Salmon Mousse and Cucumber Sandwiches
I say
to thee
doff
thy cap
I say
to thou
truest
a word played
Thine
courage immense
thou
bravery intimate
doth
thine cringe
when
Pseudo Rabbits turn purple.
Hark,
the call of Satan
a sound
of dragons roaring
doth
thine crawl on all fours
when
Wolverines howl the night down?
When
women die by the sword
sacrifice
we hear you say,
the
maidens of blood ready.
Yo,
bwudda
yo hip
to the savvy beat
wot
yo doin’ in da ‘hood
crappola
dude, she stacked yo
fuck
man, suck on this xtasy tab.
I find
my mind again
take
on the challenge
a new
poem
with
insincere meaning
the
day longs for evening
and
the respite of night
the
shadow men will walk
as street
lights dictate.
Something special about Alice
Yes,
there is something special about Alice,
the
way she wields her poetry pen
the
conversations inside poems that stir
Of course
there is something about Alice,
not
sure if it’s her ne’er say die attitude
or that
fact that her new home is special,
When
I see a poem penned by Alice
I’m
always aware where she comes from
like
her mind almost trips along like mine.
Sadly
I can only read one Alice Poem a day,
such
is the publishing regime in Blue
but
I can at least go back through and read.
Thank
you for reading my eulogy about Alice
I hope
you too have the same feeling when you read
knowing
a gracious lady writes for us privileged.
Apache Land
Wild
daisies dance
a Rattler
slivers
the
dust of a whillywhirl
settles
on a cactus
as a
crown of office.
The
thud of wild horses
more
dust to anoint kings
Apache
traverse lands
long
lost to firing ranges
and
nuclear testing.
A once
proud warrior race
now
confined to nothing
the
loss of Buffalo
a possible
passing ailment
plastic
decorations, Made in China.
The
Devil Moon of the Mighty Eagle
shines
moonbeams on crowns
long
worn out
the
one who yawns,
Goyaałé, a fading picture.
Man Mountain, Woman Sky
I stand
on a range
two
huge boulders in each hand
the
plains lined with trees
ready
to be bowled ten pin style
I look
up and see the Sky Woman
her
cloak of grey cloud
wrapped
around my massive shoulders
dare
I ruin her siblings domain?
I place
each boulder on the side of the hills
ready
for another test of triumph
another
day when the cloak is removed
so Sky
Woman can perceive my want.
I see
her weep now, a torrent
the
soft underbelly of my hills, my children
soaked
for eternity in love
the
sprouting plants and blooms her testament.
Today
we rejoined in matrimony
her
children and mine as one applaud
she
removes the cloak, Papa Sol shines
little
ones warm in the afterglow.
I sit
back down, wrap the High Ranges cloak
muscle
my way back into the Ranges
and
lay there for my turn at sleep
Sky
Woman and Mountain Man as one.
Hearing Voices
Like
many, I hear voices too,
just
sometimes, when there’s things to do
a voice
pops up and details a question
or a
comment to follow a gloat.
There’s
a Demon that tells me to jump
or to
put my head on a track – advancing train
or to
pick up a piece of steel and throw it at something
yes
I fight these voices with aplomb.
There’s
voices that congratulate me on decisions
they
clap loudly when I achieve an aim,
these
voices are preferred and welcome
we high
five each other when the right choice taken.
I sit
on a panel that that highlights Hearing Voices
a worthy
participant in a seminar of help,
looks
on the clients faces as the tape screams at them
then
the feedback, wonderment of shared sufferance.
Solidly
ensconced on a workshop that deals
the
clients mystified, then clarified
the
knowledge that some they deal with afflicted
better
able to go away and work with knowledge.
Tree Children, Hill Children
We hill
children stand and stare
looking
at Man Mountain
reclined
his
head there by Beganroost Top
his
shoulders on Highrent Rise
his
amiable hips the crest of Gordenthrop.
We tree
children look at Papa Sol
See
Sky Woman’s cloak wrapping
her
reach and her touch a loving thing
the
drops of tears falling on Man Mountain
flowing
through the gorge to be licked by us.
We Plains
Indians call these things by name
the
Eagle hovering between both, Hikoioi
his
great eye searching for food supplied,
the
salmon in the tears of Sky Woman
dances
rapids and dives for tepid pools.
