Auckland Poetry

Women of Iraq

Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?

After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished

Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.

Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate

The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.

Come Dancing

The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.

A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.

A Short Visit  Hadn’t been here for thirty years, not since my brother’s funereal, the cemetery was bigger now; but I knew his place was near a big stone with “Chief engineer Olsen engraved; fifty years dead and he was still an engineer. I didn’t find brothers grave maybe his stone had sunk, the ground was soft with all this digging; standing still my feet sank into spongy soil. Must have gone in circles three times I came to Olsen’s grave; finally I gave him the flowers, I’m sure brother didn’t mind. Left, trying to remember his face, couldn’t, but I have a photo of him in an album. Squally wind threw rain about I could see the bay its water was gray and edgy, a ship was leaving harbour, pity the seafarers heading in to a storm, pity us all, never told my brother I loved him      

Farewell Marilyn

Frost on the window, I scratch a face on ice,
that looks like Marilyn Monroe. And the sun
has no power but lit her face, a golden goddess
she is; we see each other for hours before
she begins to fade, streaks of sorrow, but what
can I do, it’s high tide and my ship is about
to set sail for an unknown destination