Sinner Sinner by Christine Anne Borra

I am a sinner of great degree
I wish to list my sins for Thee

But where I start, its hard to know
My life You said is like driven snow

So you see dear God do you need to hear
My list of sins said loud and clear

I think you should in all Your might
Know the sins I committed alright?

For what is the purpose that I must bestow
To You my sins you already know?

And how on earth will an earthly prayer
Miraculously make sins disappear

So it seems the act of contrition be
Less about You and more about me

Amen

The Gardener by Christine Anne Borra

roses show and mingle, clipped tight against
the white steel frame of the old wire fence
nurtured from unwanted sticks, like children

across the worn driveway crimson petals spill
announcing the end; their bloom brief and delightful
as their moment ends, another competes for place

the gardener administers brutal love as she cuts
and trains, the vase of life for a while is full
until the last petal falls exposing her work

now vulnerable arms stretch from mature roots
unsure and naked they face the harshness of winter
are they strong enough to endure the elements of life

the coming winter has stripped them bare to the waist
it is useless to cry for their lost youthful beauty
so they grow thorns upon thorns of protection

forgotten for now; they will lie dormant
until the burst of new life brings them back
to the notice of the gardener, to marvel again

her handwork, her legacy, pruned to create perfection

Whisper by Christine Anne Borra

whisper in silence, do not whisper to me
do not whisper about them, they will hear you

the lizard tongues of jealous minds
the insecure rattling of broken dreams

mirrors upon mirrors, screens upon screens
drip upon drip, on littered broke dreams

filtered daylight streams as dust dances in
dust stirred from wings as the mocking bird sings

lie still your tongues, with your poisonous drips
do not forget the universe, be Karma

you may bury your head and bury the dead
but your words that are heard will haunt you

remember Peter, his mother once said
do not say anything at all

In Her Head by Christine Anne Borra

she sees poems
like a camera
in black and white
framing her words
over and over
she takes
she cuts
she cuts herself

she sees poems
like a movie
a twist
a turn
she writes to exlain
she writes to be brave

she sees poems
like a dream
awaking dream
images
flying by
strung out on string
heart strings

She sees poems
in her head

The Black Highway Prayer by Christine Anne Borra

Your news
struck
through a shaft of blue
mixing dust
and fear
remember today
remember

No church will
draw me in to pray
I will pray for you
On the Black Highway

I will call lost souls
as I travel through
to call on
GOD
to pray
for you

No more sad news
No more tears
Remember today
remember

You my friend
will fight and win
and I will pray
as I wind my way
through the Black Highway

The Other Side of Zoo by Christine Anne Borra



Photo by Christine Anne Borra
Beautiful Lady
Melbourne Zoo memory



Have you stopped to think, I think not

Of how you look, looking in

from across the bars, who are the stars

of the animals living within?



Maybe it's the chimpanzees

or the Monkeys that you tease

or maybe the bear, that sways as your stare

or the hyena's, with their terrible grin?



Considered the peaceful Gorilla

who sit like stone cut pillar's

perfect manners displayed, for you here today

yet you treat them like criminal killers

Why you ooow and you arrr, beat your chest, shake the bars

you holler and hoot, you well mannered brute

and quiet they sit, taking it in

watching the show, despite the great din

Why your antic's are strange, despite all your brains

the dumb beastie's, can only conclude you're deranged

and here on the other side of the zoo

are you not concerned of what they think of YOU?

Melbourne trip 2011

Post Deng Cafe by Christine Anne Borra



The Post Deng Cafe
The start of the poem on my iphone

Lyrical and sweet
She calls us
From across the street
To eat

Specials, yes special
The cold wind
That blew us in
Must chill her
She has won us

Inside is pleasant
And hums
Smelling of
Exotic spice and warmth
I like this place
Of communion

Men sit on their own
Groups eat, sharing
We eat
Under a watchful eye
Guided by the Boss

Red rivers run
Above our heads
And glow in the light
And the Eagles
Mix with steamy
Dishes that delight

Too soon
It is time
To move on
From the street
That never
Ends

Melbourne Trip May 2011

Sliding by Christine Anne Borra

a golden summer evening

such rowdy kids

we all are yelling

LET'S GO

LET'S GO

get in the car

brothers and sisters and two hangers on

into the car quick

smallest one in the front

STOP YELLING!

