Your Room is Rent

Welcome to
that time when you
can't go home,
because home is not your home;
It is a house,
it is a room,
it belongs
to someone else.

Owned by another,
in the space they call home,
where your welcome
overstays the tension.

Your room is rent,
not a haven.
Your room is rent
judging your presence,
waiting for leverage

to kick you out.

• 16/02/2018, Motueka/Ngatimoti

Walk Life to the End

To walk,

is to begin again,

I feel my life coming to an end.

I feel young,

but age has withered me away.

Bringing older,

Silvery tinged skin.

Was the frustration of family,

the only thing that anchored me?

With it gone,

sailing free has broken the dream.

I’d wish for a midlife crisis,

if I could afford the toys,

but the breakdown will have to suffice.

The loss of interest, question, wonder.

Sanity forsakes me.

Boredom relegates me

To less than the sum of my parts,

Roll out the carpet.

• 01/01/2018, Ngatimoti

The Smoking Barrel

Life is fit for opportunity:
Take the seat on your own,
Order the cappuccino,
Order the chicken tenders,
Smile and make yourself presentable
Even though you didn't have a shower this morning.
"Do you take sugar?"
I looked at the bottle of water,
The glass just poured. "Yes."
She brought me sugar.
Love the moment,
Hate the feelings,
Walk off rejection.
Your hair looks good to someone,
No matter how messy it fell.
Friends may come,
Friends may go;
Friends are not the ones who leave you alone,
Freeze you out,
Forget how much a phone call means,
How easy a phone call is to make,
Place your heart on a stake.
They will fade,
Their influence diminish;
You will start anew,
A bird with greater wingspan.
Order another coffee,
Stay up late,
Make no apologies for the past you had to live through
- that is yours and yours alone.
Some will never know,
Some won't want to know,
Some will understand,
Some play the advantage of their hand.
Fly, roll, run, walk,
This has all been said before.
Words, how they matter not,
For
The intent is to release the soul
From its prison of thoughts.

• 09/09/17, Motueka

You Have Moved On

You had moved on, dear friend
You had moved on.
Into another world, dear friend
One that left me behind.
Fourteen years ago, dear friend
We waved good bye.
Though no hands were involved
All was said with smiles and eyes.

You have moved on, dear friend
You have moved on.
Pictures on the wall, dear friend
Of years that are not mine.
Footsteps down the hall, dear friend
Go your straying eyes.
The most common thread runs
Now through those two homely lives.

You will move on, dear friend
You will move on.
Into another world, dear friend
One that leaves me behind.
Fourteen years ago, dear friend
We waved good bye.
Chasing was not your dream
Because chasing is a waste of time.

You have moved on, dear friend
You have moved on.
I returned for you, dear friend
To put the past behind.
But lost to years between, dear friend
The importance of desire.
The most common song sung
Now warms those two homely fires.

• 04/08/17

A Trash-can of Memories

I could not keep chasing
What would not return the favour,
I could not keep pretending
I was a familiar member.

The culture you propagate
Is the culture that dictates
Who gets left in, who gets left out.
Sidelines are drawn
For those who wait their turn
Clinging tight to a trash-can of memories.
 

• 03/08/17

Draft Version

As I fall again into Depression,
This weight is something more than I can stand.
And again, Gravity will play the robber,
        again and again and again.
        The thief persuading me to fight against it
        like I had a chance.

I’m sorry for the bruises
I inflicted upon you,
I never meant harm
only to have you with me.
        Just in case.

Creases and folds of your pages,
Slight tears to the edges,
Shoved into my bag with my shoes
So I can walk the beach
        an observational disaster,
        Lucky for the reprints, Barber

Here I sit 7km out
to do some writing,
But I can barely hold this pen.
        Dribbling across the page
        38 on an infant stage

If the strength of my calves,
Could be transferred to these fingers,
If some kind of inspiration
Could ravish my brain

Instead of the sunken skin across my face
Pulling at my bones, dragging down my crown
Threatening to reveal the tears sidling under the balls of
        my white eyes.

If there was another way, Marlowe
To survive the death,
And still be remembered
Would the pseudonym fit the words?

Or would they bleed another lie from the quill,
Like all half-truths when distilled?
        Begging for more explanations
        As though rational deductions
        Could change the outcomes.

        I was a summer squall
        Crashing waves upon the shore,
        Ignoring the heat of the beating sun
        Exiting my return with a plumb

A life in verse
Remember the lines,
        remember the lines,
Avoid the curse,
       It was all for naught.

• 18/01/15, Gisborne

This Day's Lease

Down in the hollow what was this meant to be?
          It was meant to be an escape where dreams are leased for free.
Down in the hollow what was this meant to be?
          It was meant to be chastity without recourse for agreeing.

Down in the dreary what was sleep meant to be?
          It was meant to be an island where dreams wash the salty seas.
Down in the dreary what was sleep meant to be?
          It was meant to be a chase scene living the cost of fantasy.

Down in the morrow what was this meant to be?
          It was meant to be a rising where eyes search the scene.
Down in the morrow what was this meant to be?
          It was meant to be a shadow without remorse for seeing.

Down in the merry have you heard what’s to be?
          It was meant to be coming like a penniless thief in retreat.
Down in the merry have you heard what’s to be?
          It was meant to be sorted long ago without the struggle for peace.

Up on the landing where guides the bitter breeze,
          Were you not a loner asking for more than what you teased?
Up on the landing where guides the bitter breeze,
          Were you not a sinner in praise of the faintest river reed?

Up on the fairway where sleeps the bitter breeze,
          Were you not awaiting the longest day to pilfer from the grief?
Up on the fairway where sleeps the bitter breeze,
          Were you not a scholar immersed in his own incomplete screeds?

Up on the standing where guides the bitter breeze,
          Were you not a merchant on the harbour affixed with treaties?
Up on the standing where guides the bitter breeze,
          Were you not a sailor hands on rope in his time of need?

Up on the staircase where creeps the fetching breeze,
          Are you not hounded for the past mistakes you try to appease?
Up on the staircase where creeps the fetching breeze,
          Are you not astounded for the disaster that was this day’s lease?

• Gisborne, 2014

Who is the You?

My face is blue from all the lying I did for you,
My tongue is tied from all the crying I did for you,
My lips are parched from all the sighing I did for you.

For who is the you in love with the blue,
That closeted the hope in love with the dreams?
And who upset the path that saw the light,
Screening down walls to blend with the night?

My tears are true from all the falling I did for you,
My hands are raw from all the lifting I did for you,
My chest is tired from all the breathing I did for you.

For who is the you that speaks of the true,
That dares to call a foul on the broken seams?
And who denied the chance to leave behind,
What wasn't ours but always abides?