photo: Motueka, Sandspit, forging your path, the best you can
If I were a story
I would be my own
I wouldn’t copy that
of the great flamboyant ones
it would be very simple
of that I am sure
and difficult too
obviously
like walking in the middle of the night
in an uncertain forest
on rough paths
but it would be mine
and mine it would stay
photo : Nelson Botanical Garden, the eternal restart of spring
we would start again
every day, every month,
we would not tire
of the repetition of things or
of the non important small gestures
yes, even those
we could not get over it
*posted in 2024, edited in 2026
photo: Tenby, December 2016, fence, detail, when aging means beautifying.
Circle the dark thoughts,
so they fall below zero
Dedicate the beautiful stories
to the sad widows of heroes
Burn in the evening stars
and bow to the words
*posted in 2017
first uploaded 2017
photo: This poem was written while looking at the Atlantic from Aberystwyth, back when I wasn’t taking photos. This photo was taken near Wellington.
The greedy waves kept coming
the waves, what waves!
and the grey seagulls
in the dying light
of a surprising winter
but the waves, what waves!
and the grey seagulls,
and the foaming surf
almost scared
of its own tide
that would delete the words of love
written in the sand of the afternoon
photo : the endless ability of the tides to create beauty day after day.
Like the tide is scribbling down on the sand
the mood of its waves
I will scribble my page
with those emotions that do not want to be dissected
*posted in August 2022, edited in August 2026
