Liverpool Street Station

Friday night 6pm
in the surging heaving mass
of Liverpool street’s main concourse.
Milling crowds from underground lines
entangle with those from
British Rail lines on the other side.
Individuals slide through
this impasse on their own
singular trails from
one side to the other.

Returning to this megalopolis
after a long absence I am meeting
a friend at the information counter.
Passing through this concourse
to and from work for years
he is unconcerned.
My eyes and ears
are overpowered in this
densely packed humanity.

The counter stretches to
unexpected lengths before me
with no sign of him.
On our mobile phones
we find we are both
at the counter and talk
each other past sections
of its noticeboards.
At last we are at …..

…… the same place.
We turn slowly around
to find ourselves
back to back.


Previously posted April 2016.

A Winter Afternoon

A distant wintry sun dimly lights
this Saturday afternoon from a pale
blue sky dotted with faint cloud drifts.
The stark bare branches of the tree
next door makes a tracery against
the eggshell blue dome overhead.
Last night’s frost on the grass has
melted but not yet dried out
in the long solstice shadows.

On the concrete driveway by the old car
a heavy metal tool lands with a clank
as Father tries yet again to remove
a reluctant wheel from its axle
to replace a punctured tyre, muttering
aggressively at its dogged intransigence.
The rugby game broadcast from the
wireless beside the open dining room
window has only bad news from his
favourite team. He is not supposed
to swear when children are nearby.

His mood worsens.

We quickly move away to continue
our game at the end of the garden.


Previously posted April 2016.

Climbing Trees

Brother fell out of the plum tree
from ten feet up and landed
flat on his front like a belly
flop at the swimming pool.
Sister and I said he wasn’t hurt
because he took so long to cry.
Mother was preparing for the family
Christmas dinner in two days time,
said he looked all right to her.
He recovered in time for dinner.

Sister fell out of the Pohutukawa tree
from eight feet up off the arching
branch over the driveway
right in front of Uncle Alf’s car
as he started down the drive. Father
said she should watch what she
was doing as he brought cold
beer for the shattered nerves
of Auntie Flo and Uncle Alf.
She recovered in time for dinner.

The young black cat fell out of
the peach tree from nine feet up.
He howled loudly then grabbed
at a branch with all four feet
on his way down. He wasn’t stupid.
People who fall out of trees
get into trouble. He didn’t.

I didn’t fall out of a tree. I was
scared of heights and never went
up to the high bendy branches.
People who fall out of trees
get into trouble. Still they do
get dinner at the end of the day.


Previously posted April 2016.

Garden Stroll

Six stately black Orpingtons
ladylike, sedate, step ponderously
over the back lawn, clucking quietly
to each other as they pluck
tasty morsels from grass blades,
daisies, clover flowers and leaves.

They stroll along the hedge
finding delicacies among bright
oxalis leaves footing dark foliage.
Their bright orange egg yolks
are too rich to be eaten
for a few days after the date
pencilled on their eggs’ shells.

The young grey cat with
dainty white bib and feet
stalks these statuesque ladies
then skitters away when they
cluck sideways at her. She will
learn to hunt tiny sparrows
and mice instead.

The Orpington rooster
shimmering in the blue
and green lights of his
irridescent black garb
with his vast plumed tail
struts around his ladies
clucking at them, then
crows loudly to remind
the neighbourhood they
are his ladies. the hens
ignore him and continue
their leisurely stroll.


Previously posted April 2016.

At The Cafe

The elderly woman
at the cafe counter
turned around to take
her coffee and walking stick
to a nearby table,
sat down slowly.
She greeted me,
happy to see me.

I remembered her
so youthful and bright
as we worked
in the same big
sociable office where
she moved easily, energetic,
eyes alert, hair luxuriant,
a vocal worker in
our vocal workplace.

She had returned to our city
to look after her
ailing elderly mother.
Now her energy was drained,
her hair short, thin, dull,
her body stooped,
swollen by drugs that
could not save her.

Soon she would pass away
survived by the elderly mother
she could no longer care for.

Patiently, calmly she
faced her ending,
unable to fight it,
gracious in defeat.

