from the south
lump of mass
lady with the white cloak
virgin snow and ice
able climbers to summit
plummet into a warm lake
for the dip
to the north
against “her” next door
of volcanic past
A Roadside café
side of the road,
miles north of Witoki
stale fried potatoes.
for a feed
the way with roadside cafes
draw you in to meet the sellers
so brave to vend from the middle of nowhere
Pete runs this greasy joint
as in always drunk it seems
as to the mechanisms of an outside world
to racial inequality and differences of opinion,
he has plenty,
Plato with a travelling salesman
me a quip on the cut of my suit
the dog by the door to sick-balls
crayfish is sweet, beautifully steamed
deep fried spuds greasy paradise
dog sniffs my ankles and hackles rise
a well aimed spatula connects with the cur.
look at my food, wonder about Pete’s hygiene
too late, the feed mostly consumed,
the café diminishing in the rearview mirror
food in the stomach rumbles disagreement,
stop, this time to regurgitate
about that dog
miss my wife’s cooking
realise I’m human
not used to the bugs Blind Petes gave,
puddle at my feet growing with each heave
for a hedgehog to come recycle
worms to steal away,
another café, some miles up the road
Dave’s Burger Joint
episode at Pete’s long distant
in for another feed, can’t help myself,
never can when on the road busking poetry
my wares for a cheap feed
cafes with dubious names
equally dubious reputations.
Angels in Death Boots
to the Moody Blues
sanguine Saturday afternoon,
sounds of strings and guitars
in melodic songs.
taste of a two step in one sing,
Angels in Death boots in another,
sound of stomp of a bass drum
whirl of Hurdy Gurdy.
them sitting on my shoulder then
in white, the other blood red
signaling my impending demise
not’ they say, ‘we’re here for fun’.
I sit with Life and Death
my ears with fiery tridents
hot and cold, both fiery in the days’ warmth
poem runs from my fingers
some would argue, especially these two
divine inspiration is the basis of my talent
I shall not, The Veteran Cosmic Rocker
out on the stereo and The Two dislodged
back, thighs, feet, all tap out
beat to warm the cockles of the heart, the harmonica plays a wistful
closely by African horns and the whirly whirly
strings, and the bass baritone of the choir
whole fusion thing rings loud and then
Hayward with his vocals, still The Two are unseated
whole damned song just pumps out it’s ending
silence, me alone and a poem to finish, sigh.
nub of a rose head
to cry love.
stand of flax blows
breeze wafting touch.
lady in the mirror
kisses to my neck.
Black Top Ride
be almost anywhere,
the temperature sits on freezing,
clot over with black ice,
a hapless thumb walker slips along,
taking too much care,
that should be cautioned these days,
shun melts to trickling water,
a hapless hitchhiker slips ankle deep
a pool of tepid water,
cascading in torrents like a river,
with each passing second,
a hapless errand boy rollerblades
death almost certain,
he’ll risk it, the Black Top game
for madmen and moments,
a hapless do-gooder stops traffic
one hand extended,
to delay the inevitable happening,
dance of rushing metal,
a hapless nobody wonders
be another tomorrow,
the day after today as always,
sound of silence,
a hapless Black Top crawler dissipates,
is always with their sort.
The Colour of Life.
colour of podocarp forest
blue of oceans
blue than sky
colour of Blue Eyes
yellow of suns
by the day,
colour of daffodils
red of blood
colour of fire engines
bark that is brown
brown of Foxes
colour of Grizzlies
baying for understanding.
war that is Gray
ships in the night
colour of conflict
and guns fire, orange.
pink of Cadillac’s
by rich stars
colour of a maidens nipple
wipes dew away.
purple of Sainthood,
colour of temptation
Indigo glows purple-like
witches here play
colour of a coven
the dance of continuation.
