May Poetry Dump (2026)

Wednesday is about books and writing. (And reading). Once a month or so I share the latest poems I’ve written. Here’s the poetry reflections from May of 2026.

I guess it was in 2024 that I started this thing, so we’re into the second full rotation now. At the beginning of a new month I share the previous month’s batch of poems. I’m writing them when and where I can, sharing most of them on this site, I then gather them all in a ‘dump’ here at the start of each month for those that prefer to read them in a group, as part of one of the official newsletters that appear during the week. To give you an idea, and in case you missed it, here’s last month’s — the April Poetry Dump for 2026:

SAY THE THING celebrated its first birthday in May too!

It’s so cool having this space for readers to do their thing. I kicked off the night with my poem about Paul Goldsmith which you’ll be able to read below…

Right, here’s all of May’s poetry writing…

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NOTES TOWARD A REGENERATIVE ECONOMY:

Tear down tall walls.
Wood that could make longer tables.

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THERE IS A LIGHT AND IT NEVER GOES ON:

Wordsmiths weren’t welcome in the Dak-House. What mattered most was how well you stamped out the fire. There was a hole in the floor and the dark water gave mushrooms for winter, and a few laughs if someone sleeping over didn’t know about it. A thud in the night; scraped shins the next day — the price of a piss in the night. It was never about going out, it was always about staying in. A game of cards, a video of the same old thing seen a dozen times, so you could time the laughs and send a telegram to predict the coughs. Somehow the bills were paid. But there was never enough left to replace the light in the hall. Such concerns were small. It was better to run the obstacle course of life in the Dak-House. It was making them men. It was taking them out, though they never made it very far.

---

YOU’LL NEVER GET IT BACK:

All the things you did, and all the things you were:
That time you played top sport, and the promotions
of all sorts, climbing up through the spreadsheet,
reaffirming corporate intentions; better
at attending meetings than anyone else;
‘back of the net’ moments on and off the field —

but all before the knee-brace and the orthotic
shoe supports, all before the afternoon lie-downs
and the temper flares that came from nowhere,
and the conversations that now have to be tempered —
“I used to be…” and
”don’t you know…” and “back in my day”.

Your day is done. The sun is gone.
And all they’ll ever fit in the coffin
is what’s left of you, in your borrowed suit.

---

IN THE MOOG FOR IT:

A slurry little keyboard line
as the sun tries to find its place in the sky.

The clothes-drier seems to hum along
with whatever is happening

in this song. And I’ve got to go
to work, but I’d prefer to be

scribbling this kind of nonsense,
rather than THAT kind of nonsense.

But it pays to go to work.
(Which is why I do).

And it saves me writing this.
(Which is why I do).

---

BACK ON MY BUS ETIQUETTE BULLSHIT:

I made it — last to get on,
first to write a poem about it —
somewhere in the middle

when it comes to queuing up.
And this ain’t no shrinking
violet here. I’ve even pushed in

once, maybe twice in my life.
And I can take the rejection —
hell, I’m a writer for fuck’s sake

(and also for my own sanity)
but these youngsters never
met a hill they’ve wanted

to walk, and it shows. Whereas
this here is my hill and every day
I’m getting trampled by people

under headphones, listening
most likely to Taylor, texting
‘BRB’ to fucking someone.

---

ZERO TO SIXTY:

Your best is good enough — even
more than that, believe me.

In fact, 60% will do —
You will be better than most

and so that’s more than enough.
A lot of people out there

barely even finishing what they

---

THE MASS OF MEN:

Dwindling now,
as quiet desperation,
rightly, is folded like laundry.

Hanging on
in earnest is the only way —
over troubled waters.

Bridging through.
Dull daze;
ticked off.

---

HOLES:

If purple had a smell it would be
woollen and wet — and that’s
all I said

but the guys round the table
went all Kookaburra
and the girl left

so the lads laughed even more
as the next joint was rolled
and in a fug of damp socks

they all tried their best
to remember, while I just
hoped to forget

---

PAUL GOLDSMITH NEVER LEARNED TO READ:

Paul Goldsmith at the Book Awards,
telling us he listens to Audiobooks,
but only until his free credit runs out.

This is New Zealand’s Minister
for the Arts, like an elbow thinking
it’s a fist; no hand to shake, no heart

on sleeve. The Humanities need
funding; need us. But we
need them, and far more

than we need a stuffed shirt,
a bumbling fool, parading indifference
and ignorance. Getting everything

muddled. Two ticks: Competency
this November. We should want
much more than just that.

In a nation that publishes twice
as many books as it reads
we should at least have

a minister that knows his arts
from his elbow, that pays to
listen all the way through.

