The Eon series - 1 – The Treyboars Legacy
salad in the bowl emanates
light green glowing fluorescent
purple of avocado glows indigo,
morphed shapes of nuclear rampage
the fall out site with twisted grins
ladies in glowing geisha frocks
cheeks where once shone red.
Lords of the Treyboar stare bemused
meant to end life
rumanoids wander free slaking thirst
rains pour iridescent blue
flattened by the blast.
ground zero, mutant crow’s caw
for any fare to keep them alive,
blisters of heat evident neath feathery skin,
with no tails and no bark scatter
thump of another building toppling.
couple reinvent themselves
hard to see through skins purple-hazed,
adventure in Middle Kaplan stifled
actions of weapon hungry Treyboarians
need to prove they have, we have, we do.
ages ahead, all comes to fruition,
with boils, families misunderstanding,
water slightly gray with aftermath
memories of Chernobyl enough to shiver,
said never again after Japan,
beware after Chernobyl
still to Lords play with unwarranted power.
Terbonichi eats from the salad bowl
the platter on the misshapen table,
death is nice in an oil painting.
The Eon series – 2 – slaughter of ten ants and a dog
the count, started at nought
confused at ten
last carrying a large leafy five time his size,
the dog that drew my attention,
main around the neck in tufts
it had been in a tug of Love
a Tug of War and the dog the loser
his master shouting his name
on the street, the thump of his footfall
dog dips his head in sadness
see the welt down his back
the leaf was too big and scarred
ant in passing, but whoa, this is dog
him away, worried, but not the owner
deal with the guilt, as I do now
am I a chickenshit ant counter, tallier
rubs my head, sorting tufts of uncombed,
tuts when she sees the dog, races inside
the SPCA, the voice of her owner down the road,
– why me? why didn’t I do the right thing,
dog takes on sorrowful look back, disappears
me to get back to counting ants, leaf tossers,
biggest tosser, my wife slaps my head
tufts of hair vanish into the ether, I look down
one ant attacks the combined tufts
hair and my hair, calls for reinforcements.
The Eon series – 3 – The Kid is just a kid
he’s thirteen, going on twenty
into his Dad’s room when he’s not home
through the magazines
his shame to the toilet and ejaculates,
first girlfriend commented on the size of it
blushed amazed she cared
did it on Dad’s bed, bugger the mess.
is always life in an old pencil!
he was thirty-ish, he divorced her
comfort in Roxanne’s on Cuba
salt and pepper shaker missing from the table.
at 38 did he get a vasectomy?
missing womanly contact
into John Gibbons room
sneaks a look at the pictures on the wall.
bother going to the toilet.
The Eon Series – 4 – Unnatural Disasters
figure it out
things around collapse -
a building for example
on the way I wave at a train
driver waves back
train leaves the track
run hither and yon
at a plane overhead
one thing I dread
– two dead
down the long straight road
at a truck
know my luck
by a wandering duck.
in the middle of a mis-shapened world
of my own demise
to the wise,
me - I surprise.
The Eon Series – 5 - Ice
on the window
on the floor
on the walls
on the door
in the room
up my spine
in the icebox
are just fine.
then it rocks
fit in socks.
in the punchbowl
on the tray
Eon series ends
It’s been 10 long years
been ten long years
I was a Dad
done me bad
feeling I have
god tricked me
I’ve been had.
been ten long years
I hugged my girls,
far too long
I twisted their curls
videoed their dance
so sad now
been ten long years,
we all danced a-feather
been an eon since
them from the weather,
rains my tears now
them maybe never
a brunette quite clever.
their pictures hanging
my four walls
them when they fall
hope both of them
having a big ball.
been ten long years
my mind evicted me
memories are barren
no longer a part of me
I can’t talk to them
a pretty penny.
Captain Series – The Whalers
Staunchbottom stands ramrod straight
wind trying to chisel wind burns into him,
state of the swaying barque dependant
the strength of man and breeze.
the deep south the Roaring Forties
to dismantle all who wander into it,
stark cold of Antarctic Ice cutting ropes
form of Ice and Icicles.