Dancing
in the Rain, medicine man calls out
his
chant to raise Man Mountain
to dry the Sky
a meal
of oats and jerky his staying power,
the
Chitiwa groves sway in the breath of Papa Sol
the
dance also swayed to the strength of it’s breath.
I stand
and observe, the fountain of youth,
a
whillywhirl of Papa Sol and Man Mountain
children,
be they trees or hills, dance forever
the
sight for sore eyes, the Grey/white wrap
of clouds
shrouded in Woman Sky’s love.
I know
not the Indian names for things,
I am
a recent interloper by God’s design,
I
am aware of the European names
I am
a also man of intellect, I know what I see,
I am
a man empowered by nature and fairy stories.
Ocean God, Sky Woman, Man
Mountain
The
silver blue reflects Sky Woman’s power,
puffs
of Cumulo Nimbus sail her heavens,
the
drawing power of Ocean God sends above
another
cloak for her to share her love.
Papa
Sol generated wind cuts Ocean God’s domain
blows
the shroud towards the Man Mountain,
relieved
to be
able to feed his children, and hers too, starved
the
landscape when the wind fails to blow westerly.
Lake Love fills with tears and fish,
a capturing ground
her
girth nothing compared to Ocean God’s vastness,
children
of Hills and Trees surround her protectively.
A bond
of wind and cloud shares Ocean God and Lake Love.
Tomorrow
the Sioux will pack their summer camp,
follow
the eagle south to the savannah of Montana,
a footfall
of the Buffalo King drawing bows and spikes,
new
clothes for the tribe, meat for the jerky.
Ocean
God offers up fresh Salmon for the tear ducts,
the
Sioux capture before the Grizzlies take heart,
Mountain
Man climbs from his slumber, his spirit guide
and
points the way for them, danger free, solace.
Sleeping
Lady Dancer, soothsayer, dances good omens,
sees
Mountain Man and Sky Woman dancing
the
wind fresh, the cloak of Grey/White enveloping,
journey
to the hunting grounds fresh and safe.
Sees
Far Man takes a look at the weather pattern,
signifies
the day has come, Ocean God’s bounty abroad,
the
great lady and man dancing across the grasslands
whillywhirl
aplenty as maple leaves dance high in the air.
Great
Wolf Cub signifies the journey to start, omens good,
old
fires burning down, the north wind encroaching,
lady
of the Sky and man of Mountain settle down,
the
wind of Papa Sol moves around behind, driven.
All
too soon the grey/green of an angry Ocean God
whisks
snow flurries to Sky Woman, reaching everywhere,
dark
grey of thunderheads over the Sierra Nevada’s,
children
awaiting the first snow flurries of the year,
the
day when the Sioux reach winter home
children
chase grassland animals, and men hunt
buffalo
with horse and spear, no guns yet, soon
a sigh
of the grasslands as the north wind cuts through
sandy
beach where the Mayflower touches ground,
arrival
of the White Eyes, soon to affect them all,
the
Ocean God, Man Mountain, and Sky Woman
all
unsullied by the approaching nemesis, scum,
diseased,
downtrodden, downright dastardly demons
the
process of modernisation about to affect deities,
about
to affect the way of life, about to demonise false gods,
about
to sodomise the very life of the plains Indian.
One
Crow Feather Bigfoot*
*The title is my Indian spirit guides Indian name for me.
I
sit upon the crown of Snow Covered
Pass
tasting
the wind my grandfather tasted,
the
foul stench of LA born on a westerly,
I feel
the snow beneath me melt slowly
as it
melted for my father and his forebears
as we
each sat and sought solace from above
the
spirits purely divined by the cold of reality
I look
beneath me, the winding of many roads
the
associated poison these bring daily,
the
buffalo gone to ranches in the north
no hunting
unless permitted by authority,
the
young ones lost to Playstation and Xbox
I sit
here and ponder about the direction of the tribe
cooped
up in a reservation for generations now,
missing
the maples and caribou of the northern lands,
Yes
I sit here and ponder Sky Woman’s vapour trails
Papa
Sol’s global warming, Man Mountain’s
many tunnels
the
saplings stripped at early age for a new suburb.
I think
back to my grandfather, and his grandfather
the
generations that fought and died for a cause
to keep
their domains, their livelihood, their mana.
A tear
drops to my knees, I smoke the pipe
to try
and get a vision of what’s in store,
but
my European mind now says more of the same.
