Auckland Poetry

Still Life.

Mother used to have on the wall, a picture
of a dead boy in his coffin, surrounded by
flowers, candles and silence.

I often stared hard at the picture, willing
the boy to open his eyes, he never obliged
me, but came alive in my dreams.

The name of the boy’s mother was Olga she
used to visit us till mother and her fell out,
mother thought it rude to remove the picture.

Years went by, my brother died and mother
took the picture down, but it was still there,
a square less faded than the rest of the wall.

The Doubt

Snow fell between us, more and more,
I couldn’t see you, blizzard in my hearts;
when the weather cleared the landscape
was white with hares and fox tracks.
This mass of snow didn’t know where to
dig and I had no snow-spade. Waited till
April when snow thawed and hares had
been hunted to extinction and fox fur
adorned and gave warm comfort to old
ladies. You looked fine, just as before,
but there was a hole in your head, and
now they think I have had a hand in your
demise…. Preposterous!

The Lone Parent

Active silence stalks my house, when it gets
too noisy I walk into the kitchen make a cup
of coffee and bang cooking pots lid together.
in the day my bedroom is light an airy softly
moving curtains let in the light and sound of
the street, come night it falls into melancholy
so deep I need a diver’s suit to go to bed.

I sit by the fireplace and it doesn’t roar, blue
flames move to a sound that is composed, for
them alone, by logs that do not even sigh
when made into ash; and there on the rug my
black cat is dead as a lost bedroom slipper.
my only daughter has gone to seek her fortune,
works in a Taco Bell and wears a uniform.

Senryu

I had to haste home
But left my eyes on a stone
To enjoy, sundown

Senryu

In the square’s corner
A fallen woman danced
With dust and leaves

Senryu

A denuded phellem
Suffers in noble silence
Birds do not titter.

Window Facing Backyard.3

Snow had fallen into the yard, a boy
was making a snowman; no, not
a fat one, but a small and skinny one
much snow falls down a dark space
between tall buildings.

The boy, whose mother clean steps
and lives in the basement flat, gave
the snowman coal eyes, carrot nose
and personality, it also wore my old
baseball cap.

When April came and snowmen in
nice people’s gardens had melted,
ours was still there, minus eyes and
nose; I kept sensing his presence, as
a work of art, after his final demise.

Window Facing backyard.2

From my window I can see the wall of
a factory where they used to make cigars.
On good days I can inhale the aroma of
bygone days that despite poverty were
in many ways, less judgmental than now

Eight month a year the wall is grey, but
come May when dry and lit by sunlight,
it is a map of the world. Lakes, rivers,
mountains, seas and arid regions where
an oily, black mass trickles down.

How nice it will be if someone comes
along scrapes off the old paint fills in
cracks and repainted the wall; pink this
time. I fear it’s too late, the wall will
soon fall drained by human disregards.

Widow Facing Backyard. 1

I keep plastic flowers on the window sill,
they are spray painted in vivid colours;
I take them in once week and rinse them
under the tap; this morning they had tiny
snow flakes on, looked pretty and lit up
a room that only sees sunlight in June.

My lady friend thought them vulgar, ashamed
of my bad taste I let them fall down into
the dark yard and we went out for dinner.
Silent and angry I left early, walked home
picked up the flowers, rinsed them under
the tap and put them back on sill.

Child of War.

I was four when bombs fell and exploded with a cool bang, burning houses free heat on a January night.
When the enemy soldiers came, big men laughing intoxicated
by victory, so different from those pale man at the factory
and, yes I became enthralled and without looking back
joined the invaders as a mascot; blue eyes and blond hair and
teeth as white as Italian marble. Yes, the warriors loved me
the child of war; an army tailor sewed me a golden uniform.
I was there riding, alongside the commandant, saluting
the troops who indulgently smiled. What they did not know
any talk of sedition from them I reported to my leader, but in
the end they knew and they feared me greatly…War is in my blood, and I’m not even British, peace didn’t bode me well it
made me tired I slept for forty five years and luckily for me
the Iraqi war came along, in itself nothing much, but it is
the ember that will set the world afire and once more we will
have world war. Sweet blood and heavenly light let me be consumed by your fire, let me see the earth burn and let me
once more sit on a steed and lead men of iron into oblivion

The Fingerprinted.

