Auckland Poetry.com

Seventy Years Old

I used to think that when seventy I would feel
Burst with gravitas and tell people how to live
Their life; alas, I still feel like an adolescent who
Feel shy when meeting older people.

Yes, I have had my share of grief and illnesses,
And often, drunk or sober, I have fallen flat on
My face, disgrace I have often know, but next
Day when I saw the sun the surge of live returned

There are nights, however, the small hours when
Awake and fearful, knowing as I do that death is
Not afar, and my weak heart nervously misses
A beat… then I do feel tired and old.

My terrace faces the east, and I can see when
Dawn begins and I hear the sparrows under the roof
Tiles beginning their day they make me feel whole
Again, as the sun warms my ancient face.

The Great Survivor

One is never more than five yards from a rat
I read in my local paper, there are non in my
Cottage and it has no basement as it is build
Straight on solid rocks which makes it very
Cold in the winter.

There are mice under the roof tiles, cute little
Ones smaller than my thumb, they are very
Quite unlike the sparrow that make a hell of
A racket at dawn, not to forget the cats that
Use my roof as a hunting ground, but no rats.

At the supermarket I saw a rat coming up from
A storm drain, it looked at me, decided I was
A coward and began picking up bread crumbs,
It looked like a bruiser had boxer’s ears and
A menacing, slowly rotating whiplash tail.

A woman, carrying a bag of groceries, came
“Look” I croaked, “a rat.” Hysterical screams.
The rat disappeared, a guard came running and
looked almost like a police officer, “we will get
that rat, he said” and spoke into his mobile.

A kind man was helping the woman to pick up
The groceries she had dropped, I heard someone
Say he had seen rats here before. “shouldn’t be
Allowed, rats near a supermarket,” a woman said.
Never more than five years…it’s spooky.

The Right Language.

Reading a poem about Jehovah’s witnesses
I remembered meeting two of them once,
they rang on mother’s front door, I opened
and they began asking me questions about
religion, I was young and too polite to slam
the door shut, I would do now as I’m old
and rude, I stood there hoping they would
go away. Mother, who worked at a canning
factory with hundred other women came to
my rescue; there were gasps, the witnesses
shrunk and vanished, never saw them again.

Expensive Diesel

The donkey walked in the middle of the country lane
not the smartest thing to do, they drive recklessly here
about, it was trailing along rope, which I used to tie it
up under an olive tree away from the sun, the beast was
docile and glad it didn’t have to be in charge.

And I though now that diesel for tractors is dear, and
farmer tend to use them for the smallest things, like
picking up twigs from almond groves, a mule and cart
will do the work for free and the brave farmer will not
have an early heart attack do to lack of exercise.

Life isn’t perfect, as I stood there stroking the donkey
dreamily making the bush the landscape beautiful with
imaginary horses and mules, there was a hard shriek of
oil neglected brakes; a farmer, on his tractor, hit my car;
a pity he wasn’t riding on a mule, a horse or a donkey

Cascais, Mon Amour

The old part of Cascais, Portugal where fishermen
used to live is now a place of culture and restored
expensive houses, not even the ghosts of fishermen
past can afford to walk around here where narrow
streets are packed with layers of cars, which are
Portugal’s holy cows, and must be allowed to rest
wherever they please, often on pavements.

Along the coast of Cascais there are many grand
houses with big gardens we can’t see because so
many rich people choose to imprison themselves
Behind tall walls to deter the nosy plebes from
looking in; minor royals used live here, perhaps,
they still do, now hateful old people live here and
sourly resent the world outside their reformatories.

Many tourists come here and with one eye closed,
and the other glued to a ham-cam, a tunnel vision
that doesn’t see the tramp who rummages for food
in bins outside restaurants; they don’t see the ship,
in the blue enchanting bay and the men on her deck
looking dreamily towards shore, for a seafarer costal
Towns look like a paradise of the unobtainable.

Hey seaman don’t think of going ashore here, no
amount of life-buoy soap, cleans shirt and jeans can
hide your rolling gait, this is a place is for the elite,
who live in big apartments with balconies facing
the bay; they see your ship and think it is romantic,
but they don’t want you near. Have another beer
play canasta, you will always have Rio de Janeiro.