I make
my way back to the tribe, puzzled.
The Children of the Mist
There’s
a groundswell of movement back to the old ways,
the
Maori of New Zealand, the Plains Indian, Zimbabwe,
the
need to recapture the old traditions and beliefs.
Te Reo
Maori or recovering the language is huge here,
not
just within Maori, with the Pakeha* too
the
need to recognise the deep cultural diversity,
I
call the Indians of North, Central and
South America
the
First Peoples, though it’s debatable if they were first,
they
more than any have lost their cultural identity,
except
maybe the mountain people of the South Americas,
the
tide is turning however, the likes of a Sioux
going
to a mountain again to seek guidance
the
Maori Kaumatua** reading the weather patterns
Israel Kamawiwo’ole the Hawaiian
Superman
lamenting
the loss of lands and fishing rights
Today
is not an amalgam of yesterday and tomorrow,
today
is the knowledge that change can be made,
tomorrow
the new weather roars in and cleans anew.
* Pakeha
– Maori term for the Europeans/Strangers
** Kaumatua
– Maori word for Elder
Question time.
It’s
a super day, when children come out to play
it’s
a great evening, when ships ashore are heaving
It’s
a green zone, where flowers grow alone
it’s
always the right time, when bells in clocks chime.
There’s
a blue sky, that blankets the ground from on high,
there’s
a green belt, where trappers trap beaver for pelts
there’s
a white plume, where a volcano consumes
there’s
never growth, where never
growing betrothed
Can
I see you, the person who mixes the herbs in stew,
can
I beg for money, where the food of the day is honey,
can
I rhyme, where the ropes on the hill mean climb,
can
I pass algebra, where the only clothes you wear’s a bra.
Do you
see me, the man that wiles away his time in poetry,
do you
understand, the need to be better well at hand,
do you
miss the clouds, the remnants of Christian shrouds,
do you
make love, when the scent at hand is a foxglove?
The American Dream (or China
calls the tune)
I bought
a toy today, was nothing fantastic,
just
a plastic Minnie Mouse for my child,
I noted
on the packet – Made in China.
I thought
of all the job losses over the past decade,
the
factories shut through economic reasons
workers
now living on redundancy, unable to work.
I drove
past Rudderheimer’s Boutique Toy Store
popped
in and sure enough, all made in Asia,
the
taste of the toys suddenly overwhelming.
I see
the Jackson Wanderers have Sony backing,
Japanese yen sponsored funding sports teams,
so where
is the Mighty US Dollar these days?
I got
home, yes I have a car and a job,
searched
the internet for items that used to be US,
Levi’s
being manufactured in Mexico and Peru,
Nike
shoes made in Indonesia,
Asian cars everywhere
remember
Michael Moore’s Flint Michigan special
the
sound of machinery made in Japan or Korea?
I couldn’t
get over the Walt Disney empire,
plasticizing
toys in mass production in China,
I see
the number of American tourists is down.
Yes
I hear you say, we are the healthiest around
and
wealthiest too, millionaires galore (are you one?)
the
slum areas in most cities is growing daily, the poor
the
workers who can’t relocate, who can’t earn,
their
skills lost to other places, their time dying
I see
Coke have a plant in Russia supplying Europe.
I see
my camera on the desk in front of me, Kodak!
I’m
too scared to lift it, to search for it’s country of origin,
My wife
sees my face and shivers, I’m despondent.
Notes from the Red diary.
Somehow
I sit here ruminating,
child
tones from yesteryear waving
the
sound of crickets early onset summer
The
rice I had for lunch sitting
many
people in town shopping spree
a clown
on a unicycle saunters by, smiling
Pastries
from the night before
crumbs
for birds flying inside the hall
a parking
meter clunks, a sound of revenue
A pizza
parlour pizzazz croons
diatribe
between two banks and money
suddenly
the exchange rate jumps, smokes dearer
I unlick
my ice cream, dripping
seven
new pairs of shoes for family
cars
in carparks silent like a death dirge.
Notes from the Red Diary – Connie’s Chest
I opened
the curtains, the day growing anew
sunlight
poured in from the rising sun, aglow
the
purple of autumn leaves reflecting down,
the
birds gathered leaves and straw, spring
nests
to be built, flowers to bloom and grow
the
Wordsworth book on the table by the door,
winter’s
chilling blast etches icicle furrows
the
drip of water silenced by being frozen
the
snow has footprints of night time animals
the
early rise of the sun and late dipping
hot
days when the pool is used many times
shade
under the Yew tree a place for picnics
such
is the breadth of her poetry, we’re amazed
a flow
of verse, the descriptions succulently passed
the
readings always a pleasure for eye and ear.
