Auckland Poetry.com

As Days Get Shorter.

The sunny fall is now dry, hard winter
on the avenue trees stand denuded
while their offspring the leaves, rustles
up and down the street, filling up storm
drains and sighing as they dance with
a lackluster zephyr, not yet ready to
merge into dark soil; tawny and auburn,
I look at my hands, not there yet.

Few birds in trees they have gone to
Africa, which is not far from where
I live…for a bird, they spend nights in
the avenue’s trees, safer there than on
the country side; seen as vermin when
there are too many, too few and bird
lovers and other weird people, worry
if birds of prey will survive.

I look up to the sky it is cold and azure
but I see the shimmer, not a sharp eyed
sparrow hawk or an eagle, but of a much
bigger wing span, something is keeping
an eye on me, but I wag a finger, bravely
smile and say: “no thanks, my hands are
not like leaves yet. And as street- lights are
lit the day flawlessly glides into twilight.

Terror in Mumbai

The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, flushed look and his eyes shine
with the ecstasy of total power, the one
who decides who’s to live or die.

This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.

Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute supremacy.

Terror in Mumbai

The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, his face is flushed and his eyes
shine with the ecstasy of total power,
the one who decides who’s to live or die.

This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.

Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute power once again

Senryu

Israeli police
When not head butting women
Also play rugby.

Senryu

It’s weird to notice
How the unjust and powerful
Fear the frail masses.

Senryu

Viciousness
Is the typical reaction
Of a scared mob

Autumnal Sunday

Rain, it is October the month of melancholy
and you know that the blue sky and sun of
yesterday was just another foolish illusion
the cock didn’t crow this morning and dogs
ears didn’t move when a stranger’s voice
echoed in narrow streets, they knew it was
the voice of doom;

the harvester had arrived in coming month
the old would succumb to the damp breath
of death; not too many tears shed, faces in
a black frame, yes, that’s the way it is we
understand death if not our own. Dogs need
not be told, they snooze sure of their own
own immortality

The Awareness

As the days of light draw in I’m pulled
back to a mythical past, and I remember
a perfect moment, when time stood still
and we’re a contented family.

An alarm clock rang, a shift worker had
to get up, do his job, a summer evening
that would never return when nature
and humanity were as one

No one remember them now, traceless
but for a box of old photos in the drawer,
bones that rattle in the night; the expanse
between us is unbridgeable now

As the memory fades into a shadow
and faces are hidden in a miasma of time,
there is in the vanishing light a beacon
that still shines till my journeying ends.

A litre of wine

The wine in the glass is full the red liquid arches the slightest
movement and it will spill over and run down the stem like
a bleeding stomach wound trickling down a petrified leg.
I bent down and inhaled the wine no spillage and I wondered
why it is so many people, in fact more and more drink beer
that is no longer a natural brew is it because we are no longer
a part of nature and seek and feel more at ease with man made
products and we will soon have a diet that fits with the work
we are doing, say if you want a double cheeseburger with fries
you first have to work shuffling coal for twelve hours,

but if you only want to sit writing a simple poem about
the country side low fat yogurt for you; if you have written
the poem under the influence of a steak you will be censured,
made to walk in the park and tell everyone you’re a crock of
empty of gold empty of anything a modern society such as
networking banalities and get people to buy what they don’t
need; men get medals and titles for doing that. So what do
I care, but it annoys me that I end up buying a soap which
name I have seen on the television and smell like everybody
else, yeah…isn’t that just nice?

The Aide

The swimming pool’s wall was decked out with Swiss
flags making the scene solemn and legal, Charles, his
real name Herbert, but he thought Charles have him
an royal air, was leading an alabaster skinned, thin
woman into the pool, she was naked save from a pair
of heavy, leaded boots. They waded to the deep till
submerged, he had instructed her not to hold her
breath, but just let it happen it would be quicker that
way. But she held her breath till bubbles came out of
her mouth and nostrils and her struggle to reach to
the surface ended and she looked like a rare sea plant
swaying gently in the flow. Charles got out of
the pool his job done, elderly now, but with a body
that would make a suit or uniform look good, he had
the contented air of a man who had found his proper
vocation in life.

Blank Decency

The capital of Norway, Oslo, has well lit
clean streets swept clear of humanity;
you’ll see clusters of people here and there
sat inside plastic tents- pavement cafes-
smoking tobacco. And now that it’s illegal
to buy sex too, streets will be cleaner then
before. If a consumer of bought of sex
thinks he can go abroad and buy it he will,
if found out, be prosecuted.

