Wednesday, 17 January 2018

More Poetry from my manuscripts. 17/1/2018

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.


No comments:

Post a Comment