Auckland Poetry.com

An Ordinary Painting

A bland painting on our wall, a tied up rowing boat,
a boat house, fjord salt sea that didn’t look inviting,
and grass that looked artificial, a cold sun and a hazy
in two boys in the row boat and a girl with tanned legs
sat on a stone, slum children happy to be on holiday.
The sun looked warmer now and the haze had gone
and the sea was teaming with marine life. Pleased
I decided to add more things next day, but when new
day came and I looked at the painting again it was as
empty as before I began adding life to it.

But wait, the boat had sunk and just below the surface
of the shimmering sea, the boys floated- eyes lifeless
and open- inside the boat house I could just make out
the girl hanging from a beam. The painting exuded
coldness, the sea whitened to ice so intense that it
cracked and the whole picture fell into a deep abyss.
A piece of cardboard, enclosed by a gilded frame,
on its empty surface I painted galloping white horses,
flaring nostrils and flying mane, a standard painting
of the type decorating the walls of homes, and it was
still there next day and the days thereafter.

The Lost President

Poor George, the president, deserted by foe and
friends, roaming the corridor of his big white
house like a ghost of yesterday. Cry he does and
says to his wife: Why, have they forsaken me?
she cradles him in her arms and says: “there, there
George don’t mind them, you kept the braying
enemy away for eight years, and in time a street
will bear your name, you can be sure of that”
Reassured George get on his bike and cycles from
eight to nine, but since the morning news doesn’t
mention his name and there is talk of a Moslem
called Obama he frets again, till a flunky tells him
he is still the president.

The Tarn of Life.

There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.

I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.

In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.

It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.

Can we blame the moth?

So drawn to the wonder of a naked flame, they cease their existence for one moment in its warmth and beauty. As I stand below the moonlit sky, I find I myself am no better than the fluttering shadow of the night. I would throw my life away just to live in the magic of the stars, if only for a second.

Thimbles of ancient obscurity
overfilled chalice
losing faith over its rim
as you walk around the crater
which way
go down in a collapsing
dance sequence underfoot
these crystalline eyes emit square tears
like sugar cubes spat out by a dispenser
the shock value of secretaries
wasted on the military
imprisoned by wealth and influence
he had to wear a hat in the sunlight
it burnt yellow rings into his skin

He spent the afternoon arguing
about the state of the prisoners
they walked with a broken gait
dragging their feet through the yard
knees bent and sad
lifted by boney fingers
the ritual of the lost
the jarring words of a matriarch
working you back to the straight and narrow
working you with an eye to the nothing
with an eye to the end

- 5 November 2008

The Rat Catcher

When summer heat has lulled Faro into a stupor,

rats that live in its old sewers come up to enjoy

the sea breeze, but for the hiss, they are as a low

flying heat cloud towards the dock, while eating

half consumed hamburger and chips.

They are so fleeting and shimmering that if you  

not especially look for them they are not there,

except for the odour of sewers that lazily drifts

in the air, before dawn when the street cleaning

wagon comes rumbling along they retreat.

To their dens while listening for my steps they

know that I can hear them they also know that

I’m aware of their plan to occupy the town by

attacking sleeping people eating their eyes and

let them helpless stumble into the sea.  

I know all this as I walk around in the night

keeping vigil, I’m the inhabitants, saviour,

they shrug at my warnings think I’m mad, that

makes rats laugh in their bunkers, yet they

shake with fear when hearing my Harvey walk.

Deserted houses invoke a fascination,
The mind in love with the inexplicable,
Seek out rooms for ingenious exploration
Of the contours of delegated extroversion.

Removing the cloak hiding the inside,
Find the old clock hung on the gray wall
Time over and arms stuck of old age
Antiquated furniture burnished in the psyche.

Obsolete thoughts of the ordinary
Going up staircase holding the archaic
Banisters supporting fragile men and women
Paintings of who adorn the walls of introversion.

The old newspapers stacked like a pillar of Times
The tattered books on shelves of derangement
And the dining table helping no food for thought
The fireplaces burning desires, sighing and moaning

No room for any more surmises, the languid mind
Fall in to a deep slumber in one of the bedrooms
On a well laid out bed of red roses still fragrant.

Still Life.

Mother used to have on the wall, a picture
of a dead boy in his coffin, surrounded by
flowers, candles and silence.

I often stared hard at the picture, willing
the boy to open his eyes, he never obliged
me, but came alive in my dreams.

The name of the boy’s mother was Olga she
used to visit us till mother and her fell out,
mother thought it rude to remove the picture.

Years went by, my brother died and mother
took the picture down, but it was still there,
a square less faded than the rest of the wall.

