The Eon series - 1 – The Treyboars Legacy

The salad in the bowl emanates

nuclear fall-out

the light green glowing fluorescent

the yellows gold

the reds crimson

the purple of avocado glows indigo,

The morphed shapes of nuclear rampage

guard the fall out site with twisted grins

the ladies in glowing geisha frocks

pink cheeks where once shone red.

The Lords of the Treyboar stare bemused

an action meant to end life

instead rumanoids wander free slaking thirst

the rains pour iridescent blue

on gardens flattened by the blast.

Above ground zero, mutant crow’s caw

searching for any fare to keep them alive,

the blisters of heat evident neath feathery skin,

dogs with no tails and no bark scatter

the thump of another building toppling.

A European couple reinvent themselves

trying hard to see through skins purple-hazed,

their adventure in Middle Kaplan stifled

by the actions of weapon hungry Treyboarians

the need to prove they have, we have, we do.

In the ages ahead, all comes to fruition,

babies with boils, families misunderstanding,

the water slightly gray with aftermath

the memories of Chernobyl enough to shiver,

some said never again after Japan,

and beware after Chernobyl

yet still to Lords play with unwarranted power.

Ceculan Terbonichi eats from the salad bowl

from the platter on the misshapen table,

thinks death is nice in an oil painting.

The Eon series – 3 – The Kid is just a kid

Ok so he’s thirteen, going on twenty

sneaks into his Dad’s room when he’s not home

thumbs through the magazines

takes his shame to the toilet and ejaculates,

his first girlfriend commented on the size of it

he just blushed amazed she cared

they did it on Dad’s bed, bugger the mess.

There is always life in an old pencil!

When he was thirty-ish, he divorced her

found comfort in Roxanne’s on Cuba

the salt and pepper shaker missing from the table.

So why at 38 did he get a vasectomy?

78 now, missing womanly contact

slithers into John Gibbons room

and sneaks a look at the pictures on the wall.

He needn’t bother going to the toilet.

The Eon Series – 4 – Unnatural Disasters

I can’t figure it out

why things around collapse -

I touch a building for example

cracks appear

I run in fear

to nowhere,

though on the way I wave at a train

the driver waves back

the train leaves the track

I feel black

I hurriedly run hither and yon

I wave at a plane overhead

the one thing I dread

crash – two dead

I run down the long straight road

I wave at a truck

you know my luck

saved by a wandering duck.

My footsteps whilst running

meet a hump,

the sudden thump,

Earthquake chump!!

I stand in the middle of a mis-shapened world

architect of my own demise

a word to the wise,

love me - I surprise.

It’s been 10 long years

It’s been ten long years

since I was a Dad

mental illnesses

have done me bad

the feeling I have

I’m always sad

Why god tricked me

as if I’ve been had.

It’s been ten long years

since I hugged my girls,

been far too long

since I twisted their curls

and videoed their dance

their acrobatic twirls

I feel so sad now

our separate worlds.

It’s been ten long years,

since we all danced a-feather

it’s been an eon since

I sheltered them from the weather,

the rains my tears now

seeing them maybe never

a natural blonde

and a brunette quite clever.

I have their pictures hanging

on all my four walls

I hear them talking

in long lost calls

I miss their smiles

help them when they fall

I just hope both of them

are having a big ball.

It’s been ten long years

since my mind evicted me

the memories are barren

they’re no longer a part of me

no tangible hugs

just stark reality

now I can’t talk to them

not a pretty penny.

Cap’n Staunchbottom stands ramrod straight

the wind trying to chisel wind burns into him,

the state of the swaying barque dependant

upon the strength of man and breeze.

From the deep south the Roaring Forties

promise to dismantle all who wander into it,

the stark cold of Antarctic Ice cutting ropes

in the form of Ice and Icicles.

Sails Frapped against a strong wind, Breather

the warm wind of the subtropics, temperate

a place to sail with frank honesty, no death

except perhaps the taste of scurvy and murder.

The Cap’n points the bow southward, Island bound

heading to ports bearing women and sailor fare

a chance to keep a crew, to manage boredom,

to ensure the Maori maidens of Aotearoa impregnated.

The ship’s an old barque, former pirate ship from Cuba

taken as a prize by a British Man’o’war and sold

to the first person to raise a bounty purse, a thousand

gold guineas, not often seen in the British realm.

In a port, she’s converted to whaling, harpoons, ropes

lanyards, slicing knives and boiling pots, the salt too

female company now behind, the ice of promise,

delivered, great woolen coats disguising tension.

The days start anew, targets acquired and dispatched

hands bent to the task at hand, death, blood, blubber

the time flies and all too soon the pots overflow,

a successful hunt, and not too far dipped to the south.