Notes from the Red Diary – Gardawgs Gavel
He wields
his vast poetry pen,
the
gavel of poetic rites and rituals
ladies
in Red appear from billowing verse
the
Gambler on riverboats – Whitman
tastes
of the old country
diaries
read and reread
the
dates ineffectual
times
when ages dictated
fiction
or non fiction.
We read
from the same book, you and I
the
tome that says spread the word
a volume
open at all pages
for
a story or two to dance out
Laced
Ladies in petticoats do the Cancan
the
streets of New Orleans yet
to be discovered
Mardi
Gras wishing and waiting
a poetic
dive into prehistoric America.
A few
thoughts to myself,
I write
to appease my own sense of voyage
to dictate
the thoughts of others
I am
Gary, but more than that I’m Gardawg
Poet, statesman, raconteur – Laureate!!
Notes from the Red Diary – Allen’s
Acquiescence
He sits
there
painting
word
pictures
with
a breath of fresh air
longing
for
ten
more
empty
pages
to
see
the poem
run
amok.
Lately
he’s given to driving
home
the point
like
a well tuned
professional,
the
ducks
on
the
wall
spill
opulence
upon
a quaint
canvass
he eats
salad
in winter
tasting
seven
flavours
of éclairs
(chocolate
the
favourite)
yet
suddenly
he shines
the
beard
illuminated
shining
a way
ahead
into
the
never never
land.
I salute
his style and tenacity
the
dogged determination to keep it going
to muster
daily a poem we can all share
and
indulge in, I salute you, Sir.
Notes from the Red Diary – Sue’s
Soliloquy
Gracious
lady of the board
simplistic
yet glamourous poetry
times
where words speak louder,
louder
than the language itself,
when
a day is not wasted
when
everyone is honoured
to have
read her erudite words,
the
love of her poetry borne
on words
with meaning and hope,
those
days when stars are born
purely
from the tips of her fingers.
Global Acceleration
Raindrops
seem heavier than before
they
seem to drop and poof!! Puddle,
I remember
twenty years ago, the rain
pitter
pattered it’s way from sky to sea
Now
it drops like fifty icebergs from heaven
the
floods severe and deadly now, shame
Is there
a way to reverse the current process?
To spin
Earth on the same axis as five years ago.
I remember
yesterday the wind blew dust
never remember a drought this side of the hills
not
the least at this early time of summer,
I remember
it rained 8 days ago, at night.
I recall
vividly the long hot summers of the 70’s
the
kids splashing in shallow rivers, the beach
then
no worries about how much sun to bake in
the
times when less dressed was best and more,
the
dresses shorter, shorts said you obeyed the Sun
now
melanoma and 50spf sunscreen abound, so…….
…..the
glaciers are melting, and the northern Ice Cap
dare
we produce enough sunscreen to save the day?
Mirrors through the Looking Glass
(Also known as The Mad Hatter was a Stoner)
I sat
whistling the tune from The Fisherman’s Daughter, the high key shrilling out in high F, the bass key Low B. The ladies walking their dogs kinda skipped along when they passed me on my own park bench, the remnants
of pigeon poo washed off by morning rain.
He stood
staring
eyes
wide open
staring
the
affects of the acid tab
bouncing
metamorphosis
in every
crevice,
he touched
his red nose
Reindeer
hallucination,
seven
long fingers stroked
eyebrows
bushy
from
too many
nights
chasing
that dizzy blonde bitch.
The
local cop sauntered by, his night stick twirling deftly in his left hand, the gun hand stroking a solid .38 clipped back to
handle deadly situations. I smiled at him, he pretended not to notice, but his
eyes were lavishly passing to and from, me and the path ahead.
Alice sucked
on a
popsicle,
practising
for when
the
Mad Hatter came down
from
his monthly high,
yeah
A in Wonderland
for
adults,
Lewis
Carroll apparently
must
have been high
to write
such folly
a looking
glass that looked back
even
when a bunny ran forward.
