Auckland Poetry

a fusion of particles happens in the mirror
the image of here and now
is lost before it becomes
then and when
photographs were used to remember
visits by the grandparents no longer answering
the phone
visits by generations past long gone
now here and now and opening
the gate walking up the path
about to knock on the door

The Baker’s Dozen  

The baker, in our village, a man who loved his craft, collaborated with the enemy in the war of 1940-45, as it was the only way he could get fine flour and other stuff to bake his delicious cakes and white bread. Our baker was a pleasant, brown eyed, a short rotund man who always had boiled sweet in his pocket for the children when he went for his afternoon walk. 

His wife was more of an administrative type, dressed in black, starched blouse and ankle long skirt, and in her blue eyes ice floes drifted; chased children, beggars and dogs with her broom, but had been seen feeding birds, bread crumbs on cold winter days.  

During daylight the enemy and Nazi officials came and bought the baker’s enticing products; in nights or early mornings those who could afford it, but didn’t like to be seen associating with a traitor, came and bought fresh bread, aromatic Danish pastry and chocolate éclairs.  

When the war ended, as wars must, the baker was sent to jail as a collaborator, but he didn’t sit there longI suspect - but cannot prove this- that his night visitors, mostly lawyers, doctors and business men spoke well of him into the right authorities. It is odd to think during all this upheaval few, if any, knew that it was his wife who wore an iron cross under her blouse.   

Keeping fit.  

I had an exercise bike with a computer telling mehow far and fast I was cycling. By turning a knob left it was hard work as going up a hill, by turning the knob left it got easy to pedal, and I pretended cycling down a steep hill; I could also adjust it as biking through a flat, Dutch landscape of canals,tulips,
Edam cheese and blond girls, wearing clogs  traditional dresses, sunny smiles and funny hats. I took the bike outside, one nice spring day whensun warmed my pale face; put it on the pavement, near the bins, went for a long walk Months later, the bike is till there, in lashing autumn rain, very rusty now and no longer an object of envy, what’s the matter with thieves don’t they want to keep fit?     

The Good Shepherd.

As the sun was setting the pastor got up from under
a carob tree, time to take his flock home; it had been
a good day leading his sheep through olive groves,
scrubland and fields; his dogs looked at him they were
hungry and eager to get home too.

The pastor bent down picked up a tiny lamb that had
been rejected by its mother, it began suckling his thumb;
he was going to give it to his wife who would fatten it
for a month or so. Lamb-stew’s tender meat, he liked
now that he had lost all his teeth.

Yes, life is good he must remember to light a candle
and say thanks at mass on Sunday.

Indian Poem

As I waited the first cold morning of
the year awoke, streams of sunlight
came over the ridge;

so it began again, and as we cling to
our entities and hold on to our life, we
must surely hear the unsaid;

spoken by a saddest of hearts: we are
mere mortals, new days will arise and
fall long after we have gone;

and from my old school’s window
a child will see the blue mountain and
wish he could see its other side.