Auckland Poetry.com

The African Bee.

Yellow flowers in a ring protected by olive trees
no one knows their name I have to ask a botanist
for their Latin name. The dale side here has many
stone walls, tiny if seen from the moon overgrown
now those small plots of land yielding nothing but
poverty and deep seated resentment. The flowers
are not lilies, I can see that, it will soon be Easter
and the little church will be full of women, while
most men will hang about outside, near the bar,
white and yellow butterfly flies unsteadily around
in the wind and, and bumblebees drink from deep
red poppies. A swarm of killer bees fly by, I do not
speak or move till they are gone. My brother in law
Nené who lives in Kinshasa, Congo, tells me that
the bees there live, exclusively, on orchid dew and
they are big as sparrows and can sting an elephant
till it dreams of yesterday, maybe it isn’t true but
I would not like to b stung by them. Now that the ice
on the poles melts will we see a fauna of rare flowers?
if so there must be bees there too and the friendly
bumblebee,

My Lost Brother

Cloudy October day I was walking home from
yet another funeral, my clan was dying out,
when told I had another brother, my father’s son;
he no longer lived in our town but in the woods,
near the sea, where the north westerly blows.

The woods, trees that had been planted to protect
the upland from the wind, looked like an army
of defeated soldiers slowly marching home,
but in the woods, where his cabin was, I sensed
an eerie stillness and no birds flew or sat in trees.

Knocked on his door- it opened- yes, he was my
brother ok, a bit weedy I thought and it was long
time since he had smiled and he wasn’t going to
now. Told him who I was and if there was anything
he needed. No, he was fine needed nothing.

Since he wasn’t going to invite me in I invited him
out for lunch, No, he wasn’t well. Gave him a slip
of paper with my address and phone number, told
him to call me at anytime, I was getting annoyed
too his dog never stopped growling at me.

Walked to my car turned and looked he had gone
in, but the curtains moved he was standing there
watching me drive off. Poor man, my brother,
immense his animosity. On soft ground, amongst
fallen leaves, my piece of paper soaked up his tears.

The Acidic Sea

All those nice villas along the coast are empty safe for stray cats
and those too poor to live inlands, because the sea stinks like
bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out
too much acidity caused by industrial man, and now it is too late
to clean up the mess. Fish in tanks are guarded well and so dear
that only the very rich can afford to eat, say, bacalao; we have to
eat fishcakes that consists of ninety eight percent mashed potatoes,
the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure all medicine, it’s very
expensive and only the well off can afford to buy it, and they,
the rich live years longer than the poor. This has raised concern
and social unrest, politicians on the left, insist the poor too has
the right to be given a teaspoon full every morning; mind there is
synthetic cod liver oil on the market, but it tastes awful. Seagulls
and terns have adopted well have earth hued feathers, sit in carob
trees, sharp eyed keep and eye for scarps of food and scare tiny
tots with their inane pirate shrieks. From safe distant, when wind
is calm, and on romantic, moonlit nights, the sea looks as beautiful
as described by marine biologists in fairytale books.

shes a heart breaker, a soul steeler and a brain twister. she will make you absolutely crazy. but when you are on her good side you feel invisible. like there is a spotlight on you. but she is a monster from hell, she has the devils blood but heavenily eyes. she has the sweetest smile but a frown of thornes.

No Love For Jonny?

Was doing the dishes when I felt an odd rousing
below the belt, thought of calling my girlfriend,
haven’t seen her for ages, but she probably would
want dinner, with wine, before succumbing to my
charms, and by then I would be drunk and tired;
so just forget it. Dried the dishes and staked them
neatly, I’m you, see housetrained and divorced,
went into the bathroom and shared my vanishing
ardour with the pink, blasé bathroom sink.

…And It Was Her Summer

“Go back to the children’s home, she said I have no work and
can’t afford to keep you” Late June afternoon she sat on a bench
with a man I didn’t know. The man smiled I didn’t like him, but
took the coins he gave me to buy an ice –cream for; I was still
hanging about so mother got up and slapped me across the face.
”Get lost you stupid boy!” My face was burning I threw the coins
into the lake and ran away. When I stopped running it was night
and I could see sheep in a field, I was tired and cold, thought of
seeking shelter in a little wooden church, but it smelt of fear and
I thought of ghosts, so I walked on till I came to a workman’s hut
near the road, it was easy to get in; here the smell was of coffee,
and kind men in overalls, perhaps one of them were my father?
It was morning and warm sunlight when they came, they were not
angry, but gave me milk and bread and showed me the quickest
way to get home. The sky that day was enormous and from a hill
I looked down to the town, I could see the school building it must
have been early, no children in the yard; but I just sat there and
could not understand why my mother didn’t want to se me.