The boy within, the man without
at him, all grey and wizened
around smiley eyes in tears
at him in the mirror, the man without
from the boy within.
back to boy’s age, nineteen I think,
he viewed life, about life in general
maidens to be slain then, male ego thing
on a belt clipped tight around slender frame
down now, trouble seeing feet
belts too small to do an elastic job,
growing everywhere, then fine and furry
like a Mighty Mammoth growing unkempt,
from both, the same lady killer smile
killed virgins for sport, now answers obediently,
those pectoral muscles on a chest
from weights and work, now sagging sans bra.
feet that could fly a mile in four and a half minutes,
lucky to walk to their own impending death.
grey of the hair and beard enough to say
and the aging process is in hurry up mode.
back then laddie, you weren’t a poet with words
an accomplished soothsayer with actions,
actions still there, rusty now but still there,
the mirror, see me at all ages, except before five
ninety nine percent says alright, ok, sure
that one percent mental illness issues still irks,
too much to it, lost my wife, my kids
my job and self esteem, but still the man without
as the boy within still lives.
Religion according to a Jesus – less hypocrite
is people find the need to go to church?
people have to bend at the knee and pray?
forgiveness of a man that walked the walk?
the need to spend all ones life singing for Him, when God should be the power that’s revered!
and I have talks, have done for years now
things going on around us,
me things I have never seen
the mind to visualise whatever’s and whyfors.
at night when I go to bed,
me with a trouble free sleep,
down the years he has given me
poetry and other matters
behind a legacy -
Jesus won’t save me, God already has -
– after all there is time.
to hold a dream
dozens of ideas
here I am
as an urchin
forty five year old frame.
look different today,
walk with head down,
in dreamland too
afraid to face reality
drinks put aside
is my weak mind
in the day,
heads bowed in intensity,
they bump into folks,
they avoid me
I’m more aware
to the right
to the left
my line if she’s good looking
guess what, avoidance
of the sugar weighted Frosties
drips to the pavement
slop to the path,
to his knees and prays,
for the rights and wrongs
assuaged, passed on,
through due diligence
five months it was like this,
dreams, and then the walks
and capture nirvana,
a moment in time
say your dreams come true,
remain – dreams.
The Power of the One
God is for educated folks
that read and understand,
me and God talk
yet I don’t understand His Book
Bible thumpers out there
repeat often the sermon
the passages only they care to pick?
ones that only make sense to them
the educated in the front pews
back pews captured by the deaf
mouth readers who see beyond the heart?
has helped me by being there when I fail,
me something to cling to, a rope
out of whatever hole this illness
for itself, yet a preacher I see not.
reminds me, my father too was a bible thumper
suffered hereditary inflictions
send us to hospitals for reassignment
God I assume (never talked about it).
me and my Father never talked
never swapped stories of our jobs and lives
never played a game of cricket together
I was a kid and he threw me into his team,
never swapped stories about wives and mothers,
each other, lost a relationship
I joined the Navy when he had university
on my sorry carcass, thank God.
The need to emphasize rudimentary habits.
a bullet fired, a target achieved
death of a salesman or some kid
lifeless on some school floor.
a target on the butt of a poet
a red fountain pen and etch
in ink, a new poem he can’t read.
the wine sullied from years of heat,
ripeness of once pure berries sagely past,
rhetoric of drunk hatless ladies plain to the ear.
every corner in your house, right not left,
footprints from the doggy doo leading to nowhere
haven’t reached your goal until a doo disappears.
the hour hand of your watch, not the second
wonder why time passes so slowly then,
second were to run your life, it’d speed by.
with Chan Sok Hui at your local shop,
that way, bartering the way of Asia,
two tubs of Ice Cream to accompany your soiree.
the taste of off wine and flavoured cream
seem to mix well, another pile on the floor,
time walk around corners left ways.
TV, there’s always something going on
something to learn or take your fancy,
the adverts, a sick stomach needs malfeasance.
kitchen, foot prints of Doo’s and Wooze
in a quick step left and right, centre pirouette
off, tip toe to the wet mop and bucket, clean.
time means rebirth, a mop sullied, now clear
back to the Computer Room, and TV,
to reality, a poem to write for tomorrows edition.
The Man(ic) in the Moon
in the Moon
of us chagrined
jink and jive
it’s all over
delivered hi fives.
hoards all cheering.
Where is the end?
