Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

Jul 19, 2005 at 11:25 o\clock

East german kiwi I met at Vincents opening

Mood: color
Listening to: blue miles

I speared an olive and you appeared


And the room turned crimson hushed


Talk of python young ones and such

Brought alive with your mimic rush


World issues and wondering why

When east met west the fountain cried


Onto New Zealand and history paths

And the room turned a yellowed hue


Communication and conditions human

The mystery of the mystery of life



Then to mind states and moods dark

Your voice began to waver



Life colors left and cold blue blew in


You grasped a plate and you were gone





Jul 8, 2005 at 12:22 o\clock

ode to my russian lada

Mood: black
Listening to: highway to hell

You served me well old friend

I let you go reluctantly

One week later I saw you

Beaten scared and left abandoned

to ruin and rust

and I just ran away


Jul 8, 2005 at 11:29 o\clock

Two poems fromTania Butcher Palmerston North NZ

!! The Wahine and Barrett's Reef Beloved your young eyes pull back The antithesis of heaven's bow Draws in love's pupils As life loses its mastery Her karanga in flight We dive Raging caves patu stone disembowel Those veins where waters meet The night strums Rising to spheres where nothing resides The silent rigors of sobs rolling White fists on beaches Annointed by her death hand Cupped for rain brushes the reef Misting the wind's screen Mere shimmer of her hand. SONNET: THE LIONS TOUR Send the best of the Lion's footie stock Or will and red sheep off a British moor; Send us the Plantagenet of Woodstock That passions will savour ever more. In common grass-roots fashion we hold hands To entwine scrum green and braid red and black; Of our new youth will show you Brits what stands For our affection and thats for you to crack. So should you English footie pilgrims bleat. No Jonah on the wing then watch our wing, The thrust and bull force of Palmerston's fleet. Bring the Maui vans of British lion's wing, Give us the reserves as best plays best And string up ten guitars with will on line. We hear your roar and see your British crest, Brit-fans aboard and none so clandestine. Don't send us the puff of George's green lead Send Paddy's Will and lion share, life's mead. Tania Butcher

Jul 4, 2005 at 10:47 o\clock

Read them twice

Mood: Farm and wind again
Listening to: moo moo

 first I saw her hair
in the wind, then the wonder
of her smile           


getting louder
the calf
the auctioneer

Jul 4, 2005 at 10:20 o\clock

Poetic beginings

Listening to: the wind

The aliens roamed the Johnsonville shopping mall on a cold Thursday morning


The Chinese searched out the students in the food court /Rounded them up at gunpoint /forced them into a book shop/put them all on a culture waltz


The South Americans gripped amazed shoppers/salsa danced down the walkways/ tapping feet against the hard floor/ dreaming  of other places/ happy and sad criss crossed their moods



The Dutch played dice at the tables with rattle bags of leather/Rolled cheeses and followed on their bikes/ a colour scape whirl of thick gin saturate


The Arabs darted from shop to shop/ was terror on their minds?/Muddle huddled westerners expecting surely not/But only dark giggles was their lot


Then sirens roared and doors burst wide /Team America  on the job/

Bullet proof garb weapons at the ready / round up roars / all lying on the floor/These alien aliens restore the store/ God bless……


@Neil Furby