She passed away
a few weeks later
aged 48.

May she rest in peace.


Previously posted April 2016.

Old Lady

Old lady blood problems
old lady pills.
Tiny toes dangle
from huge balloon feet.

Stretch marks cross my shin bones,
feet and ankles vanish.
Old lady giant ankles
more old lady pills.

Old people clipboard forms,
old people ‘flu jabs.
All line the waiting room
old people recovery time.

Old lady walks to town
fit as fit can be.
Old lady taxi home
after two hours’ shopping.

In my mind
I am middle aged
but my body keeps doing
old lady deeds.


Previously posted April 2016.

Flies

I have a glass of water
on my coffee table while I
scramble after words and thoughts
in the nook and crannies
of my meandering brain.

In this hot sunny humidity
flies dive into the coolness
of the water. If I forget
to cover the glass
I find a fly frantically
thrashing across its surface
trying to escape what
it previously craved.
Too late to pass on its lesson
it is poured down the
kitchen sink, the glass washed.

Yesterday I forgot again
and entered the living room
to see small breakers
splashing around the glass.
How many flies this time ?!?
The creature in the glass
was large and green !

A female praying mantis
sought a place for her eggs.
She was tipped out the window
on to bushes below for I
want her to stay her
and her children to devour
this plague of flies.


Previously posted April 2016.

In The Gutter

The earthy slime in the gutter
sprouts unshaven clumps of grass
with a ragged mosaic
of muddy green lichen
above its wavering shoreline
left by winter’s headlong flows
with their sour odour of rubbish bins.
The murky torrent drags along
cigarette butts, bottle tops,
drink cans and sweet wrappers.

Only the urchin matchbox
strains to change its course,
its corners grasping green clumps
to steer its own path and
choose its own port;
fighting its fate while
other captives are defeated
by the relentless tide.

Other riff raff litter is swept
away to the gutter drain grill
to be scooped up by council staff.
Behind a tall green tuft
the matchbox twirls on
an aberrant eddy then
hooks a sharp corner
around thick stems,
waiting for the sun
to bake its world dry.


Previously posted April 2016.

Moving Day

Moving day, here all too soon.
My job like many has vanished,
only the city now has jobs.
Up at the crack of dawn
I do last minute chores.
The removal men arrive on time
talk of planes flying into
New York towers some hours ago.
sounds like a movie spectacular !

They and I keep packing,
no radio, TV, or phone,
no papers at the corner shop.
Pothead next door calls over
the fence that New York
was attacked by terrorists !
The pot’ addled him this morning

Removal men’s time is money which
unemployed people cannot waste.
We drive my chattels to the city,
unload them in the tiny flat.
No phone again ! Ring telco
from my neighbour’s phone.

At last I find a newspaper,
photos of two towers in New York
built on solid foundations,
billowing clouds of black smoke,
white building dust, flames
blazing from upper windows,
singed sheets of paper fluttering.
Reporters tell of planes ramming
into the towers, of people jumping,
falling from blazing windows.

My shaky towers of home and
work continue to disintegrate.
I learn new skills in a new job
and now get far less pay.
My new home is old, small.
Home networks fall apart,
some reconstitute.

A year later my life was
unrecognisable from
from what it used to be.


Previously posted March 2016.

Writing Space

On the comfortable couch
paraphernalia spreads out
beside me and over the
coffee table in front of me.
A lined pad, pens, pencils,
paperclips give me
materials to record what
I put into words.

A book spills out doodled
scribbled ideas, internet
prompts, to kick start the
unrhythmic explosions
trying to fire up my brain.
A ring binder clutches drafts
papers clipped together
for each poem.

My mind seeks out
mature adult thoughts
suitable for poetry –
but surely these are a
matter of perception.
The four year old whose
knees no longer fit under
the handle bars of her
much loved tricycle is
travelling a rite of passage.
The old man whose
formerly active body
has seized up with arthritis
is in a heartfelt life crisis.

I stare out the window
at the fence and next door roofs,
at the changing skyscape
whose clouds mimic
the wafts of ideas
floating across my mind.

Where do I start ?



Previously posted March 2016.