Auckland Poetry.com

Your husband, unfaithful, and five stupid kids
Do grow the seeds of despair;
You water them amply, chain-eating with greed
Cheap sweets. Listen, quit it. Stare.

Your husband detests you. Accept it is true.
He needs ironed suits and your dinner.
However, he had kind of feelings for you
When you were much younger and thinner.

All hope is gone,
You try to flee,
You’re dreaming of the deep blue sea,
Remembering your honeymoon.
But hope is gone.
You’ll wake up soon.

Your children are craving for stale breakfast pies,
Which wasted a couple nice hours.
Your husband can’t hope with his hair and tie,
Your morning is fully devoured.

Brazilian tragedies on the blue screen
Appear your only salvation.
Most couples discover the same boring scene,
Routine is the pain of the nation.

The Fado Singer

Our visitor was ninety two and could see far into the past
and into a future that held no trepidation.

Unaided she got up and sang us a Fado about love that
never lasts and the sorrow of defeat…

Melancholy, that’s Fado for you, but it’s also about how
sweet love is, and the art of acceptance

She lives in the shadow land of an impending ending
and what is new and timeless.

When she left she beckoned for me to kiss her, I bent down
to touch her cheek, but she kissed my loveless lips.

I was enamoured, and her eyes was clear as heaven;
a woman is forever a woman even at ninety two.

For Zoe,

Complete illusion
this pressure to ‘do’
by whos lore
      must we not sit
                   and do nothing
haven’t we done enough
combustion metal money
                                        paper
I’ll pay to live
no roses to smell
             losing the chance
                             missing the beat
                                            with a jingle in the pocket

Love Vanessa xxx

You detest me. The reason is clear,
And your welcome is always so cold,
But the core of my perfect idea
Has been stolen by the whole
Heartless cruel rotten world.

You all promptly discovered the sense of surviving
And at last started thinking what means to be free.
Full of envy, consumed with mixed feelings, you’re striving
For quite shallow things in the same way as me.
You are trying to open my eyes
To my being the core of the vice,
And you all are as pure as spring morning skies.

I don’t care what you think,
Curse me, things will still get better,
Go on, and I will sing
Of the happenings that matter.

Please believe nor my laughs nor my tears,
Like I never believe what you say.
My true muse will be straying for years
After one unlucky chain
Of the same exhausting days.

You are lively discussing your sides of the story,
Do you find it a pleasure to dig tons of muck?
You have nothing to do with my grief or my glory,
Or a lot of misfortunes of ultimate luck.
You are looking at me with eyes green,
But my eyes are still pure marine
And will stay so regardless the scenes I have seen.

I don’t care what you think,
Curse me, things will still get better,
Go on, and I will sing
Of the happenings that matter.

A Country for old Men

I have been into town bought a paper and drank a beer,
in the café where the old men sit in the afternoon shade.
I feel more at ease here amongst other wrinklies.
On the other side of the road, near the pharmacy,
the big clock on the wall tells us it’s five and the temp is
41 Celsius, but in the shade and with a breeze blowing
it feels fine. In a few years the big clock will tell us that
time is up, but others will come and take our place.
There is a vast pool of us in deaths ante room; we are
but tiny ants on a window pane so easily squashed by
a child’s thumb. I sit in the shed, see how cigarette smoke
spirals up and out before dissipating in still hot air, and
thought of the silent sighs I heard when a beautiful girl
walked past our café. We shall never possess anything
as lovely again.

GIRLS INTHE TENNIS COURT

The short skirt
Hovers up

Eyes perceive
On the lingerie
The dark future
Behind.

Pondering over the
Luscious breasts
They’ll taste
Of cooked meat.

The exposed thighs
Like the shapes made of
Sandstorms in the desert
Become the feast.

Don’t want to see anymore.
No curiosities left.

Women, no longer a surprise.
Nudity isn’t a topic of discussion.

NO MORE NUDITY

Fetid naked earth.
Open,paranoic sky.
Caustic privates of rivers.
Unfold rotten seas.
Baked barren hills.
Undraped wailing trees.
Ravished wounded forests.

sit,
Click the mouse,
Hack internet nudism,
Until dead soil exposed.

No erection.
Nothing.

About Candles (Senryu)
………………………………………
Burnt out candle
But the wicker still flickers
The night is endless.
……………………………………
Perfumed boudoir
She sees the candle’s flame
Dreams re-remembered.
……………………………………….
Amongst lit candles
She waits for her lover
Dinner has gone cold.
……………………………………
He reads by candlelight
Didn’t pay the electric bill
No TV tonight.
……………………………………….
Snowy winter night
Warms her hands over candlelight
Hardship lacks romance.
………………………………………..

From Tasmania with Love

The wind is a whisper, bell hard evergreen leaves
softly clank as shifting light caresses the landscape.
I saw a film clip of the last Tasmanian tiger, the film
was shot in 1936, the beast looked like a striped,
dog and it has now disappeared into the landscape
of dreams. But wait! A stirring amongst the bushes,
a golden streaked animal is watching me and it isn’t
a pussy cat. The sky darkens, light temporarily fades,
there is a deep silence, birds have stopped singing.
Portugal is very far from Tasmania, but I know what
I saw, or was it a sunbeam dancing on yellow straw?

The news has said it’s getting better,
But who on Earth believes in it?
Now, when all dreams are bound to shatter,
I laugh at such a lame deceit.

And I don’t care this place is dying
Beneath my own fallen sky.
It is your life that I’m denying,
As you have taken mine awry.

I tell myself that spring is near,
But April never comes alone.
It takes me back to vanished years,
It brings the memories, once gone.

My hopes are buried in despair,
As sleeplessness has made me think.
And thoughts do always lead right where
The truth is dwelling. Chances shrink.

I’ve drawn a land of endless silence,
But certainly, I’ve failed to flee.
This place of never-ending violence
Will kill me, won’t lose touch with me.

The laws of heart are my salvation,
Yet I can never get enough
Of unforgettable sensations.
I’m still alive just due to love.

For Ashleigh

Light-blue pushes through the blackness of the night, not a soul walks the street.
Buildings appear from the shadows, silhouetted by the grey
Remains from the night before.
The fountain still sleeps, flat as a mirror, crystal clear.
Slowly the day is born and night bows in the wake of its own death.

Soon the silence will be shattered and each building begins to change.
One, now two cars start rolling by.
The street lamps fold up in the threat from the morning
Sun and the flash of their souls hide for one more day.
A cycle begins and ends and “morning” is the prince of new life.

My eyes are heavy; yet dart to capture this moment of sacrifice and acceptance.
My body seems to give in like the night to the weariness, though I am
Thrilled by this beautiful light.

And someone, somewhere is waiting for me, in a little town not far from here.
Where my bed is empty but filled with her.
And for me there is nothing that can compare to her beauty.
Morning is just the start of each new day,
But it is with her, that my life begins.

© Copyright

In the southern sky
clouds infected by motion
bring forth weather through the
ocean winds and it lies now
an unravelling majesty
an unfolding myth
stories of intervening lands