Jamie Robertson

No Oaks Stand

Old brick-and-iron brewery, borders invaded
by brushes of fennel, by wildgrass

home to shipping containers,
to refrigerated units, fans spinning
only when the southerlies blow

the wildgrass doesn’t mind

my father worked here
my father died here

and the grasses grow on, grow tall
as the brewery sinks, and the wind whistles

I pray for strong roots and liquid head,
I pray to become the grass



Drown Mondays

The best way I found
to catch my seven-twenty train
is to miss the seven-o-five, be late
and grow a glut of yin
from the corpses of yangs

drown mondays to breathe tuesdays

but I nibbled cake and kept it too;
I caught the seven-o-five
and the hands fell off the clock,
fell off my wristwatch



By Jamie Robertson

(Auckland, NZ) spent six years studying psychology and education, writing in his spare time. Now working full-time in HR, he continues to write in his spare time. He has also been known to grow rare cross-cultivars of broccoli.