Tuesday, 13 April 2021


   BRIAN JOHN EVANS POEMS

 
29th June 2021:    I AM EIGHTY EIGHT ON THIS DAY

To the Editor Waiheke Gulf News

The Gaslighting of New Zealand or Aotearoa

All around us every day, Nature's theatres do plays:
Bikini flirt vies with shy fern-hidden minx,
Sparkling beach with mountain dwelling mother's
Southern Stars, whose distant high-strung jinks,
Enchant five million marooned lovers:
Some sadly trend Orwellian, or tipsy bon vivant-
Get so gaslighted that they miss Waiheke-
Aotearoa's unique and shining crown-
Is slowly losing her most precious diamonds:
Save Kennedy Point for our little penguins!
It's penguins' Auschwitz if we choose boats!
 

Brian Evans evansbrianjohn@gmail.com


........................................................................................


Nature is our kith and kin: huge empathy,
For all life forms my dear conflicted friends,
Endures on ancient caves' exuberant walls-
Where cavemen drew pictures of their friends
Much much later in man's descent tribes got
Gaslighted and beaten, for being "nature religion"
Their spiritual friends would now be "up there"---

NOT DOWN HERE! 

........................................................................

ORWELL'S MINISTRY OF TRUTH EXPLAINED:-

https://youtu.be/oe64p-QzhNE

What "Orwellian" really means - Noah Tavlin ^

.......................................................................

 https://youtu.be/hSp8IyaKCs0

George Carlin on "Shell Shock"  ^

....................................................................


 

 
Brian John Evans
evansbrianjohn@gmail.com
17/04/2021
Waiheke Island.

SAVE THE LITTLE BLUE PENGUINS!

Monday, 12 April 2021


KISS YOUR LOVE
by Brian John Evans

Kiss your Love—forsake Duty—for night's stallion bears down,

On the bright mares of sunlight that jostle and clown,

Fresh—eyed from lush waters—last colours their prize—

They have frolicked with tree witches all naked and wise :

Magicked they lift them—their long witchy hair—

Till witch—winds go—tumble witch—glistens in spray.

One scared witch withered to her dried-sphagnum lair,

Had schemed and composed her near human disdain,

But so dark is man's dungeon—she burst from its shame!

She sang like six night birds—she rose as six moons!

Her mouse cast six shadows—six fat owls scoured their bones;

How she ached for her sisters—till each found her in turn—

Become all things and no thing—our joy—and its pain;

In the heart of a poet, breathes that witch girl without name!

[www.bestpoet.com] Brian John Evans


POEM: Patupaiarehe by bestpoet.com

The perfumed sails of evening,
Rose gently o’er the sand,
Where drying nets and wooden boats,
Lay freed from human hands.
The tide relaxed its restless roam,
And slowed in dark repose;
A boy and girl came near to stare
And to breathe the sweet sea air;
They kissed and Patupaiarehe lights
Streaked through that Waiheke sea-
Oh teeming sprights! Oh feral mites!
So old! So young! So free!
Side by side those lovers dived-
We swam with the Patupaiarehe!

 POEM: POETS AND POETRY by bestpoet.com

Poets do some rhyme in iambic metre,
Love, Romance, Epic often a feature,
Friendship, Readings, and Haiku too,
Romantic, Cowboy, poetic fru fru,
National, and local hall of fame,
Hall of Fame? you have made your name!
Sadly nothing more to gain,
Think I’ll start fresh - use a different name
W Shakespeare? nah sounds a tad too tame…
Gotta be belligerent as befitting the times,
And very high tech with much engine whine:
“Cannibal Cocain Haliburton Krupp” the next poet laureate-
Get ready to rumble I am poet-potentate!
Queue here girls, for your biggest ever date.

Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and Powell with the headline, “Don’t change horsemen in the middle of an apocalypse!”

 POEM: Whale Riders Wanted! by bestpoet.com

I hate that I’m a whale-
My face is far too big-
It’s hard to get on telly
And do whale-saving gigs.
Whales could chat world-wide,
Before valves and transistors,
Using whale sonic sounds,
Before Morse’s simple stutters;
Since man’s propellors and his pukes,
We end up on your beaches-
Already mostly nuked.
Look, I have no whale-Aids,
And eat healthy Omega-3
And no mad-whale disease-
Why are these japanese,
Killing big old lovely me?
Let’s renew that old whale deal-
Saved we’ll give you whale-rides,
That have got to be real steals!
We’ll circumnavigate the globe,
All again at sea as chums-
(Whaling men miss all the fun!)
It will slim my whale love-handles,
You will learn again those whale things,
Japs destroy by eating me
Man really needs his old whale friends-
Whales stop wars by whispering men!!

