Auckland Poetry.com

Double Tanka

If, say… Christ returns
Bearded and in white burnoose
Will he be seized?
And sent to Guantanamo
If he looks like Bin Laden

Water tortured
Made confess odious crimes
He is innocent of
Or just say; “not again dad”
And magically disappear.

Still Life.

Mother used to have on the wall, a picture
of a dead boy in his coffin, surrounded by
flowers, candles and silence.

I often stared hard at the picture, willing
the boy to open his eyes, he never obliged
me, but came alive in my dreams.

The name of the boy’s mother was Olga she
used to visit us till mother and her fell out,
mother thought it rude to remove the picture.

Years went by, my brother died and mother
took the picture down, but it was still there,
a square less faded than the rest of the wall.

The Doubt

Snow fell between us, more and more,
I couldn’t see you, blizzard in my hearts;
when the weather cleared the landscape
was white with hares and fox tracks.
This mass of snow didn’t know where to
dig and I had no snow-spade. Waited till
April when snow thawed and hares had
been hunted to extinction and fox fur
adorned and gave warm comfort to old
ladies. You looked fine, just as before,
but there was a hole in your head, and
now they think I have had a hand in your
demise…. Preposterous!

The Lone Parent

Active silence stalks my house, when it gets
too noisy I walk into the kitchen make a cup
of coffee and bang cooking pots lid together.
in the day my bedroom is light an airy softly
moving curtains let in the light and sound of
the street, come night it falls into melancholy
so deep I need a diver’s suit to go to bed.

I sit by the fireplace and it doesn’t roar, blue
flames move to a sound that is composed, for
them alone, by logs that do not even sigh
when made into ash; and there on the rug my
black cat is dead as a lost bedroom slipper.
my only daughter has gone to seek her fortune,
works in a Taco Bell and wears a uniform.

Senryu

I had to haste home
But left my eyes on a stone
To enjoy, sundown

Senryu

In the square’s corner
A fallen woman danced
With dust and leaves

Senryu

A denuded phellem
Suffers in noble silence
Birds do not titter.

Window Facing Backyard.3

Snow had fallen into the yard, a boy
was making a snowman; no, not
a fat one, but a small and skinny one
much snow falls down a dark space
between tall buildings.

The boy, whose mother clean steps
and lives in the basement flat, gave
the snowman coal eyes, carrot nose
and personality, it also wore my old
baseball cap.

When April came and snowmen in
nice people’s gardens had melted,
ours was still there, minus eyes and
nose; I kept sensing his presence, as
a work of art, after his final demise.

Window Facing backyard.2

From my window I can see the wall of
a factory where they used to make cigars.
On good days I can inhale the aroma of
bygone days that despite poverty were
in many ways, less judgmental than now

Eight month a year the wall is grey, but
come May when dry and lit by sunlight,
it is a map of the world. Lakes, rivers,
mountains, seas and arid regions where
an oily, black mass trickles down.

How nice it will be if someone comes
along scrapes off the old paint fills in
cracks and repainted the wall; pink this
time. I fear it’s too late, the wall will
soon fall drained by human disregards.

Widow Facing Backyard. 1

I keep plastic flowers on the window sill,
they are spray painted in vivid colours;
I take them in once week and rinse them
under the tap; this morning they had tiny
snow flakes on, looked pretty and lit up
a room that only sees sunlight in June.

My lady friend thought them vulgar, ashamed
of my bad taste I let them fall down into
the dark yard and we went out for dinner.
Silent and angry I left early, walked home
picked up the flowers, rinsed them under
the tap and put them back on sill.

Child of War.

I was four when bombs fell and exploded with a cool bang, burning houses free heat on a January night.
When the enemy soldiers came, big men laughing intoxicated
by victory, so different from those pale man at the factory
and, yes I became enthralled and without looking back
joined the invaders as a mascot; blue eyes and blond hair and
teeth as white as Italian marble. Yes, the warriors loved me
the child of war; an army tailor sewed me a golden uniform.
I was there riding, alongside the commandant, saluting
the troops who indulgently smiled. What they did not know
any talk of sedition from them I reported to my leader, but in
the end they knew and they feared me greatly…War is in my blood, and I’m not even British, peace didn’t bode me well it
made me tired I slept for forty five years and luckily for me
the Iraqi war came along, in itself nothing much, but it is
the ember that will set the world afire and once more we will
have world war. Sweet blood and heavenly light let me be consumed by your fire, let me see the earth burn and let me
once more sit on a steed and lead men of iron into oblivion

The Fingerprinted.

