The Wild Word #36 Its a kind of magic

Watching the sky speak

Open to the world

On the wing of light

ENVY 7 Deadly Sins Vol 6.

A Parade on Oriental

As the Inter-islander makes its way in the world moves past me and a ferry crosses to Eastbourne

In the oceanic amniotic fluid the biting fish are tiny as One News interviews on the state of the state of the calm beneath which intercontinental tension builds

A child in stroller takes his grandfather for a walk as a sweating grimacing grin of runners pad past, a tattoo of pastel t-shirts and lycra shorts

With pink legs an orange billed oystercatcher fossicks the foreshore amongst kelp and shells and piles of human waste that whales mistake for squid

A pair of purple jandals enviously awaits the return of their bare feet that have wandered off to a Glamaphones concert

I walk the blue arrowed path of an interactive marathon sponsored by Powerade where runners wear earphones and fitbit devices so personal biodata can be monitored and broadcast to a global audience on Netflix

A red hatted kayaker escorts a yellow buoy towed by a violet capped swimmer and this all becomes a variety of mobile rainbow without the usual arc

Ministry of Funny Runs staff, at pace, breathing hard, snake along the path in their unique individual styles, as does a Chinese conversation with a duolingo accent

E-bikers pass with broad it’s so easy smiles and a squeeze of lime-scooters slip on by A derallieur of cyclists zip in a fluoroblour as harakeke pods throb

At the yacht club under looming cumulo-nimbus anvils, race information has not yet been logged in the start box

Office crystals shimmer in tetragonal masses beneath a raggedly torn sky-line

The harbor eyes a frontal molasses of cold air and downpours with hail now

There are still no fish on the way back to the bus stop, just the wet hiss and splash of cars

And the sea still only sees with mirrors 

About Piet Nieuwland

Poetry is not a luxury, it is a necessary part of the creativity of every day.  


Piet Nieuwland has poems and flash fiction appear in numerous print and online journals published in New Zealand, Australia, United States of America, Canada, India and Germany.


He is a performance poet, edits Fast Fibres Poetry and lives near Whangarei.


In a previous life he worked as a conservation strategist for Te Papa Atawhai in Aotearoa/New Zealand 


He welcomes email contact at 


Outside the melting window a forest of memories sang

Sang with the delight of Harpogornis mooreii soaring


The endless blue sky hit the buildings edge dissolving

Into plastic nano-particles and hydrocarbons of cars


At a temperature of one hundred and four the dilated pores

Of the epidermal surface exude a sticky blue serum


The morning was all yellow, yellowish and gooey. We walked into the

Painting swallowing bananas tinged with cinnamon, honey and burnt toast


Footsteps echoed from the hallway,

A caterpillar crawling towards metamorphosis


The floor of polished wax skidded us, slip and fall without

The slightest sense of gravity

A red dart kite attempted lift-off





In the memory of earth


Night is only a dress


Wet with the friction of lips


On the river bank in bubbles of breath


Through the harmonicas sinister slow distant ache


Of bit flips and bergy bits, crevasses that vanish


And every day is another day


Where the rhythm tilts away


Over valleys stretched beyond the lucid moon


Intimate water eclipsed with yellow


Cacti buds on crushed feldspar gravels


Geckos luminous as mercury black eagles in solar flow


When suddenly In a confusion over Black Mountain a conflagration


Of shadows, turbulent vermillion and frenzied ashen waters


Spill from the whole vivid sky


Violet castanets echo the slow scent of red eagle laughter


Upon pyramidal sisters


Upon lovers of the pagoda


And carillon bells ring


Over bloodshot Indian hills






Pacific hypergirls go strut


Whispered messages dissolve in rivers of attention and glances

A long sigh exhales through the valley to Kaipara moana  


Molecules of sound emanate from luminous branches

A syntax of yellow leaves on black trees  


Filaments of falling marked by fluid silvery drops

Accurate shapes, incarnate wairua exclamations  


Hallucinations of glamorous echoing veils

Silky clay nostalgias, transgressions of moss  


A ferment of revolution in the invisible temples

Vorticies of evaporation on the spidery skyline  


Lightning on the fuse of your stare  


The moon a flower,

White as a flight of doves 


In the black balance

Of velvet night