 “CELEBRITY” IS A MISUSED WORD

Like Peter Finch - the anchorman for a television station,in the movie “Network” - Judie Bailey - TV ONE, New Zealand, anchorwoman - experiences not a breakdown, but a sudden epiphany - a revelation.
That night she loses the smile, renounces her role as the mother of the nation “Because The Product I put my lovely face to is really junk! Enough is enough!”
She puts on the simple chaste burkha and soon the rabid-improvident-incestuous-selfish-wasteful media self-serving house of cards collapses.
Without her brand of sweet complacency, to support them - the more harmful elements of bad consumerism, in our food and drink {sugar and fat -no vitamins etc} and movies {violence and murder} wilt and die. It’s like the good old days again.
Oprah Winfrey and Doctor Phil (America’s motherand father) copy Judie and embrace common sense also.
Both Judie and Oprah now both wear the burkha! And with Dr Phil they pray six times a day - for forgiveness. It’s true!
Soon we are all healthy and slim again.
Hospitals and jails empty and our obese nations no longer need to wage war, on the skinny peoples of the world, for ever more oil, for ever larger cars, to carry around our ever fatter bodies.
All our new monetary savings and brotherly love and zealous cooperation means we can now eliminate hunger and global warming and Aids.
Yeah right!

 POEM : Albatross by bestpoet.com

God took little tufts of feathers and fashioned them with love
And thus gave man sparrows, nightingales and doves.
Then God invented Physics which has lots of gravity,
Then one almighty saline pack - which Adam called the sea.
“Not bad,” said the devil “but when push doth come to shove,
No intrepid spirit blazes from your boring little dove.
Your creatures are like rusting nails on your salty brine,
Not waterproof, they are drowning, all the blooming time!”
So God took icebergs, fishes, waves storm-tossed,
And out of God’s wind tunnel burst the mighty albatross!
“Oh dear,” said Old Nick, “I’ll be scheming overtime,
To impugn The Lord’s creation - God’s bird is so sublime!”
Thus earthly bounds and heaven became this seamless entitity -
A tapestry of albatross birds gliding o’er the centuries.
Vain man began religions when he found he could not fly -
Religions gave man a soul, that at least got him off the ground.
But Taoism clashed with Dualism - man’s debates they grind all night,
Still the albatross glides on and on - that perfect spiritual sight.
Airlines fly you to beliefs that promise you sleep at night:
“Come on kiwis - be Air New Zealand’s cut-price acolytes!”
“Virgin Blue specials the Vatican for a GE dispensation -
A few more dollars gets you Fatima and Our Lady’s commiseration.”
I hope when I succumb to cities’ soots and rain acidity,
Part of problematic man’s spiralling descents
And his token green parties’ micro two percents -
I’ll go easyriding gliding, with the albatross birds at sea.

 POEM : GEORGE W BUSH by bestpoet.com
George W Bush hit on these ‘ere master plans,
He’d get all them pesky ayrabs and such,
On Mcdonald’s and other depleted mucks;
They’d fall right into his oil and blood stained hands.
So the super-clean teams, zealots and preachers,
Of the American media engines of rule, our teachers,
Arrived in them there ayrab badlands
But ohmigosh them towel and burka heads were so healthy! -
How to turn ayrabs into fast-food fat compliant fools - be stealthy?
It had worked in Beijing and Sydney (mirrors and smoke);
New Zealand was a pushover already hooked on coke,
Battered greasy fish and fat soaked chips,
That ends up on hearts, cheeks, tummies and hips,
Kiwis suspect our muesli, beads and sandals folk-
Who just plot to keep us well is all - some hope!
But them pesky arabs had no westies and such denizens
Or talkback radio - unless you count them muezzins
And praying six times a day; all holy public prayer drill;
No poor-white trailer-trash or Oprah or Doctor Phil,
And people being made mad by their unholy splits
In the extended family, like us poor stupid gits;
Lord, unlike us they only shot their guns to the heavens,
In praise of the continual joinings and happy weddin’s
And ceremonies and song and dance -
You could see that here, real men, still rule-
Not some jumped up, mixed up, poof fool-
Broadcasting his or her slimy family-splitting drool.
Ayrab religion is a total mix of God and Politics,
Which are lead by men - not secret-agenda drips;
Unlike us who individualise which weakens the common-good
And lets the advertising ayatollas of Madison Ave and Hollywood,
Have us hooked on their ‘happy meals for families’,
Who’re gonna hyper-split-up their family trees.
Well before old George W could have it all,
There came this poet both lean and tall:
“Make my day you mummy’s boy!
Junk like yours means we’ll be passing hard ’sinkers’,
Not the soft ‘floaters’ that make porridge munchers pinker;
Your weapons of mass digestion will give folk pain
And pollute more than your spent-uranium insane
new bugs will be outa control,
Killer-food tsunamis like no other toll!”
George W now parks your car at Fallujah Mall,
And that muesli eatin’ poet is president is all.

