The moment we met was a tumultuous storm
We both were damaged and new
Still, our minds melded until we saw the moon
A passion that surpassed the physical realm
I asked for a second date pretending to not care
By second date the storm turned into a hurricane
Only this time a perfectly synchronous formation
Bonded deeply by our similar traumas and tribulations
The first time we let ourselves go we knew it was game over
Never before had my intensity matched so equally
Letting me out of my cage simultaneously freed her
Never again unrequited, finally cared, finally loved.
In my quietude not all is quiet -
the glowworms glow and the bush crickets sing,
and by his haunting song does fly and flit
ruru the hoot owl on his silent wing.
At sunup out of my chorus vigil
I see through the bars a big cotton sky,
for all that dawns on the crest of the hill
is a time and place that has passed me by.
And I my walls am inside looking out
where over flight of years on prison row
Orion and Hercules fly about
casting shadows on Paremoremo.
And my dog, he listens and licks my face
in my corner of the world and shut space.
Written: May 1992
You wake me nearly every night
with your incessant guttural cries.
Tell me what’s wrong and how
is it the spotted owl is so wise.
I think you wake me on purpose,
you eerily laugh at my expense.
I say stop this ridicule, stop this
high pitched shrieking nonsense.
Anyway who cares about some
ruffled wide-eyed morepork
that’s frightened by the light,
who eats things like rats and mice
on a dark starry moonlit night.
The native Maori call you ruru,
it’s true I smiled when I heard.
You don’t have coloured feathers -
a poor excuse for a bird.
So go and trouble someone else,
find another place to hide.
And forgive me like I forgive you,
let’s both swallow our pride.
Written: 1991
Moreporks are native
New Zealand owls.
There will moon on one side and bread on the other...
there will be sleep on one side and lullabies on the other .
I'll put the sheet of bread on the moon and sleep and will tell sleep that I'd come the next day to sing the lullaby..
There will be jingling shells on a side..
there will be some sobs
making you cry..
we'll get filled in the shells.
and go n touch all the stars And tickle the sobs to cajole them....
O mother, someone will come to cry on your sobs..
someone will come to cry.. don't be sad,
that who comes will not go back again..
he'll never go back.. but remember,
you won't bring anything improbable (anything that would affect my work) and if you bring,
the story will be altogether different..
..... (actually) who cares for probable or improbable/good or bad.. at the maximum I'll die here only..
I'll get up
proving the death a dream..
and will poke fun at the probable and go laughing.....
-ruru
Your hand slipping away from mine ... your shadows turning away from me ... you not turning back to see again ... I will not forgive ... as long as I live.-ruru
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