Slam Dunk
It’s
impossible to play draughts in a Chinese pub,
to skirt
large cities without being smogrified,
It’s
impossible to live life without doing one thing wrong,
The
time when Cook sailed the world an era of enlightenment,
discovery,
something that happens all day every day,
the
invention of the wheel a danger to Planet Earth,
(we
should hover)
Invention
is the catchcry of the forward thinker
the
forward planner, the visionary in a house for the dying,
They
say Old Garfield, the Alzheimer’s sufferer
builds
sonic magnetic craft in his mind, finds it hard
to put
it to paper, a viable invention of modernization,
Aunt
Mary, the socialite Greenpeace member
(sows
salient seeds).
I met
a man once or twice, (maybe daily) always inventing,
I tell
him to write it all down and send it to patent,
but
he’s just as happy espousing his diatribes
and
his everlong monologues that propound nil.
(yes
you met him – Robert Spoke)
Today
the world shuddered under the weight.
I sold
tickets to a basketball game last Monday,
some
free ones I got on the radio, contest,
the
aerodynamics of the orange sphere telling,
as it
bounces this way, skids that way, floats up there,
a slam
dunk through a hoop the realisation
that
an invention can be a wonderful thing.
Settling on an Idea and going with it.
How
to write a tight poem?
Use
Little
Words
Often.
How
to write an epic.
Peel
the rind off an orange and look inside
the
core of the earth measured by the number of pips,
the
taste, resounding a whale in mating season,
the
islands of Hawaii a flourish in Paradiseness
How
to write Yeats.
With
a Y, then an E, then an A for effect,
followed
by a T for good measure and taste,
the
S to finalize.
Te Maori, Te Marae
I’ve
been past many, always driving
no reason
to stop and answer my question
why
I say, do I never claim my kiwiness
why
don’t I claim for myself our culture.
I stopped
outside one once, somewhere
in the
Bay of Plenty, and a tangi was in progress
the
gathering in black in melee out front,
the
kaumatua seated and conversing.
I wonder
at times if I wasn’t so white
and
ignorant of my whakapapa
would
I have the guts to stop in and say hi
to sit
with the knowledgeable old ones.
What
holds me back? The need to not interfere?
The
need to deny my kiwiness, my mana
I know
I’m not totally aware of Marae protocol
the
powhiri and the haka, to welcome others.
Not
me though, I know I can’t do it
I have
to live in my cemented pakeha world
even
though I think myself more Maori
the
European, yes a true kiwi o Aotearoa.
The
language I hear you say, yes I speak some
not
cognitive sentences or phrases, tidbits
enough
to know I live in a whare, drive a waka
get
met on the streets by my mates and we hongi.
There
is, (I know) a groundswell of like minds
the
ones who say Kiwi we are Kiwi we be,
we all
climb Pa’s, play in wai, sing waiata,
all
hongi to understand we all count, matter.
The Gargantuan.
A foray
into days past
the
machinery of change huge and smoky
the
mechanisms of industry colossus
many
rusty hulks litter the land.
This
one’s in a river bed
by a
bridge it’s working on
the
measured pace of hydraulic tempo
moving
the bucket, up, down, left right.
The
posed distraction
of historic
machination
the
movement of soil and sand, and rocks
sent
flying from unprotected bucket.
The
colour is yellow, rust
both
indicative of status
the
frame dying a slow weathered death
bending
under the weight of overload.
Then
one day, slowly
it moves
on, and disappears the be buried
with
other dying hulks in framework graveyard
the
dust of rust blowing.
Still,
in the modern mind
a child’s’
mind filled with dreams of diggers
the
need to grow up and be a digger driver
the
be sending minds leaping for poetry pages.
The Potholer.
There’s
a stretched on national highway
that
back in the 60’s was a veritable goat track
through
the Southern Alps and scree slides
cut
from granite and sandstone, rugged
now
a well built and maintained road
thanks
to the marvels of modern engineering.
Back
up till the 80’s, a goat track,
built
for hardy cars and trucks
and
negotiated by people
with
skill and knowledge
but
always trying hard to miss
knee
deep potholes and cracks
(there’s
an earthquake fault through it)
Yes,
the pot holes
a hobo
was paid
by the
road’s maintainers
a stipend
to walk the road
from
Otira in the west
to Arthur’s
Pass in the east
to walk
the track and fill pot holes
with
scree from scree slides
to thump
them down with well muscled legs
well
muscled from years of walking and thumping
a boon
to drivers, his task onerous
yet
a special privilege it was to be smiled at
by the
hobo of the potholes as we drove past.