The
Doctor from Doctor Who
zoomed
in, in a time machine
to whisk
the stoned ones
off
to foreign land
(Earth
I hear)
He’s
gone now, chasing some inert pigeon that shat on his head, the .38 waving wildly about as birds flew amok. I settled down to a two day old Subway sandwich (been saving it), the pregnant mother with one in the pram
not long off the nipple (if at all) sails by in her Zambriskies designer track suit and Nike runners, hair carefully pony
tailed back and the face a picture of a painted model. If I had smelt her, wouldn’t
have been surprised to smell Chanel No5.
Dollydumplings,
Alice
dollydumplings
big,
round, chocolate
and
marshmallow,
the
lace on her stockings
twisted
to insinuate
sex
wasn’t her forte
"margarine
cup cakes Doctor"
taste
the therapeutic nature
of Mary
Jane sticks dipped
in copious
ambrosia.
The
tree fell! I know, I’ve been sitting here on and off for thirty years now,
my spot, but the bloody thing just toppled off it’s base and crashed in an almighty heap in the spare ground next to
the Bird Aviary. Scared the shits outta those birds I assure you. Gave me the collywobbles too. I stood up and went over to
the silver birch that had just passed away, and as self professed Padre of the Williamstown
Park, I administered last rites to the poor tree and any animal that
may have either been in the tree or under it.
Dreams
saunter
I waltz
to Lou Reeds
“Take
a Walk on the Wild Side”
As a
rather high Wabbit
I can
bellywho to whoever,
do the
bunny hop
to Stings
stupid songs,
Alice MY Dear
give
an Old
discerning
Wabbit
a magic
spell
to send
him bye bye’s
We see
in the mirror
the
wicked witch
from
Snow White (hussy)
Seven
Dwarves indeed,
suddenly
the room went blank,
the
Blonde tart
took
a leap
through
the cupboard door
into
her bed
where
replaced with
a siren
from Roxanne’s.
Totally
immersed in my repartee, I failed to see my brother and sister come to visit. They
must have seen me ranting and raving, so made their way over. I heard them approach,
turned and confronted them both with a special spell. “Hi duckerus, dindycator catchstickery” and poof I closed
my eyes and they disappeared. However when my sister asked what the fuck was
happening did I then open my eyes and found my wizardry to be as effective as my Spirituality self. Today I put the rest of my life behind me and followed them back to the Redcliff centre for the Mentally
Challenged. Yeah, ok so the cop might have had good reason.
Reprise.
The
garbage man filters the bins,
a lady's
white tights
a Mad
Hatters Mad Hat
the
Subway wrap scrunched up,
a seat
next to the bin
with
pigeon poo and a twig
obviously
from a fallen birch,
the
mirror in pieces adjacent
the
other end of seat.
A silver
dollar, gold coated
a sign
the Wizard of Oz
left
the planet again.
The Bond of Matrimony.
I sit
here, my twilight years, not dreaming anymore, but reminiscing over the early years, the kids, their education, their respective
marriages, and more importantly the part you played in it. I sneak a quick look
at the photo wall and your beaming real man face shines back. The last time I
saw you alive, your smile was booming, the celebration of another grandchild, the fifth, and the fact it being a boy and bearing
your name, your smile just exploded.
I smile
seventy styles
the
corners of my mouth
etched
in joy.
I see
you my darling, I’m your angel in the photo, the one next to the marriage ones, when we had our first child. I watch over you from here, and from Heaven too, your standing is such you deserve it. I see you mind in your reactions, read your body language to tell me when you are ready to come hither. The signs are good, you’ll be a great grandmother one day, and that’s
a fact.
To live
beyond hope
special
care, love’s game
tomorrow
will come.
Love on A Christmas Tree
I see
you Elvie, fifth Branch third twig
hanging
by your lovely string, toot sweet
Yes.
It’s me, your love from last year
the
Angel with a branch rudely poked
You
love me still, it’s been a year
energy
from the lights tires you huh?
What
do I see this year? Same family,
same
house, te wallpaper has changed,
the
fire is now gas, no more smoke outs
Oh must
be another child, more presents,
Yes
they have the Christmas cake there
where
Santa comes down the chimney,
you’ll
be safe, at least until they fell the tree
and
put us daydreaming Fairies and Elves abed
Too
right I love you, next year you need to be higher
so we
can smile at each other and swap secrets.