OUR ‘ORGANIC PRINCE OF WALES’ IS OUR PATRON,
NEW ORDER PRINCES GO TO HELL!
And our young, may find hope here, stop suiciding, and do real protest instead of the ‘entertainment only allowed ‘ TRUE POLITICAL CORRECTNESS ‘ that the New Order demands of everyone, so as to save its BIG-LABEL-ADVERTISERS, FROM LOSS OF PROFITS, FOR THEIR JUNK CONSUMERISM, FOLLOWED BY THEIR JUNK NOSTRUMS AND REMEDIES, PRIVATE JAILS AND PRIVATE POLICE ,
(SOME ARE RECRUITED FROM THE ALREADY CONVICTED !)
ALL THIS WE DO FOR THE MEMORY OF DIANA, PRINCESS OF WALES,
POISONED ROYAL CONSUMER OF THE ANOREXIC-BULIMIAC NEW ORDER.
The Anorexic- bulimiac tries to control everyone, and is in turn controlled, by whom ?
My answer: the media psychologists and the victim’s own junk fooded metabolism
The food is the physiology (you are what you eat)
The entertainment is the physiology (you are what you see)
The physiology is the function, the function is the forum and the forum becomes the State
A sick physiology becomes therefore a sick State,- the Anorexic-Bulimiac sick State
This sick State uses the icon of the distressed victim, as a ‘good’, we should all look up to
and much time, energy, capital, and resources especially media are expended in the folly,
until all the resources point or join like spokes to the sick hub of a doomed wheel.

 POEM : ANTIQUE JOURNEY by bestpoet.com
My canoe is made of water,
With its paddle of soft cool air,
My body seems all hazy light,
Even my whitened hair ;
Lads and lassies speak my name,
Or sing as I leave earth’s shore,
But a little sigh escaped those lips,
When that heartbeat was no more–
Less a sigh, more like fretting :
Is this my dying King Arthur–
And where is my Sir Bedivere?
A little child now takes my hand
And laughs as if at play–
“Well hello sir—I died just yesterday.”

 POEM : Sonnets are too middle class to stop war by bestpoet.com

A Baghdad mother with others stuck in a too too shallow bunker or cellar, with of course her children; they play little child games to while away the boring time spent out of the light.
I can write a clever sonnet, iambic pentameters and words on my computer. I can try for the right word which might, just might, stop the flight of rockets put to fly in the sky and blow these poor Iraqi folk away.
But what if I cannot? And what if all the other verse written by good hearts and true miss their mark. This president does not like poetry - I know because he would arm his countrymen to even fight mother earth. You know all those bulldozers… No I cannot right now do iambic verse - all that trial and time consuming error - till a poem emerges that stuns in its brilliance, how absurd. How contrived. but there is a primal scream I feel and an impotent, well rage. Newspapers and radio and tv made it easy for the bad monkey to rule, be voted in. You know what I mean. What happened to The Noble Savage of Jean Jacques Rousseau? Well the knuckle dragging right-wing editors long ago locked all that good poetry stuff away. So now too many are made mad from too many Star War movies. Every Iraqi is a swarthy Darth Varder. Not a nice Top Gun all american boy like Tom Cruise. But Tom is Ok. But I hope when he does “The End of Iraq” movie that he is kind to the dead. At cinema half-time they will sell weapons of mass desruction,- I mean junk food. Invented in Madison Avenue.
Sigh… In the future Iraq folk will be eating junk, like us, and getting obese and diabetic and dying before their time.
A nice co-opted Iraqi Oprah will be on Iraq television and smooth their dying pillows. They will not have poetry and they will be as fascist as we …
We will all be dying too soon and no media will print our anger. Silly eh?
But the Gross National Product graph will show a healthy profit. Well that’s good - must not stop it.

