The Way Station

A metal capsule brought me
through the skies
to this vast vast way station
called Bangkok.
A vaulted glass roof
and windowed walls
reveal a surrounding blackness.

Long concourses flow off each other
occasional strangers pass me by.
With my body in
three am confusion
I drag my feet as
as my cabin bag with
last minute needs
drags my arms down
in relentless pain.
I must find a new capsule
with my name on its manifest.

Vast signs point east and west,
I know I am going west.
I find no sign for my journey
on western signs. I despair.
Will I ever escape
this vast glass edifice
in its endless blackness ?

A long weary tramp brings me
to a counter of computers.
I show show my ticket and
am directed to
eastern departure gates.

Another weary tramp brings me
to an eastern gate
that accepts my ticket.
At last I escape these
vast glass halls
for my final destination.


Previously posted December 2015.

Redundant

Jobs now vanish everywhere
as a widespread global surge
of ninepins spills out
on town and country streets.

This little academic city
was breeding a business heart
which now is bleeding out its life,
its ninepins roll in the gutter.

No occupation takes beginners
except perhaps conglomerates
with their instant conveyered food
who take the low priced youth.

Enterprising unemployed
no longer knock on doors.
Websites have no street addresses,
no clearly numbered homes.

I fill in forms on the silver screen,
have them printed and signed,
then ride them along that silver cable
seeking a new paid workplace.


Previously posted February 2016.

The Recidivist

Queueing at the broad front desk
of Welfare’s downtown office,
I brace myself for
the bureaucrats’ strip search.
I am unemployed – again !

These front desk people read my forms
bring my name up on their screen.
They mutter “No, no, this one will
have to go to the supervisor.
She’s been to us before.”

Social Welfare still speak
sternly after twenty years.
Their elderly code number
follows me to show
a marked recidivist.

Over sixty
unemployed
irrelevant
out of date
like mouldy cheese.

A disrespectable old age !


Previously posted February 2016.

By The River

Under a thundercloud sky portending
a drenching deluge I walked along
the rushing river skirting the town.
At the water’s edge marled grey rocks
mingled with pale ochre rocks smoothed
by millennia of flowing waters.
Dark currents swirled midstream
reflecting darker clouds.

I walked through ragged grass
along the water’s edge
careless of the coming downpour.
Feeling caged in my house
I had to walk.

I had hoped to stay for life
in this country town
but was cast aside
redundant
like so many others
in this rural county.
Many job applications
had brought nothing.

Dread of the future,
of packing up and moving,
finding a city home
surged over me in waves
with grief for friends, workmates,
my little country home.
I would have to leave them all.
Fears of new employment,
of interviews and agencies
paralysed my thoughts.
How would I do it all ?

Some years later I passed
through that little town but
could not walk along that river.
When I looked at it
dread, grief, fear
welled up in me
as if it were yesterday.
that I walked along its banks.

I turned and walked away.


Previously posted February 2016.

Cathedral Square

Cathedral Square.
City business district.
Crowds flowing out if buildings,
waves of people ebbing and flowing
from crashing masonry
into the centre of the square,
injured and bloody,
talking and crying,
supporting each other.

No traffic, roads are
buckled, sunken, cracked.
No police or ambulances,
phone systems not working.
giant jagged slabs of masonry
crash down from buildings,
from the cathedral in clouds of dust,
deafening, shattering.
The cathedral’s stone steeple
slams to the ground
rocking the square yet again.

No one comes to aid
the wounded on the square.
Their cries and groans
go unheeded in the midst
of collapsing walls and roofs
while they huddle in the centre
away from the heaving earth’s
demolition around them.

Christchurch earthquake
22 February 2011
12.51 pm local time.


Previously posted December 2015.

Eketahuna Earthquake

In comfortable arm chairs
my friend and I enjoy
her cool shady living room
on a hot sunny afternoon,
leisurely chatting, sipping tea.

A grinding roar deafens us.
A giant foot kicks
the back of my chair.
I turn but see no one.
The furniture rocks and sways
the floor undulates
like waves at sea.
What is deafening us ?

My friend rushes to the doorway,
leans against the jamb.
I stare at her,
realise an earthquake
is rocking the house.
I run to the other jamb.

The door and floor move freely
as if fixed  to nothing.,
the roaring grinds on.
It lasts for fifteen seconds
on an epicentre 36 kilometres away.

Later a builder checked
my friend’s chimney,
said the mortar no longer
held its bricks together.

She had it dismantled.

Previously posted December 2015.

Robin

In the misty English rain
of a late Essex afternoon
the robin sang his piercing
melodies on the high wall
near the kitchen door.

From the back step I watched him
standing near twisty knots of ivy
singing, singing, singing.

My landlady said he was staking
his territorial claim for his mate
in their next inside the hummocky
maze of thick woody tendrils
cowling the high stone wall.
She worried that a cat would catch them
or the fox seen by neighbours
scaling our garden wall at 3 am.

Robin had a bright orange breast,
a white belly, a tail pointing
straight up behind him with
subdued brown head and back.
He reminded me of the little fantail
of similar size and colouring
back in my home country.
Little piwakawaka calls shrilly
unafraid of nearby humans as he
searches for tasty insects, his tail fans
out as he hops from branch to branch.

I saw and heard robin only the once,
for a month later my work ran out
and I had to return home.
half round the world
back to the home of the fantail.

Previously posted January 2016.

Weta

Ancient insect emerged
from the primeval bush,
you are caught up in
today’s surge of humanity,
swept into our urban gardens.

Crickets and grasshoppers
from foreign countries
jostle and crowd you
in the gardens where
city birds hunt you
though wary of
your barbed back leg,
your sharp nipping teeth.

The feline immigrants
who luxuriate in
the comfort of our homes
hunt you in our gardens.

Your brown armour blends into
the branches of hedge and shrub,
your barbed back legs grip twigs
as you jump along searching
for leafy delicacies.

But still the tabby hunter
finds you and deposits
sad corpses on our floors.

Grandad would like to tell her,
you are a protected species
of ancient lineage.
He has no way to do this,
her collar bell gives you no warning.

Previously posted January 2016.

Dog’s Domain

The dog’s back yard is her domain,
a vital part of herself.
She polices it, sniffing out
marauding cats, prowling hedgehogs.
The cats are routed
at high speed with
growls and loud barks.

She bites the curled up hedgehogs
then cries when their spikes
pierce her tongue.
Now she is led firmly inside
to have the spikes removed.

The luxuriant foliage
of the vegetable garden
with fascinating odours
is minutely nosed at row by row
for possible animal scents.
The gardener works
under her surveillance
pulled up weeds are sniffed closely.

The sunny concrete path
is a warming pad for
middle aged limbs and back,
the shady trees a summer refuge
for a panting matron in a fur coat,
the deck an airy resting place.

Her inspection of
her domain complete,
the dog stretches out,
dozing in the sun.

Previously posted January 2016.

Races Around The Field

On sports day
the five and six year olds
run their own long distance
races around the school
playing field.

On their last lap
teachers and parents
stand by the finish line
with clipboards and stop watches.
The six year olds’ teacher
is so proud of their running times
called out by parent helpers
as her charges hurtle puffing.
red faced, across the finish line.

After filling spaces beside
names on her chart she still
has two blank spaces.
She scans the field and sees
two little figures in the shade
of tall trees, sends an older child
to urge them to finish their race.

The daisies there were very big,
good for daisy chains they
explain to their teacher.
Someone else would pick
them if they didn’t.

They are very puzzled when their
teacher says they should have
waited until after the sports.
She liked their daisy chains yesterday,
– but not today.

Previously posted July 2016.