Auckland Poetry.com

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.

The Ruin

The ruin, in the woods, has been a ruin for
so long that it is no more than a heap of moss
covered stones; always damp it smells of
poverty, a place where those who were able
to, fled before they sank into apathy and died
of hopelessness and homemade booze.

Perhaps some of the fleers fled to New York
and their grandchildren, now runs a deli,
Portuguese delicacies that in the old days were
poor man’s food, paint the old country in
pastel colours and makes it wetly romantic;
poverty of yore has a patina of old gold.

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.

Tanka

Runaway price of oil
We slides towards the abyss
But refuse to see
Stick our necks in the sawdust
And watch World Cup Football

Tanka

Ready made food
The art of cooking gone
Bread, marge and jam
When there is no frozen food
Due to transportation strike

Tanka

Transport drivers strike
Two days later empty shops
No milk for the child
Wretchedly helpless we are
In our shiny democracy

Settling of Scores

At tap on my shoulder an elderly woman asked:
“aren’t you…?” With my lazar eyes I piled off
make up and old skin and saw a much younger
face; yes I knew that young woman and I also
remembered her hard eyes when she left me and
I begged her to stay. She invited me for a bit to
eat, I declined said, perhaps some other time, and
anyway knowing her of old I would have ended
up paying. She was a widow now (like I should
care) gave me her late husband’s card with phone
number and email address, “ring me”, she said.
I walked away another “what if, gone” I ought to
thank someone. Magnanimous I’m not, revenge
taste good at any age.

you and I
and this calm before the storm
The passion in your eyes
dark clouds storming over starry skies
streaks of lightning in your smile
raindrops washing tearful nights
showering love, souls walking hand in hand
frozen, as time comes to a stand
you and I
and this calm before the storm
wearing our masks again
its just another day

no more drinking , lies or drugs
need your love need your hugs.
trying to get your love back like it was before.

had enough of living bad, don’t want that no more.
no more running the streets
no more promisses I can’t keep.

When I left you I had a sinful mind,
Oh, God…I was so blind.

I left your loving me behind.

I’ve done a lot of thinking, realizing I was wrong.

I wish I had’nt stayed away so long.

You were good to me but I let you down.

It was me doing all the messing around.

Ineed your love to comfort me.

I hope once more for me you will believe.

I prayed so many times…asking God to
guide me away from a life of crime.

my prayers were answered and I’m alive today.

I have learnd to live a better way.

I dont want to live in sin.

I’ll be greatful to have your love again.

I can say I’ve seen the light!

Its time to start livin right.

Yes people are human and they
do make mistakes.

to overcome that you need faith,
understanding and love…thats what
it takes..

I know if I had you, I’d live my life
as if it was new.

I want to be with you for eternity , can you
forgive me for what I’ve done?

lets love together as one.
let this love be reunited by
allowing that old flame to be ignighted.

this is where my journey starts too…

I want you to know….I really do love you…

It smells like piss.
the cave-paintings of tags
discarded butts, discarded men
women
children
wait.

he starts to cry,
the littlest one
in his pram,
his mother says,
‘are you bleeding? did someone hit you? no?
you’re all right then.

you’re not playing with the boys enough. hang around girls and
see what happens.

you’ll turn into a bitch, girls are bitches.’

she plays a game of ‘goodbye’,
walking away and coming back,
until he is crying again,
she is preparing him and herself,
she knows that she is near to losing him.

a man with a golden halo of hatred passes through,
the weight of knowing bending his frame
driven to tell a story, his and not his own,
i watch his face, his movements, his sorrow
he declares that he will destroy what is in his way that
he doesn’t like
tells me about nano-technology applied to the Bomb,
tells me about the broken promises of politicians
and then i see through it
and i say, ‘you feel betrayed’.

he looks at me for a moment
shakes his head, ‘that’s something else you’re picking up on.’
but he gives me back my lighter,
softer…
but anyway,
there we all were,
a family group of sorts,
but i’m the only white one
i feel out of place, and
they know i’m not there
for anything
but that
and neither are they
funny how lack,
how desire,
brings us together
at a place like glue bag bench
we see each other’s faces
eyes
hands
those things we never would
just passing by, barely a glance,
forgotten.

============

Stephen Tee c 2008

Waiting patiently,
Thunder is powerful.
Its teaming a stream of rain,
I sit under cover smoking a cigarette.
Flashs of thunder light my skin.
Its almost time to go.
The target should be ready.
I have the tools to do the job.
I self-talk the plan,
I must go straight in and straight out,
Cant get caught, remember the gloves.
An instrument of death I have learnt to be.
One two three time to go time to speed
I walk straight up Queen st with my head facing the ground on the right hand side
I turn left into Fort st and pace to the bottom of the stairs I got followed from one summers night.
I stand straight facing the street and raise my arm diagonally right
Pistol in hand I scan from right to left
“Thump Thump” target hit twice!
I turn to my left and walk further down Fort st
I light a cigarette as I am walking
I turn and stare into the camera and as I flick the cigarette I give “the Bird”.
That’s the signature, I turn and walk the rest of Fort st with my head facing the ground
There is a taxi waiting for me its time to go home.

