The Rabbit Next Door

Next door lives a handsome
white rabbit with ginger patches
in a spacious stylish hutch with
a moveable enclosure on a luscious
lawn by the north facing fence under
branches from their neighbour’s trees.

He belongs to their daughter but they
all like to ring him tender weeds,
juicy vegetable chunks. When at
home they pick him up, take him
inside, which he clearly expects.
He was taken to the front garden to
smell the lavender, but road noises
upset him, he was taken inside.

Hopping around the house he is happy
but has been seen on the back door

step gazing thoughtfully at the back
lawn as his nose whiffles fast, this way
and that. Many large cats live nearby,
he needs to be fenced in or escorted
outside but sometimes appears by the
garden shed far from his hutch. The
grass is greener down there but he
interrupts brother’s golfing practice.

No burrowing shows, his paws are
clean. He jiggled his door till the
latch fell down, opening his door
and set himself free.

His family rescued him
from becoming cat dinner.

Previously posted February 2017

The Rabbit Next Door


Throughout her three year contract
the young teacher in 1950’s Fiji
prepared young Fijians at high school
for university and skilled employment
as Fiji grew into the post war world.

Born to young English immigrants
struggling to start married life
far from Mother England’s poverty
she put herself through university
in New Zealand as her parents
supported their children in education
to higher employment.

A young Englishman taught beside her,
having put himself through university
supported by low income parents through
education to higher employment.

The young couple’s three years together
blossomed richly. Yet each craved the
return home to family and homeland
to support their generous parents.

In great anger they separated to
their far distant homelands never
to meet or communicate again.

In her hospital bed twenty years later
she had met no one else who fulfilled
her. As cancer devoured her last days
…… she wondered …… what if  ……
she had gone home with him ……

Previously posted February 2017


A Call From An Editor

Designated poets, esteemed writers
at a national poetry magazine
scrutinised my submitted poems
among a vast heap of others.

From his faraway megacity office
the editor telephoned me to mentor me.
Excited that an eminent literary figure
should call me I jotted down his words.

My mood flattened as he spoke of
writing sounds and words in patterns
and juxtapositions, auditory and visual,
of deftness with obscure metaphors.

What about the people ?  The story ?
I wondered. What about everyday lives
of everyday people in an everyday world ?
Awed by his stature I said nothing.

He told of his writing’s rejection here
seventy years ago, his joy as his style
then his poems were accepted, published
overseas then in our own country.

Now he was highly regarded by the
highly regarded literati of the west.
today his style is esteemed, but not mine.

Yet the internet releases me from
the need to find publication in
local and overseas print runs.

The world wide web
brings worldwide forums
in a worldwide range.

Previously posted February 2017

A Call From An Editor


One of our family members who was the main caregiver of their young children has sustained severe injuries which will keep her on crutches or possibly in a wheel chair for some weeks. Her self employed partner needs to keep working to support their family financially. The rest of us, especially the oldies, will have to assist where possible.

This may restrict my available time to follow blogs, to comment on or like them, during this time.  If time permits I will post on my usual three days a week, but the posts will be poems I posted a while back. I do hope to keep up with you all.


A Birthday

A bold black email subject line
” …… is turning 70 …… ” !?!

A shock greeting in my inbox.

I had become accustomed privately
within myself to yet another decade.
But this sudden blaring forth quite
dismantled my equilibrium.
Yet I could not object to such happy
good intentions by energetic younger
relatives planning this celebration.

Turning 20 was exciting
then each successive decade was
an uneasy milestone …. 30, 40, 50, 60.

Father passed in his nineties.
Mother’s unhealthy family genes
lasted into her eighties. I may have
two more decade milestones yet.

Public opinion deems us old by 50.
A clear demarcation sets us apart
half my life will be old age.
Employers ignore us after 50.
Unknown young people  object if we
join their conversations. How dare we !

But a bright light has risen
above the horizon.

After years of paying taxes
I am paid a retirement pension.

I am enjoying my old age
with family and friends.

Previously posted February 2017.

A Birthday


They cram into cars
with children, dogs,
cats and birds in cages.
Some of them had time to
pack a few belongings into
their car, nothing else.

Others caught by the
disaster’s overpowering
speed barely get away
with the clothes they wear.

They spill out at
emergency centres
in community halls,
pour into rows of
tents on playing fields.

Refugees in their own
homeland, at war with
a vast giant inferno,
a towering conflagration.


Leaf Litter

Beautiful trees, graceful trees,
staunch giant trees grace the street,
dropping leaves in a natural carpet
on the ground, lining household gutters.

Far away flames soar high above
the bush, burning leaves fly high
disintegrating into many tiny embers
travelling kilometres across the sky ….

…. to the city street where their
tiny sparks drop on dead leaves
in gutters, burning inside roofs,
drop down on dead leaves on
the ground, spreading flames to
trees, shrubs, hedges, houses.

Houses are now heaps
of blackened rubble,
trees gaunt black skeletons.

Leaf Litter