Jackson Nieuwland

Rescuers extensively trained

I led the firemen. I said, “Fire men!” The firemen fired then lead flew through paramedics’ eyelids. Survivors dialed for policemen. We heard sirens. My firemen and I fled from a herd of policemen. This was tiring. We said, “Please policemen, we are firemen.” They said, “Try again.” We replied, “We’re on the same side, I think.” They replied with silence. We replied by firing. They replied by firing. We replied by firing. They replied by dialing for backup. We replied by reloading. They replied by hiding. We replied by finding them. They replied by bargaining. We replied by firing. They replied by surrendering. We replied with violence. They replied by dying. We celebrated by firing at heaven.



There are things in my mind which I imagine must be memories

It is never silent here.
It is always either
the sound of birds or rain.
I am balancing on the horizon,
practicing one legged meditation,
until I hear a different sound:
a cry for help from the opposite horizon.
Suddenly I am running away from the horizon
towards the horizon.
Suddenly I have gone from out of shape
to fitter than the final jigsaw puzzle piece.
Suddenly I am swinging from the legs of birds,
treating them as monkey bars.
Suddenly I am riding a cloud,
pulling on the reigns until it is dry inside.
I reach the source of the sound
and this is where I find silence.
Moss covers the ground in every direction.
It crawls up the cracks in the bark of the tree.
There are tiny green horses galloping in circles on the branches.
Were they the ones in need of help
or the ones who caused the cry.
I turn away and walk toward the rainbow.
I walk up its steep slope and worry
that by the time I reach the peak
my legs will be so well trained in ascent
that they will refuse to bend the other way
and I will have forgotten how to walk
back down the other side.
I look down through the cloud wisps.
There is a castle to the North-West.
There is a castle to the North-East.
There is a castle to the South-East.
There is a castle to the South-West.
I will tear down all four castles
and use the pieces to build a small stone hut
on the top of the mountain on the Southern horizon.
I open my hand
and watch a tiny horse
race in circles
around my palm.



By Jackson Nieuwland

(Wellington, NZ) is melting. Soon they will be a puddle on the floor. The puddle will soak through the floorboards and be absorbed by the earth beneath. The earth is very thirsty; it needs all the fluids it can get.