He’d
sleep in a tent or bivouac on the road side
eat
from a billy anything he caught or was given
his
life one of hardship but necessity, lasting
until
the road surface was changed
and
his job null and voided
his
life no longer of meaning for him
and
for those who knew of him,
probably
retired to Otira and a warm pub?
A Childs view of Poetry forums and poets.
My Dad
let me see, his secret place
where
he dives in and writes about the world
a plethora
of poetry and styles and consciousness
a place
where everything goes yes some adult
I’m
a worldly eleven year old, thanks to Mum and Dad
I see
what they say and I learn from it, like school
take
Dad’s poem to Mum, he never wrote it first person
but
disguised it as salad and a BBQ, he’s good at that
writing
about things, not people, Mum likes it that way
I cry
when I read it, the love so easy to see,
(I see
it at home all the time) but still I cry
today
Dad wrote a poem about me, his digger
Yellow
and Brown, my colours, a digger doing things
that
diggers do, much like children with open eyes
and
open minds, once again thanks to my folks,
I will
follow their lead when I mature, grow older
knowing
they love me too, knowing that as Dad writes
the
world listens, reads, inwardly digests, knows
the
way I learn to survive, through their actions
their
dedication to being good parents, marvels,
I love
them when they write, I learn and grow
I love
it when they love me, one of two, nothing special
Dad
wrote my poem, he lives five hundred miles away
he still
knows what I was like at eleven, twenty now.
Obliteration
Alfonso,
Alfonso, wear 4 art thell,
Repugnance,
Repugnance, how 4 art thell nose
Yes
ugliness, the misspelt representation of goofy shits,
the
sequestered sentences of sensibility spits too
Lacquered
bums bounce buoyantly on bench seats
where
Hobos piss and spit in parks driven bare
Dangerous
Dave of cartoon fame, danced dizzily
the
torment of ten trenchcoated tossers tapping
out
outrageous Octavian octaves over Outreach
My Mind
misses a few minutes as mince melts
movement
- French Maids lift Negligee and moon men
Can
Crescendos capture copulating couples crestfallen
I Imagine
imitation imageries insinuating iciness
The
Taste of Tanneries turning skins into Toga’s
You
yodel yellow peril yesterday, yon hither
ground
garden goo into gracious gladioli.
The
Hobo passes the time alliterating
Repugnance
dances dance macabre
the
head boy and girl teach well
the
often asked quest –Hell 4 Eart Thell.
The Night Sky
Orion
soars in ambiguity
the
Sun sets at night to hide
Archimedes
proposed globe
through
mathematical logic.
I whisper
those words in your ear
the
sky sets you off, Moonchild
sets
you to dreaming afar
of Andromeda
and earth’s twin.
My lover
asks me for a Sirius drop
to mark
time in Earth Affairs
Sagittarius
roars night life
to those
attuned that way.
The
Southern Cross points South
always
ever South, like Aurora Australis
shining
shimmeringly in the heavens
hanging
in the sky with gossamer tendrils.
Maybe
on the Planets Cauldron
the
rotation around the hiding Sun
we might
find the answer to other lives
not
just astronauts in a space station.
I whistle
an old nursery rhyme
your
ear turns to me and you hum
the
tune with Cows and spoons and cats
and
a fiddler three (or was it one)?
Time’s
an invention of solar rotation
measured
by early Sumerians and Greeks
fine
tuned by Romans, the names forged
for
the twinkles in the sky, shaped.
I sit
and await the Moon to drop away
the
melting of the dark imposes light
the
ever reaching destination of the Sun
to blot
my mind, and obliterate stars.
Obliteration (reprise)
I paid
you back God
I’m
broke and penniless
both
at the same time
I’m
too old to start over
no confidence
happy
to write poetry
(some
days one or two)
others
I’m always creating poetry
(I’m
told it’s God’s Job to Create)
I look
in the Mirror
“See
what you did God?”
Made
me grey and wizened
Then
I realise I don’t follow God
God
follows me, take the mirror
I turned
and God was there.