The Wooded Valley
of Hidden Sticks
the blend of tree frog
and poison dart
the drinking and the rolling in the mud
the arrows that scream across the room
shoes you pick up of the ground

The Shrouded Woman
sitting on a park bench
her hand on a book
its black so no mistakes
the drama unfolds like a newspaper
a glance here, a quick double take there
she knows to whom she signals
and the walls bleed refrigerated air
gusts of stolen breath

from The Wooded Valley and the Hidden Sticks

© 2009 by Nicholas Alexander

The African Bee.

Yellow flowers in a ring protected by olive trees
no one knows their name I have to ask a botanist
for their Latin name. The dale side here has many
stone walls, tiny if seen from the moon overgrown
now those small plots of land yielding nothing but
poverty and deep seated resentment. The flowers
are not lilies, I can see that, it will soon be Easter
and the little church will be full of women, while
most men will hang about outside, near the bar,
white and yellow butterfly flies unsteadily around
in the wind and, and bumblebees drink from deep
red poppies. A swarm of killer bees fly by, I do not
speak or move till they are gone. My brother in law
Nené who live in Kinshasa, Congo, tells me that
the bees there live, exclusively, on orchid dew and
they are big as sparrows and can sting an elephant
till it dreams of yesterday, maybe it isn’t true but
I would not like to b stung by them. Now that the ice
on the poles melts will we see a fauna of rare flowers?
if so there must be bees there too and the friendly
bumblebee,

A Sunny Day

This morning she remembered my name repeated
it many times:” Sunny and bright,” a voice on TV
said. I helped her having a shower, the hot and
cold water knobs a problem, I made her breakfast.
We spoke about the old days she could remember
everything clearly, we laughed and it was a good
day for us both. She wanted to go for a drive and
today she dressed herself, she stood in front of
the mirror I said she looked beautiful and went to
put my suit on. When I came back she was still
standing there not recognizing the woman she saw.
I sat her down in an armchair, the room was heavy
with her absence, as she stared into her vanishing
world: “Sunny and bright” the voice on TV said.

A Poem’s Falling Leaf

Millions of tiny insects
Fluffy and light as dust
Fly in afternoon sunrays
Amongst olive trees
And the stillness is full
Of euphonic sounds.

Assassination?

The country lane I walked on twisted and turned I didn’t
know what next to see after a new bend, I like it so a straight
road, one I see till it disappears into blue yonder, is scary
fear I will not reach its end. People came walking up behind
me, I stood aside and took my cap off; it was the lady, I had
seen jogging on this road, strolling along with a tall, dark man,
in his shadow she looked timid and insignificant, with a smile
glued firmly on her red lips, this gave a hint of deep sadness,
that of one who had lost the highest office in modern time.
A step or so behind them, ambled another man, with a fun sign
on his back that read:” We have suffered now it is our turn to
dish it out, kick me if you dare.” I heard the cough of a colt
forty-five, and the tall shadow fell to the ground, the fixed
smile stood motionless in the baffling glare of the midday sun,
the man, with amusing sign, had run into the bushes; smoke
spiralled from his hand, a cigar? Sky darkened, thousands of
war planes loaded with smart, cluster, bunker busting, stupid
and sweet, looking bombs for any surviving children of
the catastrophe that was about to befall their country.

When in supplication I come to thee who do you see is it me?
Woman bent bowed broken cast adrift not one but many many yet none?

When in stuporfication you come to me what do you see is it me?
ant cockroach pest pestilence dis-ease stamp on it kill it is that what you see?

When in supplication I come to thee shall I tell you what I see?
I see you I see me I see the man the man in thee
Ancient man hard man fists of iron
heart of man torn chewed ripped frayed unravelled
away gone departed bleeding, staining, destroying man
I see me! I see me!
Frightened alone soft elastic unravelled torn ripped apart but not departed
woman surviving woman strong woman with thread woman with dread
mending mending that which is broken
not thee not thee it is me
me
me I see I see me I see me!

Thy sword hath lost its power in death it is broken like a language lost changed forever Thou art gone be gone Ancient man
Banished from this world from my world
go go go I say leave leave me leave me be
I SEE