Auckland Poetry.com

Migration

In this rich flat landscape there are no stones they had to
travel to the far mountain and with mule and cart it was
a long arduous journey. Stones were only used as base for
houses and as grave stones, but since these were stolen
so this practice ended, the dead had to do with wooden
crosses which tend to rot when it rains. Farmers buried
their stones under a mass of soil, for safety mounds of
them dotted the flat landscape and made it less monotone.

Modern time, a railway line stretches across the land and
ends in a haze were the mountain begins, stones are now
a common thing, way, all and sundry has one, the poorest
even have gravelled strewn back yards. A clever man decided
to open a rise and sell stones a souvenir as a memory of
the past, when life was idyllic, but he found a mass grave,
not only human skeletons but also household goods, toys
and musical instruments.

Cabin Fever.

The firewood in the hearth hiss and smoke
refuse to burn bright, these limbs of a giant
will not heat my cabin this winter evening.
I must have done something wrong, don’t
know what. I have doused the flaccid limbs
with alcohol, drank some too, now the fire
is burning bright with an inner ice blue tint.
From the floor looking up I see the roof is
on fire. Someone knocks on my door, I’m
a pirate burning my ship, there is rum for
everyone; for the dreary I’ve diet coke and
for the loony there is low fat yogurt.

If I close my eyes and caress my skin,
I can separate host from the soul within.
Curling gentle fingers around my arm,
I untangle myself from discomfort or harm.

My hand slips down the expanse of skin,
the limb becomes part of the form lived in.
I am two way profound, both in harmony
with sun after rain and the tides of the sea.

If I open my eyes, all I touch becomes clear,
like a fresh water stream, or an infants tear.
In the mirror I see how others see me,
But beneath mortal calm. I long to be free.

My body a shield for quintessence below,
I am perfume collector, free miracle show.
No different from you, on the outer at least,
but deep inside nestles the lamb, or a beast.

If I close my eyes and caress my skin
I can separate host from the soul within.
Never the less I control each breath,
until nature, sweet talks my host to her death.

©Roan Feb.2009

Forgiveness.

It was dawn in Calcutta; I had spent the night in
a bar with no name, when I came upon a hospital
in a side street, a place for the dying. Two nurses
in white uniforms with blue borders – they were
nuns- twins, poke marked, elderly, had prominent
noses and dark penetrating eyes. They led me to
a room were an ancient woman lie dying on a mat,
she smiled held out her hand and asked me what
had taken me so long? I told her of my endless
journeying, all the obstacles in my way and how
I regretted my lateness. She smiled glad that she
could see me a last time; then she died. Twilight,
long shadows a day was ending and I had been
forgiven for not knowing I was loved and missed.

The Assessment

My copy pen fell to the floor I bent down to pick it up
now I feel dizzy. I came to this country, decades ago
to write, many pens have fallen on the floor- although
I do not write with a pen but use a word processor.
A pen is a crutch and to make droll shapes on sheets
of paper; a thousands sheets filled with doodles while
waiting to write something sensible on the processor;
a mad publisher has shown interest in them.
Twenty years feels a very long time, twenty more and
I’ll be ninety bet I will not be able to pick up a pen from
the floor then. Now I wake up in the night and a steady
hum tells me I have wasted my time scrawling, a book
of scribble how is that for an epitaph?

Epigram

All dolls are equal, but some are
better dressed than others; yet
they all end up- utterly forlorn-
in a cardboard box, on the attic.

A container of love pulling away now
Always moving away
It has been for thirty years now
The training of this shadow mine

Bridget touched her pregnant belly
She told me and something inside died
along with her marriage that resolve it will never be

I hoped to stay close
But forced away by the
discrimination of small minds

I called by leaving through the door
Embracing my freedom I traded well
Until the wealth ran dry

Broken crumbs of humble pie
Ground into a cog in the corporate machine
I didn’t mind, if

But I’ve only seen her twice since then
At that party she actually talked to me
only that lifted me because she was with him

With “yeah so what” she brushed away Rotorua
the music dissolved from
Transplants to Cold Play that night

The next morning brought doubts about what could have been
so I drifted back to sleep and dreamed of the sea

The last time I saw her was when she came
to work next to me
she said she needed extra cash
but never said what for

She thanked me when I gave her someone else’s chocolate
I thought here she is another chance, who knows?
It could be, I said “maybe” (that fateful word)
When she left she told me she was pregnant again

My dear friends we broke another stone,
When it was part of no ones home.
The open doors shout softly when they close,
But I know that one day were alone.