The sun rose above our heads
giving me moments to absorb its ointment
and notice your gentle breath coaxing teasing
and tugging the wandering flock of clouds now
distant as the tremble under your eyelid
settles me
to a peace
unknown in my war-torn dream-life
away from
home

- Nicholas Alexander
- 19 June 1992

A Cigarette

Dawn, yes and the mist, what else do you
expect on lake Martin early and summer?
Swamp cypress dripping with Spanish moss.
I have stopped rowing, water swirling around
Oar blades, the silence is absolute I dare not
Inhale, a bird shrieks, the lake shudders
An evil thought has entered Paradise, I hear
The faint noise of outboard motors,
The moment of ethereal stillness has gone,
I lit a cigarette inhale deeply, exhale and blow
Rings a pure delight into morning air.

Nazism and the Belgian Chef

In Belgium, I read, a TV chef has been fired and
The program axed. He cooked dishes famous people
through history liked. All went well, till he cooked
Herr. Hitler’s favourite dish, fried trout with sour
cream. People protested, this was to humanize Hitler
and our chef was fired for having bad taste (pun?)
It is quite naïve to believe that by not mentioning
Hitler, the towering inferno of the twentieth century,
they can somehow wish him away by making him
into a monster without human feelings and emotions.
Alas, he was so very human and real, there are many
as him walking around and giving half the chance
will behave just as Herr. Hitler did.

The Lady and the Tramp

I took the bus from Ellesmere Port to Birkenhead,

from there the underground to Liverpool, walked

to Hanover Street; took a rickety lift up four floors

to a studio where Miss Summers tried to teach me

to speak posh English. A hopeless task my Norse

accent refused to be relegated clung to my throat

like phlegm, the size of a jelly fish, and anyway,

when Miss Summer said my own voice was sexy

I decided to take acting lessons with her instead.

Alas this didn’t last; the doctor said I was fit to go

back to sea and I was sent to join a ship in Aruba.

I loved Miss Summers used to meet her secretly in ´

Southport on her days off, impressed me with her

noble manners it was like making love to a duchess.

The problem with being a seafarer is that when he

returns, life ashore has moved on. My teacher lady

had an acting job, when I rang her voice was arctic

and, yes, she had also gone and married a doctor.

Never Look Back

The track I walk on, to the top of the hill
where I can see the sea, is falling into
neglect, overgrown, dry weeds crinkle
underfoot, made smooth and slippery by
the unforgiven August sun.

The sea afar is blue with glitter on, just
as a postcard: “come sail on me,” it says.
I did once, long time ago. I used to stand
on iron deck, look towards shore, dream
of mountains, streams and lakes.

Clouds sail across the sky, sea darkens
gets restless frothy waves, are gored by
dagger sharp cliffs; endless war the sea
will win. Farewell, I shall walk on this
path again, the bygone is another dream.

Last night I tried to shoot the moon.

I missed.

Instead of vanquishing darkness I left a big gaping hole in the sky, but at night you can’t see it anyway.

A bird fell out of the sky that same night. Now it is lying dead on my lawn.

I wish it would move, I need to cut the grass.

The Girl Who Loved Me.

At a house that posed as a posh bar I saw her,
very tall, thin and gangling she smiled shyly
and the young men in the throng thought her
weird, so I befriended her, she was grateful;
yes, for I too know how it is to be neglected.

Afterward we went out for meal she insisted
I must meet her parents, who were proud of
her. And life was sweet for a few days till
I had to leave, she cried, I promised to write
and callously didn’t.

When the moon shone on the Caribbean Sea
and I stood on a hot iron deck alone I regretted
my self-serving empathy, playing on other
people’s emotion, just to tie another knot on
the hangman’s noose .

The Notion

A thought, a beautiful bird, sat on a tree
tried to grab it, but it flew away and was
liquefied, now I can’t even remember its
colour.

The thought is a river, as I put my hands
into it to stop its flow, it turns into a useless
seam of gold.

Gold diggers came, rich now they will
be interviewed, say weighty thing to
newspapers, we will nod in accord, surely
they must sages, as surely as I must find
another stream

I wait for a new thought to drift along,
without great fanfare, one that will change
itself into a beautiful bird that, in time,
will transform into a poem

Haiku

Lucid is the sky
Cool and translucent is day
Wonderful is fall

Haiku

Unambiguous
Is the cold northerly wind
The master of frost

Haiku

It was a short fall
The sun shone and it was warm
Indian summer

Haiku

Morning’s snow crystals
Downed on lawns too early
Sun is still in charge.

Haiku

Aquatic time
Relentless rain harshly fall
Time to read a book.

Haiku

Rain on the mountain
River runs with fiercely rage
To meet its maker.

