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Tracy Te Aroha Osborne
New Zealand

‘Pieces of Eight’ was composed while walking the dogs: the need to exercise them serving to inform me of Central Otago’s landscape, something of which I hope speaks to you in poems ‘one’ and ‘four’.

I make mosaics at home in Clyde. They’re built for sunlight to pass through. The materials are shattered windscreens and discarded bottles first rendered by hand into tiles.

Lately I’ve developed blog awareness and put up a few things at the following :

Come and post.

Pieces of Eight


Yes I'm blessed, here's signs :
one brown quail bowling along,
hens flying
up from cress in which I clamber
through ditchwater good for life,
twitching off greens for the white meat later
with agria spuddies, smoked tea,


Grandad raps the pages shouting
His trembling fingers light from the Bible
He has ceased speaking, one may leave, slowly
He is strong vine shielding
sheet iron
from the hushing sea


Averting her mind with respect
to the judgements of brethren who'd twig
to her morning's muttered avowals
and those tender receipts of avowal
not one hour cold of bed yet
She lets go her song in praise,
marking time for the worshipful ward
gazing in on remembered joy,
breaking the spine of the shared book
in silence


how low sun is though right for now
that night's slung up from underground
where things are kept like -
spring's shopping,
winter's neat valise,
summer's packing,
and autumn's lavish dress flourished
in opening sallie already
of gaudy plumes to follow gilts
sprinkled in the creek

where brown trout flock to pour forth mood
through the chocking chatter rubble
of the tutor waterbed, drilling
precepts and vectors to small fish heads
pressing into riot
for answers

how late sun rises
how like it for now
how quick falls the dark, in blocks.


Under dark
Over deep
the wallowing frame-of-default looms nosing,
closing after fleeing fish,


We resumed, he no friend though
for, man among men now
to whom he'd removed from
bear traps in hedges with willow rods and rope
from open credulity
from candle-in-can projectors after dark in the hope of
good detail.
In crossing he'd quit with that mumbo jumbo
being free now actually,
a 'he' now, manfully
Disinclined to send up smoke.


down in the art block
under the book lockers
She fell to her pransome hince
He fell on his missus
We fell at bay
wildly dismayed by display
reckoned loudly, redly, roundly on
the shape her boobs made when he pressed 'em,
not caring to let them hide,
being children keeping in tribe -
it was just Interval.


He comes to apprehend in riot
and fun with any mates

Double-takes from females masticating the
cud of isolation with his
glaring brethren, moved by
throaty motors only and girls between times for a sec besides the missus

Rattles the home with his silences and tempers
blaring like his brothers, flaring,
gritting jaws over black reflections

Wants to be the one to give the PM the finger
Gave it anyway to the WINZ tart and that CYPF wanker

After drink plays Dad to his frozen family troupe
Witnessing from cuffs
Their evacuation by pigs
To a safe house later

Now he has to prove he’s a good joker.
He can’t believe it.

Poems by Tracy Te Aroha Osborne
Central Otago