5 Poems from Peter Rimmer

PECULIAR CHILD

I was a peculiar child
In love with magic and wonder
In a world awash with both


A mirror was a portal
To another world
Where a child
Looked back at me
Capered and clowned
Mimicked my every move
Set and framed
A window between worlds


Lying in the cool grass
Shaded from the sun
I’d watch the sky people
Drifting by
In shape shifter billows,
Imagining I could fly
Soaring the blue infinite
Dancing on wings
Riding air
I’d play


Dreaming adventures
With witches, trolls, wizards and dragons
Castles made in trees


My sister was gifted a bangle
Something in the word jarred
I dreamed it alive in sweated sleep
A troglodyte monster
Atop a lonely mountain road
Stripping flesh from human bones
The notorious Bangler
Made his abode


I shivered in the warm sun bright
When I saw its talisman
Proudly worn
A circle dancing with impunity
About my sister’s wrist
Taunting, daring me to breathe magic into its name
The fearsome Bangler
Hiding in plain sight



HOBO FIRE

Shaggy tree shades
Cut a silhouette
Ink on silvered cloud
The Night King owns this hour


Behind me
To my east
Mountains cast up their proud bulk


Te Marama the moon
Sister silver face
Has hauled herself upon their shoulders
Now climbing her way
To her place
Among the firmament of old, cold stars


The Southern Cross
Shines from a crystal tear
A rent in a silvered swirl of cloud


I sit before a Hobo fire
Sipping beer
I imagine myself to be
An infinite echo
In a boundless room


In my innermost world
I dance with the flames
That flicker and flare with primal joy
On the face of an ember bed


I am at peace with myself
At peace with the world



MATARIKI WINTER SOLSTICE 


A dove grey breast
Of cloud
Settles low in a broken sky


Winter has made his home here
A brittle sun
Lances our world
With fragile
Hesitant light
Pale honey fluffs the underbelly
Of the sky doves cloud breast


Soon now
The winter solstice
Matariki
The pivot
Upon which the seasons swing



WASHED


Rain washes a hush
On the tin roof above my head
The Pacific Ocean
Is in the sky
Occupying the dawn
With night and shade
Its ally


A steady drum salutes the day
There is no colour
Only shades and shadows
Picked out against a slate grey sky
Define this day


In waves of sound
As sweeps of intensity
Range from dancing hammers
To falling feathers
A hush
To staccato drum



TIME IS A SQUEEZEBOX


Time concertinas
Seems to expand and contract
No colour
No sound


All colours blurred
White noise
I am a piece of string
I unravel, unwind, unwound
Rock the roll of ages
Moss grows thick on this rolling stone


Windows open
Windows close
Creaking on an incessant breeze
A door I swing
On a creaking hinge


My ghosts trail me
A silent parade of hollow shades
And I my sails full blown
Sweep my comet self
From then to now
Into the unknown


Cleanslate new day
Well I know
There is no such beast
The past haunts the future
Now we are ghosts
Haunting this space


Time concertinas
Squeezed it contracts
Expands and we fly
I look to you and you to I


I am not an island
And neither are you
We are connected
I’ll trade your ghosts for mine


We blaze our skies a note on a breeze
Caught and gone
Time concertinas
In, out, we’re gone

Find more by Peter Rimmer on The Blue Nib Here

Peter Rimmer and The Cowboy Gangstas are on Facebook here

About the contributor

Related Articles

Bhodi Tims: In Search of Blue

Bhodi Tims' The Acoustic Properties of Ancient People was published by Finishing Line Press.

Siri Says Turn Right in 200 Metres. Stevie Quick

SIRI SAYS TURN RIGHT IN 200 METRES Siri says turn right in 200 metres. Just that; go...

Poetry by Justin Lowe

Poetry of place from Blue Mountain poet, Justin Lowe.

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here

More Like This

The Beautiful Moment and other poems from Rose Lucas

Rose Lucas's first collection, Even in the Dark (UWAP) won the Mary Gilmore award in 2014.

The Life Exchange

The Life Exchange For two hours every night he traded piety For pints of warm beer and idle gossip. Sucking...

Sally McHugh- New Poetry

 Blue Atlas Tracing the grids of the blue atlas my finger runs down the page, charting the north Atlantic ocean, Lisbon, Africa with its Sahara winds blowing, Freetown. Latitude, longitude, lines criss-cross, I...

Laura Jan Shore. In praise of foibles

Laura Jan Shore’s poetry collections include Breathworks, Dangerously Poetic Press, 2002 and Water over Stone, IP Picks Best Poetry 2011, Interactive Press. She’s also the author of YA novel, The Sacred Moon Tree, Bradbury Press,1986

Prayer

Chris Jansen cares for a disinterested guinea pig named Poozybear.