Frapped against a strong wind, Breather
warm wind of the subtropics, temperate
to sail with frank honesty, no death
perhaps the taste of scurvy and murder.
Cap’n points the bow southward, Island bound
to ports bearing women and sailor fare
to keep a crew, to manage boredom,
the Maori maidens of Aotearoa impregnated.
ship’s an old barque, former pirate ship from Cuba
as a prize by a British Man’o’war and sold
first person to raise a bounty purse, a thousand
guineas, not often seen in the British realm.
port, she’s converted to whaling, harpoons, ropes
slicing knives and boiling pots, the salt too
company now behind, the ice of promise,
great woolen coats disguising tension.
days start anew, targets acquired and dispatched
bent to the task at hand, death, blood, blubber
time flies and all too soon the pots overflow,
hunt, and not too far dipped to the south.
ship roars northbound, the Roaring southerly
like a punch into a punch bag, energised,
port reached anon, cargo unloaded, crew paid,
lovely maidens, desertions, new crewmen.
whaling season lasts for nine months
icicles cut ropes further north and the need to
the gauntlet with Ice Floes negated by the rush
sou’easterly trade into the tropics and home.
The Captain Series - Flightdeck of American Airlines 77
“Dad, can I wear your cap?”
“Don’t annoy daddy sweetheart, he’s got a long job today.”
around the Pentagon, his old plane charred,
officials identify parts of the plane
to bring truth to a heinous crime
crash was manufactured, under threat
survived, except paint on the tail,
years of familiarity gone in a terror-filled moment..
are no lies in blatant truth, it seems.
dangles with a gold Rolex shining in the sun.
The Captain Series – Sports is the Winner.
skipper pulls up his pants
ruck in another melee,
ball now passed to the half back
for the next phase of play.
boy stands on the sideline
balls back and forth,
his hero’s belting out another
game, the game of warriors.
sweat drips on a cold evening
rises from a scrum packing down,
Touch, Hold Engage pouts the ref,
sudden crunch of kilos against kilos rings,
boy on the side line dreams
bout the day he’ll be an All Black
days when his fitness will be tested,
days when heroes march in unison for a win.
sees the Captain run, fat man’s alley,
chasing support players run and ruck
tension in the air broken by “f**k you”
the perennial “oh Ref”, and the pee blows.
backs are freezing in the cold, even the bellboy
his continual running the sideline, is warm
backs are called into action, the halfback passes,
inside backs double around, a pass to the fullback
opposition gather for a chat behind the posts,
defensive tactics, offensive frailties,
ref blows the pea for a successful conversion,
returns to halfway to start it all over again.
The Captain Series – One small step for Man
seen the pictures
Captain of Eagle
surface gray dust
13 – we have a problem Houston
in the wiring loom
expertly by a Captain of Space
Ship returned to Canaveral
another return journey
Captain of the Control Centre
the numbers, the tune
Captain at the helm
life event for spectators
The Captain Series – Bus Driver
he does his rounds
south to Hampden Downs,
changes the sign and returns,
his crew, his business
daily rush of worried housewives
patter of children going to school
the local hood sans car.
for his health Bottle
out the window the detritus of bad air
left and right with measured ease,
daily ritual almost automatic in nature,
Church Ladies for St Mary’s on Ponsonby
get on in Parsonage, tightly dressed
settle at the front of the bus
the back for cheeky young reprobates,
bus holds 45 , yet at times it swells
having to stand, public transport
occurrence since petrol rose in price,
stink of BO overwhelms, daily fare.
driver’s the captain of his ship, dictated to
who have planned immaculately,
he rules on who does and doesn’t board,
young glue sniffers of Redding Rise, no go.
empty, at the depot, fills the Diesel tank,
for a well earned smoke and a bite to eat,
with fellow captains, the strange ones,
good looking girl at the stop near Jamestown,
bright young hippy on te invalids benefit,
flips him a 50 in monopoly money, it counts,
back to the Bus for another foray into alienship,
places the same, most of the folks too, the vagabond.