 POEM : PFC Lynch and Coke and Crisps - er wow, George W? by bestpoet.com

Was I shocked and was I awed?
George W Bush demanded my delirious applause,
But this kiwi poet is a canny old bloke,
Here, half a mo’ Incredible Hulk -
I waited through your sugared Cola breaks -
Your crisps were over salty cakes -
And now I find your girl PFC Lynch,
Is nothing like ole Tarzan’s finch;
I demand a ‘back to basics’ better Jane,
That will give me back that nobler American Dream:
Or Rousseau Noble Savage that old Reuters,
Will report till all our eyes doth water:
Standing by her Global Man -
Whoops - here is Trixie from Texas! (cameras pan)
Of mostly technology and myriad implants,
Despising of sanity and Plunket pedants -
H Rider Haggard had never such a “She”:
Appetite insatiable - coloossal PMT,
She is obese New Mother of the Earth
And gives continuous birth,
To reckless GE creations and wars that God
Must wish She/He/Whatever had kept us all just poor sods.
Come back kiwi Sir Truby King, our babies need you again,
The country is terminal - we are hell-shocked brains.

 POEM : The Goodbye Conspiracy by bestpoet.com
For Our Prince of Wales

Goodbye England’s Rose,
Goodbye England’s Ears,
Goodbye austere clean and green,
Snuff movies are the trend :
At Balmoral we began ,
But to Camelot we wend.
See Republic’s Fairy Tale tents,
Its tinsel spikes and spears….
The Prince of Wales unsheathes his sword,-
” Not one step more my friends!
You shall not weep on Oprah’s Show,
Confessing up you are weak and low;
This sceptred isle is not A Label,
‘The Guest’ on New Order’s woofter Babel,
For franchise to the highest bidder:
Our Ophelias drowned by coke and crisps,
Obese and flaky, besotted by murder,
Bulumiac to their fingertips;
Our Hamlets with their fathers cuckold
By our deep throat media fopholes.
Rally round the flag men,
Each Rose must help her man :
They are bombing St. Paul’s again.
Like St. Paul’s we will beat their bombs,
And fight on to the day,
Hearts of oak look to England,
And our Roses bloom again,
All our Roses bloom again !”

 POEM : NEW SORTOFLAND by bestpoet.com

New Zealand is the land of the little limp sort of:
Many a sentence sort of pops up a sort of ;
We kiwis sort of love to soften our verb,
To give thought more time, before brash nerve
Sets free, much we would rather leave
Closed; our mouths sort of are minder sieves;
Unlike Americans’ giant Elmer Gantry jaws:
“Oh my gosh Tammy we just gotta talk here!”
We sort of cease talk or sidle out of there.
Plaque versus toothpaste?–that we can bear,
Many of us were frozen, folded arms boys…..
Sad and perplexed, little painted lead toys;
Please don’t invite kiwis to your body bag wars—
Our silent divisions breed savage war lords!


The Olde Bull. A Dream

By Brian John Evans

evansbrianjohn@gmail.com


All was calm, near sleep or still:

Above the brow of Prisoners’ Hill,

White flowers of the risen night,

Glowed around the moon, that baffling sight,

And bats from verdant hunger trails,

Flapped to dark and castled caves,

Whose wrinkled rocks grew gypsy warm,

Through bats’ voluptuous ancient dorm,

Enclosing many joyous chattering heads,

Slowing down for tribal rest. Well fed,

The lustrous light outside,

Floated borne by fine web spider thread.

One stress disordered sexton stumbled still

Craving his church ding dong ropes to pull–

Even one comfort bell–with some kind hymn on the side–

Trevor’s brain crunches cogs with his business ‘Satan Mills.’

New Order Mills and money are hypertension high rides,

Trevor’s New Dis-Order hands are like hot wet gills ;

Trevor panics and pelts down Ecumenic Hill,

And ends dignity-impaled on his parish old bull.

Olde Bull I thought you were my church rustic stile,

I should have stayed in my comfy bed awhile.”