The ship roars northbound, the Roaring southerly

pushing like a punch into a punch bag, energised,

the port reached anon, cargo unloaded, crew paid,

more lovely maidens, desertions, new crewmen.

The whaling season lasts for nine months

until icicles cut ropes further north and the need to

run the gauntlet with Ice Floes negated by the rush

on the 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.”

He walks around the Pentagon, his old plane charred,

helps officials identify parts of the plane

helps to bring truth to a heinous crime

The crash was manufactured, under threat

nothing survived, except paint on the tail,

ten years of familiarity gone in a terror-filled moment..

There are no lies in blatant truth, it seems.

A limb dangles with a gold Rolex shining in the sun.

The Captain Series – Sports is the Winner.

The skipper pulls up his pants

another ruck in another melee,

the ball now passed to the half back

ready for the next phase of play.

A small boy stands on the sideline

chasing balls back and forth,

admiring his hero’s belting out another

rugby game, the game of warriors.

The sweat drips on a cold evening

steam rises from a scrum packing down,

“Crouch, Touch, Hold Engage pouts the ref,

the sudden crunch of kilos against kilos rings,

a small boy on the side line dreams

dreams bout the day he’ll be an All Black

the days when his fitness will be tested,

the days when heroes march in unison for a win.

He then sees the Captain run, fat man’s alley,

the chasing support players run and ruck

the tension in the air broken by “f**k you”

and the perennial “oh Ref”, and the pee blows.

The backs are freezing in the cold, even the bellboy

with his continual running the sideline, is warm

the backs are called into action, the halfback passes,

the inside backs double around, a pass to the fullback

TRY!!

The opposition gather for a chat behind the posts,

discuss defensive tactics, offensive frailties,

the ref blows the pea for a successful conversion,

everyone returns to halfway to start it all over again.

The Captain Series – One small step for Man

You’ve seen the pictures

the Captain of Eagle

stepping down gingerly

to a surface gray dust

Apollo 13 – we have a problem Houston

the numbers crunched,

computers monitored

there in the wiring loom

a small fire, death.

Columbia sails Earthbound

mostly on automatic

tweaked expertly by a Captain of Space

the wheels touchdown

the Ship returned to Canaveral

for another return journey

to a space station

slowly getting bigger.

The Captain of the Control Centre

calls the numbers, the tune

set to repetition

to countdown

another space mission

another Captain at the helm

another life event for spectators

to drink.

The Captain Series – Bus Driver

Everyday he does his rounds

Morningtown through Parsonage

then south to Hampden Downs,

then changes the sign and returns,

People his crew, his business

the daily rush of worried housewives

the patter of children going to school

occasionally the local hood sans car.

He drinks for his health Bottle

spits out the window the detritus of bad air

turns left and right with measured ease,

the daily ritual almost automatic in nature,

The Church Ladies for St Mary’s on Ponsonby

all get on in Parsonage, tightly dressed

and settle at the front of the bus

leaving the back for cheeky young reprobates,

the bus holds 45 , yet at times it swells

to those having to stand, public transport

a swelling occurrence since petrol rose in price,

the stink of BO overwhelms, daily fare.

The driver’s the captain of his ship, dictated to

by bosses who have planned immaculately,

yet he rules on who does and doesn’t board,

the young glue sniffers of Redding Rise, no go.

Happy empty, at the depot, fills the Diesel tank,

time for a well earned smoke and a bite to eat,

remonstrates with fellow captains, the strange ones,

the good looking girl at the stop near Jamestown,

The bright young hippy on te invalids benefit,

always flips him a 50 in monopoly money, it counts,

then back to the Bus for another foray into alienship,

the places the same, most of the folks too, the vagabond.

The Captain Series – Cap’ns of Industry.

He stands in a Penthouse, Red Square Hotel

overlooking Red Square in deepest Moscow,

the wheels of Industry ringing loud in a mind,

a mind attuned to running things and making

things work, a true entrepreneur, a worker too.

The dice on the table roll Sevens, a casino Boss

stands and watches as the punter wins more,

more money than the casino is willing to part with

yet all he sees is luck, hamstrung to do anything

but watch the time roll when the punter’s had enough.

The dog sitting quietly on the footpath outside the hotel

pleads scrawny poverty, yet is willing to stand and watch,

the mince in the kitchen soon to be thrown out, time

even for a dog, waits for no man, as he does now,

a suited penthouse dweller sneaks out for lust.

