Ruapehu.

You see it

mostly from the south

or Waiouru

solid lump of mass

in Maori

Ruapehu

in pakeha

Ruapehu

acceptance

the lady with the white cloak

a steaming brow

lahars tongue spills

ash goo

across virgin snow and ice

southwestwards

to Wangaehu,

in summer

uncloaked

dismantled of mantra

stark nudity

for able climbers to summit

and plummet into a warm lake

filling daily

shrinking ice

heavenly rains

no pains for the dip

Ngauruahoe -

peaks to the north

father-like

demure against “her” next door

sentinels of volcanic past

geophysical future

days of danger

now playable.

Like all Kiwi’s.

A Roadside café

On the side of the road,

seven miles north of Witoki

a café selling Crayfish

and stale fried potatoes.

I stop for a feed

as is the way with roadside cafes

they draw you in to meet the sellers

ones so brave to vend from the middle of nowhere

Blind Pete runs this greasy joint

blind as in always drunk it seems

blind as to the mechanisms of an outside world

blind to racial inequality and differences of opinion,

and he has plenty,

discusses Plato with a travelling salesman

offers me a quip on the cut of my suit

tells the dog by the door to sick-balls

The crayfish is sweet, beautifully steamed

the deep fried spuds greasy paradise

the dog sniffs my ankles and hackles rise

until a well aimed spatula connects with the cur.

I then look at my food, wonder about Pete’s hygiene

but too late, the feed mostly consumed,

with the café diminishing in the rearview mirror

the food in the stomach rumbles disagreement,

another stop, this time to regurgitate

to wonder about that dog

to suddenly miss my wife’s cooking

to suddenly realise I’m human

and not used to the bugs Blind Petes gave,

the puddle at my feet growing with each heave

waiting for a hedgehog to come recycle

or some worms to steal away,

I pass another café, some miles up the road

Dangerous Dave’s Burger Joint

the episode at Pete’s long distant

I head in for another feed, can’t help myself,

never can when on the road busking poetry

peddling my wares for a cheap feed

in greasy cafes with dubious names

and equally dubious reputations.

Angels in Death Boots

Listening to the Moody Blues

this sanguine Saturday afternoon,

the sounds of strings and guitars

coexisting in melodic songs.

The taste of a two step in one sing,

harmonic Angels in Death boots in another,

the sound of stomp of a bass drum

to the whirl of Hurdy Gurdy.

I see them sitting on my shoulder then

one in white, the other blood red

both signaling my impending demise

‘fear not’ they say, ‘we’re here for fun’.

So here I sit with Life and Death

tickling my ears with fiery tridents

well hot and cold, both fiery in the days’ warmth

another poem runs from my fingers

though some would argue, especially these two

that divine inspiration is the basis of my talent

Argue I shall not, The Veteran Cosmic Rocker

belts out on the stereo and The Two dislodged

as shoulder, back, thighs, feet, all tap out

a cosmic beat to warm the cockles of the heart, the harmonica plays a wistful sound

followed closely by African horns and the whirly whirly

of Moroccan strings, and the bass baritone of the choir

as the whole fusion thing rings loud and then

Hayward with his vocals, still The Two are unseated

as the whole damned song just pumps out it’s ending

and silence, me alone and a poem to finish, sigh.

My lady.

Denouement, deflowered

the nub of a rose head

scented to cry love.

Refinement, reputation

the stand of flax blows

in a breeze wafting touch.

Reflection, demurely

the lady in the mirror

throws kisses to my neck.

Black Top Ride

Could be almost anywhere,

anywhere the temperature sits on freezing,

roads clot over with black ice,

cars slide -

trucks roll -

and a hapless thumb walker slips along,

not taking too much care,

care that should be cautioned these days,

the shun melts to trickling water,

cars skid -

trucks slide -

and a hapless hitchhiker slips ankle deep

into a pool of tepid water,

water cascading in torrents like a river,

deeper with each passing second,

cars collide -

trucks jackknife -

and a hapless errand boy rollerblades

to a death almost certain,

certain he’ll risk it, the Black Top game

made for madmen and moments,

cars whiz -

trucks careen -

and a hapless do-gooder stops traffic

with one hand extended,

extended to delay the inevitable happening,

the dance of rushing metal,

cars flash -

trucks slow -

and a hapless nobody wonders

if there’ll be another tomorrow,

tomorrow the day after today as always,

the sound of silence,

cars gone -

trucks passed -

and a hapless Black Top crawler dissipates,

as it is always with their sort.

