Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

Sep 30, 2006 at 09:06 o\clock

Fond partings

Watched you standing by your car

a cloud of smoke above your head

Did not know you smoked

But it kinda made it better

I drove into the traffic

Head blushed  from  our talk

Life is all about humanity in the end

not nation, ethnic groups or religion


@neil Furby

Sep 29, 2006 at 11:50 o\clock

Mountain Bike Romance (True Story)


I saw the man first  on his bike peddling down the road with purpose bold

Then one day I saw him on a tandem bike with a woman on the back

Another day  the tandem with the woman sitting on the front

What next, man and woman on two separate bikes

And now I see him alone peddling down the road with less purpose bold

@Neil Furby

Sep 28, 2006 at 01:57 o\clock

Micro Tragedy happens every day

Twin towers of hopes and dreams
Destroyed by loves flight
Falters and fall

At ground zero a life in ruin
A smoke insanity chokes
Distort and twist

Massed chaos of buckled future
Trapped below identity screams
Grapple and claw to get out
Push and panic

Micro Tragedy happens every day

@ Neil Furby

Sep 27, 2006 at 22:11 o\clock

Blanket man

Blanket man Blanket man

We pass you by each day

You have become a Wellington Icon

But what’s the price you pay

 Blanket man Blanket man

Putting ya body on the line

So close to the roadside

Your death wish is a sign 

Blanket man Blanket manHow come you are this way?

Tapping sticks for money

But we still pass you by each day


Lets all become blanket people

 And lie down naked wrap up warm

Sticks a tapping for a new New Zealand

Enlightened peoples on a new dawn  

@Neil Furby

Sep 26, 2006 at 05:45 o\clock

When you tell me


When you tell me I
should keep the house
and furniture, the air
inside the car is like
the breath a woman holds,
breaking eggs against
a bowl or listening
for the sound of shoes
in the bedroom, the closet
door closing where her
husband has just
stood, choosing a tie.

Laurie Lamon
The Fork Without Hunger
CavanKerry Press

Copyright (c) 2005 by Laurie Lamon.
All rights reserved.

Sep 21, 2006 at 09:46 o\clock

true words for me

The only people for me are the mad ones,
the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk,
mad to be saved, desirous of everything at
the same time, the ones who never yawn or
say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn,
burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles
exploding like spiders across the stars.”

~ Jack Kerouac

Sep 19, 2006 at 23:03 o\clock

Kwanzaa the African shop 10 year celebrations with owner Poet Louis Scott


Sep 19, 2006 at 22:39 o\clock

Poetry Cafe October

Poetry Cafe is back.

@ the Cruz Cafe & Bar Porirua

The gods of weather and liquor licensing kept David Eggleton from appearing in June, but we look forward to the return of the Great Kiwi Ranter in October......

· Entry is Free ·

7:30 October 9: David Eggleton



Sep 18, 2006 at 23:18 o\clock

To be was not to be

To be was not to be

What was and what is now

A thousand thoughts in your mind 

A wind blew through your tree existence

Was it all such howls of agony?

Did the leaves brown to your now state

Of winter chill and no spring in sight 

The fruit that fell cleaved by others

Is safe in earths bower and will rise again

In some other place

Yet the scar weeps for you  

Mother of your life

Is gone but is there still

Your spirit her spirit entwines your branches

To support not crush your will 

Your cankered pain creeps to your trunk

The rain for you a poisoned chalice

No growth no blossom here

A sap to crystallizes your very life 

Black clouds these thoughts that float and stay

Hide that   healing sun

Loves rays you cannot see or feel

Please let them in and live 

 For V  @ Neil Furby      

Sep 18, 2006 at 10:04 o\clock

Becky my daughter who loves animals


Sep 18, 2006 at 09:43 o\clock



Sep 16, 2006 at 05:27 o\clock


TIGER, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?


In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?


And what shoulder and what art

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand and what dread feet?


What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? What dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?


When the stars threw down their spears,

And water'd heaven with their tears,

Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?


Tiger, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

By William Blake

Sep 16, 2006 at 05:17 o\clock






Sep 15, 2006 at 02:13 o\clock

Surely Its all about intelligent design and not natural selection


Sep 12, 2006 at 22:41 o\clock

Words to ponder

 Fish look for water.
Men look for the light.