The winner leaves by the front door, his win emblazoned.

the pit boss, captain of his realm, scratches his head

the casino out of pocket to the tune of millions,

oh well always the other 99% of punters, to roll in

a pit dealer, sexy in her after work mini dress

races in a taxi to Seventy Five Lamokva Avenue,

meets a mysterious man, he well to do, she almost

another two months and she’s saved enough

to escape the cold of Moscow, the freeze of winter,

to bask in all day sun on the Iberian Peninsula,

The wheels of Industry role ever onward, paying

the time for retirement closer with every working day,

the winner of the Craps Game buys a yacht, and sails

past Valencia, towards the casino in Monte Carlo -

the penthouse now filled with the grunt of lust,

as the mechanizations of payment due helping-

helping to pay a girl her dream, her willingness

to do anything to escape – she leaves loaded

he retires for the night dreaming of retirement

a man steps ashore to role Craps in “The” Casino.

A Dog walks out of the back of a restaurant, sated.

Salamander Eyes

You look at me with upturned nose,

eyes bulging to see up my nostrils,

poke your tongue out for effect,

your lips a license to kiss

your face a love

your soul

enough.

The Captain Series – the Last – Me.

I’ve stood at the helm of a ship, Driver

I’ve stood in the middle of a boat, Captain

I’ve stood in my room – memories,

the way things could have been

if I hadn’t been afflicted genetically.

I sit in my chair, writer

A stand behind my chair, watcher, 

I stand and pace my room,

Captain without helm,

I salute myself, as it is done.

I measure my domain in yards now,

no longer in miles, whence my boat days

I take a rule of thumb and apply it to life

then scrutinize all around me with measured eye

a hangover from my surveying days, the sun sets

on a life fast approaching relinquishment,

the shades dimmer now, the moon strong

the ice on the beard says get warm and live

the beard and face behind it say bring it on,

the lady of my life my last vision, and her girls.

Ignacio

The chiseled might of David

the layered peace of Mona Lisa

ten visions of Dali’s Ghost

the Fruitbowl Picasso paints

Ignacio, a roman sewer

depicted by Leonardo De Vinci

on a piece of canvas stretched,

the age indeterminate

the style – rushed.

In that frame, a little boy

poking his head out

sewer rat, lives of misery,

one wonders how a painter

sees such things, askance.

Draining Veins to Build Arteries

The licquorice builds bodies

pumps blood in a heat of the moment

when a whole bag disappeared,

the taste on the tongue

deliberate.

Babies with innies

a rare occurrence

mothers with distended bellies

commonplace

in pregnancy.

She met a man

well that’s a teenagers prerogative,

went to his house

to measure his rooms

for refurbishment.

Allentown revisited

the pavement chalked

with kiddies games

the gutter filled

with discarded

smokes.

The placement of the decoration on the table

meant to draw the looker in, mesmerise

the knives and forks set out right handed

just in case a leftie sits

and confuses.

The blood in an artery

pumping

out

then travelling back in veins

blue on the surface.

Sausage meat is handy.

Roll of Film

I find that roll of film, you know, the one from

January 2000, the picnic south of Dannevirke

when Mary and Jane danced on the playground

a memory in passing of times past, good

the roll with stick figures at play

as children are, stripped of adulthood,

the lace skirts billowing in the breeze

and Uncle David throwing sticks with Rusty.

There’s one of you standing by the car

forever turning your blonde curls in your fingers

the rum punch on the boot untouched

as the gathering performed miracles.

The left chamber of the Ford shows bare paint,

one of those must do jobs that never got done,

the kids leaning either side, a bun and cake

slipping wet into hungry mouths, the film rolls

Aunty Ignacius Queen of the Gathered Throng

with her hair on fire, the hat too red to be that,

Cousin Graham spill marks down a green shirt,

runs after the girls, Ice cream flowing molten.

But I treasure the Girls, I have rarely seen them

as well you know, I don’t blame you, I blame life,

but I will send this as a gift for you to cherish

for the girls to have as a reminder of gentler days.

Deliriousness

You rattle your brain in a too-large head

rip eyeballs from sleepless sockets

pronounce “Beat” be at the way it’s spelt

the tussock of your hair hides melodrama

the sweet ruby of your lips hints possibilities

the drip of cod liver in fine curly locks, skids

and slips to a nose hooked for effect, latent

the thought of wiping oil from your nose

as it runs past your chin to mar another top,

the recognition when others see your dilemma

the happenstance of metallurgy as Trojans fight

the time on a discarded watch stopped at 8.47pm.

