The Midnight Sun

Photographer: Teira Naahi
Photo used with permission

A frightening amount of random words
Equaled only by a total lack of expression
The one hundred thousand impossibilities tackled before dawn
Leaving another empty day wanting

Wooden chairs
Blank canvas
A committee in revolt
Plastic forks

I had thought upon the days end that great progress had been made
Three of the nine had agreed to not speak such senseless things
While the remaining six called for all the mirrors to be removed

No hair
Shampoo
Nicotine habitat

Then the memory returned that progress comes from work completed

So to task I take this sleepless night and again the impossibilities tackled
And again the morrow will stand empty
Frustratingly familiar breeding contempt
But we have raged for the last time
There is nothing in our eyes
Yet there is something in the air.

Copyright © 2015, Clayton Taylor-Nelson aka Teira Naahi

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
Clayton Taylor-Nelson aka Teira Naahi was born in Auckland New Zealand. He is no stranger to Mental Health. Teira was inadvertently institutionalized in an Australian psyche hospital for children, at the age of 8, and released at the age of 14 then returned to NZ on his own. Drawing from multiple art disciplines to find new solutions and expressions for life’s complex situations, Teira has spent over 25 years producing art, music and poetry as a means of exploring and coping with mental health under the banner of “Rewiring The Self Through Art!”.

Call for New Zealand Poetry Submissions

Artist: Nazzquipit “Manual/Digital Artist”
Image used with permission

For all you wonderful Kiwi poets out there, (living oversea’s too) I’m taking new poetry submissions now.

For first time contributors, find out how here.

For returning poets, you do not need to re-submit your Bio or Contributors Note but please check the Contributors Page in case your bio needs updating.

I’m sure you have all been poeting throughout the years. We’d love to read your work! Jx

MY GIFT FROM MOTHER EARTH

Photographer: Wendy Sama
Image used with permission

I am a child of mother earth

A gift I was given unto

My body and spirit a temple

I am free an only I command it true

Of only happy and gentle souls

Of those which disrespect it

Must be a devil on burning coals

I have been gifted a loving spirit

And my temple I shall protect

Only a privilege to those if I allow it

Or be in their spirit I shall reject

Forgive all that believe in their right

To cross through my temple gate

They are but naive and selfish spirits

The word “No” only the devil does hate

Where but hell gives a spirit the right

On another to force it’s wants and greed

To touch uninvited beyond ones boundary

Abusing a personal gift, only rejection you shall feed

The key to my temple and sanctuary

Lay in the gift gives, not in a kiss

If I withhold the key and NO is spoken

Don’t force your touch, your spirit I will dismiss

Copyright © 2008, Shannan Walsh

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
Hi my name is Shannan, I have been writing poetry since I was a teenager, I have suffered from Anxiety and Depression for many years and writing has been a great therapy. I have had to deal with alcohol and drug addiction in the past. I had a child hood which involved battling with suicide and low self esteem which developed into anger and addiction. My words are my life and the roads I have travelled and I have kept them very private for many years, I am finally ready to share these poems and I am sure many out there will relate and I hope know they are not alone.

THE GIFT OF POWER

Photographer: Wendy Sama
Image used with permission

Dusty grey clouds float overhead, Reminds us of dark days past

A history of pain, hurt and anguish, Oh the memories and the years gone by fast

The clouds drift apart to a sun so warm, To replenish, cleanse us and heal

Lessons learnt and wisdoms earned, We spread our wings and the freedom we feel

All burdens let go and hatred forgiven, The gift of inner power released

Strange emotions felt, love, caring and trust, Past mourned, put to rest, burnt, deceased

Self esteem rebuilt, dignity and pride intact, Our minds our own, the freedom of speech

Positive thoughts, controlled calm and gentle, The attributes in our children we must teach

Through gifts of courage and strength given, Happiness and joy, like the sun, shines through

We give ourselves freely and open our hearts, Love will be given and be honest and true

So we hand you back the remote control, And the ropes which we were once tied

No longer your play puppets to dance on command, We forgive you, the last word spoken –

But wish no longer to stand at your side

Any negative souls don’t tread on our ground, Your control, hate and hurt is unwelcome

Take heed of this warning, as we now stand strong

Only the glorious sun and bright stars shine in our kingdom

We are beautiful women, born of Mother Earth, Once broken, scarred, beaten and weak

Now our fires burn strong, no hate in our hearts

We don’t need you, we are survivors

We will stand on our own damn feet.

Copyright © 2008, Shannan Walsh

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:Hi my name is Shannan, I have been writing poetry since I was a teenager, I have suffered from Anxiety and Depression for many years and writing has been a great therapy. I have had to deal with alcohol and drug addiction in the past. I had a child hood which involved battling with suicide and low self esteem which developed into anger and addiction. My words are my life and the roads I have travelled and I have kept them very private for many years, I am finally ready to share these poems and I am sure many out there will relate and I hope know they are not alone.
 

