XMAS 2017 poems

By Christmas I was Freezing

In the Wire Wove days, when beds filled with Kapok and Feathers kept us warm. There was no Air Conditioning, no Oil systems, no Roof Heating Air Flow heaters. No, but there was sex for adults, and extra blankets for children. My feet used to freeze, the old iron bed far too short for a teenager.

Art deco illuminated in sunlight

the icicles dangle rococo style

the melt sounds like a drip

not the drop as it falls, splash

Aunty Hilda hangs the washing

the ice on the lines dissipating

with each hand rung article of clothing

her muscles bristling in the morning sun.

A difference between men and women then too. Some chivalry, submission, a belief that men overruled women in the way of things family style. Of course, once Dad was gone, only one boss, she who had to be obeyed. I listened to what both had to say, and settled for a little of each.

The bees have gone to sleep

many plants all sleeping for a while

the heads of roses encased in ice

struggle to drink the sunlight,

Uncle Ross always chopped wood

the fire in the hearth going night and day

the wet back boiling fresh bath water

so children dirty from frosty play, may soak.

We settled in the Pacific North West, Delia and me. She liked my family better than hers, hence the move, to be close to Papa Stanton and Mama Statham. I worked at a US Navy Base supplying accountancy skills, keeping track of the ordnance. My fathers traits came through me in this job, his forthrightness and keen eye.

We were fostered out to family

but my Father would call once a year

never with Ma, always around Christmas.

Aunty would rub us down with Sunlight

the cheapest soap available to families

the bath water was again a dirty brown

when it was my turn, the eldest, the stink.

How did I get his traits? I hardly ever saw him, yet his genes and his ritualistic visits instilled a need to do a job well. As a teenager, I'd fight the frost with Uncle and help chop the wood, volunteering to stack - meticulous. Uncle would pat me on the back and congratulate on a job well done. Sometimes he'd pass his pipe to share when the job was done. I'd cough, always, the harshness of the Borkum Riff tobacco etching danger on my lungs. Father was annoyed. Today still, I smoke a pipe,

Aunty makes the beds, not the children

who are off to school on the old bus,

pick out chocolate wrappers and dirt from the yard,

place the rubbish in a pile at each bed.

Mama and Papa treated Delia and I well

we never went without family comfort

sometimes Ma and Pa would ring

just to see their children still existed.

The day before, the A/C crashed, water leaked everywhere. Behind the walls was the worst, setting the place up to rot from within. We had the walls stripped to air the offending timbers, placed toweling at the base of the walls to soak up any residue. I thought about Pa at this stage, how his academic mind would handle this dilemma? Then Uncle's thoughts entered, "You're doing the right thing - you're always doing the right thing"

Aunty finished hanging the washing

the ice now just dripping water

the icicles on the veranda now a puddle

on a deck readying itself for a new day.

Ma and Pa are coming to visit today,

it's not Christmas, but still they come,

Aunty or Uncle haven't been packing

so no clue as to where we may go from here?

Africa they said, they're off to Africa to be missionaries. They wanted to know if me and Jeffrey wanted to go along. Jeffrey, my younger brother, said yes. I spent a while agonizing out on the vacant patio, now fourteen, and thought Uncle's woodpile held more temptation than a move to a foreign soil. I liked Aunty too. I think if I'd seen more of my parents I would have gladly gone, but I was stable now and wanted to go places of my own.

Delia I met at High School

she loved my muscles

not bad for an academic she said,

after dating for a while we made vows,

My family heard I was getting married

all were approving, except the ones

who didn't share my experience

their sojourn in Africa blinding them.

Aunty and Uncle both approved, that counted. I wonder if Uncle would have approved my living in a house with air conditioning, no hard work there. I still miss his company, but Mama and Papa are filling the roll nicely. Yeah, Uncle died, the hard workers always did young. I know I'm probably going to be the same, I've never been to a doctor, never had a cold, never needed medicines to fix what the body does for free. Just like Uncle. The measure of my life is the good I pass down to my own children when and if they come.

Delia and Aunty passed away,

days apart, November the 12

and 14th 1937 respectively.

I cried a little.

Dad and Mum came back from Africa

to attend the funerals, both crying

I don't know why, they left Jeffrey

and no doubt forget themselves.

