

Memories hang
among cobwebs
while tuis
play in the
growing pohutukawas
of your youth's
garden of kisses.

I move treasures
gathered from
the beach
of your past,
to dust
the shelves.
I rearrange the shells,
beginning
to make
my mark.
I can hear
the southwest wind
as it whips up
its whitecaps
on the deep
veridian hauraki gulf
carrying the future
to the clay cliff
doorsteps
of your heart's home

On the bench

You are spent now
your years of youthful charisma
and man about town popularity
wearied by age and tan suits.

To go with the tan suit
you wear a garish red necktie
(who dressed you this morning?)
trying to collar the power
that your charm
once proffered.
Not grasping the
fashion of the day,
another symptom
of loss.

In your day you strutted
and women did a double take
then swooned
in discordant competition.
(At least you think they did)

Today you sit
melancholic on a bench
during corporate lunchtime
while sexy young things
walk past
no heads swivelling
except yours