clouds make the shapes of ancient creatures

dinosaurs moa great eagles

sea hardens while land dissolves to water

night arrives with more blood

but groaning not singing

pigs squeal at the crater rim

pork boulders juggled at the mouth

of a hot clown

the Tarawera waka glides by

death death fear of death

mystery waka

again the wave slaps his face

try harder

slaps him again

portray me as I am

Waka 76

Tangaroa slams his pint on the bar,

‘Gissa nother,’ he hisses – the bartender jumps,

slides a frothy wave the length of the bay –

the crowd of fur seals resume their conversations,

slapping each other on the backs.

A guy with a waka attitude walks in,

leans over looking at Tangaroa –

‘I’ll have what the wet guy’s having

since he’s gonna pay for it.’

The fur seals fly in all directions.

Tangaroa looks him up and down,

checks out his moko and his waka.

‘You’re one of Tane’s kids, ain’t ya.

That means we’re kin!’

He pays for the drink.

Waka 77

In pre-colonial times the crews would walk

across the isthmus near Otahuhu to cross harbours,

carrying the waka.

If they were visible today

there would be motorcades, policemen

to control the crowds and traffic –

probably tv crews too,

perhaps a Holmes special. They’d probably

make it part of an Ironman event.

That’s good, that’s how it should be.

But they don’t.

In olden days Mr Pene said at school

the waka would carry deceased across

from Mangere. But instead of burying them

at Maungakiekie they buried them at caves

in Onehunga, which was closer. That’s why

Mangere is called Mangere which means lazy.

The dead ancestors must be there still.

Waiting for their trip to the great pa,

wanting the waka to return.

Waka 78 An historical line

In the New Zealand Wars,

among the lives lost – civilians

and fighters – among the torched homes,

brutalities, manhunts, relatives

turned on each other,

amid the creeping through lines on bellies,

captured and wounded,

the horror of soldiers at the injustices,

the shared and alien customs of war,

amid the tired feet of horses and men

hauling artillery down the Great South Road,

amid the teeth of men – the military diet,

talk, bare lips and beards and moustaches,

amid the Maori men and women

who fought for themselves

let alone their culture, amid the torture

of death for all people who are left

to cope with the departure of the dead,

amid the context of Grey’s second

governorship and his belligerent settler PM,

amid the context of a minor colony

draining Imperial coffers, Imperial forces,

amid the resistance of souls

to becoming the essence of souls,

the Empire took the waka.

They broke them where they confiscated them.

Burnt them. The iwi hid the old ones

we have today. Or built them again.

They had the psychological template.

Waka 79

Uncle Sam carved my mother a model waka –

he reached into history and pulled it out