On the highway stretching forever, beset by
dumped cars and weed that cracks up asphalt,
a gypsy family with their tough little horses
meanders slowly through a road that is a sad
testament to a civilization that lost its way.
War of resources, everyone lost, has ruined
the economy and social cohesion, the people
lack the will to start again after the fat years.
Begging, theft and robbery are the norm, and
as usual the itinerants are blamed by people
who still cling to their bankrupt dwellings.
For travelers this means nothing, they were
poor before, and feel no triumph. Nomads in
the landscape of shimmering time.

A Portuguese Spring

Once again the almond petals snow their
silky abundance on the pebbled road in
the village, and the Nordic princess who
lives in a castle near a lake that houses
an old pike that has been here so long it
can tell tales of times, before the princess
came and made winters mild; when
the lake froze over and folks wore wooly
snakes as scarves around scrawny necks,
against the bitter child- dries her tears and
smiles again and remembers a childhood
up north were the snow was so pure that
god’s footsteps were seen by the devoted,
for the rest the silence hummed a lullaby

Haiku

Summer sunlight
Filtered through green leaves
Made old moss golden

Saying

Chase the rainbow
Not for its illusory gold
But its beauty

Senryu

The carob tree’s shade,
Soft as a dusky mistress
A tropical night

 
The Thing

In my home town they were closing down
the old library, going digital, giving away
leather bound book. I parked by the door
got as many beautiful old books as I could
carry, but I had parked in a no parking and
the police had dismantled my car, an officer
guarding the pieces said if I paid the police
would come and reassemble the car,

I agreed, but it began raining, they couldn’t
come before it stopped, staggered back to
the library with my book, but it had shut its
doors for the day. And did it rain, the books,
now a dough of damp leather and wet paper
gave birth to a ugly, slimy thing that tried to
crawl back into the library leaving a trail of
useless words and pompous poetry behind.

The Way to Faith?

The horror is in the mirror it reflects
and reports the obscene that hides
behind human beauty.

Fear of death and stench of the crypt
for those who rely on mere physical
allure, and haven’t yet accepted time’s
way to rot and grind all down to finest
dust. Doomed to panic stricken roam
the world seeking a cure for old age
and loss of lust.

When a selfless act of prayer can
beautify our sad souls and set us free;
redeemed we can find Paradise.

A Portuguese Spring

Once again the almond petals snow their
silky abundance on the pebbled road in
the village, and the Nordic princess who
lives in a castle near a lake that houses
an old pike that has been here so long it
can tell tales of times, before the princess
came and made winters mild; when
the lake froze over and folks wore wooly
snakes as scarves around scrawny necks,
against the bitter child- dries her tears and
smiles again and remembers a childhood
up north were the snow was so pure that
god’s footsteps were seen by the devoted,
for the rest the silence hummed a lullaby

Disagreeable Day.

Rose petals and golden leaves on my terrace,
sparrows fly about, twitter insanely, fauns have
danced here, in the heat of the night. I look for
a broom must keep things tidy or neighbours
may think I’m slothful; can’t fine the broom.
My desk is full of shiny sheets of papers with
chaotic words, merrily free of grammar.
Must act now fling them into the bin and go
for a walk, I have to polish my shoes first or
people will think I’m a vagabond.
Order, there isn’t enough of it around; the day
is too young and unforgiving, chills my bones.
I’ll go to bed and only get up when the day
gets older and less demanding.

War Poems

War poetry is easy to write, it is about daring
do, death and bullets flying through the air
People like to read about wars, which is odd
after all it is a natural state of affair; there is
always a war going on… somewhere.

To write about peace, now that’s difficult
it is so illusive, momentarily not being afraid,
too good to last; man was made for war,
a price we have to pay for progress; peace
is a delusion, mans dream of Paradise.

Tell a Stranger.

