Goggle Box

Serious brains tell me
television is frothy, lightweight
air brained frivolous. They stare
at me blankly as I enthuse
about documentaries, drama,
current affairs programmes,
reality and games shows, and
in between funny moments.

During the day I cook meals,
garden, clean house, read
books, newspapers, magazines.
I even write posts for a blog.

Yet I remain unweighted by
serious subscription magazines.
Come night time I choose to
relax, have a good laugh, watch
ancient history documentaries,
enjoy a different world.

Previously posted June 2017.

House Cleaning

Sitting on my couch leafing
through my book of jotted
words, scribbled ideas, thinking
thoughts for my next poem
for my blog, pondering one
then another. Nothing strikes
a chord, starts me writing.

Ceiling corners’ cobwebs taunt
me, wisps of carpet fluff float
up, point at me. A layer of dust
covers sideboard, living room
surfaces, dulls them greyly.
The kitchen floor needs sweeping,
wet mopping. All sights that
annoy me as I sit. The tiles
around the bathroom vanity, the
bathroom mirror, all need
smudges, soapy smears wiped off.

So many distractions from writing.

When I sweep the floors, work
the vacuum cleaner, ply wet
mop and bucket, clean bathroom
tiles and mirror, move dusters
over living room and bedroom …

… ideas flow, ready to write,
sharp words, keen phrases come
to mind. So I jot them down,
continue cleaning write down
more …… Most confusing !

Previously posted June 2017

Knots And Kinks

Working for a living my spine
twisted into kinks, my muscles
crunched bones out of place.
…… Pain ! ……. Immobility !

On the massage table the
therapeutic masseuse fully trained
in human anatomy would unknot
the knots, unkink the kinks with
thumbs, knuckles, heel of hand
all precisely and agonisingly
placed …… Aaarrrghh !!

I would carefully focus on
relaxing to allow this additional
pain to release the knots
and kinks, release me to move.

Next day I would feel tender
through neck, arms, shoulders,
back, thighs, calves even after
hot showers and baths.
Soon I would move easily
… until I eventually seized
up in new knots, new kinks.

After retirement I expected
to move freely, continuously
without further painful massage.

Not so. Age has replaced
workday stresses, knots still
return to grip my back.
Those expert hands must
still work their painful magic.

Previously posted June 2017. 

Little Gardens

Alongside our little row of flats
runs our smooth concrete driveway
widely absorbing sunny heat, opening
us up to the blue sky, leading along
the neighbours’ fence, round to our
carports, on to a narrow path
passing our back doors, our clotheslines.

Under each flat’s front windows sits
a little garden with multi sized
shaped and coloured shrubs softening
doors, window, brick walls, concrete.

River stones and pebble mulch lie
under the plants in the other gardens
keeping them tidy for tenants
without tools or gardening skills.

My garden’s soil is open to the
sky, breathing freely amidst
brick, stone and concrete.

I interact with this soil feeding
it compost as it drinks in air and rain.
In return the soil shares its bounty
with all comers, windblown seeds as
well as my chosen plants and flowers.

Removing these uninvited scrambling
sprawling invaders I stand my ground.
………………. More writing time goes by.

Previously posted June 2017.

Reading

Every night Mum or Dad reads
to two little girls before lights out.
Grown up visitors used to be
pestered to read aloud also.

Older sister started school, brought
home little books, read to Mum
every night. Dad too. She wrote stories,
letter to fairies and grandparents.
Mum helped with the spelling.

Younger sister turned five, started
school, She could write her name
on cards to grandparents, aunts, uncles.
Yet there were many squiggles called
letters, in books, on the whiteboard.
She was told to write them herself.

She had to read to her teacher each
day, to Mum after school, all those
squiggles, she much preferred pictures.
She remembered a book’s words, but
when reading to Mum she stared out
the window reciting words,
vaguely waving her finger over them.

Meanwhile big sister’s books were
longer and harder, she read them easily.

after some months of puzzlement
the five year old read a new book
fluently to her teacher one day. How
did she do it ? She didn’t know.
but she had finally cracked the mystery.

Previously posted June 2017.

Selfies

On Sunday afternoon Dad
stretched out on the living
room sofa to recover from
baby brother’s long night of
travail with an emerging tooth.

Beside him on the coffee table
was Dad’s state of the art smart
phone – locked: that mobile
computer of his skilled trades
man’s business, which also
took customers’ calls.