sit on your sister's knee

we are nearly there

my mind travels up past all the houses

and we are there

get out the cardboard 

the boys have the biggest ones

and we climb and climb

it will be fun

so much fun

Dad waits at the bottom with his camera

he measures the light

he is ready

Ready steady

GO NOW!

and they are sliding

two friends fast together

down

down

faster and faster to Dad

click click click

that was a good one!

now for the little one

careful Mum says

not that high up

YAY YAY everyone will get a turn

we are so happy

and free and Mum is next YAY

Dad says

stand back this could get dangerous

and Mum laughs and we laugh

my turn

I am scared

but Dad is there and I run and jump

and I am sliding down the hill

I am sliding and I am free

as I slide to my Dad

click click click

and the dry grass smells like hay

and brown crickets bounce as we walk

and the sunlight falls red gold behind the hills

we run with our bare legs to the car

fish and chips for tea YAY

everyone can stay

and that was how it was

when we skinned our knees and stubbed our toes

 

The Steel Hat Men by Christine Anne Borra

Steel Hat Men
Photograph
 by Christine Anne Borra
Copyright

Dark you loom
and blot the landscape

Mothers whisper
to their children

Do not go near
The Steel Hat Men

Like ancient armies
a show of might

Arms out stretched
crossing our valley's

Shadows at night

just there

just there

just there

Do not go near
The Steel Hat Men

Steel and tears
more than 100 years

You crackle your
private words

And we pay
we pay

Unsightly scene
of necessity

Who will follow
in your steps

When will your
day be done

Do not go near
The Steel Hat Men

And we wait for their
end to come

Lost Soles of Castle Point by Christine Anne Borra

If I lose my sole
let me lose it at Castle Point

Hang it on the cross
with all the others

Next to the sole from China
and the pretty one from Italy

To watch the gulls
and fishing boats

Protected by the dunes
and  Light house reef

A memorial to all
who are lost

If I lose my sole

http://photo.l-oceano.com/scotteanderson/lost-soles-75.htm  my beloved Castle Point.. on this blog I found the cross at the end of the road across from where we stay every year for Christmas Holidays, and more..

Black Sands Boom Rock by Christine Anne Borra

The cruel black sands
of Makara Beach
lie beneath
my feet

To rough today
to dive for paua
the walk to Boom
too long

Summer beats
a different sound
like Boom Rock

Boom

Boom

Boom

How many days
and many nights
have we fished
and dived your
stony sands

Yet today
you seem cruel
and foam bashes
at my feet

Too cold
on this winter day

Dark Force by Christine Anne Borra

Photograph by Whaia Borra
 Graffiti on Petone Wharf

In the darkness
the army gathers
prepare yourself
for war

In the darkness
the Educated Unrested
ask why
and ask for more

In the darkness

the balance changes

ask what

is on your door

In the darkness
the future falters
be wary
for what's in store

NEVER throw stones at a Poet by Christine Anne Borra

You may write your name on a bus shelter
You may break bottles and leave them there
You may fire rockets with abandon
Into the warm summer air

You may break the odd glass window
And smash a sign or two
You may nick milk bottles from letterboxes
You may smoke in the public loo

You may eat from the passion fruit tree
You may steal peaches and throw them at friends
You may catch shrimps in your uncles old bait catcher
You may think that summer never ends

But you may NEVER throw stones at a Poet
Even if he's rowing and clowning around
And spouting to Huoy, and talking the Nui
If he falls in he surely will drown

Bangkok Flowers by Christine Anne Borra



Bangkok Flowers photograph by Christine Anne Borra

bangkok flowers

suspended in light

move with grace

false dawn of the night

bangkok flowers

your faceless ease

hang in the street

sensations deceived

bangkok flowers

bloom not for the day

neon and silk

watch them sway

bangkok flowers

who judges the plight

who grew such beauty

who questions the right

Blanket Man by Christine Anne Borra Photographs by Belinda Jane Brown

Photo Belinda Jane Brown
http://www.belindabrownphotography.co.nz/

On distant shores
Where Taniwha roam

Where first light rises
Is his home

With blanket and loin cloth
Living free

The gutter is his
Joshua Tree

See him each day
Miss him when gone

He doesn't give a shit
If the cops come along

Our brother in arms

Photo Belinda Jane Brown
http://www.belindabrownphotography.co.nz/

Our own Blanket Man

Part of our city

In the palm of our hand

Ancient ones placed on high
The strangeness you see

Don't judge him my friend
He likes living free

Free from the machine
Our own great unwashed

Free as himself
In blanket and loin cloth

Spider Words by Christine Anne Borra

Spider words upon the page
Creeping silent through the maze
You look and see them climbing out
You understand but then you doubt

