poetry

Australia vs. New Zealand

Australia vs. New Zealand

we lumped them before we left:
Australia-and-New-Zealand
countries with the Union Jack,
Southern Cross, English speakers
tea, cricket, rugby, and the queen

later I mention this to a Kiwi
and she’s surprised we would equate them
(which further surprises me)
although now we understand

Australia: hot as blazes
and on fire
blue oily eucalyptus haze everywhere
a massive, unending country
with an almost empty middle of wild desert
mostly flat, with death lurking everywhere:
crocs sharks snakes stingers –
you have to keep the children close –
a tough landscape breeds stout-hearted people
with a ready wit
to take you down a peg
they’ve also got mammals falling out their ears
and the brassiness of a country
built on convict labor –
g’day

New Zealand: pack your puffy even in summer
the Long White Cloud’ll get you
the forest is mostly gone
and the toothy animals were never here
nothing can eat you,
almost not one thing can harm you,
and children roam about the bush on their own
folks ask with genuine self-effacing humor
oh, my, you’re a long way from home –
how’d you come to hear about us?
we’re just a little place
(they’ve no swagger to speak of)
underlying everything is volcano and earthquake
to further humble you –
you’re just a blip in this tiny unstable ocean,
so far away only a bat could make it
Kia ora! they say
pressing the bridge of their nose against yours
this is a place where everyone thinks
about their kaupapa and whakapapa
where people identify with fern fronds and forest birds
where everyone speaks in two tongues
and lives in two worlds

poetry

cross-Tasman smoke

cross-Tasman smoke

at first it seemed low-lying cloud
like the grey embedded in Great Lakes life
a natural ceiling for a January day
but when I saw the sun
my heart slumped
that sick pink-salmon shade
that without fail means fire

it doesn’t matter how many oceans we cross
the earth everywhere is burning
still we recklessly slake our thirst for jet fuel
while the ash rains down on our hair

we should undoubtedly stay home
satisfied with others’ memories
but it feels like asking too much
to refrain from ever knowing
some of what is left

poetry

flight to Christchurch

flight to Christchurch

without asking
the friendly flight attendant
turns off my light
and puts me to bed

all I can do as we wing our way to
this land of crinkled cliffs
and warm woolly flesh
is scribble work hard and rest
before the scene goes grey
with the gift of sleep

poetry

Mom, leaving

Mom, leaving

it’s only after she disappears
beyond the departures curve
that I realize
we forgot parting photos
just like her water bottle
still chilling in our fridge
where I promised (and failed)
to remind her to look for it

somehow despite all my
absentmindedness
attending to other plans
not being fully there
she still seems to feel
I’m a good daughter

on this trip she brought
a bit of evidence to reassure us both
a note I wrote when I was 8
apologizing for the indifference
of some unimpressed Brownies
letting her know I see her effort
thanking her for all she gives
and promising I will always
love her louvers

poetry

first didgeridoo

first didgeridoo

vibrations:
waves ripple atom to atom
neuron to neuron
my ear like a drum
throat like a flute
and there is the possibility
that the right song will
shepherd all my energies
into ideal alignment
every water molecule
that gives me shape
attuned to some higher frequency
that at last relaxes
the rigid lump that I am
into multi-layered harmonies

poetry

apology

apology

I will build a cloud of calm
a warm nest you can sink down in
a cool pool to plunge into
when your temper’s gone hot
and your eyes flash
and fists clench
and lip curls in a sneer

inside will be the sparkle of stars
and the sleepy sound of cricket calls
the scent of lavender and vanilla
the soft soothe of otter fur
so dense it soaks up
all the loud jagged jabs
your elbows might wish to throw

in the center of this scene
will be my warm tender heart
always open to you
cozy as a little penguin’s jumper
even when you’re on the warpath
over toothpaste shower or parka

it’s not ready yet
but, my big, sweet son,
I’m building it now
space for us both to breathe

poetry

The People Parade, as told by L’il Foot, the Little Penguin

The People Parade, as told by L’il Foot, the Little Penguin

they’re there all day if you look hard enough
one or two scattered along the boardwalk
hidden in the scrub

but it’s only when the light goes rose
that they gather by the hundreds
wide pockets of bodies
lining the shore

we wait for them to settle down
my mates and me
then when they’re calm and quiet
we move in close
to see them face-to-face

they make so many calls
it’s hard to know what they mean
squealing and cooing
trotting up the path

I like to stand still sometimes
let them flow around me like a river
of legs and eyes and voices
and wonder what their homes look like inside
where exactly are they hurrying off to?

it’s different every night
this evening there were four
who matched each step with mine
as if I were escorting them home
out under the stars together
heading back after a long day’s fishing

we took it easy together
ambling up the hill
the smallest one didn’t even wear trainers
he left his pink feet out in the cold
and his flip flops slapped against
the boards each step

I named him Li’l Toes
and blinked him a quiet goodnight peck
and wished him sweet dreams
wherever he lays his head
before I lost him in the crowd

poetry

gingerbread houses (without gingerbread)

gingerbread houses (without gingerbread)

made from materials
from the open minimart:
2 packets of biscuits
just-add-water Royal Icing
a box of food colouring
a bag each of M&Ms
and Sour Patch Kids
and (most importantly)
imagination

look what emerges:
sunflower gardens
Twister games
swimming pools
snowmen
Christmas trees
busy minds hands hearts
3 sugary scenes
and one yummy new memory

poetry

at Green Cape Light

at Green Cape Light

I go looking for a light in the darkness
even on days the sun shines full blast

look up – magic everywhere
today: a wombat scratching his back with a lighthouse
my happy healthy mum watching an echidna
my family ringed by waves
thrusting our heads into the center
of a crystal lens
learning how to turn
a flicker of flame
into a broad-beamed beacon
to keep drifting souls
(especially ours)
away from the rocks
anywhere in the world