On the highway stretching forever, beset by
dumped cars and weed that cracks up asphalt,
a gypsy family with their tough little horses
meanders slowly through a road that is a sad
testament to a civilization that lost its way.
War of resources, everyone lost, has ruined
the economy and social cohesion, the people
lack the will to start again after the fat years.
Begging, theft and robbery are the norm, and
as usual the itinerants are blamed by people
who still cling to their bankrupt dwellings.
For travelers this means nothing, they were
poor before, and feel no triumph. Nomads in
the landscape of shimmering time.

A Portuguese Spring

Once again the almond petals snow their
silky abundance on the pebbled road in
the village, and the Nordic princess who
lives in a castle near a lake that houses
an old pike that has been here so long it
can tell tales of times, before the princess
came and made winters mild; when
the lake froze over and folks wore wooly
snakes as scarves around scrawny necks,
against the bitter child- dries her tears and
smiles again and remembers a childhood
up north were the snow was so pure that
god’s footsteps were seen by the devoted,
for the rest the silence hummed a lullaby

Haiku

Summer sunlight
Filtered through green leaves
Made old moss golden

Saying

Chase the rainbow
Not for its illusory gold
But its beauty

Senryu

The carob tree’s shade,
Soft as a dusky mistress
A tropical night

 
The Thing

In my home town they were closing down
the old library, going digital, giving away
leather bound book. I parked by the door
got as many beautiful old books as I could
carry, but I had parked in a no parking and
the police had dismantled my car, an officer
guarding the pieces said if I paid the police
would come and reassemble the car,

I agreed, but it began raining, they couldn’t
come before it stopped, staggered back to
the library with my book, but it had shut its
doors for the day. And did it rain, the books,
now a dough of damp leather and wet paper
gave birth to a ugly, slimy thing that tried to
crawl back into the library leaving a trail of
useless words and pompous poetry behind.

How have we come to be here now
you and i
still clinging to the burst of feeling that happened to us
long ago,
now gone,
but the cold fear terror hideous
of i do not know what
maniacally creeping
makes us desperately hold hands
like a couple in love

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

Stephen Tee c 2008

No Goodbyes

I grieve for the loss of what I thought would be
For all the times I had hoped it could be
When my heart cried for more than your company
For the times that I thought we really could be

Although years have passed and we’ve grown apart
Your legacy lives in your boys and my heart
I honor your choices you made at the start
For your two little boys to get a head-start

Now I grieve for our boys just eleven and ten
For their pain and frustration, for this happening
I love these boys and I can’t do a thing
For this time in their lives when they don’t want to sing

I crumble when I look in their eyes
When I hold them tight and I hear their cries
They have no understanding, there were no goodbyes
Such a tragic time when a father dies

Sound is at its best when in the form of music
Beats, rifts, melodies and tunes
I love all music in what ever form
Rhythms of music stir my moods
It leave’s me elevated when I’ve been listening to tunes.

Don’t get me wrong I have a day job
No music in my day job though
It makes me sad
A job in music would make me glad.

I must tell you though
There is a party going on in my head
It’s what I see when the lights gone dead
It’s not darkness but colours instead
Combined with music is an excellent thread
I express it when I’m in bed
Probably something I will do till I’m dead
Twisting, shaking moving to the beat
Sleep and slumber music is the engine
It must be time to do this on my feet
Bring on the crowd it will be sweet
The colours are electric especially with beats
An audience I will greet, singing and dancing
I’m a one man show, even with my devils glow
Some how I need to graduate this show
Tell them I love them I hope she knows.

In this widely journey of mine,
i met a persons
whose so lovely and dear..
they put me high when i am down
they make me laughed
when i am sad
they gave all i want
if in case that will make me happy
they were proud in every piece of thing i achieved
they are there to be my guide
and to support…
i know how much they love me
i know they will always care..
and i know deep in my heart
that i could depend on their love
and support no matter what….

