Ballad of the computer lab

say dewdrop. say honeysuckle. say your own
name, over & over til it is only saliva. i want only to be compound.
now are you getting it? i am scared all that will be left is
crumbs. i am scared there will be a diagnosis of something & i will
think of course, i saw all the signs so many years ago. the computer
labs at school are still plastered with posters from the 90s,
all email etiquette & what does html stand for. i do not
believe you will pay for your sins & there are
not many things in which i do not believe. it might come as a knock on
the door or dead sparrow caught in the chimney. a letter, soggy
from the postie’s sweaty hands. a first kiss,
all tongue & no air. i am not the messenger, so do not
hold me accountable for the word the trees send. all they have done
is shelter me, & i did not ask even that. say benchtop.
say switchblade. say doorhinge. the knots they taught you in an old scout
den unravel. floorboards peel up like so much roasted skin. posters
from the 90s glow goldenrod & curl like ribbons stripped from the bone.
this is the darkest winter i’ve known yet & have spent much
time watching the past going up in smoke. in the house across the bay,
identical twins watch the flames. in the house on the hill,
dead girl’s friend watches the flames. hooked up to a machine sapping their
blood, the well-intentioned fool watches the flames. say shortcut. say beachside.
say dommage, dommage, dommage. tell your dead stories over & over,
til they are saliva sprayed across the room, or crumbs through
the forest, sourdough all through the moulder & green, over the logs &
seeping into the marsh. i scrape tarmac from roads with switchblade,
bleed till i drip honeysuckle. & i have spent so much
time watching the past buckle to
flame. i do not believe you will pay for your sins.
i’ll give you half anyway.

Cerys Fletcher
Year 13
Cashmere High School

He Sailed Away

In a shack by the sea,
All covered in rust.
In an old tackle box,
Six inches in dust.
There lies a leather book,
A story to read.
About a young fisherman,
Who sailed to sea.
He loved the smell of the air,
And the glistening water.
Sadly leaving behind
His wife and his daughter.
He went to find treasure,
Fish, for food and money.
But once finally returned,
Found life much less sunny.
His wife had now left him,
For someone far away.
He had no one to care for,
And nowhere to stay.
So he left that small town,
To live by the sea.
Where his spirit would sail,
And his soul was set free.
I wish this story’s end,
Was happier, less wild.
But sadly it is not,
I know, I’m his child.

Kushla Siemonek
Year 12
Taumarunui High School

Stitches
 
Mum’s stitches colour me like dark crayons striking paper.
My beautiful mum’s stitches find me on rainy days I tried to hide.
Broken vase upon a cold tile sorry Mum
Mum I’ll be better than the little girl I was last week.
I need fixing, stitches
stitches you say will hold me together
If not now then forever.
I’ll understand one day how dads lie and kiss their bottles instead of mums.
Oh Mum, Mum, black and blue the kids at school ask why I have these stitches
and I smile and say they’re glue.
I’ll stay together better than the best of yous.
Mum used to sing for me but Dad taught her to teach me right
and someday I won’t make the same mistakes.
Mum’s stitches stay with me
even when they’ve
disappeared.
 

Tessie Rose Poutai Tipene
Year 12
Te Wharekura o Mauao

Circles
 
Yelling and singing in the dark, riding in circles in the park.
One of the best nights of my life, spent with boys I know and love.
Feeling we could take on the world.
Making the glorious pilgrimage to the fast-food joint that serves all night.
I’m riding Andre’s brother’s bike. He rode it when he was eight years old.
The wind caresses my grown-out shaggy hair, making my black funeral scarf fly behind.
The scarf gets caught on my eyes, leaving me for a few seconds blind.
The three of us make a grand trio. We never plan what we get up to on these nights.
No girls, no drama, no fights. Only unconsciously finding trouble.
On this particular night, the cheap, greasy meal tasted better than ever.
The way back, we’re stopped by a pair of cops, to fine us for not wearing helmets.
Andre utilizes his clever tongue, pulling the funeral card, telling them of the loss of our fourth companion.
The wolves decide to leave us troublesome sheep for today, in search of an easier meal.
We arrive home and return the bikes to their assigned spots in Andre’s garage.
The floor felt nice that night, sleep coming easy that we’d had a grand night.
Creating iconic stories to tell our grandchildren.
It’s unintentional I swear, it happens every time.
 