“Ok
then, sleep it is, until the little ones come down
and
see only presents and the wrapping paper,
not
two lonely figures atop a tree in love
the
eyes of the world falling to sleep.
The Loneliness of Christmas Past
I see
me and the wife rigging the room
setting
the tree, parking the lights
all
this done in the middle of the night.
We make
the cakes, puddings too
seeding
the fridge with things so sweet
heavy
of heart, strong of feet.
Buying
presents for the children so good,
boxes
so big, wrapping so careful
missing
friends can be so tearful.
Now
I sit in my one bedroom flat,
the
children all gone now, living elsewhere
the
life I once lived follows me so clear.
I got
a present from an early Santa,
a cuddly
teddy meant for my daughter
my degree
of loss heavier than water.
I sigh
now in sudden repose, remembering
the
energy we spent to make the day great
now
spent without me, my time comes too late.
And
suddenly the cloud of grey settles deep,
morosely
settled in a place far away now,
hopefully
I can talk to them, must figure out how.
God revealed.
I stood
ramrod straight, anchored to Icaria
raised
my hands above my ahead – “Take Me God”
the
baleful moan of family and friends – “fear not”
I seek
reverence to conduct myself prophet-like
A sudden
BOOM! Lightning strikes my feet, I jump
the
sudden revelation electricity is the real God,
saunter
inside the Palace of Chaenik, my abode
feet
bouncing on sheepskins and doeskin rugs
“I
am God, all I need to do is place a finger in the lamp
and
watch the glow in the room amplify to motif size,”
the
light from my eyes shining pure gold, reflective
family
members cower near the door, wizardry
a Sharman
comes to the door to see the occurrence
trips
over on the rugs and falls at my feet, Superman
I reach
a hand down to him, silver blue lightning strikes
his
hand, out of curiosity, touches mine, electrifying
I hear
God in my head ‘use it well, to heal to cure’
if the
Romans get wind, there will be hell to play,
some
say the event created a little boy, a manger
down
Bethlehem way, a pure woman, and a man
dare
I take the journey, many miles south, Greece
to lonely
Palestine, I’d stand out like anything, but….
I had
to pay homage, this day was more than realised
the
day God passed on his heritage, to two, anointed,
I released
the Sharman, the blue light dissipated now
I might
change my name to Paul, and go on a mission
no matter
the time it takes, I am driven to a place in time
the
need to carry God’s Word, but we’ll see, saviour.
Footnote: I’m not totally aux fais with things biblical even though I have read it, doesn’t
make me an expert. This is just a story using characters from that time, even
the places might be wrong. I know, weak excuse, the import in this is faith in
God, not the prophets or disciples, especially in all religions. One truth I do know of, I was struck by lightning last year
and my feet are still light.
And
the Shadow of the Day
These
are lyrics from a Linkin Park song that I am really enjoying right now:
And the shadow of the day,
Will embrace the world in grey,
And the sun will set for you...
Christmas
dawned bleak and cold,
the
wind from the south spreading morning showers
times
when good cheer and heart are molten to gray.
The
Christmas dinner was lunch today,
cold
turkey, ham, and copious vegetables,
had
a cold beer beforehand, first this year.
Some
folks had gone home to family
here
I sit composing another poem for good people
the
good people I used to love no longer care, shame.
I’m
not down about it, far from it,
I like
to see the world in it’s true colours,
I take
homage from friends I have made here.
Yes
embracing the world in Grey
the
cloak of a dying wizard shines dark in life
in death
it recolourises to a shade of white.
I know, it’s after Christmas.
Santa
sent me a return email
“bit
early asking for pressies innit”
you
haven’t tested the new ones out yet,
Ho,
Ho, Ho, the dogs bark reindeer style
the
snow on the ground somewhat out of season
a room
in the Manger emptied for a donkey,
Doctor
Watson called for, something untoward,
‘her
hymen’s stopping the birth process, Sir’
shall
we call the Pope, let him know we have another,
I believe
this is called silly season for a reason,
when
people are vehemently looking for a saviour,
mayhap
they peruse their navel and the cost of living.
I married
my wife in May, she married me then too,
luckily
we parents are two, makes for easier passage
the
right to tell everyone we have a MUM and DAD,
September
was a great month I believe, the equinox
ten
shepherds travelled a few months too early,
a King
in Waiting travelled too, the occurrence rare
suddenly
the Moon stopped over Auckland, a beam down,
God’s
hand in affairs so people can witness his act,
the
revelation that a new born King was a miracle, Oops,
It’s
considered lucky to keep the cord, especially for sailors,
her
father kept it in his wallet, even to these days,
the
one for my first daughter lost in the melee.