“Mommy, what’s for dinner”
a plate of Iraqi pork
in by Air Force One
the President works
“Mommy, what’s Iraq.”
that’s where you will be fighting
years time, eat your pork
“Mommy, dear Mommy
Am I a fighter like Dad used to be
when he was killed in Baghdad.”
your Father was a hero
for world peace
fought to save America
“Mommy, what’s 9/11”
that was when the world declared war,
against the only country that stands up for itself,
boy did it have to, 9/11 was calamitous”.
“Mommy, what’s calamitous?”
war in Iraq and Afghanistan
don’t get it right.
“Mommy do you want me to fight to save America.”
I don’t know anymore, I’m going to cry.”
for her husband
for her son
for where the USA
is too much to cry for,
tears a wellspring of change
that flows around the free world
that’s shed too much blood
the colour of the terrorists
another bloody war
homes of husbands
life blood of democracy
through loss of sight
Some Positive Thoughts on Life.
often, a dying habit.
the last letter in any alphabet
I think it was her
hung up when I said “Happy Birthday”.
day when it rains 24/7
last day to hang washing
beans for dinner
to make ants run
the cover of five bread crumbs
feet under, a tap root drinks
above twenty feet up, a nest is built,
chatter of baby sparrows
– food soon
light shining through spring leaves.
Seventh Son was a good book I never read
paragraph a reminder to finish things,
continuum, and the motion forward,
cars crashed yesterday on San Miguel and Jave
some somber news for a cop to pass to families,
a place in someone’s life to fill, to empty
again and trundle down I150 missing carnage.
day today was pleasant,
roses bloom and fall
Jesus on a cross, vilified,
Mexicans crossing the border
a better life I’m told
poor fill the halls downtown
for a hand out, freedom
to fight overseas.
Mary at an Op Shop,
a gentle person
gave her chocolates
a rose (white) from
garden next door.
pecked my cheek in acquiescence
me feel special
Philadelphia’s just up ahead, about thirty
this aversion to the Bible, shall I enter
pass passages of text and begets
scriptures written for the few to understand,
off at West 63 and take the ring road
peon on a pithy journey, alone too
the growling V8 and the awesome speed
gets when fleeing uncertainty and falsehoods,
Big Rig twenty feet in front advertises KFC
not hungry, that piece of finger licking news, bit.
The Road and the Lane
lane ran East/West
roundabout in the middle
a crazy dance macabre.
more often than not
maniacally to and fro
and vans forward and back
melee in the middle a police nightmare
waited to cross, on a leash
dashed breezily, but with disdain
Possums littered the highway
another night of mayhem and squash.
tar on the roads melt with surety
degree heat, the pools of black
by passing tyres and flicked
underside of unsuspecting vehicles.
Lines once solid white and yellow
fading into insignificance, hollow
thought they are no longer doing their job,
sign writers rekindle new life into faded black.
traveller on a four wheeled push bike
funds for his charity, cystic fibrosis
through the haphazardness of the crossroad
raises another fifty dollars by surviving.
a major accident, grey Nissan Bluebird
the give way signs and careened into death,
wheeler carting supermarket goods,
a mess of food and mangled metal.
Highway and the Lane closed for a while
time the emergency services work,
the dead away, the injured, to mop up
milk and Weetbix, breakfast accident.
hadn’t known, there are many wars,
globe is straining against terrorism
any country that wants to deal democracy a savage blow so they can force their will upon us.
Electronic Intafada clearly stands alone,
against the might of The Jerusalem Post and the money (usually US
dollars) that drives a war machine,
on both sides want an all out war, dreadful.
crux of old religions, Judaism, Christian and Islam
fighting for the right to have access to their shrines,
the time being, things are quiet, a banal peace,
guns and bombs are packed away, until needed.
life of Palestinian is third world at best,
Israel, Jordan, Syria and Lebanon
by comparison, the Israeli’s want
the people who have as much right to the area.
needed is peace, a lasting truce
two nations to formally accept each other
the right to live side by side, together,
a role model for the rest of the world.
on a bed of dancing belladonnas,
sun trying to roast sunny side up,
sing spring song
attuned to the vagaries of life,
my dazzling manicured conifer
to birds chirping in new life,
attuned to burglary and car jacking.