As he slept two little girls
saw that gem of the twenty
first century. Up to the minute
playground education had taught
the seven year old of its high
status and uses. The five year
old was her willing accomplice.

The seven year old drew the
five year old close, held up
the phone as they smiled
for the latest in selfies.

Now concerned at possible
repercussions they tried to
delete their selfies, in vain.
Dad woke up, very alert.

A word of advice to beginners
in using the latest in technology:

to delete a smart phone’s photos
first unlock it, with its password.

Previously posted May 2017

Eldest For A Day

After the seven year old’s
all important birthday she
flew with Dad to the vast
mega city for their cousin’s
all important birthday.

Now the five year old was the
eldest at home helping to look
after baby brother, having long
satisfying chats with Mum.

At afternoon tea time she said
“I’ll get it !” She brought
the little stool to the bench
spread avocado on rice cakes,
cut apples in pieces, filled
glasses with water, took it
all to the table for a feast.

Later in the bath Mum held
baby brother upright while the
five year old sang to him
“Five little ducks …” while
moving the plastic ducks around.
Baby brother splashed his hands
up and down, crowed happily.

Eldest for a day. A happy
time for the five year old.

Previously posted May 2017.

Social Sea Change

As our low wartime birthrate soared
after World War II the hasty building
of schools and hospitals ensued.

The government wanted this birth
rate well educated, granted
bursaries for university fees and
books in an economy full of
part time and summer time jobs
for sons and daughters.

Not all parents wanted their
daughters educated past school.

A working class daughter with
excellent grades through to
seventeen was sent to full time
work. University evening
lectures gave way to pregnancy
and early motherhood at home.

The farmer’s daughter achieving
so well at a state city boarding
school was sent to work in a
local town bank, then married
within that community.

The brilliant daughter of English
immigrants was allowed to accept
a higher teacher student bursary
after school staff rigorously
persuaded her puzzled parents.

The Chinese greengrocer’s daughter
impressed teachers and classmates
with her brilliant achievements, yet
by nineteen she was married with
child, housekeeping at home, staying
within family and culture confines.

Though university students were all
self supporting while studying, they
brought in no income, mingled in city life.
Some parents kept them within home bounds.

Home Far From Home

From the vast oriental land they sailed
from coastal regions packed with villages
starving from the ravages of warring
greedy landlords and their armies.
Thin hungry men fanned out to
distant gold rushes around the Pacific
desperate for gold for their families.

They came to this island country in its
gold rush 150 years ago, panning gold
sending it home. After the gold ended
they stayed on, for they still earned a
living, sent money home, though the
white foreigners persecuted them often.

Some orientals died in this distant land
far from their families who should tend
their graves, bring offerings each year on
the day of the ancestors, the hungry ghosts.
Coffins of embalmed dead were stored
over many years for  the day living
kinsmen could ship them back home
for their families to bury and tend.

At last the day came, the coffins set
sail. A few days later a violent storm
buried ship, crew, and coffins at sea.
Breaking up on the seabed the ship’s
timbers released many coffins to float
to a shore sparsely peopled by its
original settlers’ descendants who
buried these seaborne strangers.

A hundred years later oriental descendants
remembering childhood rumours
searched and enquired up to the far
north, found the descendants of those
who had buried their ancestors,
found their ancestors’ graves. In full
Polynesian ceremony two worlds met.

At last the ancestors, the hungry ghosts
are tended each year by descendants
in the home far from home
at the end of the world.

Previously posted May 2017.

For Services Rendered

As the 1950’s emerged from
the stark post war world
market gardeners  sold produce
at city auction houses lining
a side street opposite the wharves.

White settlers avoided Chinese
gardeners who held tenuous
citizenship from old gold rush days,
spoke Chinese at home, heavily
accented English elsewhere.

But forms were required for
the supply and sale of their
produce though they read and
wrote less English than they spoke.

After morning auctions, afternoons
saw the auctioneers visit packing
sheds, fill in forms, with broken
English and Chinese conversations.
They would then be presented
with other official letters and
forms to be answered, filled in,
and tax forms to be computed.

Much appreciation was shown
for this assistance with gifts
of Christmas hams, tinned lychees
in syrup, crystalised ginger in
fat little jars, an embroidered
hanging of rooster and hen, and
bags of vegetables each visits.

Previously posted May 2017.