an Aotearoa poetry journal | ISSN 2744-3248

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Tarot #07
Tarot #06
Tarot #05
Tarot #04
Tarot #03
Tarot #02
Tarot #01

Golden Years

There is nothing quite
Like the present moment
With you.

The brown grass
Is ticklish on our backs
And the late summer sun
Casts our skin
Golden in re-creation
Of heaven
And the never-cool-enough wind
Blows in softly from the Pacific.

At the end of it all,
What more could we have done?
The chants and cries
Of the riotous crowds
Echo up the valleys.
Did we do it right?
Did we live it right?
Were we enough?

Seeing the world
From above,
Bathed in its soft pastels,
Will never be quite as
As it used to be.
Sliding over the aquamarine
Never again so carefree,
When you could get lost
In the rocking of the waves
And the whispers of the winds
And the worlds which saw you pass.

What path should we have taken?
Flames crackling up window panes.
Death in the air.
Blood in the streets.
No one in charge.
Wasn’t it all inevitable?
Weren’t we our own executors?

We’re the audience
Of the show
We’re all trapped in.
The laugh track
Plays and plays.
It hits all the emotional
Cues; there’s ooohs and aaahs.
Tears and applause.
We turn off the TV
And go to bed.

Wind blows through
The long grasses
In the fields,
And you remember your childhood.
The end a cruel mockery
Of the beginning.
Puddles splashed,

Wrists slit,
Of every sort.
I still remember
The scars you wore.
You can still see them.
The apples from
The tree at the end of your yard
Are starting to fall and rot.

God, it’s a cesspit,
But where else would you have us?
No, this is our home,
This is what we deserve;
We made this bed,
And the night has fallen,
And it’s time to tuck ourselves in.