The Colour of Life.

The green beige

deep dark green

the colour of podocarp forest

dripping wet rainfall

The blue of oceans

deeper blue than sky

the colour of Blue Eyes

blinking understanding.

The yellow of suns

brighter by the day,

the colour of daffodils

marching soldier-like

The red of blood

riper than raspberries

the colour of fire engines

fighting fires, orange.

The bark that is brown

the brown of Foxes

the colour of Grizzlies

both baying for understanding.

The war that is Gray

like ships in the night

the colour of conflict

as cannons and guns fire, orange.

The pink of Cadillac’s

driven by rich stars

the colour of a maidens nipple

as lust wipes dew away.

The purple of Sainthood,

the priests adorned

the colour of temptation

as vestiged patrons supplicate.

Indigo glows purple-like

but witches here play

the colour of a coven

and the dance of continuation.

The boy within, the man without

Look at him, all grey and wizened

wrinkles around smiley eyes in tears

look at him in the mirror, the man without

as seen from the boy within.

think back to boy’s age, nineteen I think,

how he viewed life, about life in general

new maidens to be slain then, male ego thing

notches on a belt clipped tight around slender frame

look down now, trouble seeing feet

and belts too small to do an elastic job,

hair growing everywhere, then fine and furry

now like a Mighty Mammoth growing unkempt,

a smile from both, the same lady killer smile

then killed virgins for sport, now answers obediently,

remember those pectoral muscles on a chest

built from weights and work, now sagging sans bra.

The feet that could fly a mile in four and a half minutes,

now lucky to walk to their own impending death.

The grey of the hair and beard enough to say

Aged, and the aging process is in hurry up mode.

Still back then laddie, you weren’t a poet with words

more an accomplished soothsayer with actions,

those actions still there, rusty now but still there,

I see the mirror, see me at all ages, except before five

and ninety nine percent says alright, ok, sure

but that one percent mental illness issues still irks,

lost too much to it, lost my wife, my kids

lost my job and self esteem, but still the man without

smiles as the boy within still lives.

Barku 301.43

Tip

the scales

Libran,

weigh

issues,

then pass

the glass

to the next

Scorpio

fighting.

Religion according to a Jesus – less hypocrite

So why is people find the need to go to church?

Why people have to bend at the knee and pray?

To ask forgiveness of a man that walked the walk?

Why the need to spend all ones life singing for Him, when God should be the power that’s revered!

God and I have talks, have done for years now

we discuss things going on around us,

he shows me things I have never seen

use the mind to visualise whatever’s and whyfors.

And at night when I go to bed,

he wraps me with a trouble free sleep,

counting down the years he has given me

with poetry and other matters

to leave behind a legacy -

as is everyone’s dream.

I know Jesus won’t save me, God already has -

perhaps – after all there is time.

Waking Walker

I awoke this morning,

trying to hold a dream

into reality.

The dozens of ideas

and wannabes,

yet here I am

walking the street

dressed as an urchin

in my forty five year old frame.

People look different today,

they walk with head down,

whether in dreamland too

or just afraid to face reality

walking by.

Walking to exercise

the mind

the body

the ethereal

walking ‘cause

there’s nothing else.

I see drinks put aside

for street kids

I sip

I’m thirsty

can’t help myself

such is mania

such is my weak mind

Still people walk

later in the day,

with heads bowed in intensity,

propensity

to count steps,

mouth litanies,

scare themselves silly

when they bump into folks,

somehow they avoid me

maybe I’m more aware

step to the right

dance to the left

hold my line if she’s good looking

and guess what, avoidance

dance of the sugar weighted Frosties

as food drips to the pavement

drinks slop to the path,

a besotted manic preacher

drops to his knees and prays,

prays for the rights and wrongs

to be assuaged, passed on,

removed through due diligence

for five months it was like this,

the dreams, and then the walks

to try and capture nirvana,

capture a moment in time

and say your dreams come true,

they don’t

they dissipate

they remain – dreams.

The Power of the One

I guess God is for educated folks

ones that read and understand,

yet me and God talk

we chat,

we laugh

we play games

and yet I don’t understand His Book

he doesn’t mind, reassuringly.

So those Bible thumpers out there

do they really understand?

