Please
read these 6 poems I have picked from my repertoire. The first is an
elegy called The Angel and the Guardrail.
The
second is a remembrance to Rock and Roll and cars, My Big Red
and White.
The
third is a tribute to Capitalism, democracy and failing Empires
calledHigh Road to Immortality
Fourth
is called A Wet Highway, a Madman, Headlights on Full
Beam and is about my state of mind having just become
anchored to my Mental Illness.
Fifth
poem is The Jacinta Romeos and was written before I
even knew the name existed. Another Rock.n.Roll renaissance.
And
last is I'm
Not James K Baxter but??
My Poetry journey eulogy.
******************************************************
The
Angel of the Guardrail
The
Angel of the Guardrail
Looked
automatically at it everyday,
staring
out on a west London fog
and
that miserable mist,
saw
the stainless steel, smooth in the rain
shining
back,
it
eerily beckons.
Walked
one sullen day,
out
on that balcony,
smelled
the smog choking,
jumbo
jets as they roared overhead,
the
silver guardrail shone gold
reflective,
not
where the bird shit sat though.
Peered
over the side,
saw
ants squalid in their frantic pace,
scurrying
from stress to stress,
leaving
their hectic lives trail behind them,
a
blur,
so
easy to step off and join them.
Another
bird glides to the guardrail and deposits
organic
liquid gold,
some
shithead somewhere deserves it,
saw
it's wings spread and gather strength,
curl
in the updraft,
spread
mine, step up to the ramp, glide.
Estimate
eleven seconds,
terminal
velocity,
they
lied about your life flashing through your mind,
all
I feel is the freedom of flight,
the
rush of air, the caress of smog filled wind
on
a body flying suitless through space,
to
join the mortal mice scattered frantically below,
one
points up, and her finger gets closer.
They
lied you know, you don't go to St Peter,
and
those flashy Pearly Gates,
no;
remember that stainless steel guardrail,
and
it's little deposited treasures
of
liquid guano, smelling and euck!
welcome
to the Angel of the Guardrail,
and
the continuance of the species.
*****************************************************************
The
BiMy Big Red and White. g
Red and White.
There
is my baby, shiny red and white,
Parked
in the driveway
Waiting
for the moment,
When
we head out on the highway,
And
valiantly skite,
V8
roaring, benzene smells great,
See
the world shine in her chromium plate.
She’s
lacquered all over from bonnet to boot,
And
gleaming in splendour,
Front
and rear fender,
The
object of my life long lust and love,
My
Chevy Bel Air,
Stick
shift with four on the floor,
Me
and my darling take off in a roar.
Cruising
down backstreets and the main road,
Arm
out the window,
Wind
in my hair,
Just
cruising and moving without a care,
And
chicks they see her,
And
wonder in awe,
If
they can get in her and feel that roar.
Luxury
leather so red and replete,
White
rolled piping,
Adorning
the seat,
Smells
of the old days so great and so straight,
AM
radio playing rock and roll,
Etching
that sound
Deep
into my soul and driving the pedal on down.
I
wonder why we call our cars she,
When
this one I feel
Is
an extension of me.
Its
power and its might totally mine,
So
why is the stigma,
Of
a she car so strong,
When
I am a boy car that has lasted so long.
Heads
turn in wonder at the blast from the past,
Their
eyes hotly blinded,
By
the chrome plated babe,
And
their memories reminded of simpler times too,
When
the crime rate was low,
And
cars went so slow,
And
everyone smiled because times were so good.
Songs
oft written then that feature few words,
Penned
for dancing,
And
late night romancing,
And
a snuggle in a Bel Air overlooking the beach,
But
those days have passed,
And
the innocent be blasted,
By
the advent of communications and the populist way.
The
sixties saw my Bel Air become a junk heap,
All
painted in slogans
About
love, hate, and peace,
And
the dope that was smoked in her ruined seats,
She
was built strong and tough,
And
could handle the rough,
And
rode out the storm of uncertainty then.
Some
kid in the seventies found her broken and beat,
And
moved to his backyard,
The
Bel Air off the street,
And
restoration started that would take ages to end,
Money
so tight
Cause
the disco was so right,
And
the car become a love shack at the end of the night.
Decay
was so eminent when it moved to the beat,
Of
rappers and scrappers,
Vying
to compete,
A
Rapper called Bel Air MC was on the prowl,
For
a prop for a video,
To
rap with his crew, y'all know
And
the car was repainted and dented beyond hope.
In
a junk yard a dog pissed against a white wall,
Of
a Chevy Bel Air
Left
in disrepair,
But
the smell of the leather and a gleam of some red,
Forced
a middle aged man,
To
resurrect a dream,
And
for ten long years laboured to restore the gleam.
So
when you see my baby driving down the street,
Don’t
look at the car man,
Don’t
look at me,
But
look at the past glory of another bygone time,
Imagine
the lives
And
the struggles survived,
And
look at the Bel Air as a window to your past.
And
on a final note, one not to be repeated,
I
joyfully confess, mate,
On
the sounds she makes,
I
have placed a CD audio rack beneath the seat,
And
I cruise the streets,
Tapping
fingers and feet,
Blissfully
happy to my favourite Roger Waters tracks.