I fought in the war, in the Pacific lost a leg to a Zero round. I now sit in my Northwest Pacific hideaway no longer visiting anyone. Mama and Papa both passed during my stint overseas. My brother, has disappeared, and my gallivanting evangelistic parents are lost in deepest Africa. I look at the dripping wall again and wonder how life changes. The rain outside has changed to sleet and the cold drives me for another blanket on the lounge with me under it. My hair is now long and unkempt, arm muscles slackened by under use and neglect, but my persistence and petulance still evident.

A sparrow turns the empty clothesline

the dust of the desert covered in ice

the mood of the old homestead dying

as people move on, better climates.

I write eulogies for funerals now, many

my family passing me by, and no one to welcome

I suffered as a vet,

still fit if a little one legged.

The bells at St Michaels chimed communion. I haven't been to church ever, yet there is something that draws me towards those doors. Maybe it's the search for truth, or comfort in numbers? I wonder if the icy chill pervades its solemn hall? I draw the new blanket up and snuggle deeper, I see a flash of Aunty checking under the blankets. It draws a smile from my chapped lips. The typewriter on the desk implores me to have another go, to get my memoir out. I have great characters to draw on, but how would they feel if they were a star in a story.

Pipes freeze, a super cold one this year,

the tramps on 73rd sheltering in skip bins

Chicago always gets its share of freezing,

and this year is no exception, deathly..

A Mind Surfers Lament Part 1 of 4

i.

Chastised for hereditary recklessness

the clock in your mind always set to 12

your footfalls on soft carpet a perfect 10.

Those fairy lights grandma gave you

drag your mind slipping on all gears into a past riddled with the Seasons of Decay.

ii.

We made papier mache Windmills

not thinking of far off Holland,

more the one in Foxton that spins

and provides milled wheat

to the local bakery.

The bread tastes the same, why so much effort?

iii.

Someone stepped on your toe

you don’t know who or why

but you are inherently aware

that the bruising is widespread.

iv.

There it is I tell you, under the bed,

an errant TV remote sans batteries,

you used them in your vibrator again,

the pillow thrown signifies a Bullseye,  I laugh at the top of my vocal range

the more to infuriate your sensitivity,

we leap for the vibrator, me for the batteries

she because of her embarrassment,

the doorbell rings, she alters tack, leaves me for the errant mechanical orgasmitiser, she to go speak with the neighbours wife.

I wander into the room where they both stand,

waving the deep purple machine in the air.

v.

The window flew open, widows curse

ten elephants flew by, ears flapping,

I looked out the glass door, rhinoceroses,

the chimney echoed a cacophony of monkeys,

I checked the movie on TV, Jumanji

fantasy come to life, dances by my house

I see storks pecking at the roses, pansies

the alligators chew up the vegetable garden,

not doubt looking for mutant ants and slaters,

I switch channels, the music channel,

the serenity of a symphony orchestra in full flight

the chewed roses sing soprano,

the pansies tenor,

the ants and slaters go about their daily business,

forgotten in the melee of jumping channels.

I look out the window again, a string section,

sit down and settle to Beethoven’s Fifth,

the horn section of the Flax bush

the woodwinds of the sunflowers,

the piano an errant Dutch Thistle,

yes even weeds share billing with reeds.

The telephone rings in E major, discordant

I answer, without realisation the sound is huge,

I flick the remote, nothing happens,

then I see him, The Mad Hatter snorting coke,

I make for the TV, hit the off button,

in time to still hear the phone, the surrealist

passion play stops of a sudden, time flies,

yet still the Mad Hatter invades my mind.

Hello, Thane speaking (I think)

A Mind Surfers Lament Part 2 of 4

i.

The eleven o’clock whistle blew home time

feet trudge heavy with mud and exercise

the mine continues on, a new shift.

Bo Svenson clutches his lunch box, whistles,

the tune a calling for the lads, reminiscing

a dog shuffles obediently at his strong feet.

ii.

In the mine, Derek Johnston labours

the shovel pitching to and fro, canaries

twitter above the din of the box carts,

Five men killed in 1964, the Great Cave In

the passageway to the memorial. left, then

down the next passageway, sarcophagus.

Movements in the Earth’s crust happen,

the stretching of tectonic plates, earthquakes,

why mine in an area that could easily collapse.

iii.

A wife makes tea and scones, her man home soon,

she has his bath ready, his whiskey too,

murmurs from the mine say it could close soon.

iv.

Taste the Serpentine River, lick your chops

there’s a great divide in the meaning of nonsensical prose

seventy three cars go back and forth

and forth again, and then back and forward

racists spit at the underclass, black arse

exactly what you don’t call a miner

the melee at the gate, anti mining protestors

the fight started by someone cajoling.

v.