Do they repeat often the sermon

and the passages only they care to pick?

The ones that only make sense to them

and the educated in the front pews

the back pews captured by the deaf

the mouth readers who see beyond the heart?

God has helped me by being there when I fail,

giving me something to cling to, a rope

to climb out of whatever hole this illness

digs for itself, yet a preacher I see not.

Which reminds me, my father too was a bible thumper

he too suffered hereditary inflictions

that send us to hospitals for reassignment

he found God I assume (never talked about it).

In fact, me and my Father never talked

never swapped stories of our jobs and lives

never played a game of cricket together

since I was a kid and he threw me into his team,

never swapped stories about wives and mothers,

we lost each other, lost a relationship

since I joined the Navy when he had university

tattooed on my sorry carcass, thank God.

The need to emphasize rudimentary habits.

Take a bullet fired, a target achieved

the death of a salesman or some kid

lying lifeless on some school floor.

Place a target on the butt of a poet

take a red fountain pen and etch

inexorably in ink, a new poem he can’t read.

Taste the wine sullied from years of heat,

the ripeness of once pure berries sagely past,

the rhetoric of drunk hatless ladies plain to the ear.

Turn every corner in your house, right not left,

see footprints from the doggy doo leading to nowhere

you haven’t reached your goal until a doo disappears.

Read the hour hand of your watch, not the second

and wonder why time passes so slowly then,

if the second were to run your life, it’d speed by.

Argue with Chan Sok Hui at your local shop,

he works that way, bartering the way of Asia,

buy two tubs of Ice Cream to accompany your soiree.

Suddenly, the taste of off wine and flavoured cream

don’t seem to mix well, another pile on the floor,

this time walk around corners left ways.

Watch TV, there’s always something going on

always something to learn or take your fancy,

skip the adverts, a sick stomach needs malfeasance.

In the kitchen, foot prints of Doo’s and Wooze

meet in a quick step left and right, centre pirouette

shoes off, tip toe to the wet mop and bucket, clean.

Spring time means rebirth, a mop sullied, now clear

footsteps back to the Computer Room, and TV,

back to reality, a poem to write for tomorrows edition.

The Man(ic) in the Moon

I see you,

you see me,

Man in the Moon

and a vagary.

I play my game

you play yours

both bouncing ideas

off opened doors.

I laugh haughtily,

you scream aloud

both of us chagrined

by a maddening crowd.

I cry screaming

you jink and jive

when it’s all over

delivered hi fives.

Me so simple

you so overbearing,

we clap hands

the hoards all cheering.

Where is the end?

“Mommy, what’s for dinner”

“Son, a plate of Iraqi pork

flown in by Air Force One

to show the President works

for all mankind.”

“Mommy, what’s Iraq.”

“Son, that’s where you will be fighting

in ten years time, eat your pork

to get the taste.”

“Mommy, dear Mommy

Am I a fighter like Dad used to be

when he was killed in Baghdad.”

“Son, your Father was a hero

he fought for world peace

he fought to save America

from 9/11.”

“Mommy, what’s 9/11”

“Son that was when the world declared war,

war against the only country that stands up for itself,

and boy did it have to, 9/11 was calamitous”.

“Mommy, what’s calamitous?”

The war in Iraq and Afghanistan

if we don’t get it right.

“Mommy do you want me to fight to save America.”

“Son, I don’t know anymore, I’m going to cry.”

to cry for her husband

to cry for her son

to cry for uncertainty

to cry for where the USA is going

to cry for humanity

as there is too much to cry for,

the tears a wellspring of change

a change that flows around the free world

a world that’s shed too much blood

blood the colour of the terrorists

formerly the communists

just another bloody war

to rob homes of husbands

and then sons

and daughters

the life blood of democracy

disestablished through loss of sight

and insight -

foresight.

Some Positive Thoughts on Life.

I romanticize often, a dying habit.

Z is the last letter in any alphabet

that spits English.

My sister phoned today

least I think it was her

she hung up when I said “Happy Birthday”.

The day when it rains 24/7

is the last day to hang washing

no drying,

just rinse mode.

Fresh beans for dinner

a fart volumous,

enough to make ants run

for the cover of five bread crumbs

by your feet.

Six feet under, a tap root drinks

a little above twenty feet up, a nest is built,

the chatter of baby sparrows

a-twitter

alone – food soon

the light shining through spring leaves.