Digital Time
I moan
with the hollow wind
cry
like a baying wolfhound on heat
drive
harder into you to match your pace
sweat
buckets so the sheets are slippery,
you
whisper “Ohhhhhhhh” in my ear
pass
the cigarette after, blow smoke
in my
hair, as if I’m not already on fire
the
time rolls towards morning, tick
tock,
the mouse smashed the clock
the
hands ran away with time, sublime
the
doctor that says pregnant, once again
that’s
ten now, will we break the record,
You’re
thirty seven now, clocking the years
yet
we still have more in us, maybe a rugby team
yes
fifteen sounds a good number, my job pays,
the
second hand on the broken clock marches
through
boredom and access, assertions pushed
aside
to make way for digital dials with red neon
the
babies in their nappies cry food time, up we get
and
follow the hands of time into other rooms
and
feed, feed, similar to little birds in the nest
heads
raised to accept what Mum and Dad have
to offer,
yes that’s right, Honour and Offer
the
means to making babies in a puritan household.
The
rest of the kids are up and dressed, the older ones
helping
to cope, learning parenting skills anew
yes
big families are big on effort, and sharing
the
time replaced by Digimax Red Digits.
The Winds of Soft Change
The
wheels of time dig ruts on forearms
spoken
words lost in a blow back breeze
Talismans
hang from necks and sigh
a zephyr
sucking daylight from eyes,
Sadly
The Gorgons beheaded a King
the
gentle waft of air a sign heads dropped,
Manly
deeds are done with the blare of trumpets
womanly
pastimes with a swift laugh and cough
ten
planets on a collision course of history
remain
separated by gravity and Solar Winds
Sadly
I end this dirge with untimely news
I’ve
run out of breath and a poem of breadth.
Bad Lands and Teachers
The
necessarily isn’t a word to count
when
stuck on high atop a mount
the
yak’s of the Himalaya do moan
when
the Tibetan wind passes a groan.
The
second hand on a clock ticks by
the
question in my head is where and why
the
ladies chased me for sex all day
loved
my for the romance sent their way.
I cried
all day when my mother passed on
such
a sad loss when I realised she was gone
same
for my father, dead before their time
introspective
look why I thought it a crime.
The
days now are long and interestingly bright,
the
darkness of evening heralds in the night,
two
lovely daughters to care for, for life
separated
for ever from my lovely bright wife.
Digimax the Dynamic Robot Computer
Hurro,
I can’t pronounce my llss
can’t
walk nor run
can
feel your finger tips dancing
on my
wysiwyg keyboard
oh qwerty
keyboard I hear you say
no mines
definitery wysiwyg
oh it’s
your piss poor typing I hear you say
no it’s
the way we designed humans to react.
You
punch in the screen when it doesn’t pray
(yes
remember my Ll problem)
the
RCD grimmers and reverts to normar
Sadry
I have to report screen abuse
my masters
cringe when their machine is hit.
Oh hector
fucking protector
I’m
a disadvantaged poet trying to re-muse
I’m
stuck for flipping words and Ideas
must
be the day, even the back of the head
is as
itchy as a camels arse in the scant Sahara
the
frontal lobes pulsing, throb, throb, ache
rub
a dub, dub three men in a fucking tub,
ok I
don’t have a plasma or LCD, Mines CRT
all
the way babe, the sort that’s great to throw
out
of windows in frustration, like the movies
the
scant reality things are clearing
and
thoughts starting to flow anew
the
radio on Sportstalk, why no sport poem?
Suddenly
the Aircon rattles (open window)
and
I get a hint from on high to ditch this dirge
and
to try another less complicated sortie.
The Marathon Man
His
name is Steve Guerney
he’s
a champion multi-sportsman
won
the Coast to Coast 9 times
between
the age of 30 and 42.
He runs
like he speaks
fast
and with great skill
the
way he runs, rides (a bike)
kayak’s,
rides and runs
across
the Great Divide.
He’s
affable, quirky
a man
of many words
and
deeds aplenty
got
sick in an endurance
race
in Borneo
nearly
killed him.
He’s
run the tip to toe
of both
islands
beaten
old times
set
new records
to the
applause
of both
islands.
He’s
an innovator too
turns
up to races
with
bold new inventions
to help
him win
mostly
for fun
though
one year
the
pod for the bike
raised
a few eyebrows
and
broke records.
Steve
Gurney, entrepreneur
a man
of many talents, skills
determinations
and plans
retired
now, 44
planning
to be innovative
in sports
equipment
to help
the best, do the best
reach
their goals
attain
supremacy.
The Daffodil Conundrum
Signs
of spring everywhere,
daffodils
warm
winds
spring
showers
winter
receding
once
again.
