Auckland Poetry

The Mislaid   It was a strange October day, yet it behaved as that month does, blowing leaves off trees and filling gutters into fast flowing rivers where a child can launch a matchbox and call it a ship, it was just as I had misplaced something of value by my own carelessness and now it was out of my reach.  Went into a bar, beside me sat a blond, big busted woman in her late forties, she looked like the archetypical barmaid, only she was a cook at the Excelsior Hotel, up the street, on her day off. I told her I had lost a thing of great sentiment, together we went from bar to bar looking for this nameless thing.  Woke up in a strange bedroom, pink, and it had teddy bears strew around, mostly on the floor; I looked out of the window it was raining and remembered that yesterday was my birthday. The archetypical was sleeping, in the grey morning light she looked vulnerable and forty eight.            

Filling in the blanks

A spindrift of an abstract screen,
it blinds me I can’t think of words to write down
to break the monotony of whiteness,

Bush’s wet-nurse was a Mexican,
peasant woman, that’s why he likes to hug,
and touch people;

maybe he’s a nice man
who has only seen war movie and think
all wars are like that;

he only wanted to be president
because his father had been one, wanted to prove
that he wasn’t stupid;

but he was hypnotized by an evil neo-com,
and lost the thread of his dream in
blinding spindrift

Getting Away

I rubbed my eyeballs and
saw a universe of millions of stars,
not unlike the one I see at nights,
only here stars where rainbow coloured baubles
on a stygian background
and void of life;

not even a bambi or a lion cub crossing
this firmament of endless night,
and soon it will be christmas,
baubles, coloured light and worried faces
everywhere, except for the grinning shadow
that brings winter wind.