Auckland Poetry.com

The Diggers

In a museum, on the Isle of Man, there was displayed
a Viking’s tooth and it was brown, not from smoking
mind, the tobacco plant hadn’t been imported to

when a child. There was little else left of the Viking
that’s why I ask: how did the archeologists know
that this tooth had belonged to a Viking? He could have
been a crofter who secretly smoked dry oak leaves,
because it kept colds away. He could also have been
a sheep rustler- which is far less romantic than being
a horse thief- and knifed to death by irate farmhands.

Archeologists are a strange lot, give them a rusty nail
and they construct a cathedral, or some other godly
house; should you find a piece of a wine cup, they will
tell tall tales orgies, fig leaves and Roman canapés,
but they can’t find the wrist watch I lost in the year of
1985, in Chester- England- where Roman soldiers used
to bivouac drink wine and eat fried dormice while
cursing the Cesar who had sent them to this rain cold,
ungodly country where the people are so white they
look like green ghosts in moonlight. So you see there is
no doubts about it, archeologists are poets with shovels.

Tanka

Six nuns in a boat
They stop rowing, lift up oars
And pray to their god
From oar blades drips innocence
That sparkles in summer light.

Senryu

Euphonic stillness
Liquid pearls on an oar blade
In a summer fiord

Senryu

Pleasing to the ear
Clicks of mother’s knitting pins
On cold winter nights

Senryu

Melancholy is
Layers of large snow flakes
On the window sill

When Time Is Right.

The door I knocked on was as black and shiny
as a coffin, behind the door my twin brother
stood his silence like a seashell’s hum; I could
hear the sea of forever rippling onto Nirvana’s
strand. He was born five minutes too late, and
into darkness, this blue boy, nourishment gone,
not even a lungful of air and the pain of sudden
light he was given; a dream of what could have
been. For me, a troubadour, success was natural,
gilded doors opened I was the man of May, my
message, eternal happiness. Youth was filled
with dance and laughter never did I think of you,
there was no time, till I woke up one day and
could not dance anymore an elderly Casanova,
giggles from boudoirs; an entertainer no more.
Open up the door, dear brother, I will not enter
but let in the light so we can see the wonderful
sky and together walk on summer grass.

The Happy Country

The king of Norway wears a top-hat and looks
like an old fashion plutocrat, it will be wrong
of you to think so because, he is a man of
the people, he say so himself. The streets of
Oslo is empty and no Latin rhythm flies out of
open café doors, this is mainly because the king
has gone to the opera, which is placed in a fjord.
And since there is no aristocracy he has taken
along a fourth generation of politicians and a third
generation TV personalities; all, let’s no forget this,
can point to a forefather who was a fisherman or
a crofter. There are not many shipping dynasties
present, if there are they try not to rock the boat,
rumours have it they mostly live in the Bahamas.
The king’s loyal subjects participate too, they sit
at home watch TV, seeing him applaud the singers
on the stage. As peace descends over the land my
wish is for the king of Norway to go lose that hat.

Municipal Misery

The city’s public park had been deliberately run down,
no money for its upkeep it was said, the tarn in the park
was a disgrace, dirty water, excrement and plastic bags.

It was going to be privatized, like the municipal golf
course, built in days when people believed in social
equality and golf for everyone who wished to play.

The new “public park” is a fee paying park, there are
restaurants and an expensive tennis club, you can also
walk around there but it is too dear for ordinary folks.

I’ve been once, perfectly mowed lawns, trimmed trees
and flowers are standing to attention; no surprises, this
is always so when nature is made by a committee.

Friendship

He was my best friend we used to go for long walks;
we both liked the cinema and art, as my wife used
to say”You’re a perfect couple.” When I got arthritis
in one leg I used to keep my hand on his shoulder,
he was my cane and it eased the pain.

James, yes I was happy to be his friend, gave my
only boy his name. One day he told me he was gay,
perhaps I knew but preferred not to know, best that
way; but this knowledge changed our comradeship,
timidity had come between us.

I no longer held on to his shoulder, our bantering
was contrived. I didn’t go see the latest western
movie with him, blamed a cold, he wasn’t able to
come to a planned art exhibition. Yes, I do miss
him and my leg hurts like hell.