The Seventh Son was a good book I never read

this paragraph a reminder to finish things,

to contemplate continuum, and the motion forward,

Ten cars crashed yesterday on San Miguel and Jave

left some somber news for a cop to pass to families,

it’s a place in someone’s life to fill, to empty

to fill again and trundle down I150 missing carnage.

The day today was pleasant,

I saw roses bloom and fall

saw Jesus on a cross, vilified,

saw Mexicans crossing the border

for a better life I’m told

the poor fill the halls downtown

waiting for a hand out, freedom

a chance to fight overseas.

I met Mary at an Op Shop,

she’s a gentle person

so I gave her chocolates

and a rose (white) from

John’s garden next door.

She pecked my cheek in acquiescence

made me feel special

Invited her out,

she declined.

Philadelphia’s just up ahead, about thirty five miles

I have this aversion to the Bible, shall I enter

and pass passages of text and begets

the scriptures written for the few to understand,

I turn off at West 63 and take the ring road

a gutless peon on a pithy journey, alone too

barring the growling V8 and the awesome speed

one gets when fleeing uncertainty and falsehoods,

the Big Rig twenty feet in front advertises KFC

I’m not hungry, that piece of finger licking news, bit.

The Road and the Lane

It was a crossroad,

the lane ran East/West

the Highway North/South

the roundabout in the middle

signalled a crazy dance macabre.

Cars more often than not

raced maniacally to and fro

trucks and vans forward and back

the melee in the middle a police nightmare

Dogs waited to cross, on a leash

Cats dashed breezily, but with disdain

Possums littered the highway

after another night of mayhem and squash.

The tar on the roads melt with surety

in 35 degree heat, the pools of black

lifted by passing tyres and flicked

on the underside of unsuspecting vehicles.

The Lines once solid white and yellow

now fading into insignificance, hollow

the thought they are no longer doing their job,

the sign writers rekindle new life into faded black.

A lone traveller on a four wheeled push bike

raising funds for his charity, cystic fibrosis

passes through the haphazardness of the crossroad

and raises another fifty dollars by surviving.

Sadly a major accident, grey Nissan Bluebird

flew the give way signs and careened into death,

an eighteen wheeler carting supermarket goods,

now a mess of food and mangled metal.

The Highway and the Lane closed for a while

in which time the emergency services work,

to take the dead away, the injured, to mop up

spilt milk and Weetbix, breakfast accident.

World Affairs.

If you hadn’t known, there are many wars,

the globe is straining against terrorism

and any country that wants to deal democracy a savage blow so they can force their will upon us.

The Electronic Intafada clearly stands alone,

alone against the might of The Jerusalem Post and the money (usually US dollars) that drives a war machine,

some on both sides want an all out war, dreadful.

The crux of old religions, Judaism, Christian and Islam

all fighting for the right to have access to their shrines,

for the time being, things are quiet, a banal peace,

where guns and bombs are packed away, until needed.

The life of Palestinian is third world at best,

neighbours Israel, Jordan, Syria and Lebanon

rich by comparison, the Israeli’s want this,

want the people who have as much right to the area.

What’s needed is peace, a lasting truce

and two nations to formally accept each other

and the right to live side by side, together,

to be a role model for the rest of the world.

Spring tedium.

I lay on a bed of dancing belladonnas,

a char-grilled sun trying to roast sunny side up,

daffodils sing spring song

to ears attuned to the vagaries of life,

Mallop, my dazzling manicured conifer

home to birds chirping in new life,

a neighbourhood attuned to burglary and car jacking.

I turn over, sunny side up - sun burnt

the violets of the garden scream rainbow

right on cue, spring shower dampens suns aim,

the blade of grass under my nose tickles

a stream of tears run chasing an earwig

bent on a weighty problem of earwig fodder,

the road outside slick now with oil, skids away.

The radio switches to Led Zeppelin

an old foot scarred from life and it’s travails

taps out a beat on a bare earth patch,

ants run askance and start an ant’s dance

with Whole Lotta Love belting out the beat

for spring creatures to bop and jump

I sense a change in the air, passing strangers

‘tis but the postman with a hearty “hello”

the cobwebs in the letter box ripped asunder as unwanted bills and junk mail rip their way in,

Daddy Long Legs sets to work to affect repairs

for the next gnat or mayfly to invade and be caught,

I stand, walk to the letterbox, and remove my damage

dance a-kilter to Led Zep and go make a spring coffee.