Birthday Greeting

The darkness gives way for light, joins

Up quickly behind me, I drive home,

When morning breaks I’ll be seventy.

I think of a black, shiny coffin; silver

Handles and flowers too, my grief is

Immense nothing much to celebrate

I sail close to shore carful now under-

Water reefs, seek shelter from old age

While contemplating my sunset.

“Do you want to know a secret?” he said
As he laid upon his bed
His frail old bones so tired now
His hair all but gone from his head

I smiled at him with his weathered face
His hand reaching mine with such tender grace
My heart wrapped in his as I searched his eyes
Words interrupted by breathless sighs

“I’ve lived my life with an open eye
And have been so inspired as the days have gone by.
I made a promise when I was your age
That I’d never be kept within a locked cage”

This man whom I’d loved my entire life through
Was about to teach me something new
So I squeezed his hand a little tighter
Knowing him as my “Heroic Fighter”

“Each day of your life, each moment you live
Keep finding your Inspiration”. He said
His face came alive as he smiled at me
Laying upon his sun drenched bed

“You’ll know in your heart for you’ll be lifted higher
And warmth will surround your Soul”
“Remember to let Inspiration be free
For then you will reach your goal”

His words meant a lot when he spoke that day
And it seemed my life changed in some kind of way
This man in my mind, who inspired me so
Did well to help me learn and grow

A quiet world –
Where the music is the shimmering light that ripples across the coral reef.
A magical dance crackles below its surface –
The tail, the fins and the Angels’ all know the tune.

I rock like a baby in the wind –
A lullaby hammock to quiet the storm that rages within my soul.
My forgotten quest –
For Peace and Happiness.

Numbness only remains –
Washed away by the warm waters and the tears from heaven.
His skin is moist and glistens in the sunlight –
A bronze God a whisper away but lifetimes apart.

Desiccated by monstrous winds –
The husk remains, the shell of life that clings to the fount.
I must return to the dance – 
The magic that crackles below the surface.

Find the light that ripples –
Even in the depths of despair.
A secret world – 
Where the quiet music embraces even the deaf.

May I hear the Angels’ chorus once more –
Touch me. Ecstasy.
Let the joy embrace –
And overwhelm your senses.

My Love

By Vaughan Shepherd © 2007

Take a wooden stick and hit a pole with it
Listing to the sound it makes as you fly
into rage the detail and shortness of breath
as the wood breaks against iron its age outnumbering
its flex 3 to one and tearing its fibres now dried and unconnected

the eye moves in the socket with ease but broken
by a lack of control the scholar’s ear that opened
like a butterfly wing and raced into skylight

Tortured ribbons silk threads dragged into patterns
could not recover quality nobody to reorganise them
until you started trying to undo the mistakes
unpick the threads and put them back into order
something I thought would not do without you

on the spinning world, unconfessed thieves chased the wheels
and plotted to collect insurances on the world coming to its end
there they queue up to collect their sacred dividend

Copyright © 2008 by Nicholas Alexander

Tanka

Moths play outdoors,
Street light and a summer night,
Not in the wardrobe
Where they are safe and cozy
Eating Uncle Fred’s old suit

Tanka

I sit in the yard
The soft night rests on my lap
String photos of you
On a necklace of memories
And I think of dawn and love

Tanka

The moon cannot fly
It asks of you to be its wings
Imagination;
Not so very difficult,
Recall the buzz of first love.

An ancient moon lay warped, fluttering,
In the moss-reeking fishy pond, flickering.
The cool night air raking archaic sentiments,
Stale, evoked only hollow consequences,
And it looked as though my mind was reflecting
In the rippling glassy darkness,
As I searched for the two,
the mind and the moon.
A frog-like thought leaped in on to the surface,
Deranging and scattering the images.
The water seemed uneasy and nervous,
Incompetent to deflect radiance and
The darkened glitter basked in the gloominess.
Up in the heavens the clouds shrouded the glow,
The firmament a black blanket of holes.
Reality of life, the sheaths, the five domains
Prohibited love to enter the remains
Of old age’s distrustful psyche, to which, a breeze,
Now tried to respond in vain, to mellow.
The facade of the make believe, made no efforts
To defend and delude with its time worn enticements
Lasting only the life span of the trembling moths.
Looking up and down, there was no trace,
Inside the blanket or under the rippling glass,
The dismal haze, of a round, scarred face.

The static is great
The edgy horizon looks like a dozen beers
I creep into folding bed linen
Wishing I was dead 20 times
She is snoring
I’m growing a beard
The teeth are decaying
The limbs are shortening
I lift the book to read
And see I can’t see so
I put on the $2 glasses and
Glimpse lines that finally make sense

Keith Nunes