The very old and spindly prose
Unformed thought, not quite disclosed
You look again and think you see
Spider words, not divinity

Dip again, if you think you ought
Are spiders creatures of great thought
And dip again, don't brush away
The spiders that you read today

Moments pass how do you feel
Did you reflect or will you steal
You ask yourself what did you glean
And ask again, what spiders mean

Write me a Poem by Christine Anne Borra

write me a poem
so I can let your words
caress me
so I can take your words
deep inside me
so I can let your words
linger on my lips
and make me smile

write me a poem
so I can let your words
move me
so I can let your words
show me you
so I can let your words
join us
forever in your rhythm
and muse

write me a poem
so I can let your words
heal me
so I can let your words
water my soul
and bring new meaning
to my life

write me a poem
so I can let your words
be spoken out loud
so I can let your words
etch in my heart
and you will never die
but live forever

write me a poem

My Cafe by Christine Anne Borra

There is a wall at the end of my cafe standing, strong
Despite the clinging, vines
Entwined togetherness growing, deep
Foundations support the heavy weight, burdened
Natures blooms mingle with loving life, flourishing
Until they grow no more, dying
In singular grace departing, life
Unaware of the hidden support, leaves
Falling only to nurture, growth
Springing forth bravely again, hopeful
Life lives on in my cafe, garden

A Work In progress by Christine Anne Borra

The man woke up at the very first sign of light.  He was always the early riser in the house-hold. He was feeling quite pleased with himself as “Today was the day.” Conveniently it was the weekend and there would be no distractions. He had cancelled all visitors and he was ready to make a start.  Quietly he slipped out of bed, leaving his wife to snore on.

  First things first, he was hungry and dying for a cuppa. He pulled on his old pants with smudges of paint and smiled to himself. “Soon there’ll be artist’s paint on these old track pants,” and not the white paint already there from last summer’s house painting effort, which by the way was nearly finished.

 The morning light was now streaming invitingly through the glass doors that opened out to his deck.  The back-yard was coming alive with busy bursts of birdsong attracted by the abundant native trees that mostly had self-seeded.  So, the garden was a bit of a jungle and the layout fitted his natural gardening style, much to his wife’s disappointment. He would have none of that manicured stuffy self-serving design that all his neighbours seemed to get into.

  His lawn needed mowing, and maybe he would do that tomorrow, but not today, as today he planned to start his Masterpiece. His wife would be surprised.  She had often nagged him about starting up his painting again as he had taken Art at College, but had lost interest when he left to go on his O.E. instead of going to Varsity. “A waste of talent,” she had often said.

With a cuppa in hand and a plate of toast, he opened the doors to his nearly completed new deck and walked carefully so as not to move the last few boards that still had to be screwed down. His tea steamed in its mug, and the smell of the hot toast and butter added to the early morning enjoyment he was feeling as he settled into his comfy chair under the partly covered eaves. Next year when it rained he would be able to sit anywhere he pleased on his deck as he was in the process of extending and covering the eaves. This was very tricky work and required a lot of thought and planning due to the angles and run off. He had made an honest start, but then the rains of September had come and he was forced to stop. He would get around to it again soon.

He settled into his old wicker chair, listening to the song of the cicadas. His old ginger Tom Cat walked through the high grass and jumped up on to the deck and wound his way to greet him.  “Hello Ginger,” he said as he rubbed him behind his ear. “Are you after your breakfast?” he enquired. “Come on then.”  He put his mug down on the deck avoiding the partly finished table with battens missing. He was in the process of rebuilding the table, but he had run out of nails, and hadn’t had time to get to the store before it closed. “Just get a new one”, suggested his wife.  As it was a perfectly sound frame, he had ignored the comment. He still wasn’t sure whether he should be using screws instead. He had decided to look at his building book to see what it recommended, and it was still usable. A loud pathetic meow rose up from Ginger bringing him back his task at hand. “Come on then hungry,” he said to as he got up and went into the kitchen.