There are still cars driving around these
empty streets, to get rid of them it might
be an idea to ban the purchase of petrol;
a car free city, something to boast about,
tourists come and puff virtuous Oslo air.
Those who miss driving can when in, say,
Bangkok on vacation, rent a coupé for
the duration, but remember credit card
purchases can be traced.

The whiteness within…me

Yesterday I saw an albino raven
it had just killed a sparrow and
had drops of blood on its chest.

Having had the privilege to be
white you would think it would
desist from killing sparrows.

But I must be wrong perhaps it
was an angel dressed as cardinal
they wear red and eat meat.

Or was it was a dove of peace
wearing a ruby necklace, or had
it been hurt by an Israeli sniper?

Perhaps it was a white cloud
I saw drifting along on blue
being lit up by a red eyed sun.

A white feather, cowardice is
pale as cold snow, so why does
a peace dove has to be white?

Haiku

Compass pointing south,
I migrate, follow the sun,
But my heart looks north.

Haiku

Chopping winter wood
The eye of a fire is blue
The colour of yours

Haiku

At twilight,
I shot a blackbird
Night fell down.

The Transplant

You throb slowly and evenly today,
does it mean you have accepted your
fate that you at only thirty shall live
with an old man like me? Faithful, but
could you have done other wise?

My fear is having done this sacrifice
at such a tender age you might, when
reaching middle age, revolt, feel you
have wasted your time with me,
become bitter and self destructive.

I must warn, because I do love you,
(I even stopped smoking for you)
if you let me down you will be cast
into the wilderness of no life only
because you can’t dance anymore?

Irate the heart cries and skip a beat
worryingly, been threatened by
the man it gave itself too. Why can’t
he, get off his backside and take his
wife to the ball.

A Byway

The orange grove was like a forest, trees full
of fruit standing close together I couldn’t gaze
through, look west to see the winter ocean.
Further on I came to an olive grove, more space
amongst trees that looked serious like elderly,
sagacious men contemplating a vanishing future,
while terracotta wooly sheep grazed on fresh
green grass; and I could see a sliver of the sea,
glittering as a pearl-necklace thrown away by
an intemperate wife of a Russian oligarch.
Timeless she is teasing me with her shimmer,
I thought of racing down to the coast join a ship
and sense the heave of the seas under my feet
once more Ah, but not today, if ever.

The sheep stopped grazing looked my way,
chewed slowly, it was getting colder and they
had flecks of sunlight in their eyes.

The muted light that slept
in the shack of the Electricity Department
in the distance
shed the color of silence.
A single moth threw itself to make things sparkling
at this moment of squander.
The zoomed- in visions carried wraiths
yearning to exist yet another night of hidden plots.
The rusted iron gate, the old electric lines,
the two stars hung in between
looked like suspended hopes
even the darkness couldn’t light up.
Pieces of ashen thoughts camouflaged as vapor
tried to cover up the pointless flicker above,
none to behold.
At this hour of black futility,
the glimmer in the ether seemed superfluous
which the moon generously frittered away.
A breeze over passed me, knowing my thoughts well,
touching a few insignificant leaves
up on the tamarind tree,
unsolicited.
This wakeful night was appropriate,
for dreams - of old generators
and broad high tension wires,
cold and powerless and filled with cowardice.
Up in the room in the attic I was smeared
by the dust on the windowsill,
spreading in me a sense of refuge;
in the stuffy enclosure,
the smell of burned leather and old paint
sheltered me from the senseless redundancy
that lay outside.

Fair is Fair
It belongs to her
Does she have hunger for the meal
The rent has to be paid some how
Will he make it in time
In time for the feast
A meal of a thousand sins
A meal fit for a King
A meal defined by a country that holds the secret
A secret encrypted by a lifetime of stones
Why does he eat the forbidden fruit from the forbidden tree
The fruit is a crux
Its nectar a satisfied thirst
Or is it simply the oil of the machine
Something needed to be complete
He ponders yesterdays slashed memories
Beaten to a river stones smoothness
He delivers what is needed

Edition 10 has now been posted on the site front page

Haiku

Algarvian rain
Falls mainly in opaque nights
When moggy kills mice

Haiku

On cold winter days
When sky is icy sapphire
Sun’s a jaded eye

Haiku

November still day
Peaceful chimney smoke shimmer
Fox spoors on new snow

Not an Idle Moment

A fly sits on top of the computer screen
washing its face when not watching me,
incredible it takes lift flies and lands on
the tip of my nose, close up it has
enormous eyes, so big I can see myself.
I hit it, but miss now I have nosebleed,
trickles down to my lips, tastes salty,
drips on my green shirt I’m so proud of.