Such pain from money-stressed man,” the Olde Bull said,

Money ignores our people-calming Christ’s “Be still”;

So Christ is yours as well,” gruff pious pants said,

Which religious faith encourages your head?”

Well a good loaf and a fish were our good Jesus’ treats,

Bulls prefer serene saviours who steer clear of our meats”

Our punctured sexton is borne to St. Bandaid Hospital,

Where Doctor L.O. Bull reseats every corpuscle.

Trev’s chafed cheeks both healed our grateful lunarian,

Like Darwin’s first bull, trots now sugarless-vegetarian :

Calmer, beaming, with shiny new hooves - once hands,

Trev is in two vets’ opinions very near perfection!

With Trev’s moods improved pretty May who had left him,

(May is a Weight Watch Diploma, in Bulimia Remission)

Canters home to share Trev’s trans-meditation reflections ;

Both also try bellowing as moonlighting muezzins–

Which really breaks up the town’s bickering and divisions!

Just by turning our eyes to bat-moon’s soft stars,

Night’s love can stream in to dew in our hearts.

Though many are bullish for Trev’s dream-time rebirth,

New bull follows old bull towards our final real worth…

..........................................................................................

For the other living things, beside humans, that live in a socialism free of money

 POEM : SPIDERS CANNOT WALTZ MUCH by bestpoet.com

Doctors say our spiders rarely enthuse,
When the sound of the fast waltz fills their rooms,
For the medical fact of the matter is that,
Each of a spiders’ eight feet, arches quite flat ;
That’s eight reasons spiders won’t ever be drafted.
Though spiders are fleet foots and rarely get shafted,
Their waltz-skidding on corners is woefully harder,
For spiders get their eight leg-pits so in a lather :
What with stomping, then squirting under-leg deodorants–
This takes the edge off Tales of Vienna waltz exuberance ;
So spiders sulk as pouty wallflower fixities,
Investing in mummified fly-future liquidities–
Why did man give away his happy dance halls,
For sour individualism and depression’s free falls?

 POEM : OUR SATANIC VERSES by bestpoet.com

Oh sleep my little daughters you are not alone,
Daddy is guarding you against the cruel roam—
Of our satans who would harm you and make you cry—
We suckled them on sugared fat and Satan’s mad eye.
Sly Nick gloats in the corner—I’ve pulled his plug out–
But that never can blunt Nick’s snuffling pig snout;
He smarms and cajoles his pupils to harm you–
So then he can broadcast More Satanic Bad News;
What’s wrong with our people—where are our brains?
We are pushed round like pigs—fattened and tamed.
We cop-out by rejoicing we are not Satan’s yet–
Squawking “It’s up to the individual!”–then our weakest Nick rips ;
Thus Satan bosses our lonely piggy old age,
When our children–Satan’s piggies–vent satanic piggy rage.

For our old folk that are not being allowed to lead or guide and be respected and protected

 POEM: ANTIQUE JOURNEY by bestpoet.com

My canoe is made of water,
With its paddle of soft cool air,
My body seems all hazy light,
Even my whitened hair ;
Lads and lassies speak my name,
Or sing as I leave earth’s shore,
But a little sigh escaped those lips,
When that heartbeat was no more–
Less a sigh, more like fretting :
Is this my dying King Arthur–
And where is my Sir Bedivere?
A little child now takes my hand
And laughs as if at play–
“Well hello sir—I died just yesterday.”

For all our princesses, that are being hurt very badly, by the Money New Order

 POEM : KISS YOUR LOVE by bestpoet.com

Kiss your Love—forsake Duty—for night’s stallion bears down,
On the bright mares of sunlight that jostle and clown,
Fresh—eyed from lush waters—last colours their prize—
They have frolicked with tree witches all naked and wise :
Magicked they lift them—their long witchy hair—
Till witch—winds go—tumble witch—glistens in spray.
One scared witch withered to her dried-sphagnum lair,
Had schemed and composed her near human disdain,
But so dark is man’s dungeon—she burst from its shame!
She sang like six night birds—she rose as six moons!
Her mouse cast six shadows—six fat owls scoured their bones ;
How she ached for her sisters—till each found her in turn—
Become all things and no thing—our joy—and its pain;
In the heart of a poet, breathes that witch girl without name!

