Poem Hunter
(1947 - / New Zealand)


are th spiritual organs of plants
they are no strangers
to beheading
flowers lose their light
protecting th dead
clumsy love
sure flower

fobbed off her red roses
with a dozen pink
found petals ripped red all over

flowers that went limp in my hand
as I offered them
flowers reached down for children
pressed flowers
when I made time for books
& they made time for me
a poet drawing a long bow
white rose red rose black arrow
flower of chivalry
bowed like a hollow bone
flowers played slap bass
with their mighty sinews
an arrow flowering from an eye

flower vultures
we attend,circle
are they really dead ?
moth of flame
mumbling to a deaf god
no flowers please
no mention of sacrifices
flowers are for th delight
in offering

they caress each moment
like a hand forgotten in a flame
pulling out all stops
in an elephant squeal of brass
pursed buds
blowing it out

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