I go to the bathroom, I’m a boxer, who
has won the match in round six, so what’s
a nosebleed? Take shirt off soaks it in
cold water, put a clean one on, it needs to
be ironed, so who cares a dank day when
even windows cry and the old roof leaks?

The dipterous sits on top of the screen
eyeing me contemptuously, pretend I’ve
forgotten something get up, in the kitchen
cupboard I find insecticide, storm in, spray
my room, the fly curls up and dies. Blank
screen I have forgotten what I was going
to write about.

The Hunter

The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.

Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.

Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.

I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.

There are Fairy tales
Written in the stars
That speak of dragon scales
And bright yellow cars
There is a silly song
That mum will sing
About bells that dong
And flowers that ding
So when the sunshine says “Goodnight”
Come rest your head and close eyes, tight
For the tick tock clock has bedtime chimed
It’s time to sing the sleep sweet rhyme

Samantha Braum

To Adrian Henri
When in 67 we travelled back on that Ribble bus,
Smug sometimes, arrogant, belly humorous poet,
You were jovial, and graciously evaded the impertinent approval of the lines I felt I could proffer back to you.
You, chuffed with the few bob from the reading, were set on getting back to “Ye Cracke” before closing.
And I continued, until I left the bus, and patronised,                                                                                                           With the serene security of ‘yet another’ sixth former,                                                                                                       Your part in establishing the Ginsberg acclaimed World Centre:                                                                                                                                                                                          Our City’s scene.

I had too quickly recovered from your earlier, opening annnouncement:                                                                                                                                                                          The death of John Coltrane.
Few, if any, in that youthful
Crosby audience, had heard of your revered Sax-man.                                                                                                                                                                                             Your angel to whom you dedicated our evening celebration of
Liverpool,                                                                                                                                                                                       The present and future of verse,                                                                                                                                              And always our City of the moment.
The words you used to describe the notes he’d planted in your brain chilled more than the verses we shared.

Not many weeks later, I responded to the unnecessary invitation I sought.                                                                          I took my place to read, from the floor at O’Connor’s.
I was not displeased to have to turn and glower smugly.
You distracting, chatting, when those girls and you ignored the evening’s proclaimed point.
It was an incident I knew I could and would booze out on:
Boldly having shown up a proselytiser of poetry.                                                                                                          Concerned with recognition’s not writing’s fruits.

Thirty plus year later,
The collapse of your beer battered life,                                                                                                                                     The insulting stroke,                                                                                                                                                                   The perished liver,                                                                                                                                                                       All were unknown to me,                                                                                                                                                      When I shook at the news of your death.

Lost to me are a hero, an era and chances sweet people had made.

Freeman:
Painter:
Poet:
Your glorious topicality warmed,                                                                                                                                           Much more than the gentle words,                                                                                                                                        That shared the howls of a saxophone,
And precipitated young ladies                                                                                                                                           Towards your beery belly.

The Flowering Shrub

The rhododendron, planted years ago
is now leaning over weighing down
the shed, it looks healthy and lovely,
knocks on the kitchen window I keep
closed or it will enter strangle me,
the cooker and the fridge

Crimson as fluid blood, its flowers,
when it rains ruby drops drip as war
wounds on battle ground, and people
come from a far just to take pictures;
yet no birds sits on its branches and
cats keep disappearing;

Killed by the red foxes in the woods?
I have suspicions, cannot voice them
unless people think I’m mad. Bought
a chain-saw, and when no one looks,
the good-looking but murderous killer
will be aromatic winter wood.

The Great World War.

It is long ago, when I saw this painting, on
the wall in a house that had belonged to
man just dead, long trenches- in a flat
landscape- killed by shells, leaf- less trees
denuded and defiled by an orgy of bullets.

The soldiers in the trenches wore long blue
coats, the painting too had a bluish shine
telling us of a world where the sun refused
to come and be a part of this horror show.
No heroes here, just soldiers waiting to die

I don’t know if the painting was a work of
art, I had wanted to take it home, but a child
in an adults’ world has no right, the picture
was filthy and had a crude frame, they said;
it was thrown on the skip and forgotten.