Auckland Poetry.com

So Bring Light Then

My body had been interred in the prairie
landscape, I stuck a steel rod down soft
soil till it met the lid of the coffin; so it was
true then, yet it was eerie that I was here
above ground while my body was slowly
absorbed by the earth.

There are many red Indians about, they all
have droplet horses and one, small as a pony,
nodded friendly, yes, I had seen it before in
western movies it had been especially good
at falling, so I mounted it and of we trotted
away unseen by the indigenous people.

Further on men in jeans and big hats, called
cowboys, were fencing in a watering hole,
they were men with secret desires that were
biologically a blind alley, but the only time
they touched was when they fought in the bar
or when sharing an Annie-get-your-gun.

The prairie was as big as an ocean and at
the horizon I saw a bright yet welcoming
light that I noticed the Indians was walking
towards, bad on my feet I kept on riding till
I was inside a light that was free of mortality,
and it was good to be amongst the braves

Dawn.

I closed my eyes and saw
another universe,
millions of stars,
red and green planets,
gigantic faraway eruptions and
clouds of cosmic dust.
No life there, eternal night
and empty silence.

Opened my eyes and
saw through curtains
a square of light, dawn was seeping in,
a new day, a beginning, renewal
and the hope of peace.

Winner & Loser

Cycling along a pathway in a stony, dry bush
landscape I saw a hawk lose its kill, a sparrow,
the unfortunate fell in front of me, alive but
badly wounded. While the hawk sat on a tree,
an almond tree that had no business growing
here and it showed no one had tended to this
domestic plant years.

This bit of violence was none of my concern
I shouldn’t have picked it up the sparrow, but
now that I felt its nervous little heart beating
in my palm and its blood dripping on my hand,
it was hard to let go. I put nature’s victim on
a big boulder, sat still on my bike till the hawk
swooped and reclaimed its quarry

Flight of a Bird

A heron flew low across the motorway, alas too low,
it collided with an ice-cream van that was on its way
to a suburban school to sell its freezing and delicious
products, it broke a wing, but managed to get on to
the hard shoulder of the road. A driver, in an apple
green jaguar came speeding along, swerved and tried
to kill the bird, didn’t quite make it though, but now
the heron had two broken wings; confused and in pain
it crawled back on to the road. In the afternoon only
a few soft feathers drifted aimlessly on the left bank of
this manmade river of blood and loss.

The Home Turf.

The enclosure’s gate was left open and led by
a tall, black stallion, a natural leader, the horses
escaped and soon galloped to the freedom of
open land. When tired they settled down, grazed
or just enjoyed the day. They were not wild and
when the light faded, on this great land that
casts no shadow, the timid horses thought of
the safety of the ranch, got restless and scraped
hooves on the ground and blowing through their
nostrils. Reluctantly their leader began trotting
back, and as the day became evening the flock
was in the coral they knew; the gate was firmly
shut behind them, as it will be tomorrow and
the days thereafter.

Morning and the Mythical.

On the hazy field a white stallion, with steam
rising from its back, was grazing and I thought
of the lady who used to ride naked through
the night. The horse seeing me cycling slowly
on the village sandy lane came to the fence
neighed softly and looked endearing.

I stopped spoke to it till it began grazing, but
when I tried to leave it neighed again didn’t
want to be alone. A man was letting sheep, on
to the field, eighty-five damp wooly backs,
(counted them and nearly fell asleep,) I could
leave now my presence was no longer needed.

The Struggle

I have struggled for decades not to sink into
the morass of years, had been holding on to
a branch of the tree of learning, but when
asleep I lost the grip and now see the underside
of its leaves, they are pale and tells me that
learning gives yarning and ambitions for
a wider horizon, but without education, a title
that tells us who we are, we will continue work
as garage hands, or peel potatoes in a café.
It’s easy to let go slip into old age, to forget
and to be forgotten by the world

September Travel

I’ve packed my suitcase ready to go to Norway in
September, extra jumpers, wooly socks and two
bottles of whisky; well, I’m only staying there for
four days, but there might be a war breaking out.

Booze is very expensive in Norway so I can’t go
into bars, but sit in a tiny hotel room drink good
whisky from a glass in the bathroom, the one used
to brush ones teeth in the morning.

I will be walking around in streets where no one
knows me, there will be rain and I have no umbrella,
and I will end up in one of those expensive bars,
just standing there drinking and talking to no one.

I have unpacked my suitcase, and opened one of
the bottles and sit in my favourite chair drinking
a drop, I will not be going back to Norway this year,
the dog is old and can’t be left alone in a kennel,

Haiku

Snows only purpose?
To make my garden look good
Four months a year

Haiku

Shadows and light
In an unseemly embrace
Foolish April Dance

Haiku

In the middy heat
Mules seeks shady carob trees
Man seeks the beach.

Haiku

Morning sadness
Rain trickles down the window
Grey October sky.

Summer with my mother.

I t was the best summer I ever had or can remember,
mother and I had cycled to the beach, that is,
I was riding pillion. It was a hot day mother, a strong
swimmer swam, to the small islet nearby, it wasn’t
far, I sat on her back, like a little monkey people said
and laughed. Later we ate sandwiches she had made
before we left and tepid tea from the thermos flask.

She gave me coppers and sent me to buy ice-cream
it was a long way off and going back the ice-cream
melted. I ate mine of mother’s there was only a wet
cone left. I must have fallen asleep. Mother woke me
said it was time to cycle home, I was very happy that
evening that when my sister called me a mother’s boy
I didn’t mind but said I knew who her boyfriend was.

Before going to bed I told mother that I would never
leave her; she gave me a hug, and that was great, she
wasn’t much into hugging people. Then she had to go
back to work, putting sardines into tins and smelling
of fish when she tired came home.

Mother and the Singer

I first heard Edith Piaf on the radio in 1954,
her songs were translated into Norwegian
and mother used to sing them when peeling
potatoes or frying fish cakes.

Today I came across Edit Piaf, on the net,
singing her heart out, I thought she looked
like my mother, and I hadn’t been thinking
of her for a long time, small, old fashion
and ungainly, but with a big heart.

So there I sat riding pillion on a great voice
back to a time that had glimmer of gold in
songs and in books to relieve days of fear,
and the insanity of poverty

Mother’s Last Day.

When I came to the nursing home mother
fretted she wanted me to drive her down
to the bay she wanted to see the sea again.
I was getting wintry but the nurse brought
some extra blankets and of we drove.

It was a blustery day and sea in the bay was
white topped, she sat there for a long time
saying nothing, then she spoke of her father,
who had been a master of a schooner and
sailed all the way to USA and Argentina.

Going back we stopped at a café ate Danish
pastry and drank hot chocolate, she also
smoked a forbidden cigarette. At the home,
she didn’t want anything to eat, had been
to a café with her son.

I sat with her till she fell asleep, they rang
early in the morning, she was the last link,
with the past, snow covered flowers on her
coffin, her time had run out, from now on
I had to walk the rest of the way alone

One of Aotearoa’s finest voices Mahinarangi Tocker has died in hospital at the age of 52 from complications of an asthema attack.

It is a really sad moment.  Here is the NZ Herald page of public tributes.  You can also add your own as comments on this post, if you wish.

Hope you don’t mind
if I take the time
to say good bye to
my left foot

It not due to hatred
or foul language
or even odor
its not a bad
foot either

It is just it
never does what it
has been told
no matter now carefully
its said

No the left foot has to go,
its done its dash and so I throw
it out into the trash
and the sole escapes
as it flies through the air