Like a lovers quarrel
That never gets settled
Steam suppressed
It’s the lover’s bequest

Our fires entwine
Just like blood red wine
I am the panther and I wait
You are the flower
A gorgeous stake
Like a magnificent country
In your majestic garden
You are queen of this nation
I trust your decision
I don’t understand why
Still seems to bring a tear though
Sometimes to my eye
A breath is all it takes
Time ticks by
And I forget the mistakes
Your still not here
What would it take?

If there’s union
May our heads never hit the pillow
Without resolved words of love and hate
I think you’re beautiful
How about being my mate

12:23am 20/10/2007

http://Stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=2201055

the downward spiral bids me
walk on me
i keep going through the first wisps of unease and suspicion
onward, onward to distrust and depression
past old wounds of betrayal and
hold no-one’s hand in the fields of resentment and disbelief
feeling the place of Love Gone Wrong
until i am broken,
beaten,
and must admit
that this is the way things really are
without hope of salvation
this is who i really am,
who you really are,
this is the way the world really is,
and no grace from an unrepentant god
can undo the truth

==========================

Stephen Tee c 2008

Who do you blame for the broken hearted
The rivers and the streams
Who do you blame for the broken hearted
Hey… it’s not me
I listen to your words of wisdom
That it’s by natural causes
And yes… it’s not you… but me
But is it change by nature
Or just your pollution ways
That no longer do you see
The pure blue in the sea
No longer do you see
The reflections down the stream
But that’s right… it’s not you… but me

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.

Sonnet to a Duvet.

When my wife sleeps on her side the duvet wraps itself
snuggly along her contours, soft valleys and dale, there
is something unseemly the way it caresses her body, one
wonders? Yes, it is an old duvet it was in her bed before
me and when I mention we ought to buy a new one, she
refuses; in the night I’m cold as the duvet will not cover
me, and I have to get up and get a blanket. It waits for me
to disappear, as her first husband so it doesn’t have to share
her with me and times suffer the agony to be made love
upon and see my smug smile of triumph, but it is dead
wrong I will take it to a drycleaner and lose the ticket and
pretend I have forgotten where the shop is. My wife will,
when used to a new expensive duvet, eiderdown, see who
habituated she has been and not mention her old lover again

The Good News

From the terrace of the Pousada we can see
a black swan swimming in the lake it looks
freer now than yesterday since the good news
from the USA, a black man, the very first, is
running for president, and the huddled masses,
who for so long have ignored and placed at
the edges of white America’s conscience and
enslaved by their own bitter legacy, will no
longer be overlooked, but sit at the top table
and finally feel equal and free in their souls.

PS Pousada is a Portuguese country hotel

Politics in the late night Bar

Is Darfur in Somalia or Sudan? Civil war you say,
so what’s new? Let me ask you this: “Have they
got refineries or oil wells that need to be guarded?
This is an African problem, endless wars, they are
only trying to sort themselves out; leave ’em alone.
The former colonies in Africa inherited a system not
theirs, the European ways will fail till it reaches
the level of zero (complete chaos) and Africa can
begin their system of governance suitable for them.

We may not like it, but it ain’t our business. Hasn’t
The president of South Africa said the Zimbabwe
problem is an African affair, so let them sort it out.
Let me ask you this: ”Has Zimbabwe oil refineries
or oil pipes that need protecting? No! Stop playing
the nice gay, but keep a warehouse full of blankets,
(nights are cold in Africa) and beans to donate if
asked, so keep your mouth shut, if they have no oil
a regime change is not needed.

Now, for a friendly Moment.

At a wayside café, a tour bus with a logo of a blue
elephant painted on its side, stopped so travelers could
drink coffee, eat a ham sandwich or have a quick pee.
The elephant could smell water and since it was a hot
dusty day it tore itself off the bus and walked down to
the river where it bathed and blew big bubbles about.
Then it crossed the stream met other elephants that
after some trumpeting, accepted it into their flock.
And since it was an inoffensive, slightly daft animal,
it was sat to guard baby elephants. It was delighted,
a product of an artist’s imagination it had not been
an infant, now it could relive its missing childhood.
The driver didn’t notice the missing elephant, it is so
easy to overlook what you see everyday, before he
came to the depot at the end of his long shift. Due
to the high price of diesel and petrol it was decided
not to have a new blue elephant painted on; however,
the management instructed drivers to keep an eye out
for the animal as it may get into trouble when trying to
survive on its own.