The
lights on later
as the
sun sets
the
warmish breeze
wafting
workers home
several
ladies in short skirts
and
boob revealing tops
the
heave of bosom
indicative
of my
flowing
years.
Yes
summer is on it's way
the
temptation to Google
with
eyes well attuned to sights
that
are enhanced with black stockings
and
thigh high boots
the
leather
creaking
softly
a sign
I might
catch
a glimpse
of secret
places.
But
Daffodils fill the mind
Cancer
Week next week,
a time
to remember
a mother
passed near 20 years,
the
thought of sex revoked for reality
to see
the yellow skins and help
to say
a prayer or two
write
a eulogy poem
to make
ado's
howdya
do's
goodbyes.
Yet
once she was an object of desire
the
thought that she wore clothes to entice
and
capture my father, his eyes
not
mine, the temptation leading to love
to marriage,
to pass time by with children
to desire
till death, his eyes, not mine
to love
till death, his heart and ours,
the
days wane, as the sun sets higher
summer
song whistling a welcome tune
through
the efforts of spring and newborn
flora
and fauna, both sprouting anew
and
in death, love and sorrow
we find
life,
dear
life
rare
life
devil-may-care
life,
love
of life
love
of times
times
love hurt
passed
now
gone
except
daffodils on the mantle.
Terse Nurse
I was
born
petrified
pasteurized
eggs
fried over easy
You
showed me
the
road
I skipped
ran
began
a slide
into a bicycle ride,
I was
blessed
best
dressed
heckled
be spectacled
blind
no more
“WATCH
THAT DOOR”
The Promised Land
No one
owns any of it,
all
land is administered
by transient
caretakers.
The
men women and children
of the
Promised Land, beg
with
weapons meant to maim.
For
millennia the battle rages
who
owned this land (or that land)
who
had riparian rights.
Sadly
the colour of skin
or hook
of nose
determines
right of seizure.
A stream
trickles through both lands
water
recycled from above
the
path determined by effort.
If both
from either side
were
to drink the peace
the
water offers, touché!
Poupetrie - Puppeteer
You
made me of wooden chiseller
shaped
thighs and loving eyes
hands
that grasp - feet that dance
a chance
for me to entertain, again.
As a
tree I stood alone
in a
forest of weeds
tickling
my feet where we meet
the
knoll, my eye – winks.
I once
was sinewy poplar
bent
to the breeze,
danced
in gales
shook
free twigs for kids to play with.
My eyes
closed when the chainsaw
buzzed
through and I toppled
saw
your kind eyes and smooth hands
your
gentility in your every move.
Your
time the essence,
enough
to chisel and saw,
sand
and smooth,
to shape
me, Poupetrie.
Now
I sit in your window
pride
and joy, wooden toy
for
children I see
playing
out the window.
Transsexual (or Rocky Horror goes Etheree)
Rocky
longs
for
nylon
legs
a corset
black
suspenders
that hang
like
silk garters, black/red
colours
of the boudoir shine
on that
muscular flexed man flesh
the
girls sing shoo doop to Beethoven
The
ninth symphony has a drag appeal.
Gila Monster
Gila
Monster
reptilian
gargantuan
monsta
garage
souped
cars
drag
races
kill
joy
give
it away
sandwich
bite
piece
missing
the
ignition fires
smoke
plumes
the
hair dryer
blows
cold
air
on an
iceberg
melting
socially
in a
glass
mixed
with vodka
bitters
lime
slammer
as women
titillate
lactate
venerate
degenerate
espouse
to peers
the
love
of days
gone by
bye,
bye
the
world
closed
to bears
scratching
icebergs
in a
native land
no land
no way
no money
to buy
gifts for loved ones
the
lice
mice
spice
in the coffee
details
bent
nails
wholesale
retails
for five fifty
the
price of a video
or DVD
the
latest
film
to watch
mull
over
sing
to
laugh
at
feel
good
made
of wood like stands
of Kauri
Kahikatea
Totara
Rangitane
ragwort
in a field
a weed
farmers
bleed
Sam
Snead
and
a golf swing
or a
gulf swim
bunkered
in sand
shot
for the land
lighthouse
outhouse
dosshouse
my house
a second
cousin
to my
old home
no roam
stuck
fast
wind
blast
Sahara
vast
the
Bedouin sail
ships
of the desert
camels
wander
camels
smokes
smokers
choke
who’s
that bloke
A Gila
monster
on an
island
middle
of nowhere
anywhere,
here,
there,
near
Oh
Dear!!
