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The Artist's struggle into brilliance.

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I have just watched the Dylan movie, starring Timothee Chalamet, “A Complete Unknown.” I enjoyed hearing those old songs again and getting a bit more context of their creation, having been a Dylan fan since last century, songs that I have loved for many a year. The movie celebrated his musical success while only briefly touching on his formative years and significant relationships with women, notably Joan Baez but also, for the first time we see the complicated and doomed affair with Sylvie. Dylan read the movie script right through, met with the director to discuss the narrative and add some of his own before gave it the nod saying, "Go with God". Whether he has viewed the movie, to date, I do not know. Remember this is the man that famously won the Nobel Peace Prize  in Literature 2016, “for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition”, then did not go to the award ceremony to receive his fabulous prize.  Bob Dylan has always been inte...
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The weird moon isn't over

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Wolves run at night, foxes swing from vines, thieves leave no traces, cameras missed their faces. I'm gonna blame the moon for all this, and I'm sorry, it's not really her fault, or his fault,  or theirs'  or even the mist that fell on our town this morning. 💗💘💙💚💛💜 But something nasty, this way has come, sparing few,  thrashing some, leaving tears in the gutter, making heros stutter. A shake of the head, nightmares in bed. It might be more than the moon this time, with wicked people,  marching in lines. 💔💀👽👿💥💦💦😟 The weirdness isn't over, the nasty just begun, spreading through the planet, mankind is undone. It's really not the moon's fault, a waning globe up there, it's mostly about the power struggles going on down here. I am really lost for words right now, I think this poem is done, I'm going to take a wander outside, and have a quiet lie-down in the sun.
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The painters stole the colour from my garden

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 The colour has been stolen from my garden, the painters are to blame with their splotches and swatches of paint everywhere, masking the sunlight, blanketing the flowerbeds. The whole world is fading, and society needs an overhaul. A top story in the London papers reads, "I had casual sex for a whole year!" Really?! A grown-up woman said that, in the newspaper that will wrap my fish and chips tomorrow. Ugh! Morality is wilting beside the colorless flowers in my garden. Meanwhile, a dignitary has died. And just like unemployment, early childhood injuries are on the rise, The economy is receeding, while fast food chains and beauty salons flourish. Nobody says sorry anymore. I watch the painters sidle from my yard, closing the freshly painted black door behind them. They stole the colour from my garden,  and they didnt even say good-bye. So, I chew on yesterday's sausage roll, sharing it with my loyal dog. "I'm sorry," I say, patting her head. "I wish ther...
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Last glass of karma, anyone?

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 "Last glass of karma, anyone?" the waiter formly known as 24 asks us. "I'll have one," I signal to 25. "Will that be with or without a slice of lemon?" "Depends?" Is it sour? I wonder to myself, questioning the universe, and God above, that laughing bitch called Life, and the Mistress of Karma. "Could I have a cherrie instead?" 25 nods. A sweet one please, I murmur to the burnt grass roots beneath my vegan sandals. Just joking. My sandals aren't vegan,  neither are my intentions. The burnt grass bothers me though. It didn't deserve this...this burning. How innocent is the grass and the planet? Gaza, the Ukraine, the homeless on the Auckland streets and Americans who got duped into voting for an orange man, instead of a black woman. I might skip the glass of Karma. "Give me whiskey on the rocks, smooth ones,"  I say, "the rocks and the whiskey." I anoint my heart with oakiness and settle back to wait for ...
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The last glass of Shiraz

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 The cattle on a thousand hills  nestle against silent macrocarpa limbs as dusk creeps over the horizon. My gaze lingers on a settled harbour boats nodding in the last rays of the day, dogs bark from a distant farm,  drowning out the turkeys warble. 💖💥💧💦🐂🐑🐝 See you in the morning, hills of grace, skies of serenity, waters of friendship. Wake me up life, in all your fullness, with deep cups of caffeine in the dawn's parting light, as I bid a hearty good night, to the last glass of Shiraz.
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Last glass of Chardonnay with Rick

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 I might not see you again, for awhile, living a big wide ocean apart. But I enjoyed our korero, round the table at Taemaro Bay, post Christmas,  on a rainy Boxing Day. You might not like Chardie, I don't know, but I got a fancy bottle of the stuff for Christmas, so I'd like to think that we'd have a glass of Chardonnay, or maybe two, before you go. Thanks to you, I'll never spread my toast with bitterness, on special occasions or any time that matters. I'll keep eating my fried bread with jam, forget the kina splatter. And your stories gave me much to think about, that will stay...not just in the Bay, but in my brain and in my heart, something to write about while you're away. I might not see you again, Rick, as we're worlds and oceans apart, me at my writing desk, you in your salon making hair art. But just before you go, if you would like to, let me know. Let's toast with one last glass of Chardonnay, as we farewell the year and beautiful Taemaro Bay.
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Thoughts on bad drivers

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  I don’t think it’s a good idea to give bad drivers in Kaitaia, the finger. Nor curse them under my breathe, using the biggest swear words I know. Plotting to find where they live and letting their tyres down, is also a bad idea. I also know that dialling star 555, is wasting my time. I don’t think that every bad driver in Kaitaia is a strung-out crack head, driving an unregistered, unwarranted car; that the driver has no licence. That would be making a snap judgement on a total stranger. Sometimes “bad drivers” are old people, hearing impaired, foreigners, learners who’ve sneaked out in their parents’ cars or even me! Because the other day I drove through a pedestrian crossing in PaknSave where a lady was pushing her trolley. I bet she cursed me, using   big gest swear words. But maybe she blessed me,   hoping I wasn’t on crack because I   looked like a nice lady. Didn’t I? Although my car could be mistaken for an unregistered, unlicenced bomb. It’s always di...
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