pain –

guity pleasure creates enormous pain
may it never happen again.

The island by the city

away from soulless city searching

on landing shore empty shells

create wonder to wandering eyes

before tongariro walking on volcanic crunch

before the bitter limerock of priest spa

before sulphuric ochre whispers past

the native is trapped on domain drive.

we visited twice the suffocated marae

he taonga Maori and performers “experience”.

cement meant to soar by westward eyes

sweat and work creating falseness

a world reduced to pleasing visiting crowds.

we seek the spiritual taha wairua

even though we do not know it yet.

me and he we tred lightly from the boat

leaves brush our legs; soft rustling greens

unencountered I stop to

smell,
touch,
taste

the sweetness of waiheke

as breeze passes upward laughing

making peace with the world; pleasure

surroundings finally greet us as pepper

and glassy berries tingle touching lips.

sitting down watching pastoral meets local

-- glocal --

leaves of the vine
thousands of lives

and the aquamarine circles us

as the wind flag pauses and sways

channelling hope, accepting the past.

together you teach of aotearoa

the beat ships onto the island by the


city

an august love

An august love
Is as fleeting here
As the break
Between the fog.

I wish I could hold
Onto this for longer,
But reality brings,
brings me back...

I wish I could read
These to you (with
My best poet-
orator voice)

I sincerely wish
I hadn’t fallen deep,
Heavy, longingly,
In love with you

Throughout the month.
So that when September
Raises its ugly head
With memories

Of the dead, of return
And a heavy toil,
I wouldn’t feel this
Deep, heavy, longing,

Despair.

white guilt

My tutor called it white guilt
The guilt of the white man
My hands are so sticky, with the
Blood of sixty million and more.

But the sixty million is just the

Start

Start of our legacy to the world
My ancestors, the captain on the
Slaver ship, throwing over
Cargo

Whipping children in the fields
Teaching the uncivilized masses
The heathens
The darkies

So much blood on these hands
I shudder at the truth, the hidden
Truth that is not to be found in
Any textbook

Our wonderful country,
The homeland, the fatherland
We invented the concentration camp
So much blood

The sixty million is just the

Beginning.