Summer Haiku Longform #1

In season in bloom
Flowers in our DNA
Cast a fresh glow

Big cloud little rain
The dragonfly plans to stay
Water down the pond

Browned dye dried moss
Under foot in the clearing
Cushions for the bugs

A coating of dust
Seven trees blown outwards
Into the suns claws

Hear Waiatas sung
The tuis write duets for you
Listen to the eaves

Kauri stands by pine
Stands by idly dying
The sigh of rotting

Richmond Crescent

Richmond crescent is a place I’ve made up
Imagined
Stolen
Remembered by accident
Stumbled over in quiet thought
What brought this name to me?
Richmond crescent
It sounds right
I will die here
This is where my wife and I will live
Maybe I’ll change my name to Kyle Richmond
Later in life to hide from stalkers
They’ll name the street after me
For my contributions to the community
Fundraisers and potlucks and backyard barbeques
Secret suburban parties where we put our keys in the bowl
I get to take my neighbour’s wife for a go
Watching mine being unlocked with the keys to our house
Then I take the husband for a round
I’ll never live here though
Instead I will exist as tarmac and weatherboard houses
Children on bicycles
Children selling pinecones for two dollars a bag
On the sidewalk
One will ask the other why they call this place
Richmond crescent
Another will put on his best Jamaican accent
‘Coz they Rich mon!’
They laugh how children do
You don’t understand their humour
You just want pinecones
To support young entrepreneurs
With bicycles and skinned knees and snotty faces
Remember I don’t live here
This place doesn’t exist
I will die with Richmond Crescent

Wetland Blossoms

If Jack remained inside his room for too long, he was often victim to having his body overcome with an overwhelming pressure. A kind of presence within his blood, pulling at the sinew under his skin and forcing him into a state of irritability, one which he could not account for.
At times such as these, he would stop what he was doing and immediately take a long walk to gather flowers.
He couldn’t recall when he first started doing this, but he knew that when he returned to his home, hands full with fresh picks, he would be cured temporarily.

Jack found himself following the walkway which traced the edge of the Turanga Creek. He came to life at the shifting gravel under his feet, the loose sediment playing a melody of white noise with every step.
It had been a wet summer, and the heat was late in arriving. Spring felt as if it had doubled in length, and Jack breathed deeply of the moistened air, taking in the fragrances of fresh growth.
The forest across the creek was absorbed more deeply in shades of pine and moss, all of the trees being evergreens, and mangroves owned the banks with complete autonomy. Jack remembered walking through these as a child, coming back cold and covered in sludge, the stench of which was so that it caught like rotten eggs in the back of your throat. Once, a fresh shoot shot right through the bottom of his brother’s foot, coming up between the bone next to his large toe. It didn’t quite pierce all the way through, though, and instead appeared like a tiny hill atop his foot.
These walks were walks of memory. Contemplation of nature, and of Jacks own nature. It was his habit to walk the length of his walk, eyeing out potential picks, and then doubling back, confirming those choices. This was in line with how Jack lived his life.
At this time of year, the tuis had flown from the deep, inland bush, to feed on the flower nectars and the insects which fed on them also, full of the sweetness of nature’s bounty. Their song was such that Jack found himself whistling back to them, unbeknownst to himself. He was envious of their two voice boxes, but he rarely knew what to do with the singular one he owned.

Jack now turned for home, the compiled list completed.
The tactile sensations of picking were his favourite part, and he would spend a short time with each plant, running his hand along the bark to feel their textures, along the leaves and flowers, gently caressing them with the lightest of touches, and so coaxing them to release their distinct aromas, or lack thereof.
He first picked a thin stem from a young Manuka tree, with small white blossoms climbing the length, and round woody seed pods scattered about it. Next, he pulled several lots of the long, curved flowers from the Harakeke flax bushes which dominated the walkway. Due to the odd weather, the bushes were in different stages of flowering and he was able to pick from a gradient range of yellows, greens, reds. Lastly, he came to some roadside perennials, blossoming in a rich cherry red, streaked with a tangerine and honey centre. Jack could taste the fruits of his labour.