Auckland Poetry.com

In the inner disused docks she was tied up and abandoned,
fifty years old now and looking it, the Greek owners were
trying to sell her, if a daft person bought her now, it must
be for love. It is twenty years since I stood on her deck
the Greeks are great seamen but shipping is business not silly
romance on the high seas. I asked the guard by the gangway
if I could come onboard, he wore a baseball cap and had lived
in New York, “ you can buy her for a dime,” he had joked
On her bridge I stood, though I could feel her valiant heart
vibrating through my feet, from the glum north Atlantic to
the smiling Indian Ocean, in fair weather and in raging
storms; never had I been afraid that she would sink beneath
the waves. “Buy her for a dime.” Sentimental fool, she’s a rusty
old bucket now and not worth a penny for my thought.

Roman Holiday

In Rome I sat on the Spanish Steps, a hot day
in august 1961, in front of me a fountain
Fontana Di Trevi, its water looked cool and
inviting and I idly wondered if old Bernini,
the great artist, had had a hand in designing
this one too. I didn’t really want to sit there,
but one is supposed to when in Rome, beside,
the pope had gone on his holiday. It would
have be better to find cool bar and drink cold
beer; come to think of it beer wasn’t as cold
back then as it is now, and ice in once drink,
was still a novelty. Must have fallen asleep,
when awoke I was alone and in my upturned
cloth-cap coins gleamed in ancient moonlight.

Rivulet.

Lackluster stream, foams of rejection on
its surface, meanders between grey stones
before it disappears down a drain.

I used to bath her in summers that now are
dreams, and in twilight catch trout with my
homemade bamboo rod

Look at it now, a sick soul, and there is no
one around who remembers its glory, this
smelly old brook that ought to be removed.

              I ran through the woods chasing a pink butterfly,
caught it with my net, but fell down a deep hole
dug there for no purpose at all.

Tried to get back up but lumps of earth kept falling
tired I released the insect which, close up, wasn’t
that nice, “one of us must survive,” I nobly said.

Alas, it had a damaged wing couldn’t fly just sat
there on a lump of dirt looked miserable and cold
it was now up to me to safe us both.

I was able to lasso the net on a tree root sticking
out, put the butterfly in my mouth and heaved
myself up but accidentally swallowed the insect.

This sadden me deeply my effort of being good
had ended in failure and also, the swallowing
made me feel- somewhat- nauseous too.

In the glade I met a sharp eyed hex and told her
what had befallen a verb I only used to impress
her, as she had a red pen in her hand.

“Don’t worry” she said, when you see a beautiful
woman, tell her of your love for her, the butterfly
will fly from your lips to her tender heart.

When I see the woman in the post office I go all
tongue tied and shy, she’s so young and if I speak
the butterfly will fly and she’ll be horrified.

Even worse, she could tell someone about my
declaration of love and soon they will laugh,
look at this silly old man falling in love at his age.

The Nectar.

Grapes on
The vine soak
Up sunlight
When ripe
They are
Crushed
And made into
Wine.
To much
Sunlight
Isn’t good
For the skin,
It is said,
This is only
True if you are
Daft enough
To use wine
As a sun block.