Auckland Poetry.com

Recession

“To stimulate the economy one has to spend,”
the economist on TV, said looking directly at
me. Contemplating this I went for a walk, and
found on the road side a tiny mouse, on its
back pink feet in the air, pointed snout, mouth
open showing cute little teeth; thought it was
dead picked it up, in my hand it came alive it
had only been stunned by rain. Roman soldiers
used to eat deep fried mice as snacks- must
have been lots of mice back then- This scene
that could have brought tears to the eyes of
harp playing angels, had been observed by
a craven raven in a carob tree, as I walked off
it swooped. Later that day I drove into town
moved the economy and bought a copy pen.

Once Upon a time when not much was mine there lived a man,
He had two eyes, one nose, and two mouths.
They called him the median man.
All that he ever did was pushed towards the center,
When he spoke he was no ones mentor,
And when he wrote, his words were those of a centaur.

Travelling around on his hind legs
He often saw the gentleman’s club
And often ended up in his lonesome tub.
While soaking away his insecurities and fears,
His inner thoughts were controlled by gears,
They revolved on axles that creating his ancient tears.

While staring starry eyed into his reflection,
He deeply studied all the parcels that created his complexion.
Was there life within this withered leaf?
Or a man who had lost all of his beliefs,
Through societies obscurities and unknown relics.
One would say this man was timid,
Or perhaps very sad yet vivid.

He spoke through his snarling flaming breaths:
Ode to those who judge and write what they have not yet began to visit,
And shame on those who sit around in transit.
A tear to those who have but a tear to cry and a soul inside to fly.
I’ve been born, I have sinned, I am hate, and I am all that is too late!

The Visitor

When I woke up in the night I saw him standing
in the doorway giggling devilishly at me, I got
out of bed and screamed: ”Not Now!” Grabbed
a picture from the wall, ( a painting of Jesus on
the cross) and threw it after him.

The frame hit him square on his forehead, blood
oozed down his hairy body, a pool on the floor,
slimy liquid full of worms, wriggling maggots and
venomous snakes that swayed and hissed to their
master’s horrid laughter.

A stir in the air the fiend became a grey dissipating
mist and the echo of his giggles faded into silence.
In the morning I found the broken frame and glass,
softly picked the saviour up and rinsed him under
the kitchen sink.

God’s Little Acre

On a land abandoned by man and behind
an ancient stonewall I saw a Frisian cow.
Not many of those around here, I walked
over to have a look, the ruminant was now
a boulder. I touched it, still warm; looked
up and around, someone was ribbing me.
Walked off looking nonchalant, but quickly
turned to have another look, the big stone
had turned into a grazing Frisian again and
drab olive trees had silver leaves.
I smiled and shook my head, this ongoing
joking between us, I’m old enough to keep
this a secret and, anyway, it is not easy to
talk about shadowboxing.

Starting off young and new
There’s so much to do
You have lots to learn
to tell your parents
chatting away
your day
once you’re finish
you watch or you play
outside
till dinner time
sleep
and mum or dad
prepared you for the next day.

As you start to be
a little more independant
your homework
a little more differcult
than early times
whether you’re learning
Maori to being a role model
Enviroment being care for
or not to get stuck in
the same class
as the previous year
being in the middle
is never fun
at least there’s rewards.

You’ve entered the intermediate
where you’re one
of the big kids
Every Tuesday you
prepared for high school
Leadership is your role
Teaching young ones
right to wrong
it’s complicated
but not too bad
as high school
Once you’ve finish
you’re a nervous wreck
on your first day
of High School.

So much to do
in so little time
Time is a blur
When your a little boy or girl
Friends come & go
or they stay
each year you’re there
but in the end
you friends
helps you
to create a easier life

Written by Maria
Copyrights 2008

The crock

The small lake in the vale is muddy brown and
I see what looks like an uprooted tree floating
in the middle, the tree disappears and the water
ripples like it suddenly feels cold. There has
been rumours about sheep disappearing when
grazing near the lake but since there is a good
road nearby, rustlers have been blamed; mind,
dogs too have vanished and no self-respecting
thieve can possible be interested in our motley
canines. The breeze that made the water ripple
has died out and in sharp spring sunlight I can
see the tree again, but it seems to be lower in
the water. The lake gets smaller and browner
every year less rain falls now then in the past,
a few years hence it will be a piece of dry land
and a dusty crocodile.

While travelling down the streets walked by many men before me,
It is clear that things have not been sacred ever since Adam met Eve.
How did an apple change our lives forever?
Was it red or green?
Was it as precious as ones name?
Or as precious as those who seek fame?

How could evil be a symbol?
Isn’t evil a seed planted from birth?
Or a serpent that at times slithers through all of our veins?

When was it that a saint was celebrated to a point when one faints?
Did St. Patrick want us to spin a wheel?
And intoxicate our minds until we can no longer feel?
Isn’t green a symbol of riches?
Last I checked we all end up in ditches.

When did all these intellectuals walk in the room?
They use their words just as a broom,
Why do they sweep their dust in mind?
When all that I see are lines that are blind.

When did a word contain so many meanings?
While a plain picture destroys countless feelings.
What is right and what is wrong, with to flying birds that whisper their song?
When did the style of my pants begin to matter?
Perhaps when the media began to structure one’s manner.