Rain on your hair melodances, as Ginger Rogers

or was it Gene Kelly’s Singing in the Rain? time

indeed to find a new life in a four bedroom bungalow

to house your insecurities, your misgivings, eccentricity

the play your mouth plays when words are hard to find,

the Doctor prescribed Lamimatol, not telling you

the stuff was used to give horses shiny coats, glisten

the sheen on your mangy hair-tail-mane, shake loose

the ribbons of your mind and chase a hairbrush in a

mirror steam pressed to blur reality, the hobo stares back

the lady in the room disadvantaged by age, short too

she makes a mental note to wear nine inch heels.

Placid now, the rain gone, the hair drying and sticking

the mirror an afterthought, the time still says 8.47pm

but she can get by without it, just makes life dull anyway.

In the end, the rattling brain tosses new nuances.

That Pen

It was a gift, gold cap,

black/red barrel

the ink flows blue

when I use it,

I don’t use it though

in – laws gift, Christmas

I just stand it up

in front of me

look at it’s shape

and surety

one day an important

letter requires signing.

Subterranean Creatures.

Five foot seven long

a tooth in the middle of three snarled nostrils,

the tail electric for stunning effect

the dog like roar

a wolf hound regenerated.

The lady at the kiosk on the corner,

you know, Down and Out,

the gentlemanly five year olds flick marbles.

the daylight fades as it always does

when wolves cry in terror.

Alfred Hitchcock stands by the number 12 bus stop

the memories flying like The Birds

around a bald pate

a shower drips above

somewhere a knife flies and imbeds itself

in a wooden power pole

as knives do.

The Kiosk lady removes the knife

slits her wrist as  succour to subterranean creatures

the lifeblood regenerating as a tail whips

wraps itself around her legs

the marbles scatter with their owners,

past Old Alfred, to Ma’s and Pa’s

to tell the unbelievable.

Then the scene disappears,

a quiet field of yellow lucerne,

a girl in Dorothy clothes dances

to “The Sound of Music”

the wind brushes the field in blue waves

whence the flowers dip and dance and dive

towards a cottage of Hansel and Gretel quality.

You sense the wolverines

but all you see is beauty and love

and Alfred leaning against a large Oak

the witch in the cottage a Kiosk Lady

the sumptuous smell of fresh baking

the bait for the wolves to take you,

yes you are scared again,

your mouth dries,

your eyes distend

you sweat in areas you haven't sweat in years,

the girl dances to the sound of Yellow Brick Road

the scene a brown rye field swaying to a new tune

that golden path a thing of abject beauty,

the Tin Man  resembles Freddie

from Nightmare on Elm Street

and the fingers as knives

cut rye heads as they pass,

the Scarecrow with a Frankenstein Heart

kicks the stones with toenails of glass shards,

and the Wizard once again Alfred

the door wide ajar,

I hear you say no, no, no

yet the song weaves towards the door

and she dances the stoop

the creatures of horror strung out behind her,

You wake and sit up with a stance

take a look in the mirror, see nothing in return

no face, no arms, nothing,

not even your gold medal smile

of course, a dream, then where am I?

and the sound of gnashing teeth from your blind side

and you jump out of bed

seek the mirror (and solace) of the bathroom

the sideways look reveals nothing, just a dream,

the mirror there steamed over

you then notice the shower, who???

The day draws to a close, the kiosk stands empty,

the street at that corner empty too,

the reflection in the number 12 bus yours to peruse,

A marble in a gutter strikes a note,

you search the street, no Alfred, no wolverines

just an empty kiosk and a fissure in a lamp post,

no fields of dreams, no golden roadway,

you hurry home to turn the shower off, your name Snow White.

Sweet things

Car candy apple red

wallet, alligator green

the yellow sunflower,

blooms

Taste cherry ripe

the succulence

of beer hops brewing

drink

the amber fluid of Kings

bubbly to froth

the champagne divine

anointed

Bishops in cassocks

relaxed, the timekeeper

flicks a black switch,

pedantic

the control man

for trains East/West

and vice versa,

delayed

the naming of Gods

the rugby paddock

a carpeted green

tackle

the bag in front

confront

the joys of misery

salacious

the bite into ice cream

bitter with caramel

the taste of Jesus

pray.

Recognising Space and Time in Bathroom affairs.

The bath holds 40 gallons of water

yet I only displace 86 Kilograms

when I dive headlong.

From deep underwater I look and see

the blurred blue/grey of a ceiling

much in need of painting.

My hand reaches for the soap, brush

the lather enough to ruin ten years

of decomposition at the sewage plant.

The razor is sharp to the nth degree

still I apply it gingerly to red whiskers

the blood dripping that of carelessness.

I measure the distance from the bath to the toilet

then with simple ease slide a hook shot

and kerplonk!! bull’s-eye (“disposable razor” it says).