Monitor Lizard
On another
island
slow
walk
swish
of tail
runs
like a backward hound
found
in the
sounds
in leaps
and
bounds
crosses
the
border
reptile
to mammal
to run
like a cheetah
saunter
a lioness
lazily
tree bound
leopard
the
stripes in jungles
tiger
of central
Asia
killer
hunter
zoo’ed
for perusal
by children
and
adults
to remind
us
what
they were
not
where they belong
on another
continent
jaguar
puma
cougar
Black Panther
the
coliseum
where
lions ate
humans
tirade
stop
it
the
onslaught
slaughter
daughter
sees
it all
with
eyes aghast
last
night
she slept
and
dreamt of big cats
and
her two fluffy ones
Lulu
Emma
curled
at her feet
purring
away
then
a Lizard wakes her up
Monitor
maddening
mixing
her mind
twisting
her fate
questions
where?
when?
how?
The
Cow and the Sheep
in her
sleep
deep
keep
your fingers crossed
lost
no memory
cost
no money
post
a new poem,
rightie
ho!!
The Day The White Rose bloomed Red
I see
it every day
a rose
garden in pride of place
heavily
pruned back during winter
the
yellow ones bloomed early
the
fire orange ones the other day
the
maroon ones, just poked their petals out,
but
the White one centre right
bloomed
red this year, explain that?
Did
I see the wrong flowers last year
see
the incorrect hue
no,
I know it was white, I picked one
so why
red this year. asking myself.
No problems,
nature’s always playing hookey
doing
things to upset those that do notice,
I don’t
blame it, we miss so much of everything.
I picked
the Red one, not the white as seen before
and
placed it in a vase on my window
to remind
me nature is a quirky beast.
The Man with the Ten Gallon Hat and a Chainsaw
He’s
a farmer type, rugged and well worn
chops
down dead trees and branches
to ensure
life progresses and runs anew.
He’s
a father type, breeds cattle and lambs
does
the tupping and docking, fleecing tails
feeds
by hand the orphans, as do his kids.
He’s
a rugby type, plays weekly during winter,
plays
Lock and Blindside as the coach depicts,
scores
the odd try, wins too, but there for the beer.
He’s
a fashion type, wears his Stetsons as badges,
to display
his farming heritage and lifestyle choice,
he dances
with his wife, she’s the chainsaw,
cuts
him down if he gets too lofty.
Playing the Fool in a Dancers Boudoir.
You
asked me to dance,
the
polka first, then an Irish Jig
we sort
of settled into each other
your
waltz a love poem
for
my tango, hot and ready.
After
many years of marriage, we passed like ships in the night, trying to rekindle
what was, yes even the stereo laced with dance music fell on your “being a mother” ears and mine on my “interrupting
sports” eyes. We danced in opposition now, no longer moulded as the couple
we once were, your teasing Samba and my erudite Rumba both put to bed for another day maybe or maybe not.
We managed
to live past 60 (each)
the
kids gone, the sports boring
the
stereo and CD’s gathering dust
till
one day a song on the radio
and
a mismatched accidental touch
I drew
you into my arms, fit like a glove
the
smooth dance across a lounge carpet
the
rhythm complimentary to each
We’d
go down to the Old Timers Dance Hall and join many other couples tripping around the floor, three hours of panting jitterbug,
a dabble into rock and roll,
even
do the occasional Line Dance though we both despised it. The kids would come
visit and wonder what had happened, why we seemed so close and it would rub off. Delia,
the daughter brought her hubby to the Hall to try rekindling their relationship. The
days dawned rosy, the dancing a good colour too, maybe yellow, or white, love colours, certainly something to carry off into
retirement.
Celia,
the local dance tutor
asked
us to teach others
not
how to dance as such
but
to let other couples see
that
love of dance, of self,
and
of others counted,
today
we teach love
for
ourselves
for
the kids.
Silence
A dark
room devoid of sound
the
whisper of a summer wind in a tree
the
sigh of the moon as it shines your way
the
day when you walk ears closed.
Offer me your love
I’ve
known you for years
we’ve
been friends for ages
I have
an attraction needs fulfilling
Offer
me your love,
We’ve
traded banter
laughed
together
watched
and enjoyed the same films
Offer
me your love,
We kissed
once
Office
Christmas party
both
embarrassed a little
Offer
me you love
Then
one day you left
we parted
but still……
there
was an urge to write
I shall
offer my love then.
Arrows hitting targets five miles away.