over, sunny side up - sun burnt
violets of the garden scream rainbow
on cue, spring shower dampens suns aim,
blade of grass under my nose tickles
of tears run chasing an earwig
on a weighty problem of earwig fodder,
road outside slick now with oil, skids away.
radio switches to Led Zeppelin
foot scarred from life and it’s travails
out a beat on a bare earth patch,
run askance and start an ant’s dance
Whole Lotta Love belting out the beat
spring creatures to bop and jump
a change in the air, passing strangers
but the postman with a hearty “hello”
cobwebs in the letter box ripped asunder as unwanted bills and junk mail rip their way in,
Long Legs sets to work to affect repairs
the next gnat or mayfly to invade and be caught,
walk to the letterbox, and remove my damage
a-kilter to Led Zep and go make a spring coffee.
A Time for Breakfast and other manifestations
strangling eye dust
orbits too used to recent sleep
at the dining room table
my wife has supplied
fare for a 7 O’clock rush.
dog licks a bowl clean
year old trips over both
hurry to find diet juice
fridge full of fattening fare.
of the telephone clanking.
7.10 am Fountain Pen
Boss is running late,
– a decent breakfast today,
a bowl with Fruitee Weets
trim milk (as if I need it)
two drops on suit trousers.
7.14 am Garbled
wife finally gets around to my trousers spillage
me for wasting her time
six year old stoops in, rubbing eyes
the dog licking his feet
look into why the dog does that!
7.18 am Daub the Decks
first fight for the morning
stole the newspaper – my wife peers angrily
run outside and check the mailbox,
still in full command
ship soon to be deserted.
7.19 am Horns
peace of mouths filled
breakfast going on.
phone rings again
7.20 am Flee
This Morning in Bed – a dream.
ring bell chimes
breeze careful not to harm
breeze wafting - north arm.
plate bearing a charm.
golf course going barmy
Qualm Sunday I
day every Sunday noon at Qualms Church
buffoons in topcoat and tails quaff juice
His Children danced a mayflower dance
ten poles scattered on the front lawn.
polite damsels in waiting drink Alms cordial
purity drink for virgins wanting acquiescence,
on the table tossed to freshen and delight
fruit punch mixed and diced, diced and mixed.
hellfire and brimstone preacher, Joe Blain
from a double front entrance and smiles
gaiety of the day evident for all who partake
shouldered under one weighty arm, ready.
to attract attention, the bell chimes
for all folk to enter and take the daily ritual,
daily, this is Utopia Christian style, nirvana
all share good food, good fun, good books.
Pound, a name that rings bells, watches
a pew parked at the back of every church
new poetry at the touch of keyboard to screen
passes it on at the weekly meeting at the hall.
smoking man awaits outside the church
away the ash with each breath, panting
thoughts of virgin ladies and dance macabre
thought the preacher will shun him again.
Gun man, armed to the teeth, church reject
five metres away from the smoking man,
rounds into a packed and ready .45 colt
lady with the red dot on her forehead, his.
butts build their own pile, each passing ciggie puffing out lifelessness, a need to litter everywhere,
butt a counter for the rounds being loaded
guns down the road, the Amish was nothing.
– 47 slips away behind a seat, a police cruiser
by and an observant man of the Law watches all,
those who had no right to be there, must be inside,
and singing an enjoying the real life, inside.
all men is a trigger to do wrong, to break rules,
have a good family and life to help keep it in,
away for eternity, some however are loners,
have agenda, hates, pessimistic outlooks.
along please” cries the copper, finger pointing
both the Gun Man and the Smoking Man,
now disarmed and moving to the church, initially
back down the road whence they came, dead.
Men haunt places, dead men haunt people
cops see Dead People, moves them on daily
they came, shooing them away from
good folks that attend church seven days a week.
Qualm Sunday II
Joe Blain espouses with Ezra Pound
his poetry, and his beliefs
a Poet in a church is a quaint mix
the devil meets the do-gooder,
ghoul protestations at a gunslinger
a smoking apparition of soul,
both on their way for ever,
girls dance free, the boys dance with glee,
Nirvana world goes around,
whole place rhymes with Ezra
praises in post modernist.