******************************************************************
High
Road to Immortality
Burnt
sienna highways,
dusty
mesquite rolling,
decay
of civilisation evident
in
the rusty hulks
of
cars and trucks
and
skeletal remains.
There
is a man who shouts from a loudspeaker,
calls
for the patriots to murder and maim,
in
the name of the Eagle and the Stars and Stripes,
a
man reminiscent of a wilting tree.
"Oil
makes the world go round"
Yet
the corridors of normal life
echo
with the howls of innocence lost,
with
the groans of disbelief,
with
the ever present shout of death,
the
understanding they were duped.
A
baby is born under a cottonwood,
hidden
from the riders of the Man,
hidden
from the Eyes in The Sky,
mother
a rarity in a world of Ends
succouring,
not succumbing
to
the Dogs of Indifference.
Did
no one see the whillywhoops
of
desert storms and oil embargoes,
see
the demise of democracy
and
capitalistic endeavours,
see
the ever present March of the Saudi,
the
oil dollar and those it owned,
see
glass towers send shards of rot
to
empty pavements below?
Had
they seen, would it have mattered?
In
far off lands, The Eagle flutters
in
immortality, a memory
life
goes on, no one dares ask
what
of that country?
what
of the ruination?
what
if the people had been awake?
Aware!
What
if's are for Romans and Britons,
for
empires that come and go,
for
Elephants and Hannibal’s,
not
for little nations that survive
the
plutocracy of deceit
of
bigger countries.
Mesquite
is a lonely bush,
rolls
in the winds of the Texas Panhandle,
rolls
in the deserts of The Eagle,
nowhere
else in the world does it blow
it's
lonely trumpet of Gone.
**********************************************************************
A
WetHigh Highway, a Madman, Headlights on Full Beam
A
Wet Highway, a Madman, Headlights on Full Beam
Highway
One,
dead
silent, empty,
a
dark night when all indoors
watch
the rugby world cup,
a
wet shimmer glows,
sending
stones into high focus
to
the eyes of the madman walking
the
centreline.
Yellow'd
white lines
freeze
in unison going nowhere,
stretched
out and beyond
to
infinity, or roads end
and
the beam of a car approaches,
I
walk on, knowing he won't see me
till
it's too late,
he
misses,
dark
clothing disguises me in the black
as
the air of his speed passes me by,
I
walk on, the glow of wet tar
shining
evermore dark upon
my
maniacal stare
and
the glare of another High beam
lights
my path,
A
Truck, many lights,
big,
and solid, and very fast,
I
walk on, sticking to the middle white line,
his
approach is roaring and incessant,
he
flicks then, low high low,
seen
me, observed my presence
and
the sound of a mighty horn roars
as
he moves to the left
too
late, swish!
and
the air blows me to the side,
his
speed a challenge accepted,
his
vulnerability eaten,
and
I straighten back to the line,
march
on, and the road glares back at me,
the
yellow lines pale glow flows
through
my intent,
I
walk on.
Yes,
it was a game
a
fools errand
but
I did it,
45
years old and still able to walk
the
centreline,
challenge
death and life,
and
I breath in the crisp night air,
walk
off to the side of the road
and
turn for home,
tonight,
I survived, again,
the
Wet Highway, Madman and High beams.
************************************************************************
The
Jacinta Romeos
The
Jacinta Romeos
They’re
just a bunch of seventeen
to
twenty year olds, stray cats
strutting
their stuff in bars
and
Saturday Bop at the Hop nights,
stuffed
socks in their pants
to
give the girls a thrill.
They
roam at will, sex hungry
looking
for a quick lay
in
an alleyway
or
the back seat of Jason’s Bel Air.
Their
life rotates around bullshit
and
ballyhoo
show
ponies deserving of the zoo, their spruced slick hair dyed black
to
emulate the rockers of old,
their
winklepickers and satin shirt
a
badge of office worn with pride.
The
Jacinta Romeos they are called
named
after the one lady that had the sense
to
kick one of the more adventurous ones
full
and fully in the crutch, dissolving sock.
You
know the ones,
some
say Rappers have taken over,
the
bling, the zing, and an awful way to sing,
dare
we ask Ricky (Martin) or Justin (Timberlake)
if
they too, wear pointy shoes
and
have socks in their groin?
Yeah,
I guess so, huh,
the
Jacinta Romeos live on,
never
know what will come next?
************************************************************
************************************************************
I’m
not James K Baxter but………
I'm
Not James K Baxter but??
The
biscuit tin in the pantry,
decorated
with the images
of
great literary icons of old.
My
favourite, front piece centre
where
it deserves to be, The Man.
He
was an Otago Boy, a Whanganui Rat
a
poet that dreamed and wrote, and spat out poetry
like
a millionaire gathers cash assets.
Every
poem finely crafted, dressed for the occasion,
impressing
the literary world with fire
in
a belly that often went without.
His
books I read in the library in the corner
next
to the stand of New Zealand literati,
I
immerse myself, hoping to learn.
But
then I think to myself (again)
I’m
a poet in my own right;
why
copy?
My
sincere hope, to one day
be
down a few books from Baxter,
to
have others reading my efforts.
