Auckland Poetry

My Garden  

I need no garden, live in a middle of a field of flowers

that have the hue of homemade butter produced by

the milk from cows that have name like Rosa, Daisy,

Buttercup and Rosemarie (the farm in mind is small.)

On big farms a cow is a ruminant …is, and so on.

Gertrude Stein? Yes. She told everyone she was a genius,

yet all we remember of her words, is that a rose is a rose

till the cud chewers come home to be milked

“What does she knows about my flowers,” the rose bush

said and stung me cruelly when I picked one of its

offspring for my lapel, I had an appointment with

my doctor and wanted to look healthy.

Next week the field will be purple, my colour and

I’ll regret not being a cardinal. Yes, I could have been,

hadn’t kissed a Marilyn sister’s lips and embraced her

voluptuous body,

till the Vatican became an impossible dream          

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