You watch the weather, don’t you?
From the kitchen window, the patio
Even the office as it climbs four storeys
You drape yourself in whatever works
For the conditions
The weather has a major say in what you say
To the employer; the wife; the neighbour

If I were you I would keep a close eye on the weather
It has ways and means of interrupting; catapulting
Thoughts of innocence across mountain tops
Down to fears of catastrophe and calamity

There are paid people who warn you about the weather
Maps and grids and watchwords
They are concerned you might miss it
As it comes rolling over the hills like storm-troopers
The Gestapo knocking at your door
Tearing at your gutters; your roses

Make no mistake – the weather needs soothing
We stopped offering sacrifices and now we have
Weather bombs dropped on us repeatedly

I wish the weather would just go away and
Leave us with a benign void
So we know
Nothing will ever happen

© 2008 Keith Nunes

Emotionally, spiritually and physically connected
This man I can never have

One day my heart will stop breaking
One day there will be love again

under the hill that was once a mountain
beneath the sea that fell from up there

the air felt hotly majestic
sticky to the touch
hard to remember the must
as it floated about like fingers
running through sand

moving at a rapid clip through the dunes
the wagon chewed away at the patterns
so randomly and beautifully laid by winds
nobody had predicted or marvelled at
they were winds from the ocean stored on calm
days for days like this great rolling wave
after wave lumped mounds of water in

Cold lucid eyes look up through the needles of
dancing light under the waves
fish juggling at each side of the mask
the diver with a broken cable must know
rescue is still there right until the end
passes

And that terrible tsunami event
on boxing day millions and millions of lives
damaged by one shrug underground

The titans sleep
and we play on the mound
think ye could
tred more carefully
now?

Driving back north
Running away
From running away
Back to what I know
The tears were tearing at my stomach
I could not drive any further
For the weakness in my legs
As I  faded into the darkness of my soul
And it’s labyrinth of ruins
I stopped to rest
The beach was beautiful
A storm was brewing
To match the one inside
I was tired
Tired of trying
Tired of failing
Tired of being tired
The waves wild but wistful
Foaming, lulling, rhythmic
With ancient song
While the dunes cradled me
In the hollow of their arms
Alone
Just as I came, I’ll go
And I wanted to
Lured by the siren silence
Of the depths
I lay there for a day
And a night
Sleepless as the cold set in
Blanketing the mountains in snow
The next day the hunter came
Too early for the season
With his dog just as eager
They plucked a swan from the sky
It fell from grace
With downward spirals
Sinking into the deep
They left it there
Just like the men
Who hungered for my body
And upon satiation
Left my soul to bleed

The Way to Faith?

The horror is in the mirror it reflects
and reports the obscene that hides
behind human beauty.

Fear of death and stench of the crypt
for those who rely on mere physical
allure, and haven’t yet accepted time’s
way to rot and grind all down to finest
dust. Doomed to panic stricken roam
the world seeking a cure for old age
and loss of lust.

When a selfless act of prayer can
beautify our sad souls and set us free;
redeemed we can find Paradise.

A Portuguese Spring

Once again the almond petals snow their
silky abundance on the pebbled road in
the village, and the Nordic princess who
lives in a castle near a lake that houses
an old pike that has been here so long it
can tell tales of times, before the princess
came and made winters mild; when
the lake froze over and folks wore wooly
snakes as scarves around scrawny necks,
against the bitter child- dries her tears and
smiles again and remembers a childhood
up north were the snow was so pure that
god’s footsteps were seen by the devoted,
for the rest the silence hummed a lullaby

Disagreeable Day.

Rose petals and golden leaves on my terrace,
sparrows fly about, twitter insanely, fauns have
danced here, in the heat of the night. I look for
a broom must keep things tidy or neighbours
may think I’m slothful; can’t fine the broom.
My desk is full of shiny sheets of papers with
chaotic words, merrily free of grammar.
Must act now fling them into the bin and go
for a walk, I have to polish my shoes first or
people will think I’m a vagabond.
Order, there isn’t enough of it around; the day
is too young and unforgiving, chills my bones.
I’ll go to bed and only get up when the day
gets older and less demanding.