Auckland Poetry

This year’s Springtime.

Spring used to lift my spirit,
this last one, however, seems
intrusive, it thrills and loudly
reaches towards the sun;

for no reason I can think of,
as I grow down to a ground
that is an open cast mine
decked with flaccid flowers.

Horseshoe for luck

There was a wooden bridge, near the farm,
where I lived - a few years- as a child,
I often sat under it looking at the clear, soft
flowing water and I could see tiny fishes
swimming about, sometimes they came to
the surface to have a look at me; when horse
and cart crossed the bridge fine dust fell and
shimmered as gold. This was my secret place,
I kept things here like rusty nails, a whistle,
coloured stones and a shiny horseshoe

When I came back here years later, no one
could remember a river, I must be mistaken
it was said; mind there used to be a tiny
stream here, but it was filled in years ago.
The farm had been replaced by a business
park, people with hard dreams worked here.
A petrol station, tarmac roads and cafés, yes,
the future had won “Never been a farm here,
they said. In a ditch I found a rusty horseshoe
and knew my memory was not a dream

Once, a Summer.

It was a special Nordic summer, its night was
short when walking home to change and go
to work, no one about so early, but a cat going
home after a night of murderous pursuits, there
it will drink a saucer of cream, curl up on a sofa
and its owner would never know what a vicious
killer she had in her house.

I was in love, the taste of her still clung to my
hungry lips, it was the best of times to be in love
and after work I would see her again and again;
she was so lovely this morning, and in her brown
eyes I read nothing but true love-: “Come back
soon darling,” she had whispered by the door,
before gently closing it.

She wasn’t there that evening: “gone to another
town to work,” a neighbour said, “with a man
in an Oldsmobile car,” (and in her brown eyes
I read nothing but true love.) The night misted
hasting towards autumn, trees shed green leaves,
and as cooling rain drizzled my short summer of
innocence was over.

The Master Mariner

Last night I was a master once again,
stood on the terrace easing my errant
house that pulled at the anchor she
wanted to drift towards the open sea
and safety from knife sharp reefs and
torrential blinding rain.

When first light broke storm ceased
and I saw houses that had broken
anchor and slammed into one another,
bad seaman ship but said nothing as
I inspected my house and noticed that
a few roof tiles were missing.

This year’s Springtime.   

Spring used to lift my spirit, this last one, however, seems intrusive, it thrills and loudly   reaches towards the sun;  

for no reason I can think of, as I grow down to a ground that is an open cast minedecked with flaccid flowers.  

Once, a Summer.  

It was a special Nordic summer, its night wasshort when wal
king home to change and goto work, no one about so early, but a cat going home after a night of murderous pursuits, thereit will drink a saucer of cream, curl up on a sofa and its owner would never know what a vicious killer she had in her house. 

I was in love, the taste of her still clung to my hungry lips, it was the best of times to be in love     and after work I would see her again and again;she was so lovely this morning, and in her brown eyes I read nothing but true love-: “Come back soon darling,” she had whispered by the door, before gently closing it.  

She wasn’t there that evening: “gone to anothertown to work,” a neighbour said, “with a manin an Oldsmobile car,” (and in her brown eyes I read nothing but true love.) The night misted  hasting towards autumn, trees shed green leaves, and as cooling rain drizzled my short summer of innocence was over.    

Horseshoe for luck  

There was a wooden bridge, near the farm,where I lived - a few years- as a child,I often sat under it loo
king at the clear, softflowing water and I could see tiny fishesswimming about, sometimes they came tothe surface to have a look at me; when horse and cart crossed the bridge fine dust fell and shimmered as gold. This was my secret place,I kept things here like rusty nails, a whistle,coloured stones and a shiny horseshoe    

When I came back here years later, no one could remember a river, I must be mistaken it was said; mind there used to be a tiny stream here, but it was filled in years ago. The farm had been replaced by a business  park, people with hard dreams worked here. A petrol station, tarmac roads and cafés, yes, the future had won “Never been a farm here, they said. In a ditch I found a rusty horseshoe and knew my memory was not a dream