Auckland Poetry.com

October

Woke up with a start, the night was cold
a dream had disturbed my peace;
a black hole in the ground loose soil from
its edges kept falling into its endlessness.

Got up looked out of the window into a street
of pale light, my breath fogged up the glass
I saw a distorted image of my youth;
“How old you are,” it mocked.

I pressed my head against the glass, tried
to make friend with my tormentor; and
behind stillness I heard the hum of
the long sea rippling on nirvana’s strand

twilight invades

the cool silence

with long shadows

in birdsong

I want to go

far away to where

sunlight glows amber on the sea

where children

flash their teeth at sunset

devouring the evening

with laughter.

the sky is so far

and my heart is strung over

so many skies.

Who can offer solace?

or even a pause in the rush

of sensations

tumbling my chest

against an unknown shore

The Jogger

They said he had invented jogging and he was quite
addicted to his invention, ran every afternoon longer
and longer distances; till he dropped dead.
“He had congenital heart disease and would have died
anyway,” the defenders of jogging said.

Sure but that’s not the point he could have died when
copulating, angling, having a splendid meal with wine
or congenial drink with friends in the bar, and not
prancing about in shorts on a cold road alone a chilly
autumnal evening.

O Marmelo (a pear shaped fruit of
the quince, tree can also mean
“Saio de Mulher” Bosom)
Al-Musahfi ca 982
Translated from
old Portuguese by Jan Oskar Hansen

O Marmelo
Is of the colour yellow that of shame
A narcissist’ tunic and it has a musky
Penetrating aroma

As the perfume of once beloved and has
The same force as the heart but has
The colour of one who is in love and
haggard.

Her paleness is but an imprint of my pallor
And my breath has the aroma
Of my woman’s breaths

Fragrant when the fruit is lifted from the branch
Under the brocade of woven leaves, suavely
In my hand I carry it indoors and put it as
A costly treasure, in my alcove

Dressed in grey down which flutters on its
Smooth golden body

And when in my hand, naked sans its shirt-
The colour of narcissism- makes me record
What I can’t express as the heat of my vigor
Fades and drips between my fingers

Tomorrows World

So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.

We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.

This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die

Television

My sister’s was the first in our street to buy TV,
an ugly, shiny mahogany box in the corner, and
since it was early afternoon and no program on,
stood there blinking as having dust in its eye.

Monday, film night on TV, the whole family
was there and neighbours too. Curtains drawn,
even though it was summer and still daylight, we
sat in darkness, in silence caused by our awe.

A Bergman movie, early TV in Norway tended
to take itself serious. I remember the whiteness
of the screen and how it reflected on the faces of
an enchanted audience.

Glistening cars in the rain, where her house once
stood there is now a parking lot; I’m the only one
alive, but every face, that evening, is etched on my
mind. Glass clear in black & white

Birthday

In the doorway of
a restaurant
music plays behind me,
dancers move to
a Finnish tango.

Glitter on the ceiling,
happy faces,
a few drinks more and
wrong words uttered,
steel blades glint in
the knuckled hands of my
dysfunctional relatives.

The Heat Before The Rain.

The blue bird that flew over the houses had wings that
cast shadows in the olive grove, the docile mule bolted
kicked over the bucket of water, I had carried from
the well, it jumped over a stone fence. Didn’t make it fell
broke a leg. I called my neighbour he likes to kill things, something unresolved, I gather, from his sad childhood.
All that blood a small river trickled and sank into parched
ground, where autumnal flowers sprung up and hid
the dead body in an orgy of colours, that got brighter and
brighter when feasting on decay till they exploded into
a shower of rainbows which attracted dark clouds, and it
rained; huge drops- bigger then a crocodile’s- tears.
Next day the mule grazed as before, docile as nothing had happened, but under an olive tree I found a knife with dry
blood on, and my neighbour was yonder trimming almond
trees that now have brown leaves and are full of nuts.

Princess.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      I I will to bring you peace;

I will share your grief.

I will help you find,

Your dreams in our land.

I will dance,

With you,

On the open plain.

And we will sing,

Warm,

On the cold, cold moon.

I will bring you peace,

Embrace you in your grief,

And dance with you

Into dreams.

The progression of submission  -by Sarah Rowland

Aspirations, dreams, accelerating to be,

Foot in front of foot, impressions only to leave.

Hesitating departures coming only to overdue,

Lost in the old, navigating the new.

Say goodbye to everything that is nothing,

Open a door to a better something.

Inside there lies the path to change,

Destinations to lead the way.

“Twisted little star how fucking far are you?

I’ve sent so many wish’s, are they getting through?

Unjust it that you’ve lit only to guide me into the dark,

Travelling blank your labyrinth now to be my lark.

Tired on my knees, begging you please,

I for an end to my means.

Deserving of accomplishment in which I can lay,

Rightly owed the rewards I should gain.”

“My friend, a life’s not lived quietly dreamt but experienced aloud,

And little substance you’ll gain with your head in the clouds.

The original nature of that you wish to loose,

Should surely be yours and not a star’s to choose.

Freedom is a right, yet there are those still chained and cage,

You’ll never understand its power till you’ve understood the crave.

Will and want are only the start of life’s game,

By by-standing its lessons its awards are earned in vain.

Change is that of losing ones original nature,

And should only be dealt by its creator.

Without true strength you’ll become it’s slave,

Action is yours only, battle for its day.

Inconsequent Calamity.

Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;

maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.

Look back in Sadness.
(Written as Tanka)

Bundle of photos
Face down in a cigar box
Family and friends
From a time that is a dream
Fading into eternity

Mostly black & white
How young my parents looked
Now I’m the oldest
Siblings faded fast away
As I sailed many seas

Non returnable
Past’s gate is firmly padlocked
Wait in no mans land
Know there is no remedy
The past really is a dream.