...Man licks the earth, and the earth falls onto man.
Man penetrates the earth.
And the crying of the earth wet man's brow.
    The earth with its deep hollow,
bed of light,
prepares the dream.
One must sleep the dream of the earth.
One must sleep.
Rest on the earth
a calm brow.
Press with fingernail and mouth and thirst
the resounding waterfall of earth,
its turbulent box
sailing toward peace.

Like a scream of water, time penetrates into the earth of bones.
It goes toward the sleeper.
It asks him if the dream tastes of earth.
And the sleeper does not know whether to say
"I want"
or keep silent...

[Cortejo y Epinicio,
first edition: Poem LXVII.]

Sep 7, 2006 at 11:25 o\clock

Shed Makara NZ


Sep 6, 2006 at 10:44 o\clock

Barn Yard rambles

The hen twitched her head to the beat while the pigs tapped a trotter and the horse swished his tail 

The sounds of the two legs a strange sound to the barn yard gang filled every space around

No escape for goat tied up for his own good after he head butted the clothes on the line that afternoon

And what is this  the two legs now a group in the yard in a mating dance under the full moon

Why do they not get on with it the Barn yard gang wondered as the two legs  girated and bounced about

We need to sleep go away let there be the sound of night with gentle wind rustle and the sound of the stream  


@ neil furby 






Sep 5, 2006 at 02:02 o\clock


We spread moisturising cream for a dry skin
on the dead man’s face and his niece knelt in front of the coffin praying thus:
Come on, Aloe Vera,
make my uncle’s cheeks rosy, and you almond oil, tickle him round the lips, I know that will wake him up from even the deepest dream,a neighbour threw in that Aloe Vera does miracles and is it not obvious from the look of her skin like a baby’s, she said, and she’s already pushing fifty.
We all turned to her and forgot that the mask should be left for 7 minutes on a live person’s face,
and on a dead person’s – three, his niece’s prayer ended, the mask broke, we buried the taxi driver
without his face, but refreshed from the inside.
 On the way back, a cloaked woman appeared in front of us with a tray full of red apples. There are as many truths as there are apples, she said, here,
help yourselves, isn’t it true, newly-weds, that survival in this world depends solely on those in love for the first time on an embankment brimming with unrecycled romance?
 She must be mad,thought he, and the bride started yelling at the top of her voice:
‘You see? And you have let go my hand a thousand times!’ and she unmarried the hairdo to get which
she had spent her whole life under the hair-drier, so that to her the funeral they were returning from smelled of an ozone hole. The dead man put his hand in his pocket and never removed it again in Einstein’s world.
Was it a funeral or a wedding, Aloe Vera?
Who married whom? Who buried whom?

© 2003, Lidija Dimkovska

Sep 4, 2006 at 03:58 o\clock

Empty Spaces

Empty Spaces

She is a switchblade afraid of the hint in a two-second glint that might spring you an arm's length away. I fear. She kisses close, to shut the open gate of hunger, heavy-footed as history perched on her chest. Empty spaces. She never rests. Stumbling through the clutter of language, she rummages cramped closets for her lost sounds—igriegas y erres—tumbling like marbles spilled in the attic. Spaces I fear. She main lines white noise—a guest persistent as rain flooding her muted room. Spaces. She adds another hue to the walls crawling with orange and blue that zig zag the curves of her world to the ceiling. I fear empty spaces. She is reeling in a ravenous subjunctive that would doubt its own bones were it not for her grip slipping from your moist shoulders to the winter of metal bedposts. Spaces I empty. She grinds against you minding only the bland blue sky that filters through the O'Keefe hollow of her pelvis. I empty fear. In this abyss, she comes, braying the silence away.

Brenda Cárdenas

Sep 3, 2006 at 10:43 o\clock

Double dactyl

Double dactyl:
a form of light verse invented by Anthony Hecht and John Hollander.
 The double dactyl consists of two quatrains, each with three double-dactyl lines ( / _ _ / _ _ ) followed by a shorter dactyl-spondee pair (/_ _ /). The two spondees rhyme. Other rules of this "dismally difficult / Form" are that the first line must be a nonsense phrase, the second line a proper or place name, and one other line, usually the sixth, a single double-dactylic word that has never been used before in a double dactyl. For example,
Higgleby piggledy,
Bacon, lord Chancellor,
Negligent, fell for the
Paltrier vice.

Bribery toppled him,
Finished him, testing some
Poultry on ice.