The Captain Series – Cap’ns of Industry.
in a Penthouse, Red Square Hotel
Red Square in deepest Moscow,
wheels of Industry ringing loud in a mind,
attuned to running things and making
work, a true entrepreneur, a worker too.
dice on the table roll Sevens, a casino Boss
and watches as the punter wins more,
money than the casino is willing to part with
all he sees is luck, hamstrung to do anything
watch the time roll when the punter’s had enough.
dog sitting quietly on the footpath outside the hotel
scrawny poverty, yet is willing to stand and watch,
mince in the kitchen soon to be thrown out, time
for a dog, waits for no man, as he does now,
penthouse dweller sneaks out for lust.
winner leaves by the front door, his win emblazoned.
pit boss, captain of his realm, scratches his head
casino out of pocket to the tune of millions,
always the other 99% of punters, to roll in
dealer, sexy in her after work mini dress
in a taxi to Seventy Five Lamokva Avenue,
a mysterious man, he well to do, she almost
two months and she’s saved enough
the cold of Moscow, the freeze of winter,
in all day sun on the Iberian Peninsula,
wheels of Industry role ever onward, paying
time for retirement closer with every working day,
winner of the Craps Game buys a yacht, and sails
Valencia, towards the casino in Monte Carlo -
penthouse now filled with the grunt of lust,
mechanizations of payment due helping-
to pay a girl her dream, her willingness
anything to escape – she leaves loaded
for the night dreaming of retirement
steps ashore to role Craps in “The” Casino.
walks out of the back of a restaurant, sated.
look at me with upturned nose,
bulging to see up my nostrils,
your tongue out for effect,
lips a license to kiss
face a love
The Captain Series – the Last – Me.
stood at the helm of a ship, Driver
stood in the middle of a boat, Captain
stood in my room – memories,
way things could have been
hadn’t been afflicted genetically.
in my chair, writer
stand behind my chair, watcher,
and pace my room,
myself, as it is done.
my domain in yards now,
in miles, whence my boat days
a rule of thumb and apply it to life
scrutinize all around me with measured eye
from my surveying days, the sun sets
life fast approaching relinquishment,
shades dimmer now, the moon strong
ice on the beard says get warm and live
beard and face behind it say bring it on,
lady of my life my last vision, and her girls.
chiseled might of David
layered peace of Mona Lisa
visions of Dali’s Ghost
Fruitbowl Picasso paints
a roman sewer
by Leonardo De Vinci
piece of canvas stretched,
style – rushed.
frame, a little boy
his head out
rat, lives of misery,
wonders how a painter
such things, askance.
Draining Veins to Build Arteries
licquorice builds bodies
blood in a heat of the moment
a whole bag disappeared,
taste on the tongue
with distended bellies
met a man
that’s a teenagers prerogative,
to his house
placement of the decoration on the table
to draw the looker in, mesmerise
knives and forks set out right handed
in case a leftie sits
blood in an artery
travelling back in veins
on the surface.
meat is handy.
Roll of Film
that roll of film, you know, the one from
2000, the picnic south of Dannevirke
Mary and Jane danced on the playground
in passing of times past, good
roll with stick figures at play
are, stripped of adulthood,
lace skirts billowing in the breeze
Uncle David throwing sticks with Rusty.
one of you standing by the car
turning your blonde curls in your fingers
rum punch on the boot untouched
gathering performed miracles.
left chamber of the Ford shows bare paint,
of those must do jobs that never got done,
kids leaning either side, a bun and cake
wet into hungry mouths, the film rolls
Ignacius Queen of the Gathered Throng
her hair on fire, the hat too red to be that,
Graham spill marks down a green shirt,
after the girls, Ice cream flowing molten.
