Poetry_Master

Waiting to Fall Off
 
His hedge is a different shape
each time; I think he lives here
but I don’t really know;
the seal does. He smirks and shows off
to the mermaid
who sits on her tail and watches.
Once I sat on his lap and watched him
take out his teeth;
his top lip swallowed his bottom
and all the tattoos up his arm
of boobs
and The Sailor Man.
His legs were red kumara
just waiting to be picked,
waiting to fall off.
Most of the other people here
are nurses
on their day off.
We’re all doing fine;
Helen’s annoying us
just like usual.
Some lady got up and
said a tribute to you
about somebody else.
 

Jade Trim
Yr 13, Taradale High School

once fluid movements are hindered by corrosion
 

 

Annie Stevenson
Yr 12, St Andrew’s College

Turning a blind eye
 
One-fifty to the gram. The stuff was a rip-off.
But not to him. For a dealer, the money is money.
It does its job.
He shouted an order to keep the coke safe to the figure on the couch.
He called this out, and departed. It was safe with Daniel.
He was reading Shakespeare, eating an apple.
He was a dependable guy. A good chap, just like his father.
 
The door slammed shut.
Danny sprung to his feet. Dad wasn’t home.
Time for some mayhem. Pissing in Dad’s coffee was a laugh
But something different this time.
Where was the fun if no one noticed?
Yeah. Something bigger.
Excitement rushed through him.
 
The dealer strolled back in at nine.
Ten more customers today. Maybe even more tomorrow.
But he never even noticed the missing coke.
Nor the broken window.
Nor the copy of Macbeth on the couch.
Nor the half-eaten apple rotting to its core.
 

by Vinay Patel
Wellington College

What Matters is the Hiss of Powder
 
Ingredients
The first weekend of May
Clear slate sky
Mulch of leaves deaden footfalls
Khaki shadows make mud
Tempt the game with a trail of barley
Slither into tattered shoots:
Maimai made of autumn produce.
 
Hunting
The first soft splash – an explosion
Wrought steel and wood used to scatter
Feathers fly like split down duvets
The stain of red on brown
Plumes of black smoke fill the slate
Muting keening laments
The pond splattered pink.
 
Gathering
Charcoal embers crackle
Vinegar draws the blood out
Poison lead inside the breast
Pluck bruised petals
Tear the sinews aside
Oozing sludge left behind
The game of feather secretes life
 
Indigestion
The lacrimal glands secrete fluid
The taste seems stolen,
The hands stained.
What matters is the hiss of powder
Sluicing through the air like the twang of acid rain.
What matters is the salt will carve your cheeks
Like your guns carve their wings.
 

by Lucy Brownlee
St Andrews College

The Window
 
The dog whose every breath will lift
And fall like a beating of wings,
Lolling like a fat man in an armchair
All day will listen to the heat pump humming
And stare wide-eyed out the frosted glass
Sentry
To the world beyond the window
 
And then little winged beetle, staring at the wind he cannot see
And throwing tiny bone-limbs against the window
As if he could make it disappear
Like platform nine and three quarters
 
Elsewhere, mothers from their kitchen stools and children in
bright classrooms
Stare low-lidded at the bird in the shadow dancing
And the muted rain that slides down the arms of the wind chime.
Rusting
 
Upwards the window gazers stare
To the clear
And white
And blue
Half-planning an escape
To the world beyond the window.
 

by Madison Hamill
Queens High School

Only Falling
 
There is something beautiful that i
have to write, but
i do not know what it is. i know
there are skies melting into oceans to
create a song, but
i do not know where the sky is.
 
i only know that i will fly there
one day. But for now i
am a cat,
 
chasing
 
butterflies and birds,
digging my nails into trees as if
they deserve to be punished.
As if when i
reach the top branch i will be flying.
But i am not, i am only
 
falling.
 
i
am a cat and
cats do not have hands to grip a pencil,
cats cannot tell you that i love you, cats
are kicked and yelled at because master is
 
angry
 
and cats cannot carve a hole in
my skull to let the words out.
 
i curl up on the bed, dream
of catching butterflies, only so i
can sew their wings to my back.
 

by Hayley Russell
Rangi Ruru Girls’ School

The Green stone
 
You are so shiny and beautiful.
Yet I can not find you.
It is like a mystery.
I feel like I am getting closer.
Yet I am so far away.
I will find you eventually.
But I can not wait for that day.
 

by Nikita Ward
Paraparaumu College

Being Pakeha
 
Wha Nuke, Rereke, Tautoku.
It’s supposed to be my heritage.
I wish I could understand the words printed on the walls of Taraika,
But I can only stare.
Tutuki, Tapu, Whakaaro.
They hold a sacred meaning.
The words are alive, I can feel it,
Yet they stand meaningless in my mind.
 
I very nearly went to the Kapa Haka meeting.
They would all have been experienced – full-blooded Maori
Trained in the art from birth.
I would have been embarrassed.
 
I almost circled Maori on my subject choice sheet.
The other students would have laughed at me.
The teacher would have laughed at me.
My own parents probably would have laughed at me.
A Pakeha could never learn Maori.
 

by Lachlan Dixon
Wellington High School

Grace
 
I think in ten-point turns,
walk past myself,
blow steam on the windows
without drawing pictures.
 
You say I shouldn’t worry
because anyone who can spell
onomatopoeia
is destined for great things.
 
I think in lines and boxes.
You think in clouds and curlicues.
epiphanies and animation.
 
You say
“I was born like this,
look.”
And cross your eyes.
One fat curl unwinds itself
onto your cheek.
 
Puddles are happy,
you say.
Happy friend puddles.
Because they always land
in groups
you say
then grab my arm
and pull us into one
together.
 

by Alexandra Morris
Karamu High School