The Bow
You
meet me for dinner
we eat
salad and tossed Creole chicken,
the
glasses of wine slip away.
The Quiver
Rasputin
had a reputation
not
sure if he had gonorrhea or herpes
his
loves lived long enough.
The Arrow
Black
pudding served with cheese crackers
the
French invented snail eating
the
fuck offs from burly men ring true.
The Target
Rheumatism
halts her sex life in full kilter
pain
too excruciating to bear one day after the next
the
daily rubs of creams and anti inflammatories.
The Bullseye
You
hit the target, full on and accurate
when
you divorced me you left me hanging like a dog
I deserved
better, I’m not a criminal.
The Bottom Line
You
carried twins for nine months
the
weight a marvel to bear,
us men
just don’t have any idea
what
it’s like to carry two sugar sacks.
The
Bottom Line is we men are ignoramuses
we think
we know it all, know the truth
truth
is we know jack shit, diddly squat
we’re
all just a pain in the arse waiting to be kicked.
I hear
your moans on the delivery bed
whisper
sweet nothings and coo love
the
nurses banter openly as it were enough
the
last place a man thinks he’s in control.
The
Bottom Line is that Men are Men
designed
to fuck things up, eternally apologise
standing
in a delivery listening to babies cry
yes
the lower line is a quiet weeping male.
Bejesus Runner
You
backed the favourite
touched
the tip of your Tam O’Shanter
the
last five dollars of the budget spent
with
a return of a measly six dollars
the
temptation to back a roughy
in the
very next race, the quarter mile
a race
for two year olds, strappers
standing
and removing the trailing lead,
the
horses line up in the starting gates
itchy
feet, twitchy ears, snorting youth
eagerness
as the sweat builds, the punter
ready
to sweat too, a hundred dollar return
They’re
Off says the commentator loudly
all
eyes as the colts and fillies jump
the
No 7 required to assuage a wife
runs
wide and third last, not a good place
then
the sweat runs, the ticket squished in agony
No 7
runs wider and clears traffic and then –
The
Commentators not calling his name
yet
the horse is plainly running a winning line,
“down
the straight they come, Garballs Gall Bladder
closely
followed by Hamburger Heaven”, and then-
“Down
the outside running wide is Bejesus Runner”
and
the ticket gets squeezed tighter, sweat running
on both
punter and horse, both in simile, a metaphor
of each
other, both needing to win, both avoiding
the
knackers yard, the need to keep alive a dream
“Bejesus
Runner wins going away and pays $120
for
the win.
Eye Spy
I
spy
with
my
little
eye
something
beginning with
blue
shoes
glued
to the town
down
brown
the
gown flowing grey
say
hey
today
we pray
the
dray pulled by Dapple
the
apple
grappled
with
indigo violet
quiet
riot
a rock
band
kings
of the land
hand
in
Hand
me the peanut butter
love
in the gutter
dirty
rutter
stutter
when saying hehehehe
the
sound of laughter
happy
hereafter
the
dafter you sound
more
profound
dead
ground
bound
over a fence Green
love
unseen
keen
to
mean
something
else
in the
house
no mouse
no computer
running
engines
gunning
view
stunning
sunning
away on a gold
day,
behold
grey,
as old
stay,
resoled
untold
misery in Purples
dimples
simple
simplicity
as we
head to the country
no need
to rhyme further.
My mind games.
I suppose
smoked grass a bit
when
I was young and stupid
had
no idea if it affected me or not
I guess
not, since I remember.
I drunk
booze, skulled it actually
used
to get blind drunk and not know
where
I was and where I had been
I guess
I had an alcohol problem.
I spent
my life savings on the gambling,
it hurt
my family, it hurt me, I didn’t know it then
till
now when I live with $5 a week budget
and
live a frugal ineffective life.
All
along, I had a mental illness, undiagnosed,
now
I understand the problems I caused
but
I can’t change anything with others
they
were too burnt from my experience.
If I were to suffer in silence.
I dare
say that if I were to suffer in silence
my kids
would be unheard
my wife
would have to sign
my boss
would fire me because I miss
half
the meetings even though I am there.
If I
were to suffer in silence
the
TV would be half as interesting
the
radio would be a mantle ornament
the
door bell would be a red light
the
phone a mobile set to vibrate
and
that’s all it would be good for.
I’d
read lips, but the bright red ones
would
draw me to breasts swelling
so forget
the lip reading then,
a man
with a beard would be gobbledygook
the
paper would be my endearing friend
as well
as the computer, though no mp3 or DVD.
