Auckland Poetry

The Ruin

The ruin, in the woods, has been a ruin for
so long that it is no more than a heap of moss
covered stones; always damp it smells of
poverty, a place where those who were able
to, fled before they sank into apathy and died
of hopelessness and homemade booze.

Perhaps some of the fleers fled to New York
and their grandchildren, now runs a deli,
Portuguese delicacies that in the old days were
poor man’s food, paint the old country in
pastel colours and makes it wetly romantic;
poverty of yore has a patina of old gold.

Municipal Misery

The city’s public park had been deliberately run down,
no money for its upkeep it was said, the tarn in the park
was a disgrace, dirty water, excrement and plastic bags.

It was going to be privatized, like the municipal golf
course, built in days when people believed in social
equality and golf for everyone who wished to play.

The new “public park” is a fee paying park, there are
restaurants and an expensive tennis club, you can also
walk around there but it is too dear for ordinary folks.

I’ve been once, perfectly mowed lawns, trimmed trees
and flowers are standing to attention; no surprises, this
is always so when nature is made by a committee.

Friendship

He was my best friend we used to go for long walks;
we both liked the cinema and art, as my wife used
to say”You’re a perfect couple.” When I got arthritis
in one leg I used to keep my hand on his shoulder,
he was my cane and it eased the pain.

James, yes I was happy to be his friend, gave my
only boy his name. One day he told me he was gay,
perhaps I knew but preferred not to know, best that
way; but this knowledge changed our comradeship,
timidity had come between us.

I no longer held on to his shoulder, our bantering
was contrived. I didn’t go see the latest western
movie with him, blamed a cold, he wasn’t able to
come to a planned art exhibition. Yes, I do miss
him and my leg hurts like hell.

Tanka

Runaway price of oil
We slides towards the abyss
But refuse to see
Stick our necks in the sawdust
And watch World Cup Football

Tanka

Ready made food
The art of cooking gone
Bread, marge and jam
When there is no frozen food
Due to transportation strike

Tanka

Transport drivers strike
Two days later empty shops
No milk for the child
Wretchedly helpless we are
In our shiny democracy

Settling of Scores

At tap on my shoulder an elderly woman asked:
“aren’t you…?” With my lazar eyes I piled off
make up and old skin and saw a much younger
face; yes I knew that young woman and I also
remembered her hard eyes when she left me and
I begged her to stay. She invited me for a bit to
eat, I declined said, perhaps some other time, and
anyway knowing her of old I would have ended
up paying. She was a widow now (like I should
care) gave me her late husband’s card with phone
number and email address, “ring me”, she said.
I walked away another “what if, gone” I ought to
thank someone. Magnanimous I’m not, revenge
taste good at any age.

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In the inner disused docks she was tied up and abandoned,
fifty years old now and looking it, the Greek owners were
trying to sell her, if a daft person bought her now, it must
be for love. It is twenty years since I stood on her deck
the Greeks are great seamen but shipping is business not silly
romance on the high seas. I asked the guard by the gangway
if I could come onboard, he wore a baseball cap and had lived
in New York, “ you can buy her for a dime,” he had joked
On her bridge I stood, though I could feel her valiant heart
vibrating through my feet, from the glum north Atlantic to
the smiling Indian Ocean, in fair weather and in raging
storms; never had I been afraid that she would sink beneath
the waves. “Buy her for a dime.” Sentimental fool, she’s a rusty
old bucket now and not worth a penny for my thought.

Roman Holiday

In Rome I sat on the Spanish Steps, a hot day
in august 1961, in front of me a fountain
Fontana Di Trevi, its water looked cool and
inviting and I idly wondered if old Bernini,
the great artist, had had a hand in designing
this one too. I didn’t really want to sit there,
but one is supposed to when in Rome, beside,
the pope had gone on his holiday. It would
have be better to find cool bar and drink cold
beer; come to think of it beer wasn’t as cold
back then as it is now, and ice in once drink,
was still a novelty. Must have fallen asleep,
when awoke I was alone and in my upturned
cloth-cap coins gleamed in ancient moonlight.

Rivulet.

Lackluster stream, foams of rejection on
its surface, meanders between grey stones
before it disappears down a drain.

I used to bath her in summers that now are
dreams, and in twilight catch trout with my
homemade bamboo rod

Look at it now, a sick soul, and there is no
one around who remembers its glory, this
smelly old brook that ought to be removed.

              I ran through the woods chasing a pink butterfly,
caught it with my net, but fell down a deep hole
dug there for no purpose at all.

Tried to get back up but lumps of earth kept falling
tired I released the insect which, close up, wasn’t
that nice, “one of us must survive,” I nobly said.