Midmorning, the sun was shoveling
aside clouds that threatened to shed
rain, clearing a path that got bigger
and bigger till it had the sky for itself;
that was ok as it was in the middle
of August, when I murmured to her:
“I love you”

Even though I meant it at the time
I managed to embarrass myself by
sounding insincere. Demoralized
when she laughed and hit me with
her handbag; I felt like a speck of
dust-more- a broken matchstick in
an ashtray full of masculine cigars

The last I saw of her was a proud
neck entering the bus going back
Beck Street. Walked into Rose&
Crown for a drink and to weigh up
my future. “I adore you” I said to
a woman sitting on her own, her
eyes lit up, she had a pretty smile.

An Overcast Day

When my lover got up, at dawn, it
rained, she went into the kitchen
and wrote a poetic shopping list

Egg, milk, butter and a fresh loaf;
coffee, marmalade a bottle of wine
muesli and low fat yoghurt.

She came back into bed and read me
the list slowly, till we sated fell
asleep in each others arms.

When we awoke it was afternoon
the list was a crumbled piece of
paper at the foot of the bed.

A Ghastly Day.

There wasn’t anything jolly about that day,
the sun was glued to a pale sky, just like
a Guantanamo torture room’s lamp that by
fault or (kindness) had a fifteen watt bulb.

A thin day, the only good thing about it
was that it wasn’t going to last forever; not
a freezing day but dripping humidity which
chilled the old bones

A mean day and faces which walked about,
on unwilling feet, wore no smile to brighten
a time when even traffic cops were too tired
or comatose to pursue a speeder

At home the telly told of a plane crash,
wallowed in details, showing us a blood
soaked pilot’s cap; depressed I went to bed
and hoped to be spared more nightmares.

Rendezvous with the Truth

I like this word it has a ring of intrigue and Romance;
to merely meet someone sounds like business, buying
and selling stuff, doing something for the world’s wealth;
make money and be looked at. It must be awful really to
be looked up at and given honour for being rich.
The rich know this that’s way they have such a cynical
glint in eyes when they hand over a fat check at a charity
ball and everyone applauds and they are showered with
the confetti of sycophancy.

There is no money in rendezvous nothing to offer except
friendship and love, lovers meeting in the park sitting
under an oak holding hands trying to stay afloat in a
world that are baying for their blood; for they are, oh yes,
make no mistake wrong, in their totality of love. Other
people will get hurt as love knows no middle way, a flying
bullet that hits the loser it can’t be helped for love is not
kind to those outside the ring. Yet on the alter of love
everything is forgiven and the journey is great.

A Voice.

I left my father’s house in anger
never to return, he is a shadow,
a voice that appears in dreams,
and the house is windblown ashes.

Today I’m older than him and my
mirror tells me that we are twins,
I regret his passing and mourn my
father’s ageing face.

Nite Life

Night took a long time coming, crept slowly
from the east and dumped its load of velvet
in my street, sleek, yellow wolves stood by
the doorway of dusky caves where
“I did it my way” is played again to losers
at the bar; the barmaid’s laughter is a shriek
of hate held up by a pink bra. Victims and
abusers are linked to a chain of nights; only
yellow wolves dance and see the moon.

The Miserable.

Morning came
and
flung a load of
sunlight on
the balcony,
shadows dripped
down to
the street
below
leaving tiny
white marks
on city asphalt,
unaffected by
the frozen silence
of the couple
indoors;
their summer
had long since
gone,
apathy keeps
them
chained together
even hate
needs heat
to fling abuse.

Time for Acceptance.

There is time for patience by the stream
of legends when fishing for a dream.
To see the reflection of undulating faces,
of those who can no longer cry, sad
eyes that wish to sit by the stream and
dream just once more.

Released from the shackles of their past
they are yesterdays leaves and from
the soil a dirge arises and the wind sighs
for those who can no longer feel its caress;
star dust of sorrow laments the passing
of sightless souls

From infancy and onwards remembered
faces are masks which never told their
stories and never had their wishes
fulfilled. So sit by the river of legends
fish for future dreams and let the breeze
whisper you a golden fable.