Unless!! There were subtitles for the deaf
like
on some TV programmes
but
reading subtitles means I miss the programme.
I guess
If I were deaf I’d find life harder
though
no more challenging than it already is
I have
a Braille keyboard and reading software.
Take stock of your situation.
Take
a long walk
look
at nature and the birds singing
the
dogs crapping everywhere
the
birds crapping from trees,
some
kid in a push chair goes by
with
a crappy nappy.
Take
a long swim
watch
floating brown ones
sail
on by, human effluent
see
the foam of pollution
float
past wondering eyes
close
your mouth
in case
you breath in the smog
drink
in the crap,
suck
in the effluent
of man’s
and natures existence.
The Stark Reality of Darkness in a world bathed in Light
Too
many times I dipped into depression
some
say “get over it”
I say
get fucked, I hurt.
The
light at the top of the stairs points up
a sign
to put one foot in front of the other
to attain
the top of the stairs without lightness
tumbling
you back down to face the reclimb.
The
Light down the hall indicates passengers walking
the
corpse of a long dead salamander stares eyeless
there’s
a room on the right where snoring is 24/7.
The
Darkness that’s stretches lamppost to lamppost
signifies
cracks in pavements that must not be stood on,
Days
go by - skip cracks and dance Darkness Dances
till
the street kids switch on and charge my progress.
There’s
darkness where a proctologist looks up,
the
passage of effluent obstructed by his probes
the
fart that explodes in his face a sign trouble is nigh.
She’s
a Light at the long end of loneliness
her
beaming smile cutting cathartic in a damp room
the
light shining in her eyes a loving grasp
to pull
me thorough hopelessness again.
I signed with both hands
You
pissed me off
two
finger salute
did
you read that?
The
hand wiping motion
clean
floors
take
the trash out.
Ladybirds
flutter
rose
red wings beat
the
seeds passed on.
Your Heart
Sometimes
I write
a song
for
your
heart,
your
eyes
sag
and water
dip
into
melodrama
your
tongue
pokes
prods
dips
and dives
my
lips
numbed
by your
passing.
I encountered
a desert beast in full swing
roaming
the great hinterland, the range
it’s
hot breath now cold on my bare chest,
blood
drips from the knife wound, drip, drip.
You
divest me
of my
clothes
attire
we retire
to the
bed, unmade
as it
always
is
this
time of day,
you
tend to the scar
right
centre, chest
bear
claw wound
you
growl
groan
moan
sigh
as I
rise to your huntress
The
babies in the cribs, twins really, born together
there’s
a slowing down of my hunting, your passion
the
lights in the hallway flicker, designed to do so
when
Husbands and has been’s peruse 20 more years
Hard
Labour, Hard penises put away for the next hunt.
You
stand
in front
of the
TV
pout
your lips in disgust
swing
a tea towel
to
indicate
to me
your
intent
the
dishes, again
“buy
me
a dishwasher
then,
Husband
the
twins
sleep
time
to tackle
be the
hunter,
chase
the prey
into
the kitchen
bend
her over
the
breakfast bar,
panting
hot
heated,
raw
powerful.
The
repetition goes on for years, the hunt and hunted
the
desire to play the game, smell sweat, desire
to count
eight bairns in the cribs, each a set of twins,
Lady
Generous and Her Time Lords have gone to bed.
The Day someone realise Global Warming works
Ice
melts
water
rises
land
covered
houses
buried
people
gone
clouds
attack
rains
daily
time
lost
ice
lost
ice
gone
gone
for good.
The Nazarene
That
day in history
when
Alexander went too far
when
the Romans nailed a messiah
the
days it took to build Egyptian pyramids
that
held the famous and readable
Pharaohs,
kings and queens
of their
epoch..
That
day in history
when
Jenny Mae and Samantha
stood
honourbound behind the lemonade stand
selling
drinks for five cents a cup
the
daisies fluttering.
Alfred
read studiously
any
book on the demise of conspiracy
the
destruction of democracy and capitalization
the
forthcoming days when poets, authors
write
about the newcomers.
Sandy
Mae Jones does fitness classes
the
body attuned to long periods of give and take
a mind
exercised with chapters from Ginsberg, Michener
the
lady behind the counter reads red comics
to identify
superheroes and freaks.
Tersely
they stood at the dock
Time
Lords and War Lords, kings of the realm
the
Judge a sturdy God, purveyor of Justice and Fair play,
the
Ice cream in the cub reporters hand drips
leaves
a stain on a worsted suit.
