Auckland Poetry.com

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.