Sounds from around

 

When I walk down to the inlet

 

I can hear the cries of the trees and the cars zooming past

 

The sea rippling in the sun and nipping crabs under the rocks

 I could smell the pollen in the flowers That would make me sneeze AAACHOOO !!! When I listen to the things I hear singing birds laughing kids and squawking seagulls I see kids playing, adults watching and birds looking for food Its lovely to just sit on the side and watch the water and children playing 

When it starts to get dark

 I watch the sunset and all its different colours  I see little kids playing around in the parkAnd in the grass I sit on the grass and just think about everythingWhen I am sitting down quietly I see adults sitting down thinking about their pastWhen they were little kids I always walk home with a happy face

Commenting on a complaint from a Mr. Arthur Purdey about a large gas bill, a spokesman for NorthWest Gas said "We agree it was rather high for the time of year. It's possible Mr. Purdey has been charged for the gas used up during the explosion that destroyed his house." (The Daily Telegraph)

Letter to North West Gas from A Mr Arthur Purdey in response to the above response

Dear Sir

I feel that as the gas was leaking for some time before the explosion that as I was not using the gas in the normal manner it was intended to be used by the consumer

I know that entering my cellar with a candle to see if I could see where the gas smell was coming from was rather fool hardy on my part but I beg you please reconsider your view on this matter . A Purdey c/o Bradford Burns Unit

Free fall forever

 

 (True Tales on my Apple Picking Time early 2006 Moteweka NZ)

 

They said the time of death was 2,540 feet above sea level

71 years old he never told the Parachute Club about his heart

 

They saw him swinging gently from side to side

Head learning to one-side hands hanging at rest

 

Steer left steer left commands frantic falling on dead ears

Gravity pulls faster and faster now know one wants to look

 

He hit the apple packing shed roof on target through the rusted tin

Fell on to the huge grading table a chorus of screams and then disbelieve

 

If he had been an apple his inspection card would have read

 

Bruised, Over ripe Bad color 

Only fit for juicing

Or the local market

 

@ Neil Furby

 

 

 

 

 

The splish splash of the sculpture in the mall

Buckets turn and water falls again and again

 

The sun nudges the day alive

 

Somewhere in the back of the lot

Something stirs

 

A clothed shape moves from the earth

A face shows itself to the light and a groan sounds out

 

Then another bundle of something moves and grunts in this other chorus

Together a slow ballet begins that moves to the home called bench

 

The scattered garden around this home are flowers called vodka beer and sherry

And petals of filter brown and leaf green pepper the ground

 

Time for breakfast a twist of top or a hiss of air

A crackle pop of liquid their toast a mates bottle clink

 

And so to work it’s hard to keep up the high

Dawn till fall over time drink drink drink

 

We are your warning a street sign called beware

All donations welcomed, mother don’t cry

 

@Neil Furby

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here are the facts: Earth and Mars are converging for a close encounter this year on October 30th at 0319 Universal Time. Distance: 69 million kilometers. To the unaided eye, Mars will look like a bright red star, a pinprick of light, certainly not as wide as the full Moon.

Disappointed? Don't be. If Mars did come close enough to rival the Moon, its gravity would alter Earth's orbit and raise terrible tides.

 

I climb out the window across the street
The wall’s revenge,
The yellowish mouth
Of someone else’s stained window ledge.
Shadows hang down
Glancing haughtily around.
Yesterday, at twelve thirty
My veins were sliced by the moon.
I wasn’t the first,
I don’t ask for glory or bread
As I glance calmly at the heavens,
Remaining like a simple marcher in a parade.
But all the same, where were you
When I was carried
In someone’s arms
Right past your garden?

 

From the book “A Voice”

@  Angelina Polonskaya

 

An Infinite Number of Monkeys Ronald Koertge *

After all the Shakespeare, the book
of poems they type is the saddest
in history.

But before they can finish it,
they have to wait for that Someone
who is always

looking to look away. Only then
can they strike the million
keys that spell

humiliation and grief, which are
the great subjects of Monkey
Literature

and not, as some people still
believe, the banana
and the tire.