The open sky shouts softly in the night,
With all those voices speaking full of freight.
People tell you how to live your life,
Until you find their all about the knife.

The open minds create destructive crimes,
Scholars laugh and flip another dime,
They recite some thoughts into a published line.
Well my dear friends not every one is fine.

The open hearts are eclipsed by instinctive faults,
While many people close up many vaults.
Those who fear will never find success,
Even if they’ve conquered their distress.
Please don’t judge what you don’t expect,
Since we know our life will end with death.

In colonized America
Wild birds beg for the food
Submit the forms to ask for what’s yours
Personification of the men
No longer a human, but just a slave
Certified on birth day
So you may be claimed
Born into the system of mental illusion
No one seems to come to conclusion
Hypnotized into a freedom
to support their greedom
Forgetting life how sweet life could have been
You run like a hamster
in the spinning wheel
of never ending pursuit of happiness
Withdraw, I ask, for the sake of your kids.

A Nice Middle-Class Family

I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.

Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.

Up rua Garrett I walked and it’s steep, in Baixa, the old heart
of Lisbon, past a shop that sells lottery tickets that sits beside
a shop that sells religious artifax, which is next door to a shop
that sells Cartier watches, if you buy a ticket and win, there is
money to decorate you mother’s grave and to buy a watch for
yourself. At the top of the street there is café Brasilia it used to
be Fernando Pessoa’s drinking den, the place is full of solemn,
nice Portuguese who, dressed for the occasion, drink nice cups
of coffee, their forefathers used looked down on Fernando,
irreverent poets and writers must go and drink elsewhere.

The master poet is now a statue sits outside in the rain and has
his picture taken by tourists, one wonders what he thinks of it all
as he sees the statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the Largo is called after him he is bald and
is dressed like monk. From Largo Chiado I could see the harbour
where tug boats ply their trade on grey waters; the church
“Incarnacao” where Antonio used to pray is beautifully restored,
but empty god had left by the backdoor, the front door was too
heavy, but I saw woman weeping near a statue of Christ, “opium
for the people?” Yes, why not?

It is getting dark the Portuguese are swallowed up by the Metro
as middle aged men with folded cardboard boxes, look for a shop
doorway where to bed down; and over this scene hovers Amalia,
the great Fado singer, she came from poverty too, famous in her
own life time she had the sense to be a friend of the powerful and
made it to the top. When her friends toppled from power she was
out in the cold, but not for long the Portuguese quickly forgave her.
Fine rain falls on Fernando’s hat and Antonio’s bald head, empty
streets the city sleeps and leaves the space to cats, the sleepless,
whores and their sad clients.

The Face

On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that
has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face,
of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his
shop, now he had to rush out, buy up pastries in other
places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own,
but he got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his
burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell
them to children on their way to school, or old folks who
are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag.
His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery – they haven’t
been married long- they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get
the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset
him during baking hours, he isn’t mad at her, not since
she told him she had a bun in the oven herself.
And the tree, it’s an olive tree- silvery in winter light- is
silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.

Nature in the vale sleeps today last
night a storm raced through it, twigs
and almond petals litter lanes, birds
sit with heads under wings, wide open
Algarvian sky a few clouds sails slowly
about and the sun warms my face.

This is a tilled landscape, like a stroll
in a city park only less noisy, wolves,
foxes, brown bears and boars have
gone, I stand near a sign that warns
of cattle crossing, but I haven’t seen
a ruminant around here for years.

Flocks of dumb sheep usually graze
under the olive trees, if not now, and
I’ll not tread on wet grass; it saddens
me to see oranges fall unpicked to
the ground, but rats eat them and in
time of need I can eat a healthy rat.