Kenspeckle Blue

 

Life is strange
I was strange and I was alive

I was once observed as a black sheep
garbed in rainbow hippy clothing

To most of those other sheep roving
I was then resolute and self assured
Determined  to be more like those around me
It’s taken me years to change my mind

Now that I have succeeded in doing so
I am desperate to have that fifty four year old
unyielding mind back
self confidence is now what I really lack

The straw that broke the camel’s back
Is that I now go to extremes much easier

Am I normal now and really just a stranger to myself?
 

Copyright © 2015, Steve.Brother-Majik

 
CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
 Steve.Brother-Majik suffers from schizotypal personality disorder and is a self employed signwriter with a low power fm radio station ‘Radio Wild-Card’ and owns his own home in Wanganui East, Whanganui

 

Surfing

surfing

 

I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care

yes I do, sure I do, no I don’t

fuck-face fuzz

screaming ripped hamstrings

she says

“careless Ezra scratched me out”

I don’t know what to fucking say

should I be this old?

did I crawl all this way?

I’ll stop asking questions if they stop surfing Rosa

 

Copyright © 2014 Keith Nunes

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
Keith Nunes is a former newspaper journalist who now writes to stay sane. He’s been published widely Down Under and lives in rural Bay of Plenty with a retinue of nutters.

 

 

 

Garish

garish

 

couldn’t praise enough

lurid little leprechaun

smeared with false hairlines and painted end-games

she’s only real during appointments

itemising her husband’s live-in lovers

failing to point out that she’s all squeezed in

never mind, you can buy yourself a personality

 

Copyright © 2014 Keith Nunes

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
Keith Nunes is a former newspaper journalist who now writes to stay sane. He’s been published widely Down Under and lives in rural Bay of Plenty with a retinue of nutters.

Seclusion

Seclusion 

 

There is not a soul alive that seems to understand me

Not even my closest companions, not even my family

My bedroom drawer is packed with prescriptions

Making sleeping pills the main of my many addictions

Every social situation that I’ve tried hard to avoid

Has resulted in me being labelled paranoid

Regular visits to the clinic of psychiatry

But still, no one could help with my inner anxiety

The fear of being watched, judged and scrutinized

Has forced me to wish that one day I’d be euthanized

Ever since childhood, shyness was difficult to abolish

And throughout adolescence, seclusion was my only solace

Till this day, I pray to be saved from this internal disaster

If only I could convince God to answer.

 

Copyright © 2014 Grant Kingi

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
 Hello, my name is Grant Kingi and i’m a psychology student at Otago University. This poem I have written was inspired by the anxiety that I experience when in public or in social situations. I have not been diagnosed with social anxiety but I have undergone a series of psychiatric/ psychotherapeutic tests which indicate that I possess more milder symptoms of the disorder. I realize that the problem could be rooted deep in my past. As a child, I was shunted from foster home to foster home and as a consequence, I began to feel chronically insecure. This is my story…

A passenger’s clarity

a passenger’s clarity

 

spoiled light, a has-been sheen

promises and promise left by the side of the road

as annoying as a rush-hour puncture

 

streaming out of the lustrous, jubilant morning

into late afternoon loss and tiredness

sitting behind the wheel she doesn’t acknowledge

my failure to change our lives

 

an overwhelming sense of staleness

brushes my face

I want to push the windscreen out

shout: “someone’s dying in here”

 

there’s hundreds of us moving steadily

in parcelled cars

suddenly aware

despite fevered efforts

we can’t find our way home

 

Copyright © 2014 Keith Nunes

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
Keith Nunes is a former newspaper journalist who now writes to stay sane. He’s been published widely Down Under and lives in rural Bay of Plenty with a retinue of nutters.

 

My Depression is a Room

Image via Wikipedia

with walls patterned
in a random design

confusing     distracting

drawing me deeper

where the floor’s an illusion
a step onto quicksand

unstable     unpredictable

sucking me down

where the ceiling swings with moods
caught on the scraps of words

frustration      strikes!

before I can duck

with a faint glow reaching
from a crack under the bolted door

my strength     determination

aren’t I lucky

where a sick experience of pain
washes through the naked space

uncomfortable     irritation

my gut reaction

where the atmosphere’s a firm conviction
that sleep is not a friend

the hours merely nag     mock

as cockroaches scuttle

Copyright © 2010 Kirsten Cliff

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
Kirsten Cliff currently spends her days creating a collection of haiga (haiku poems with images) to help her mentally and spiritually process her recent journey through leukaemia. Her haiku have been published in journals and anthologies, and placed in competitions, in both New Zealand and overseas. Kirsten lives with her fiancé (also a writer and poet) in a house dedicated to writing, “Wordsmith House”, in Papamoa, Bay of Plenty.