A Time for Breakfast and other manifestations

7.06am Sneakers

I sit strangling eye dust

from orbits too used to recent sleep

sit at the dining room table

see my wife has supplied

normal fare for a 7 O’clock rush.

7.07am Crumbs

The dog licks a bowl clean

my twelve year old trips over both

in a hurry to find diet juice

in a fridge full of fattening fare.

Screams of the telephone clanking.

7.10 am Fountain Pen

The Boss is running late,

good – a decent breakfast today,

fill a bowl with Fruitee Weets

pour trim milk (as if I need it)

spill two drops on suit trousers.

7.14 am Garbled

The wife finally gets around to my trousers spillage

castigates me for wasting her time

the six year old stoops in, rubbing eyes

with the dog licking his feet

must look into why the dog does that!

7.18 am Daub the Decks

The first fight for the morning

Who stole the newspaper – my wife peers angrily

Chip, run outside and check the mailbox,

my wife still in full command

her ship soon to be deserted.

7.19 am Horns

The peace of mouths filled

eyes busy,

breakfast going on.

The phone rings again

a car outside,

7.20 am  Flee

Escapism,

tearful

joyful

until

tomorrow.

This Morning in Bed – a dream.

Gardenia blooming tide

the ring bell chimes

daisies flutter

in a breeze careful not to harm

Horsewhip Wallpaper

the hidden crimes

painted butterfly

on a breeze wafting - north arm.

Sally Sardinia,

Thoughts sublime

no butter - why?

on a plate bearing a charm.

Kindergarten Wetwall,

Testing time

breadnut putter

on a golf course going barmy

Qualm Sunday I

Idiots day every Sunday noon at Qualms Church

The buffoons in topcoat and tails quaff juice

whilst His Children danced a mayflower dance

around ten poles scattered on the front lawn.

The polite damsels in waiting drink Alms cordial

the purity drink for virgins wanting acquiescence,

Salad on the table tossed to freshen and delight

with fruit punch mixed and diced, diced and mixed.

The hellfire and brimstone preacher, Joe Blain

watches from a double front entrance and smiles

the gaiety of the day evident for all who partake

a Bible shouldered under one weighty arm, ready.

He coughs to attract attention, the bell chimes

time for all folk to enter and take the daily ritual,

Yes daily, this is Utopia Christian style, nirvana

where all share good food, good fun, good books.

Ezra Pound, a name that rings bells, watches

from a pew parked at the back of every church

spouts new poetry at the touch of keyboard to screen

and passes it on at the weekly meeting at the hall.

The smoking man awaits outside the church

tapping away the ash with each breath, panting

the thoughts of virgin ladies and dance macabre

the thought the preacher will shun him again.

The Gun man, armed to the teeth, church reject

stands five metres away from the smoking man,

thumbing rounds into a packed and ready .45 colt

The lady with the red dot on her forehead, his.

The butts build their own pile, each passing ciggie puffing out lifelessness, a need to litter everywhere,

each butt a counter for the rounds being loaded

into guns down the road, the Amish was nothing.

An AK – 47 slips away behind a seat, a police cruiser

slips by and an observant man of the Law watches all,

all those who had no right to be there, must be inside,

praying and singing an enjoying the real life, inside.

Inside all men is a trigger to do wrong, to break rules,

most have a good family and life to help keep it in,

tucked away for eternity, some however are loners,

and have agenda, hates, pessimistic outlooks.

“Move along please” cries the copper, finger pointing

scanning both the Gun Man and the Smoking Man,

Both now disarmed and moving to the church, initially

then back down the road whence they came, dead.

Dead Men haunt places, dead men haunt people

The cops see Dead People, moves them on daily

to whence they came, shooing them away from

the good folks that attend church seven days a week.

Qualm Sunday II

Father Joe Blain espouses with Ezra Pound

questions his poetry, and his beliefs

a Poet in a church is a quaint mix

where the devil meets the do-gooder,

Sheriff Ghostie Gonereadiness

fires ghoul protestations at a gunslinger

and a smoking apparition of soul,

sending both on their way for ever,

The girls dance free, the boys dance with glee,

the Nirvana world goes around,

the whole place rhymes with Ezra

singing praises in post modernist.