Greetings David,

I am employed by Fletchers Construction to be the Plant Coordinator at the Wellconnected Waterview Twin tunnel project underway beneath Sandringham in Auckland.
My wife is a hardworking Senior Nurse @ Ascot hospital in Greenlane.

For sanity, about six years ago, my wife and I bought a lifestyle block butting on to Egmont National Park @ 1250’ elevation. We built a beautiful alpine lodge, cut tracks down the heavily wooded escarpments, built bridges across two streams, reticulated roof water between tanks to a boulder built fishpond then to a shallow, stone rimmed lake which empties down an escarpment to the stream.
We have planted hundreds of trees and shrubs on this property, rhododendrons of beautiful form and colour, magnolias, a forest of silver birch, oaks, tulip trees and acers.
The property is a wonder of swooping hills and dips which, from it’s elevation, looks out over the grey Tasman sea toward Tasmania. Egmont looms in it’s white, pristine splendour over our left shoulder and the close, dark Puhakai range rears abruptly, spectacularly, betwixt the volcano and us.

Growth here is slow because of the climate, the 300 inches of annual rainfall, the short summers and the depleted volcanic ash soil.
I am 70 years old, my darling wife considerably younger….we both want to see our plantings grow to significance within our lifetime…
Thus my request for access to your wonderful fish fertilizer.

Respectfully
M.

Saturday alone on a love seat
for two with my roommate
plucking away at twisted nickel
across the room.

Unshowered, unmotivated,
a maybe Monday.

My clean laundry's a footrest
for ***** feet fresh off the
almost autumn asphalt.
Come visit us.

Be unshowered and unmotivated
on this maybe Monday.

Don't worry, the door's unlocked.
There's just a few hundred
flamingos waiting to get in,
but they should move

at the sound of your unshowered,
unmotivated, maybe Monday footsteps

See the little fly
submerged in water
shrunk and still
a single life lost
I see my daughter
floating on flood's flow
a dream gone of her own

children!
this is me, Onomatopoeia!
I never surprise the waiting eyes;
I only fall into the echoing ears.
Children!
I patter in the ground,
and on the roof around.
children!
I do buzz when the bees
fly to and fro, over the trees.
children!
I sing something sweet
when the birds play upon the flute.
children!
I rhyme in the meadows
when the crickets chant under the bushes.
Children!
I am Onomatompoeia,
the sound, the chime, the melody,
all like me, I am a flapping butterfly.

on a broken stone
sat the poet, guessing
the words on them.

He couldn't do;
his wisdom cursed him.

one of the them
rose upto hid face,
and said swinging,

"you failed.
your mind is a fiasco
for imagination is greater
than the power of understanding.

Even fate picks it's favorites,
I'm sure of this as I watch the sunset. My porch reveals to much.
The homeless hide their homes in the corners,
Sleeping in the shadows.
The heat leaving them sun burned and drunken.
Can you spare some change?
I've got 5 mouths to feed...
But I always can find some,
Even when they admit it's for beer.
I wonder each time if hope abandons them all.
I know that people can give up on the ones they love,
I know that life can be painful.
But I lay awake at night,
knowing that could be any one of us. Just across the street,
Lays a man in the bushes,
Sleeping off a drunken state,
Not knowing if he'll eat tomorrow.
And me,
I've got 5 mouths to feed.

prayer
is the coins to buy bread
and it is upto the shopkeeper
to giv us without.

prayer
is the school going child
to get cognizance by opening the books
and sometimes without them too.

prayer
covers the distance
between heaven and earth.

prayer
makes God happy
and removes His wrath upon us.

Time is money,
and money is power,
and power moves people
who prosper, and flower,
and grow into workers.
And workers bring service.
But service brings customers;
workers get nervous.
And nerves cause anxiety,
panic, and pain,
which cause workers' mistakes,
which, with pride, create shame.
And with shame, all the workers
stay home, never trying
to make something else
of their lives. Never buying
the houses they actually
want. They regret.
And regret causes anger,
and will to forget,
and forgetfulness causes
complacence and silence,
which causes more anger,
which brings about violence,
which leads to destruction,
and passionless death,
and then one lonely worker,
his last lonely breath:

"The world stole my power.
Ain't stealing a crime?"

But power is money.
And money is time.

I'd like to think that we
could unplug our Ethernet
arteries, replace them with
notebook spirals, and still
live long enough to fill
the pages.