When did a poem contain so many meanings?
While one judges what no one is seeing.
When did a man begin to sit by a corner?
While all those around him add to disorder.
How did it happen that one gave all that they had?
And by the end of their life, had finished so sad.

People dying,
Politicians smiling,
Children crying,
Voters sighing,
I can see them,
I won’t hear them pry.

Friends with contracts,
Complete contacts.
Plastic handshakes,
Not much at stake.
They are flawless,
Some are priceless,
Words are countless,
Confused and boundless,
I can’t dissolve this,
I won’t find myself.

life is split
between the day
and the night
leaves join
when its dark
and unfold as it
becomes light

tuesday morning
the sun is alight
and shining
like a sigh in
the drawn
curtains of
morning

the light in the sky
that’s dawning again
is so strange
the birds just cry
in strains of spliced
delight the dropping
leaves look like
their children
heading off
on their
very first flight

17 March 2009, Tuesday Morning.
Copyright © 2009 by Nicholas Alexander

The Town’s Buffoon

He sat fishing in the town’s small lake, too much
kindness and stale breadcrumbs had polluted
the water and fish had chocked to death; mind,
ducks looked happy as did rotund rats lurking in
the undergrowth by its bank. Someone felt sorry
for the fool, put two trout in his basket and said:
“I say, my man you have caught two fine fishes!”
The clown arose, reeled in line, hook and sinker,
walked home; where he fried his catch, listened
to tomorrows weather forecast on the radio,
diced carrots and peeled potatoes- fed his fat cat-
and chuckled to himself for no reason at all.

Stillness

This room, dirty windows and
pale squares
were pictures hung,
has no furniture,
dust on floorboards
dance to a tune unheard by man;
the beauty here is that of
eternal nothingness,
the essence of happiness is less,
yet many fill their
space with futile objects
because they can’t bear
the intrusive silence of bareness.

Stable home to live
Cheap, aint no rich person
Unpretty, not so massive
but warmth draws you closer.

Lines like scruched up paperball
does not fall
chocolate-coloured gazes upon you
with warm passion.
Ebony, vertical threads
drapes upon her shoulders
Tan covers the ivory
Cook Islander
She’s the most important person in my life.

Colourful, cultured sheets
reflects ethnicity
Variety designs for different personality
All for one, one for all.
Spoils us, unnecessarily
having fun with the family
enjoys family & friends visiting
wherever she is.

So secretive, quiet behaviour
surprises us alll
Little did we know
that’s she’s gonna go.
Blood transfusion, hopeless
it suppose to save her
Even when there’s no cure.
“Died of Cervical cancer”
never mentioned on her grave
should’ve been.
Bucketloads of water shed
so much
could cover the ocean’s bed.

Gracious,picturesque
lady
sad to see her go
Her time is due
but it came too soon
Unforgettable
just lay low
and rest in peace.

Written by Maria
Copyright 2008

Final Reckoning

Murky day in my valley the mountain which
Is a gigantic, petrified tidal wave of soil and
boulders, is obscured today should it liquefy
the vale will be a plateau with a story to tell
but no one around to tell it too, except for
mustangs that only cares about the quality
of the grass. Perhaps some of us would live
on in air pockets underground turning into
earth worms while looking for a light switch
we knew used to be on a wall while gulping
stale air, not grasping that we are doomed;
as a battery radio plays a dirge because
the king is dead like that should be our chief
concern on the day our valley disappeared.

Darkness absorbed her black tresses
inept to mask the deep seas
that looked intently at me.
This impenetrable night was deeper
than the black oceans in my garden
The squall had drowned and the tide ebbed,
the taste of the salty drops still lingered.

The oceans desiccated to the last tear,
left no evidence of presence
in the excuse of the cloaked night
the immensity of vast spaces
weighed me down,
as embodied lust disguised as love
rubbed salt on future wounds;
a gentle wind mimicked the muffled sighs,
the whining moment’s
Elusive entwinements.

The heartless train’s howl far-off,
left desolation’s tiny scraps
in the retreating station.
Her eyes soaked up distances,
the intervals stretching the strings of heart.
Melancholic baits of the scarred gait
swelled agony’s torture
The mind powerless to cope,
lonely-heart’s yearning for hope.

The dawn will lie to me
with out a hint of betrayal;
‘a dream within the dream’
where I will hear
a desertion’s tearing scream.

Cultivated Is My Valley

Peaceful is the landscape and the lane that meanders
amongst olive trees, stone walls neatly divide the land
a bit for everyone, but not enough to make you rich.
Here dogs only bark at night have cowardly, yellow eyes
there is no wolf left in these subjugated canines.
In Stockholm when spring comes ice shards fall off roof
tops, split brains in half, gore on snow. On paradise
islands too one has to look out for falling coco- nuts
they can so easily kill a man; but here, in my valley, only
petals of the almond tree flower fall.

Birdsongs and breeze that caresses olive trees, now that’s
peace, ok, so should I not be happy as I contemplate
a carob tree? I see a woman bending down, weeding her
potato field, clouds on the sky are as soft as the mustachio
on a Romanian girl’s upper lip. All this herald peace so
why shouldn’t I be happy, when seeing a flock of cows
with full udders ready to be milked at five? Yet I dream of
galloping horses on the pampas of Argentine, flying mane,
flaring nostrils. This place I tell myself lacks passion, it’s
too tame, or is it me that has been restrained by age?