We retired where earthquakes are few,

where the sun rises and sets almost

always at the same time.

the soot we see is from Umu’s and fires

the strong summer breeze wistful and playing. 

Today I counted the pickets

seventy three in all.

A Mind Surfers Lament Part 3 of 4

Hey Henry, can you build me a car

slow enough to pass ladies

fast enough to run from their boyfriends

agile enough to dodge the law

mean enough to run on the smell of an oily rag?

Hey Wilbur, can you build me a flying machine,

slow enough to get good views

fast enough to run from shotgun blasts

agile enough to map the terrain

mean enough to save lives when it crashes.

Hey Babe, can you hit me a home run,

slow enough for the fans on the bleachers,

fast enough to evade reaching gloves,

agile enough to avoid the fence by meters

mean enough to be breaking records all your life.

Hey Zeppelin, can you name a famous band,

your reign in the world short and disastrous

can you make something safer

faster than Ford or Wright, meaner than

anything ever seen before,

can you reinvent possibilities.

Things to do before you hit 100

Do not open others birthday cards.

Do not tuck in the older ladies.

Do attend Memorial Day celebrations.

Do not forget you were once a nurse.

Do eat well and drink plenty.

Do not forget your diaper floods.

Play golf on the front lawn, not in bed.

Play with Old Jeffrey, he’s much fun.

Play up to your kids when they come.

Play with the staff, they secretly love it.

Play with your old cock to ensure it still dangles.

Play the spoons badly at Mavis’s Tea Party.

Play the part of a dapper French man.

Remember, Alzheimer’s is for those who have no idea.

Remember lasts years Christmas fondly.

Remember to pass on your false teeth.

Remember that shitting in your diaper irks staff.

Remember the day you turned 99, we do.

Remember your folks, they sucker punched you.

Remember to Kiss Mary, she loves you.

Remember to resuscitate Mary afterwards.

In the end, you’re gonna be 100.

In a couple of days you have to see the doctor.

Inspiration comes all the time, acting on it hurts.

Intrigue surrounds your family, they’d hoped for less.

In another room, a secret is being hatched.

In the years since you retired, millions have died.

In a selfish way, you don’t care, it’s good though.

After your birthday they will move Mary.

After your sudden demise, diapers will be handed down.

After your coffin drops in the hole, silence.

After all your life, you will regret nothing.

Kia kaha (Be strong)

Oh speak to me

mighty Tane Mahuta

the wind in your foliage

the sound of Life passing through.

Oh speak to me

awesome Tangaroa

the wind in your wave tops

the boom of society bending.

Oh speak to me

reverent Rangi of the Sky

the wind in your atmosphere

dragging in new ideas.

Oh speak to me

graceful Papatuanuku

the wind across grassy plains

carrier of the lust of Life.

Oh speak to me

the Kingi movement

settling in for the long road ahead

under Taupiri eyes.

3 Poems on a Kiwi twist.

The Northerner, September 1975

Hick kid on a full platform,

Palmerston North emblazoned

on a smoked stained sign,

empty cups of tea on seats

where passengers sat,

the cold at 8.30pm evident

as Mum and Dad wave me off,

Mums tears hidden by a warm smile

back to Auckland for me,

young sailor heading back to work.

The sounds of carriages graunch together

as the locomotive takes the slack

and pulls out of the station, slowly

then building as city lights give in to

scattered splatterings of farms, dark

in the night, I sit on hardened worn

leather and wood, sparse, uncomfortable

my bed for the night, and the smell

of diesel fumes waft down the carriage

and starts to drift people off to sleep.

All the carriages are full, young, old

and all those in between, and I am in

a carriage of quiet, not my scene

for the long journey ahead, so I stand

and walk back first, back to the rear

carriages and the party buses, the "gats" out

the songs flowing with amber fluid

and the harder stuff, to fight the cold,

I sit, unfold my prize, 26 ounces

of black gold, Coruba rum, and they strum,

Fielding....

Hunterville....

Utuku........

strumming songs from the Maori Hit Parade,

Ten Guitars, Sheryl Moana Marie, and we

are all friends on the journey of night,

cold night and soon the bottle empties

warming my vocals and the freindships,

Taihape.......

and a mad dash for all to the Taihape Hotel,

fighting your way through the Ten O'clock melee

of Holden V8's and Black Power boys

crowding the pub with their ever presence,

their place, but we nightly invaders struggle

always a struggle, to do it in the 14 minutes

those who drank tea took to eat a pie

and down their Railways Cup brew,

but we all seemed to make it, tea and booze

and the rest who spent the time to snooze.