 POEM : KEN KINGFISHER BIRD by bestpoet.com

Ken Kingfisher preens on my powerline,
His potential now two-forty volts!
Ken smirks as I mess my grass around,
By murdering its green baby shoots.
Ken will fly to his tasty finds,
Round this sea - my Ken’s “Valentines” -
A smorgasboard of plenty -
Waiheke’s sweet air whispers “dine!”
“Oh silly man and so callow,
Like some callous boy-mower,
To mow down what God does sow;
Paradise should be mower-free,
With no pylons to muck up God’s trees;
Whakarongo! listen to kotare - that’s me!”

 POEM : Historically, poets once manned the barricades, once.

Poet bashing is the fad right now:
We got banned from the old White House;
Right-wing hosts are rampant-
On talkback you’re their “unpatriotic louse”;
Big Brother and his Brave New World,
Drugs us morbidly obese and sad,
Since Coca Cola was made “The Real Thing”
It’s a steady progression to MAD;
We obese are making fat wars,
On the oil skinnies of the world,
We fatties need our fat humvees,
All our poets cringe hidden - that’s bad!
The whole world soon mcdonalised,
It’s yank communism barely disguised.

 Poets, Prose, Poetry, creative writing

Man’s prose, poetry, creative writing - all have their part in his life and are drawn from the resource, source and information gleaned from interplays of friendship, readings, poesy, lyrics, bard inspiration and song, bard Anthologies of the past, Sonnets, Odes, laments of dim past times and historical memory and present imaginings.
Thus we poets win prizes, do commentaries, do musical prose, become inspirational, search anthologies, read lovely sonnets, declaim odes, laments, rhymes, that embody love, romance, epic, haiku, tinged with romantic, gothic, classical, and contemporary allusions.
Who is famous among poets? Anthologies of poetry, literature, halls of fame, the archives that store our poetry- all save our meter and meaning, friendship and lyric hope and the best thoughts live on when their authors are gone. Poets - your poems will have fame - never fear even if they please only the lucky few. Well the pleasure can be slow to come for some - like the gestation of the poem itself. Patience! Arthur Schopenhauer, 19th Century Philosopher said ”All truth passes through three stages: first it is ridiculed, second it is violently opposed, and third it is accepted as self-evident.


 POEM : Albatross by www.bestpoet.co.nz
God took little tufts of feathers and fashioned them with love
And thus gave man sparrows, nightingales and doves.
Then God invented Physics which has lots of gravity,
Then one almighty saline pack - which Adam called the sea.
“Not bad,” said the devil “but when push doth come to shove,
No intrepid spirit blazes from your boring little dove.
Your creatures are like rusting nails on your salty brine,
Not waterproof, they are drowning, all the blooming time!”
So God took icebergs, fishes, waves storm-tossed,
And out of God’s wind tunnel burst the mighty albatross!
“Oh dear,” said Old Nick, “I’ll be scheming overtime,
To impugn The Lord’s creation - God’s bird is so sublime!”
Thus earthly bounds and heaven became this seamless entity -
A tapestry of albatross birds gliding o’er the centuries.
Vain man began religions when he found he could not fly -
Religions gave man a soul, that at least got him off the ground.
But Taoism clashed with Dualism - man’s debates they grind all night,
Still the albatross glides on and on - that perfect spiritual sight.
Airlines fly you to beliefs that promise you sleep at night:
“Come on kiwis - be Air New Zealand’s cut-price acolytes!”
“Virgin Blue specials the Vatican for a GE dispensation -
A few more dollars gets you Fatima and Our Lady’s commiseration.”
I hope when I succumb to cities’ soots and rain acidity,
Part of problematic man’s spiralling descents
And his token green parties’ micro two percents -
I’ll go easyriding gliding, with the albatross birds at sea.

 

 ...........................................................................................................

 
POEM: Patupaiarehe by bestpoet.com

The perfumed sails of evening,
Rose gently o’er the sand,
Where drying nets and wooden boats,
Lay freed from human hands.
The tide relaxed its restless roam,
And slowed in dark repose;
A boy and girl came near to stare
And to breathe the sweet sea air;
They kissed and Patupaiarehe lights
Streaked through that Waiheke sea-
Oh teeming sprights! Oh feral mites!
So old! So young! So free!
Side by side those two lovers dived-
We swam with the Patupaiarehe!

   BRIAN JOHN EVANS POEMS   2 9th June 2021:    I AM EIGHTY EIGHT ON THIS DAY To the Editor Waiheke Gulf News The Gaslighting of New Zealan...