Logan McAllister
Year 13
St Andrew’s College

The Gift

i.m. Mum 1962 – 2017

Mother we made a wishing well
together with the sinners.
We peeled back their resentment
and gifted their hearts to the stars.
You and I constructed
the shape of God’s entrance
the patchwork of our bond and your love for
notre famille uni, our united family.
The sound of the colossal sea
lulled you to sleep at night
and we would spin torrents of water
to make prayers.
We used to tell tales of princesses
that needed saving
but we are stronger than that.
Mother we are.
We were the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
We’d bake ginger bread men
with crooked arms.
We’d run between the hedges
and you’d count to 45.
“Ready or not?”
I was not ready.
In photographs it’s always summer
you wore burnt orange
and parted the sea.
Mum you are free.
 

Anna Doak
Year 12
St Margaret’s College

“The Astrophysicist and the Mathematician”
 
If somehow stars were landmarks, and the universe an old gambling town
Mercury is the motel we always drove past but never stayed in
I like to think of the way that trees grow, and how we all decompose into nothing but the soil – but most of the time
you tell me I’m indulgently metaphysical.
Though I know you’d only learnt that word last week.
The other day there was a boy, standing out in the storm.
He turned to me and said “Why are we all here? But because we like the way the rain hits the ground”
So matter of fact was he, that I began to ponder where I’ve been.
How I’ve lost microseconds just switching between the channels playing on my subconscious.
Maybe that’s where the time went
I’ve often pondered what would happen if I stepped out of my body
But here in the frigid winter is the realisation
That from the very rickets of my being
Up to the fragile lines of the mosaics on my fingers
I would simply break
Into blossom
Now I think back to you, leaning against the counter in my kitchen
Resting your hands just a little too close to the stove
My god, you really did look wonderful
Though but a metre from you,
There’s salt in the sugar bowl
The tea’s gone cold
And we don’t listen the same music anymore.
But in some ways I do hope you keep me
As the familiar creak in your floorboards
 
Hannah Wetzel
Year 13
Kaitaia College

ALRIGHT
 
We wrapped around a street lamp;
like a gift all bow-covered and taped neat on the edges,
we turned its light to darkness.
Maybe we’d been drinking.
The lights perhaps were a little too blurry,
pulsing and winking like live things.
I was distracted but then
it wasn’t me behind the wheel,
pedal to the floor.
She’ll be alright,
they used to promise us when we were just small,
patting our sandy hair with rough, tanned hands.
That summer, bare feet sticky against the tarmac,
we believed the age-old farmer wisdom we were too young to understand.
For she’ll always be alright
until she isn’t anymore,
until we’d wrapped ourselves around a crooked street light
at a hundred and twentysomething Ks an hour;
until your sandy hair was all rust-red
and the lights blurred behind my eyes and I couldn’t reach you;
until you wrapped us around a street lamp and the ribbons wound themselves around your soul;
until the rain turns my hair to straight sheets –
your funeral shroud –
until you sink, sealed coffin, to the ground before us
and suddenly I am alone.
Still those rough, tanned hands pat on in a sympathetic rhythm
and she’ll be alright,
they promise.
She’ll be alright.
 

Emily Rais
Year 13
Homeschooled

Dad
 
He is laughing maniacally,
words twisting out of his mouth,
winding together creating utter nonsense.
His head is thrown back,
his eyes glaze over,
the car drifts, speeds, swerves.
he becomes quiet,
head tilted away from me,
staring out the window at god knows what.
I coax him towards home.
I couldn’t leave him standing in the middle of the street,
staring at the sun setting,
pink purple orange red like the words that leave his mouth.
Glimmering stars,
basking in the cold moonlight.
Unpredictable, a beautiful mess.
The shine of the streetlight make his eyes flicker for a second,
away from the dull sheen.
But they soon begin to dance and swirl,
to the rhythm of the waves,
the tilt of the earth.
And once again he is gone,
lost to me.
Skipping off in the spotlight of the moon,
leaving a trail of pink purple orange red,
colours that burn.
 

Katie Rata Gotlieb
Year 13
Otago Girls’ High