Alas, it had a damaged wing couldn’t fly just sat
there on a lump of dirt looked miserable and cold
it was now up to me to safe us both.

I was able to lasso the net on a tree root sticking
out, put the butterfly in my mouth and heaved
myself up but accidentally swallowed the insect.

This sadden me deeply my effort of being good
had ended in failure and also, the swallowing
made me feel- somewhat- nauseous too.

In the glade I met a sharp eyed hex and told her
what had befallen a verb I only used to impress
her, as she had a red pen in her hand.

“Don’t worry” she said, when you see a beautiful
woman, tell her of your love for her, the butterfly
will fly from your lips to her tender heart.

When I see the woman in the post office I go all
tongue tied and shy, she’s so young and if I speak
the butterfly will fly and she’ll be horrified.

Even worse, she could tell someone about my
declaration of love and soon they will laugh,
look at this silly old man falling in love at his age.

The Nectar.

Grapes on
The vine soak
Up sunlight
When ripe
They are
Crushed
And made into
Wine.
To much
Sunlight
Isn’t good
For the skin,
It is said,
This is only
True if you are
Daft enough
To use wine
As a sun block.

Sonnet to a Duvet.

When my wife sleeps on her side the duvet wraps itself
snuggly along her contours, soft valleys and dale, there
is something unseemly the way it caresses her body, one
wonders? Yes, it is an old duvet it was in her bed before
me and when I mention we ought to buy a new one, she
refuses; in the night I’m cold as the duvet will not cover
me, and I have to get up and get a blanket. It waits for me
to disappear, as her first husband so it doesn’t have to share
her with me and times suffer the agony to be made love
upon and see my smug smile of triumph, but it is dead
wrong I will take it to a drycleaner and lose the ticket and
pretend I have forgotten where the shop is. My wife will,
when used to a new expensive duvet, eiderdown, see who
habituated she has been and not mention her old lover again

The Good News

From the terrace of the Pousada we can see
a black swan swimming in the lake it looks
freer now than yesterday since the good news
from the USA, a black man, the very first, is
running for president, and the huddled masses,
who for so long have ignored and placed at
the edges of white America’s conscience and
enslaved by their own bitter legacy, will no
longer be overlooked, but sit at the top table
and finally feel equal and free in their souls.

PS Pousada is a Portuguese country hotel

Politics in the late night Bar

Is Darfur in Somalia or Sudan? Civil war you say,
so what’s new? Let me ask you this: “Have they
got refineries or oil wells that need to be guarded?
This is an African problem, endless wars, they are
only trying to sort themselves out; leave ’em alone.
The former colonies in Africa inherited a system not
theirs, the European ways will fail till it reaches
the level of zero (complete chaos) and Africa can
begin their system of governance suitable for them.

We may not like it, but it ain’t our business. Hasn’t
The president of South Africa said the Zimbabwe
problem is an African affair, so let them sort it out.
Let me ask you this: ”Has Zimbabwe oil refineries
or oil pipes that need protecting? No! Stop playing
the nice gay, but keep a warehouse full of blankets,
(nights are cold in Africa) and beans to donate if
asked, so keep your mouth shut, if they have no oil
a regime change is not needed.

Now, for a friendly Moment.

At a wayside café, a tour bus with a logo of a blue
elephant painted on its side, stopped so travelers could
drink coffee, eat a ham sandwich or have a quick pee.
The elephant could smell water and since it was a hot
dusty day it tore itself off the bus and walked down to
the river where it bathed and blew big bubbles about.
Then it crossed the stream met other elephants that
after some trumpeting, accepted it into their flock.
And since it was an inoffensive, slightly daft animal,
it was sat to guard baby elephants. It was delighted,
a product of an artist’s imagination it had not been
an infant, now it could relive its missing childhood.
The driver didn’t notice the missing elephant, it is so
easy to overlook what you see everyday, before he
came to the depot at the end of his long shift. Due
to the high price of diesel and petrol it was decided
not to have a new blue elephant painted on; however,
the management instructed drivers to keep an eye out
for the animal as it may get into trouble when trying to
survive on its own.

Dear Editor

My soul is timeless and older than the cobblestones
I walk on, my is older than the houses that lean and
get old together in narrow streets where shadows
huddle in doorways, away from the unforgiven sun.
My soul is so old that it can remember a time when
the weakest was banished and can only come out at
night. No, there is nothing modern about my soul,
but since it is timeless it knows what is modern today
will be old fashioned tomorrow

Idyll.

A tiny lamb bleats in my neighbour’s back garden,
(there often is a lamb bleating in their yard) it is fed
from a bottle carried around and treated as a baby
and let it run in and out of the house and taken for
a walk by their daughter and as the lamb nibbles
on straw by the road side and the girl prettily smile
city folks stop and take pictures.

