The Web Poetry Corner
The Web Poetry Corner
Nelson, New Zealand
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It was hard to leave it like that.
My last memories were of the ugly room that had become so much a part of my
I hated it all so much.
Tears ran down my face.
A voice came over the loudspeaker, a farewell that I would never recieve.
I walked around, searching for something to do, anything to make me stay for
just a few minutes more.
It was no use, I had to go. How much I was leaving behind, leaving a safehouse.
I crept out,the voice from the loudspeaker still in my head.
"Your years here were good ones, though, now you must leave, take with you
I never did find out what else was said.
I never wanted to leave, to say goodbye.
I did though, my own private farewell speech to the place that I loved, the
place that I would never see through the same eyes again.
All was forgiven.
It took me almost a year to realise how much I really missed the place.
Crying and crying for something ling in the past.
So many things that I did there,
so many people, so changed.
Never did I want it to be this way.
All in the past, but with me always.
Will I have to say goodbye again, all alone?
Poems scrawled on mission walls tell of the worlds vast decay,
Nothing wanted, naught to hold,
All stars are here in bright aray.
Never in Athenas face
was ever seen the fall of man,
But there lies within the insane race
true tales of beauty and of grace.
amongst the ruins
where days couple with time
our tumbling lives
with sneers and up cast eyes
the changing moon
a distant prison
of science and theorems
holds our souls, inspires our minds
and flings toward creased,dusty feet
pennies for our begging bowl
Sorry never says what it should
As I told you sorry in the middle of the night
You held me and asked me why
But I had no answers as I watched
The firelight on your face
Deepening the lines of pain
with hot shadows
Sorry never says what it should
As I watched through the drizzling rain
you twined your arms around his head
stroked his face with your trembling hands
"I'm sorry... so sorry"
Holding him for the last time
you looked him in the eye
and said goodbye
I remember mornings.
They were times when you walked around in the damp coolness
watching the sky grow light with different shades of washed out color.
You worked and were happy,
because work had purpose,
It made the rest of the day easier.
Carrying hay, or halters,
your breath misting infront of you,
catching the scent of sleeping earth and the rapidly vanishing night.
Mornings were the best part of my day
now they generally happen to someone else.
the death of an ideal.
What was it you said?
on that autumn afternoon
when the leaves fell
and for a moment
a scattered heartbeat
realized only on
the edge of time
the edge of mind
the edge from which you
Where are you now
When I'm driving
on city roads
watching headlights with faint detachment
as they hold me in their glow.
the time you nearly drove us off the road
and I sat, for a while, in the car
on the side of the highway listening to
your sleeping breath.
Driving through a fog
where I finally met time in a pot
of mixed reality
watching heroes struggling in the mist
and straining to find the next marker.
See us in those days
when we still tried to hope
that we might mean
to each other.
An unconcious transcendence
from the "Yo homey" jeans to the flannel shirt
his eyes calling for the country he'd given.
Arms around his waist,
the scent of gas, tobbacco, farm
sifting through the long shadows
full of rain
in this May dusk
I have never seen these hills
but they call to me with a timbre that defies time
so you feel like you have walked this land
this land burnt black as phoenix fires.
And it's only for a day
I ride this bike
remembering a future I want to know.
UntitleUpon reading Cattalus and watching him drive away
And still the stone
that sits upon my chest
aghast at Cattalus' stumbling
aghast at the recognition
in those ugly words.
My teacher talked of birds once,
Sitting in her Jacaranda tree
in the morning
as the sun rained down.
And my Mother liked our kitchen
for the plumb blossom
council of Wax-eyes
in the spring.
But I saw a maid
on the silver screen
when I was young
foretell death on the arrival of a Thrush
like one that sits on our garden fence
and has made its nest in our gutter.
in this spring sun
the blistering boards
on your sunglasses.
tossed and tousled
with the earth warmed wind
The shimmering ocean
reflected in the skin,
of the landed Salmon
in the photograph
your back turned
watching the tide
ebb and flow
following the rustic path
through spring sea sides
She waers the bag backwards
in disdain of the carriage her left shoulder provides, slipping,
bouncing the frayed remnants of the broken strap
beneath the edge of her sweater.
A Mothers bag, a Fathers sweater.
Dilapidated tokens she keeps at her side
with the flawed imaginings of their former importance.
Reality drives home in a broken down Ford
coughing the black smoke of their expressions.
This is home
I took up smoking
on the roof
at 2 in the morning
and gave it up
a few weeks later.
but still the tight rolled
leaves come out
of Marlborough boxes
I think it was something
they put in the water
in the Nelson of my youth.
The yellow water
from diswasher stained glasses
after we ran
with bare, brown feet
up the gravel drive in the shade
of the wattles
my brothers eyes streaming
with summer dust and pollen.
With that sepia colored youth
and watch the rain
running down through the night,
this acrid, tar sealed night.
and watch the lights
of passing cars
the cloud obscured stars
around this timeless lot.
My friends have gone to court again
got another lecture
from my father
on disadvantageous associations.
In other words,
this parking lot has swallows lives
and counts them,
on the walls of mouldy toilet stalls
soon painted over.
It seems the same...
Faces, names remain
through the rubber smoke
and deisel roads
that mark the passing of weeks,
Every fall I leave
and every spring return,
open the door
and step joyfuly back into the room,
to get another fix.
of stagnant lives.
Will we always be 18?
Driving through this endless Saturday night
as our winged wheels
drive us off the clock?
Or will we sit,
talk about the old days I guess.
The time when we did skids on the morning dew,
or talked all night on the hill
above the ocean
and got high
and walked along the beach.
2am has come and gone
and another butt is thrown
to the glistening tarmac,
and I think I will not see
those familiar headlights
or number plates tonight,
and I wont be whisked
into the night
or reminisce untill dawn
about that brilliant summer.
it's only a rainy Tuesday night
Remember mornings? (revised)
Wrapped in coolness
lights and color
washed through the sky
by the waking farmhand
hosing down the stalls.
Hay and leather
carry in my misted breath
soaked in sun and sweat
along the dusty race.