I treasure the Girls, I have rarely seen them
you know, I don’t blame you, I blame life,
I will send this as a gift for you to cherish
the girls to have as a reminder of gentler days.
rattle your brain in a too-large head
eyeballs from sleepless sockets
“Beat” be at the way it’s spelt
tussock of your hair hides melodrama
sweet ruby of your lips hints possibilities
drip of cod liver in fine curly locks, skids
slips to a nose hooked for effect, latent
thought of wiping oil from your nose
runs past your chin to mar another top,
recognition when others see your dilemma
happenstance of metallurgy as Trojans fight
time on a discarded watch stopped at 8.47pm.
on your hair melodances, as Ginger Rogers
it Gene Kelly’s Singing in the Rain? time
to find a new life in a four bedroom bungalow
your insecurities, your misgivings, eccentricity
play your mouth plays when words are hard to find,
Doctor prescribed Lamimatol, not telling you
stuff was used to give horses shiny coats, glisten
sheen on your mangy hair-tail-mane, shake loose
ribbons of your mind and chase a hairbrush in a
steam pressed to blur reality, the hobo stares back
lady in the room disadvantaged by age, short too
makes a mental note to wear nine inch heels.
now, the rain gone, the hair drying and sticking
mirror an afterthought, the time still says 8.47pm
she can get by without it, just makes life dull anyway.
end, the rattling brain tosses new nuances.
a gift, gold cap,
ink flows blue
I use it,
use it though
laws gift, Christmas
stand it up
at it’s shape
day an important
foot seven long
in the middle of three snarled nostrils,
tail electric for stunning effect
dog like roar
lady at the kiosk on the corner,
know, Down and Out,
gentlemanly five year olds flick marbles.
daylight fades as it always does
wolves cry in terror.
Hitchcock stands by the number 12 bus stop
memories flying like The Birds
a bald pate
a knife flies and imbeds itself
wooden power pole
Kiosk lady removes the knife
her wrist as succour to subterranean creatures
lifeblood regenerating as a tail whips
itself around her legs
marbles scatter with their owners,
Old Alfred, to Ma’s and Pa’s
the scene disappears,
field of yellow lucerne,
in Dorothy clothes dances
Sound of Music”
wind brushes the field in blue waves
the flowers dip and dance and dive
a cottage of Hansel and Gretel quality.
sense the wolverines
all you see is beauty and love
Alfred leaning against a large Oak
witch in the cottage a Kiosk Lady
sumptuous smell of fresh baking
bait for the wolves to take you,
you are scared again,
sweat in areas you haven't sweat in years,
girl dances to the sound of Yellow Brick Road
scene a brown rye field swaying to a new tune
golden path a thing of abject beauty,
Tin Man resembles Freddie
Nightmare on Elm Street
the fingers as knives
rye heads as they pass,
Scarecrow with a Frankenstein Heart
the stones with toenails of glass shards,
the Wizard once again Alfred
door wide ajar,
you say no, no, no
the song weaves towards the door
she dances the stoop
creatures of horror strung out behind her,
wake and sit up with a stance
a look in the mirror, see nothing in return
no arms, nothing,
even your gold medal smile
a dream, then where am I?
the sound of gnashing teeth from your blind side
you jump out of bed
the mirror (and solace) of the bathroom
sideways look reveals nothing, just a dream,
mirror there steamed over
then notice the shower, who???
day draws to a close, the kiosk stands empty,
street at that corner empty too,
reflection in the number 12 bus yours to peruse,
in a gutter strikes a note,
search the street, no Alfred, no wolverines
an empty kiosk and a fissure in a lamp post,
of dreams, no golden roadway,
hurry home to turn the shower off, your name Snow White.
candy apple red
amber fluid of Kings
a black switch,
naming of Gods
bag in front
joys of misery
bite into ice cream
taste of Jesus
Recognising Space and Time in Bathroom affairs.
bath holds 40 gallons of water
I only displace 86 Kilograms
I dive headlong.
deep underwater I look and see
blurred blue/grey of a ceiling
in need of painting.
reaches for the soap, brush
lather enough to ruin ten years
at the sewage plant.
razor is sharp to the nth degree
I apply it gingerly to red whiskers
blood dripping that of carelessness.