Settling back in his chair again he could hear Ginger’s contented purr as he gave himself the once over. The Jelly Meat had filled a gap for now, but you could bet he would be hungry again in a few hours.

  Now he could start to plan his Masterpiece. He had always liked the artist Robin Kahukiwa.  Maybe he would start with an abstract garden scene, koru and the like, since there was so much inspiration in his little jungle, or maybe a bird, or Ginger perhaps? But first he must have one more cuppa, then he should get cracking, as he wanted to capture the morning light that gave everything that fresh new look.

  Quickly popping into the kitchen he put the kettle back on the stove. It was one of those whistling ones, and he could get his painting gear out from the shed while he waited. He walked back through the open doors, over the deck and stepped down on to a pile of bricks. They had been placed there Just for the meantime, or until he could work out how to build three steps. They had to be wide enough for two people as he constantly had visitors popping in and out for a chat, much to his wife’s annoyance. On a good day you would be able to sit on the steps with a beer and chat and discuss the merits of a well kept lawn, rugby and the next fishing mission. The grass wasn’t much chop at the moment, however he had big plans. “Every man needs his patch of lawn.” It would be his only exception to his landscaping rules. He walked through the lawn to his shed - well the lawn was really a mixture of dandelions and puha and grass gone to seed and was bare in a few patches. He would be re-seeding it soon, judging by the weather forecast he should be able to start digging up the top layer as he planned to start from scratch. Then he would have a “Cracker” of a lawn. A lawn you could lie on and watch the clouds race by, and when the grass was cut he could sit on his steps and warm his feet like he used to do when he was a kid.  But for now he manoeuvred through the tall weeds shed bound, dodging hidden bits of wood from the deck he had built, well had nearly built, close to anyway.

His shed was an old white shed, with peeling paint, and you had to lift the door and push it in to get the key to work. It was only temporary, he would get a new one when the lawn was finished, and there was no sense in doing that first as he may want a bigger one to put the new lawn mower in. His old push mower was almost antique and he was sure he could sell it to a collector as it still worked, even though the right handle had come loose and turned in your hand every time you pushed it.

  “Now where did I put you,” he muttered as he looked for his long forgotten box of paints, brushes and paper?” He talked to himself as he often did. “There you are.” The box was hiding down on the floor near the hydroponics planter he bought last year to grow basil in. Home made pesto had been the plan as the store-bought stuff wasn’t a patch on home-made, and even better, it was a quarter of the price.  But home-made took a lot of time. The plan had been to make enough to freeze, but he went away for the weekend and forgot to get the boy next door to water it and all the basil wilted and died. It had been a bit of a hassle really. 

  Peering into his box of painting paraphernalia, he mentally checked the contents that were mostly left over from his college days. “Brushes, pallet knife, paper, charcoals, rubber, and new paint tubes,” that he bought last year. “Green, brown, red ochre, white, black, black,” he couldn’t believe it. He was sure he had black, he felt sure he would need it. What would he do now? He couldn’t possibly start if he didn’t have black. The main theme he felt almost sure now was black, he could see the painting, big bright bold, with black edges lining the colour. How could he paint Ginger without black. No, this was not good. He sighed as he stood up placing the tubes of paint he had in his hand back into the box. “Bugger, this will never do,” he muttered.

  So, closing the door behind him, making sure to lift it up and slam it as hard as he could, he walked back through the long weeds, up on to the deck, avoiding the uneven bricks that masqueraded as steps, on to the deck, avoiding the last few planks that needed screwing down, through the open doors to the whistling kettle that screamed at him.

  “What have you been doing?,” called his wife from the comfort of her bed. “Nothing,” he answered and he moved to make her a cuppa as well.  She would get up soon and would interrupt him anyway. “Never Mind,” he said to himself as he settled down for his second cuppa of the morning. “It will just have to be ‘A Work in Progress’.”

Stone Poem by Christine Anne Borra

Silent Skipping stone

Skimming smooth surface

Six steps surviving

Soft sea settles

Slow sinking secrete

She smiles softly