You
open flak jackets
try
two or three for size, to be sure
the
salad in the fruit bowl expresses digestion
the
day ruined when the Judge calls Hang’em high
Malady
Pharaoh Testes II sings an open aria
calls
the guilty to her sword, smiles
lays
down and wrapped.
Ten
days he lay dead, then walked the Earth
Nah,
not the Nazarene, this was Cuba Godding Jr
starring
in some incomprehensible Mummy movie
I suppose
it was loosely depictive of the Christ.
Movies
and avante garde poetry have that effect.
Down Robinwood Lane
You
drive it everyday, to and from work
the
deciduous conifers and Robinwood Oaks
aligning
the way to breath new air where cars pass.
The
oak drops leaves in autumn, and seeds
to propagate
the species, to build new barriers,
the
conifer stands sentinel all year round.
You
see Marjorie cycle by at the same time
her
Diamondback Mountain bike chewing miles,
the
afternoon wind in her hair forcing rare beauty.
She’s
always dodging the oak cones though
fear
of the front wheel jack knifing under her,
the
sweat on her body evident on glossy skin.
One
day you pass through, the leaves gone,
the
cones well squashed by passing traffic, killed
the
memory of Marjorie gone with the flying snow.
Yet
the conifer stands guard, green and strong
yet
as brittle as a bow on a violin, the hair tearing,
in the
winter wind it’s shape, perishes, nullification.
Yes,
winter, the harbinger of drear and clean,
the
white of snow, the bluish white of cloud,
the
conifer still green but laden with snow, bending.
Soon
spring issues forth, animals run where snow melted
The
Robinwood Oaks start to flutter new wings
the
conifer shakes loose the dust of winter, smiles
joins
forces with the sturdy Oaks, replay of life
Marjorie
back on the lane, her bike replenished in paint
the
car you drive now a hybrid to ease Oaks breath.
Summer
finds Oak and Conifer smiling in golden light
finds
life burgeoning forth, to chance a new arm,
where
beauty is often dealt with by artist and photographer.
Often.
Often
you remind me of my mother,
Often
you dig your heels in like your father,
Often
I find myself comparing you with others
Often
you stand alone
Often
you are your own woman
Often
I find myself wondering about you
Often
we disagree
Only
often.
The Marathon Man
His
name is Steve Guerney
he’s
a champion multi-sportsman
won
the Coast to Coast 9 times
between
the age of 30 and 42.
He runs
like he speaks
fast
and with great skill
the
way he runs, rides (a bike)
kayak’s,
rides and runs
across
the Great Divide.
He’s
affable, quirky
a man
of many words
and
deeds aplenty
got
sick in an endurance
race
in Borneo
nearly
killed him.
He’s
run the tip to toe
of both
islands
beaten
old times
set
new records
to the
applause
of both
islands.
He’s
an innovator too
turns
up to races
with
bold new inventions
to help
him win
mostly
for fun
though
one year
the
pod for the bike
raised
a few eyebrows
and
broke records.
Steve
Guerney, entrepreneur
a man
of many talents, skills
determinations
and plans
retired
now, 44
planning
to be innovative
in sports
equipment
to help
the best, do the best
reach
their goals
attain
supremacy.
The Glossiness of Picture Perfect
The
picture of perfection
seen
daily in weekly magazines
the
highlight of brows and cheeks
the
gloss of lip and eye shine,
every
magazine displays these adverts
to draw
a woman into buying
some
unmentionable beauty item
to spread
skin tones to enhance freckles
to hide
blotches and skin aged by sun
and
sin
The
book on the table stares at me,
accusation
daring
me to read again, the fourth time
dedication
the
story of the Jesuits, in English
justification
The
Bible made for the ordinary man
religion.
There
is an odd sock on the floor
covering
a three day old newspaper
the
news always gloomy, this one too
I place
last nights leftovers on it and wrap
the
news and the infamous designed
to spread
their misery in the bottom of a skip bin.
My son
gave me one for my 70th birthday
a Penthouse,
says the articles are good,
I swung
open the pages and fully naked women
leapt
out and assailed my tender disposition
I chucked
it in the fire, may they burn in hell.
I read
a page from Seven Great Nursery Rhymes
to my
little granddaughter, she smiles and giggles
not
sure if it’s the story or my unique storytelling
doesn’t
matter though, it’s what counts at the time.