The water spirals down the drain clockwise

yet in the northern hemisphere its opposite,

I watch the water and dream weather forecasts.

The fallen heroes of Hair stick to the lathered sides

standing testament of the good fight, warrior

leaving it all for someone else to clear.

Loves Feather

Soft like light tissues

the texture of essence

market days sell plenty

a balloon – bird shaped

The lady with a whisper breath

soul floating in front

the float of air attains

daisy chains sensual.

Today they buried

the lady of light gone

her presence lowered

featherlike into a casket

sent across Oceans

across the world

her message in life and death

love.

The Inner Workings of a Dead Poets Mind

Salutation renditions of Sean Connery in Garn

a movie not yet written, though not far away

the lace of Rachel Welch’s corset fine, roaring

the souped up V8 in an American Graffiti

roars down a road with Harrison Ford

picking snot balls from nostrils, flared

the guards on a Police Cruiser, arresting

the hearts of bystanders as cars reel out of control,

Jane Seymour kisses Cary Grant, yeah the gay one

as happy as two kids in love, like Munroe and JFK

though don’t tell Jackie, she with the reins of power

the height of power the measure of a woman, fresh

the breeze that blows through Kansas in search

of a wizard and a weird movie, if you look at it,

the skip of a little dog chasing skirt tails, blooms

aligning in gay abandon, to paint a picture with

colourful rows of nothingness if you can’t see,

can’t recognise the dark trails they beautify, green

the colour of money when stars mingle and dine, the purple cassocks hover, ever trying to convert the kith

the kin that celebrates life as it wanders along, death

the last gasp signifies the dying thread of thought,

the purification of characters, the passing of names

the quirks and foibles of those who choose notoriety.

Birthright.

I call you Prudence, though your name is Delight

you waft fragrant Rose on my hearty Beef

You singe in my arms, swelter in my clutch

the smile you tattoo on my face reflective

baby in arms, we share, kiss, cuddle, calm

the ladies endeavours witnessed by a caring man

the days you coo and caw, the screech of blackbirds

as you hang many nappies for another assault,

whence baby calls Momma, and walks, falls, walks

and rolls along in a barrel fashion to reach nowhere

The day he stands and teeters, you ready

to save a broken nose and unwanted howls

but steady and true, like his Mum and Dad

he wanders around the furniture with ease

Darling, come sit with me now, he sleeps

eventually a brother has a sister, as it is.

In the Belly of a Sperm Whale (or Jonah cries)

I was swallowed up two years ago now

a sperm whale named Gromunkingly

I’d been kayaking around a few Islands

but he thought I was needed, so swallowed I was.

We went miles, always trying to keep away,

far from the sharp prongs of Japanese Harpoons

from the deep Southern Oceans to the warm Pacific,

swimming mainly in the sanctuary of New Zealand.

He kept me fed with fresh krill and crustaceans

kept himself fed too, and directed his family,

and for those years we evaded the enemy, till one day a mayday call from the deep south, a slaughter,

hurriedly we dove southwards, whales of all sizes

shapes and designs, all chasing the killers,

too late, a bogus call, tricked, the light went out,

the mighty Gromunkingly harpooned through the back

bleeding to death, his heartbeat strong, weakening

his speech to me, both help me and don’t worry,

Yes I hear you say, Stop Whaling, Stop the Japanese!

Stop the senseless murder of such delicate creatures .

The Success of Readership

Late last September, twas wet and cold

manufactured a poetry book, likely to be sold,

did only two copies, one for my self

and another volume for the Library shelf.

Well the local library took their time

to get it to the shelves a place sublime

and before one reader had taken the bait,

someone had booked it, and I feel bloody great.

I tried to get published, 417 poems in all

the number growing till I had to stall

my manuscript from 2000 until 2005

so happy someone’s reading, yup Hi Five.

As I was saying tried hard to be published,

needed $4500 for 120 tomes, just a wish

to put one volume in each library in the land

well that’s the crux of my well balanced plan.

I still wish to go down this path, and be read

before I’m licked and left damn well dead,

to know that others share my many words,

72,000 last count, or that’s what I heard.

The Malawi Legacy.

Sum Bar el Hajri’s twelve today

like a lot of his friends

he’s not seen as normal

AIDS has that effect

He doesn’t understand why he has it

why he and his friends think normally

yet are afflicted with the African Disease

why they have no access to medicine.

The world dies a little

when these kids cease to be

unwilling to throw money and medicine

the thought that it will go away on its’ own.

And slowly it is dying, coffins a dime a dozen now when there once was a shortage

yet a 12 year old dies with no hope.

a free coffin for children, too many.