Africa
moved closer to South America today,
squeezing
the Atlantic north and southward,
Great
Britain weighed anchor and settled anon,
in a
place of great grace, the Mediterranean
shaking
hands with Italy, Greece and Turkey
camaraderie
amongst the European Union.
(Did
they see the Moon, up there, in the north)
the
King is actually a Queen we are told,
so the
new born brat of God born to Marie,
will
grow a seamstress of the royal realm,
a bunch
of seventeen seamstresses in Otara,
making
cheap clothes for the markets, for the poor,
And
suddenly the doors close, the world a different place,
what’s
yet to come to be announced and anointed,
Ten
centuries will pass, I predict, before war again.
Purple Dyed Hair and other nuances.
You
dye your graying hair purple, a sign that things aren’t sitting well with your aging.
No matter how many times people say things like “you look great” and “I wish I was in your shape
at your age” don’t weigh too heavily on your disposition. Even I
have said you are great, but still, the changing of hair colour and lipstick (a deep reddish orange) signifies that things
on your mind weigh heavily.
The
presents unwrapped
playthings
played with
the
little ones
dancing
to singsta
Great
Aunty Neva
singing
Green Green Grass of Home.
The
planet shifted direction
last
night
a minor
readjustment
so as
not to collide
with
an errant Mars,
no one
noticed
except
Great Uncle Albert
eyes
stuck to his old telescope
He sucked
in a breath
and
died peacefully
his
secret
just
that.
Yes
we argued, the dress was just too skimpy, yes I like it on you, but the looks you’ll get from the public just not marriage
endearing. Knowing you’re tarting yourself up for your 50’s irks
me, am I supposed to move with these changes, or dare I behave myself, set a good example and grow old graciously. There’s
not a lot I can do to hide my advance into netherworlds for aging rockers, my long haired mullet a sign I’m too fighting
it, but at least it’s a badge of office for my age. Looking like Mary Suffragette
the Prostitute is not my cup of tea.
Although
she danced
her
heels kicking up
she
still showed enough leg
to intimate
a liaison,
she
had golden hair then
even
as a child it was gold
I made
my move when she
moved
into the neighbourhood
star
struck from first meeting,
yes
childhood love
that
blossomed to eternity.
We argued,
this time the kids were away at school, we argued about our changing lives, about the mellow me, and the indignant you, we
argued to the blue blazes until the purple of your face matched you finely dyed hair (which started this anyway). We decided to settle amicably, the grey would come back, the dresses less eye catching, the lipstick less
threatening. I promised to mow the mullet and to trim the long beard. Well we didn’t actually agree to anything, but we both knew what each thought of the other at such
a crucial stage of matrimony. I reminded her the other ladies of the school committee
would have adverse things to say about her, she chortled, a sort of mellow “fuck them”.
Kids,
what were they
all
that mattered
in a
19 year old’s summer
was
good times and sex
beggar
the consequences,
yes
she was on the Pill
but
really, it didn’t matter,
she’d
know when the right moment
was
to stop taking it
to test
the fertility waters,
a few
years yet,
maybe
a few months
soon
however marriage bloomed
happened
so fast.
I made
my bed and lay in it. I see this morning the dye has gone, replaced with a new
golden look. The first thought was that street in Matamata where the removal
truck stopped at 19 Rawiri Street, my neighbourhood. I walked up to her and kissed
her cheek, muscled my way into a packed bathroom (school clothes strewn), sought the solace of the Wahl Sheers, and gave the
mullet it’s final rites. The beard I was asked to keep, my badge of office.
Time
catches up with all
pregnancy
speeds life up
driving
children around
to get
them asleep
the
ladies in Plaid Dresses
marveling
at earth science
the
secret of Uncle Albert
kept
in the family until news time
in a
century when descendants
dance
Maypole Dances
to a
pagan ritual
“Who
did he tell?”
A child’s lullaby
I whisper
Jack and the Beanstalk
to start
with, the more you closed your eyes
the
more I changed the story for your dream.
