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.