the distance from the bath to the toilet
with simple ease slide a hook shot
kerplonk!! bull’s-eye (“disposable razor” it says).
water spirals down the drain clockwise
in the northern hemisphere its opposite,
the water and dream weather forecasts.
fallen heroes of Hair stick to the lathered sides
testament of the good fight, warrior
it all for someone else to clear.
like light tissues
texture of essence
days sell plenty
– bird shaped
lady with a whisper breath
floating in front
float of air attains
lady of light gone
into a casket
message in life and death
The Inner Workings of a Dead Poets Mind
renditions of Sean Connery in Garn
not yet written, though not far away
lace of Rachel Welch’s corset fine, roaring
souped up V8 in an American Graffiti
down a road with Harrison Ford
snot balls from nostrils, flared
guards on a Police Cruiser, arresting
hearts of bystanders as cars reel out of control,
Seymour kisses Cary Grant, yeah the gay one
as two kids in love, like Munroe and JFK
don’t tell Jackie, she with the reins of power
height of power the measure of a woman, fresh
breeze that blows through Kansas in search
wizard and a weird movie, if you look at it,
skip of a little dog chasing skirt tails, blooms
in gay abandon, to paint a picture with
rows of nothingness if you can’t see,
recognise the dark trails they beautify, green
colour of money when stars mingle and dine, the purple cassocks hover, ever trying to convert the kith
kin that celebrates life as it wanders along, death
last gasp signifies the dying thread of thought,
purification of characters, the passing of names
quirks and foibles of those who choose notoriety.
you Prudence, though your name is Delight
waft fragrant Rose on my hearty Beef
singe in my arms, swelter in my clutch
smile you tattoo on my face reflective
in arms, we share, kiss, cuddle, calm
ladies endeavours witnessed by a caring man
days you coo and caw, the screech of blackbirds
hang many nappies for another assault,
baby calls Momma, and walks, falls, walks
rolls along in a barrel fashion to reach nowhere
day he stands and teeters, you ready
a broken nose and unwanted howls
steady and true, like his Mum and Dad
around the furniture with ease
come sit with me now, he sleeps
a brother has a sister, as it is.
In the Belly of a Sperm Whale (or Jonah cries)
swallowed up two years ago now
whale named Gromunkingly
been kayaking around a few Islands
he thought I was needed, so swallowed I was.
miles, always trying to keep away,
from the sharp prongs of Japanese Harpoons
the deep Southern Oceans to the warm Pacific,
mainly in the sanctuary of New Zealand.
me fed with fresh krill and crustaceans
himself fed too, and directed his family,
for those years we evaded the enemy, till one day a mayday call from the deep south, a slaughter,
we dove southwards, whales of all sizes
and designs, all chasing the killers,
late, a bogus call, tricked, the light went out,
mighty Gromunkingly harpooned through the back
to death, his heartbeat strong, weakening
speech to me, both help me and don’t worry,
I hear you say, Stop Whaling, Stop the Japanese!
the senseless murder of such delicate creatures .
The Success of Readership
last September, twas wet and cold
a poetry book, likely to be sold,
only two copies, one for my self
another volume for the Library shelf.
the local library took their time
it to the shelves a place sublime
before one reader had taken the bait,
had booked it, and I feel bloody great.
to get published, 417 poems in all
number growing till I had to stall
from 2000 until 2005
someone’s reading, yup Hi Five.
was saying tried hard to be published,
$4500 for 120 tomes, just a wish
one volume in each library in the land
that’s the crux of my well balanced plan.
wish to go down this path, and be read
I’m licked and left damn well dead,
that others share my many words,
last count, or that’s what I heard.
The Malawi Legacy.
Bar el Hajri’s twelve today
a lot of his friends
not seen as normal
has that effect
understand why he has it
he and his friends think normally
are afflicted with the African Disease
they have no access to medicine.
world dies a little
these kids cease to be
to throw money and medicine
thought that it will go away on its’ own.
slowly it is dying, coffins a dime a dozen now when there once was a shortage
a 12 year old dies with no hope.
coffin for children, too many.