I leave
you safe in the knowledge
you
are sleeping in peace
your
dreams about to surface and warm,
I stop
into your room from time to time
to see
if you head, cushioned
by the
flow of golden locks
is resting
in happy mode.
Your
smile says yes, I know now I can sleep well.
The Ice Prostitutes, Lininsky Prospect Moscow
She’s a 14 year old girl
a Dacha not her calling
the frozen cement of Lininsky Prospect
snow falling around barely clad.
The cars crawl by, John’s
or in this case Vladimir’s and Ivan’s
the rubles clashing with gifts
a life of a southern girl
wrapped in a small apartment
or in the carpark in the back of a Chrysler.
She stands there, the snow falling
ice under her 50 ruble black market Nikes
the stockings failing to keep the cold out
twirling snowfall settling on fake fur coat,
I’ll call her Stephanie Svetlana
a petit orphan needing saving
we start to chat, seems she’s happy
the drugs keep the cold off,
she asks me if I want her
I say ‘no’, I do want to save her
sort of My Fair Lady if you please,
she looks to the building behind her
the face of rough cast Russian Thuggery
a smile, if that what passes for one,
a foreigner, big money he thinks
she stands her ground, the snow building at her feet,
offers me again, this time I know she is gone
I walk up the prospect, towards my chariot,
I don’t like failure, but when nature calls
The Ice Prostitutes heed the call, daily.
Ode to Summers Past (A Man Retreats)
Those
summer drops of light rain
barely
touched a ground scorched
sovereigns
of a past nation dance
to bring
the lightning gods
for
children to play with in absentia.
Under
the porch a grey gold cur ruffles
the
dust settling over a mangy coat
the
low growl at passing humans enough to awaken
there’s
a drop of rain in the pot Grandpa
shall
we go feed the cornfield with the offering.
It’s
hard to decipher dust motes
they
dance in wind driven patterns
to a
country reel or Rock’n’Roll whirl,
landing
in Grandmas lap, dusted off,
to fall
under the footfall of another infant.
I make
a stand for humanity, actually two
the
water from the heavens sent by God
to a
prayer I had last night, and the dog’s dalliance
signified
that winds will prosper from dustbowls,
the
MidWest in August signifies death and reverence.
We all
dance in the rain, high summer’s repost
the
devil cat, jet black despite the dust, howl’s
not
too far in the distance a coyote replies,
the
sound chilling and awakening, Pa races inside
loads
the old side by side with buckshot, the hunt
A rusty
Ford F100 drives up the road, still dusty
the
rain only light enough to wash his screen,
and
for the dust in the wind to kick up when disturbed,
looks
like Uncle Clancy’s in time for the hunt,
stops
his vehicle, sees Pa’s shotty, grabs his
off
through the cornfields, towards Harcourt’s Gut
both
in tune with each other, splitting as they neared
suddenly
a boom, and another, double shot
and
the howling of a wounded creature, shame
it’s
an animal that rarely attacks, scavenger really,
I watch
cousin Patty play with the rain drops in the dust,
her
skirt dirty from childhood excursions in the Mog
outback
of their place several clicks down the Rod Road,
She
picks at the bubbles with a stick, all the while watched,
from
under the porch, and from above too,
Has
it rained yet? Ma comes out from her bedroom
sees
the melee going on around and in one look
decides
it’s time to cook some grits, and tortillas
the
men return, as the rain drops intensify,
this
time punching through the dust and making Mud.
Pa sat
and related an oft told tale of the Great Wolf Hunt,
when
he’d been a vet and working on Grandpa’s spread,
yeah
that’s right, the one way up north, fenced
and
hounded by this wolf for days, a hungry cur,
so the
boys grabbed their rifles to go a-hunting
found
the beast in a gully several clicks from the farmhouse
Uncle
Grant got the first shot off, missed and spooked
the
wolf took off towards them, then got the scent,
veered
to the west and I got a shot off, winging the animal,
we left
it at that, never saw it again, nor heard it,
The
rain was now pelting down, enough for the dog
to come
out from his hidey hole and do a shaking dance,
everyone
had fun when he tried to chase the rain,
his
feeble attempts met with even more rapturous applause,
Ma came
out with the grub then, plenty for all.
I sit
here now, nearing 95, in a tenement apartment
the
city lights graying with approaching dawn,
my mind
residing on the good side of my pen,
trying
to recreate the Mid West in simplicity
and
simplistic it was, least that’s what they tell me.