Waiouru.....

and the cold hits you, as soldiers came and went

round the vast darkness of a mountain asleep

and Ohakune, the compulsory stop

where crews changed, northbound/southbound

and the party went on, liquid fire.

National Park..........

I had never seen it , until I drove it one day,

years later on the daylight railcar,

Raurimu Spiral, feat of engineering

and kiwi ingenuity, round and round

and up and down, a splendour once viewed,

Taumaranui........

Te Kuiti.........

Otorohonga.......

towns that existed due to the very rails

that passed through them, stock towns

heartland New Zealand, but darkened by

the night trains ritual, and sleeping,

yet the party wore on as the grog dies,

Te Awamutu.......

Hamilton.........

Ngaurawahia.........

and the clickety click of bogeys on the bridge

over the mighty Waikato soon had sleep

burgeoning and the rest of the trip was

one of comfort, booze addled comfort

and to this day I look at those seats, and wonder

Huntly........

Pokeno...........

Papakura..........

places I slept through, and never met,

and then the stop, the silence, Auckland

and the early morning bustle of light and

commuter traffic, life again, and work so soon

and I have survived another trip on the train.

The Northerner, may you rest in peace, New Zealand Icon

Mountain Rail

Tucked into my tuna salad,

peered from the wide window vista

onto a northwest wind whipped landscape

of the North Canterbury Plains,

spied snow-capped peaks in the distance.

Listened to the sonata of the clickety clack

of steel wheels on a steel track, a lullaby

time flew by, soon the wide reaches

of the Waimakariri passed underneath

and rata trees and beech greened the view.

Craned my neck, left and right,

tall mountains of the Southern Divide

made this ride pale into insignificance, soon,

the little settlement of Arthurs Pass

my old hometown, way back when.

Twenty minute stop, walked a round a little,

visited the old school, the ranger station,

and the house at number two Sunrise Place,

skipped stones across a once dammed creek,

gawked at the sight in the little chapel, magic.

All aboard, and through that long, long tunnel,

slept a little, lulled by the dark, and the wheel song,

jumped alert at the other side, bright western light,

the ghost town of Otira now rotting away,

the occassional life styler, and hermit walking.

Across the broad green water enriched reach

of the West Coast plains, beech forested mountains

slipping behind, and the train rolled into Greymouth,

coastal city, flooding river, flooded beer halls,

and a population born hard to be hard, secluded.

and written before the Earthquake.

Picton to Kaikoura, the coast road

Picturesque splendour,

enveloped in green hills and blue waters

Picton, jewel of the sounds

stands alone in simplicity,

small town, big outlook.

I drive on, the ferry behind,

churning whitewater for Wellington

and pass the gap into Marlborough,

into the flat expanse, the Koromiko

cheese factory closed long ago, shame!

Journey on to Blenheim

a small place trying to be big, never!

supporting a rural diversity, wine and crop

cattle and sheep, and fishing too

stop for KFC in case I get hungry.

Now out on the highway, southbound

past farms and houses and people

going about their daily commerce,

down to the Awatere River and that crazed

bridge, one way, rail on top, makes me smile.

Through King Dicks town, and Ward;

little farming places where even the petrol

companies have withdrawn support,

ever onwards to the coast and the lure

of green seas and gulls flying in the breeze.

The loneliness draws in, as do the might

of the Seaward Kaikoura's, imposing

in their might so close to the ocean,

I admire the rockiness, and stony beaches

the raw power of nature not yet whittled.

The road narrows, and trucks inch past at speed

on their daily milk runs to and fro,

unlike me, cognisant of the seals

and large beds of sea kelp swimming in unison

with the rough waves and ebbing tide.

Offshore, leviathans of the deep roar

in their abundant playground,

diving to depths not measured and for food

never exhausted, Southern Wrights, Sperm,

and Orca all frolic for tourists to admire.

Through tunnels, and past railway lines etched

deep into cliffs and scree escarpments,

little towns that exist for the pleasure

of passing motorists, and life that is simple,

and their it shines, journeys' end, Kaikoura.

I have travelled that road many a time,

and always, I see the same things, but different

somehow, and I know that I will have to travel again,

that stretch of tarmac, gravel and scree, I yearn

for that road, for that pleasure, as do my kids.