Then the bleating stops, always on a Sunday, from
the back yard an aroma arises, roast lamb on a spit
lovingly turned, to an even brown, by the daughter
of the house. Guests arrive there is wine and much
laughter, and hungry I open a tin of soy meat balls.
Soon, depending on the season, another lamb will
bleat and given a happy infancy.

Benazir Bhutto

You looked so impossible beautiful and your voice was
so erudite words danced on your sensuous lips, never
had there been a prime minister as you; alas, there were
there were accusations of corruption and you hastily
fled your beloved country, I choose, perhaps wrongly,
not to believe your accusers and you faded from view.
When turmoil enveloped your country again, you were
back seeking power and I knew you’re doomed.
I saw you standing up in the jeep carrying you out of
the park were you had spoken to your supporters, still
striking, in a matronly ways, but your smile dazzled
and, once again, I believed you could be the saviour of
your troubled country. An explosion, Mayhem, billows
of death surrounded you and you were gone forever

Ghosts.

It was three in the morn when I got up,
looked out of the window and saw,
what I had never seen before, the night
undulated like a black silk veil breathed
on by the hidden face of dawn;

soft movements, esoteric, not weighed
down by the burden of a human body,
these gentle souls dancing to a tune of
the unheard and hidden, as not to scare
those who fear the ending of days.

Zebra Days

Everyone in the street wore zebra coats now that the animal
was being farmed it was good for the African economy;
of course some wore coats made of young zebras, the rich,
who just had to show their wealth, which makes sense if
you are wealthy there is no point hiding it. Zebra meat used
to taste unusual when the animal was grazing on savannah
grass, now it tastes just like any other domestic meat.
London used to have thousands of working horses and since
the English famously don’t eat horseflesh on wonders what
happen to that meat. I think it ended up in cheap pies, and
no question asked; the starving are not finicky about food.

I suppose a nobleman’s stead wasn’t eaten, but given burial
when it was old and knackered; but I guess it was given to
the stable lad so he could visit his girlfriend, with some rustic
style, and- on misty summer morning- before the bike was
invented, ride back to his master’s stable. I wondered why
peoples in the street were avoiding me till I saw myself in
a shop window; yes, I was a king lion with a fantastic well
groomed mane, sleek body and two enormous, (thank you
we don’t want to know) I smugly smiled and swelled with
pride, no point asking the zebra-coated cowards were I could find a graceful lioness or two.

Seventy Years Old

I used to think that when seventy I would feel
Burst with gravitas and tell people how to live
Their life; alas, I still feel like an adolescent who
Feel shy when meeting older people.

Yes, I have had my share of grief and illnesses,
And often, drunk or sober, I have fallen flat on
My face, disgrace I have often know, but next
Day when I saw the sun the surge of live returned

There are nights, however, the small hours when
Awake and fearful, knowing as I do that death is
Not afar, and my weak heart nervously misses
A beat… then I do feel tired and old.

My terrace faces the east, and I can see when
Dawn begins and I hear the sparrows under the roof
Tiles beginning their day they make me feel whole
Again, as the sun warms my ancient face.

The Great Survivor

One is never more than five yards from a rat
I read in my local paper, there are non in my
Cottage and it has no basement as it is build
Straight on solid rocks which makes it very
Cold in the winter.

There are mice under the roof tiles, cute little
Ones smaller than my thumb, they are very
Quite unlike the sparrow that make a hell of
A racket at dawn, not to forget the cats that
Use my roof as a hunting ground, but no rats.

At the supermarket I saw a rat coming up from
A storm drain, it looked at me, decided I was
A coward and began picking up bread crumbs,
It looked like a bruiser had boxer’s ears and
A menacing, slowly rotating whiplash tail.

A woman, carrying a bag of groceries, came
“Look” I croaked, “a rat.” Hysterical screams.
The rat disappeared, a guard came running and
looked almost like a police officer, “we will get
that rat, he said” and spoke into his mobile.

A kind man was helping the woman to pick up
The groceries she had dropped, I heard someone
Say he had seen rats here before. “shouldn’t be
Allowed, rats near a supermarket,” a woman said.
Never more than five years…it’s spooky.

The Right Language.

Reading a poem about Jehovah’s witnesses
I remembered meeting two of them once,
they rang on mother’s front door, I opened
and they began asking me questions about
religion, I was young and too polite to slam
the door shut, I would do now as I’m old
and rude, I stood there hoping they would
go away. Mother, who worked at a canning
factory with hundred other women came to
my rescue; there were gasps, the witnesses
shrunk and vanished, never saw them again.