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EGO IS A PRIVATE DANCER CAUGHT PANTS DOWN IN PUBLIC:

I’m still mad at Mark Knopfler
for saying Jeff Beck
played the second ugliest
guitar solo on the tune
Mr Dire Straits gave
to Tina Turner —

Mostly because
it made me listen
to Walk of Life
once again;
had to see if I could tell
who came first.

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AWKWARDLY, HE DANGLED ADVERBS:

Weirdly, he felt quite comfortable with this.
Stupidly, he continued.
Doggedly, he followed someone else’s lead.

Obliviously, he kept continuing.
Foolishly, he failed to care.
Flailingly, he windmilled on.

Desperately, he tried to make something of it all.
Devilishly, he started to see he was being annoying.
Annoyingly, he would not stop.

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RICHARD’S THIRD TIME CAMPING:

The winter of my disco-tent
flaps freely for you.
I shouldn’t be operating

on the fly. I could try to peg
things down better
but this is my pitch.

And these are my tunes.
You are welcome any time.
All others can take a hike.

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SOLD OUT:

He comes in, the lights are down. It’s packed. He goes, “do you think they’ve oversold it”. He’s not talking to me but I assume he’s talking about the country, the government’s self-belief, the idea of investment in minerals. So I say “have they what?” And then add, “Last one out leave some money so someone can leave a light on, right?” But by then he’d left, shouting over his shoulder, “I’m talking about this gig you queer cunt; this show you fucking idiot!” I try to tell him that they can’t oversell something that has a capacity. Then realise that’s what the government has done. And that’s why we are all at each other’s throats while trying to enjoy our last chunk of change. That’s what they want from us. If not our vote, our apathy.

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UNDER THE LEAVES:

“Brother, let me vape your blues away”,
doesn’t have any ring to it —
like when we blew so much smoke
through dreams, cold and telling
anyone who’d listen that smokers
have the best conversations — when
surely we meant lung infections.

Tonight I’m with you and we don’t
smoke anymore, and I don’t even
drink. But we sway to the music
always, stay tuned to similar
frequencies, humming like the end
of a Zevon song; not like end of Warren…

---

V / H / S:

With the wrong set of leads,
or at least the wrong information
about how to connect them,

you too could be the owner
of a copy of a copy — but this one
was different; this only contained

one sound — the whir of failure.
So it was down the video store
to find something new…

to scheme and dream of success.
The long ambition of shortcuts;
slow summer holidays once again.

---

IT’S (NOT) ONLY ROCK N ROLL:

What about when Charlie Watts
lifts his stick off the hi-hat, to let
the snare drum sneeze and breathe.

And suddenly there’s more space
in the world for the guitar to slide,
for Mick Jagger to glide.

The Stones in full swagger
is something so totally other.
Listen carefully and you might

catch the moment when Keith’s
right hand and Charlie’s left foot
define the band forever.

---

BANGIN’ ON:

I have to hit the drum
each day —

it could be saving
walls, or windows,

doorframes as
a cymbal.

I have to hit
the drum each day

with hope
that I’m improvin’

---

TAKING OFF:

The early flight might break me.
Dad says it’s all about getting
a head start; time to rest

your head, he says. But I can’t.
Too much noise in the hallway
He is flapping his arms, running

back and forth. Saying something
about gathering speed, getting
ready. He wants us all ready.

---

THE DRAWING BOARD BECKONS ETERNALLY:

Back once again with the drawing board
to plan, to think, to do.

Time for a change says Tim or Phil.
It’s time for something new.

The problem is neither me nor the board,
I scratch my head, I scratch the paint.

I know the things I want to do, and want
to try — and I know that I’m no saint.

But parrots in flaming trees are harder
to see than ever before, no longer protected;

parrots in trees can’t draw at the board.
Parrots in trees just squawk, dejected.

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IS THERE SOMETHING IN YOUR WAY:

The guitar sounds like an old Nirvana song.
Thank god there are no new Nirvana songs.
Or do we thank Courtney Love?

Or do we just love the ones we’re with —
Something in the way
repeat three times

and say ‘yeah’.
All of this is over 30 years ago now.
So many wars in so many ways

and we are all still raging
but it never pays.
So scratch out your new tune,

drawn from old chords —
there’s nothing in the way, ‘Yeah’
We don’t have any feelings.

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HUBRIS:

I can’t quite recall
because I have no recollection
but let me just say

that if I did recall it would be
the best recall — smarter
and better than the last lot.

Which, you’d have to agree, is what matters.
I stand before you today
due to strong ergonomic management,

getting this country right back on track
for as long as I can remember.
Which is a lot, and the best, and greatest

apart from that one new allegation
of fraud and ill-remembered process
but that’s really just so small

that I can’t even be bothered to recall.
It’s beneath me really. Like my feet
and my gumption, and my morality.

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So there you go, a busy month, 21 new poems. See anything you like there?

And thanks as always for reading, for scrolling through, and passing by…