poetry

Ode to 2 AM

Ode to 2 AM

to the computer battery, giving up the ghost
the screen going blank
whirring fan going silent

to the dry pen barrel
nothing left to give

to my heavy lids
and slumped torso
fighting off inevitable sleep

to the freezer icemaker
rattling me awake

to the steady ticks
of the analog clock
marking the dark seconds
until light breaks

to the silent sleeping souls
whose cacophony makes
the swirling days splendid
and whose blessed nighttime stillness
allows thoughts to form
and expand like clouds
blowing up over the plains
adrift heavy with the promise of rain
that might soak and satisfy
the columbines
bowed by the house’s heat

to the locked doors
keeping the bears at bay

to the chocolate and wine
whispering in the cupboard
and the warm bed
countering their call

to the fuzzy blanket
tucking me in
in my half-asleep state
agreeable for examining
the dreamy subconscious

to the paper obediently absorbing
graphite, ink, ideas, my self

to those who will
put up with me tomorrow
and those who cluck their tongues
at my questionable habits
my inability to do
what’s right and reasonable

to the quiet stars straining
to put all this and more
into expanded perspective

to the sofa’s creak
when I finally tear myself away

to all these
I insincerely promise
I will do better tomorrow
(goodnight)

poetry

waiting

waiting

standing in the clearing
open to the periwinkle sky
waiting for what will be
stilling my breath to listen
for anything at all

poetry

manners

manners

in Puerto Varas
nonstop dogs and parakeets
all day/night long
until the moment I close my eyes
then mercifully
they all go quiet simultaneously
and I hear nothing more –
one more miracle
of a brain that knows
when I’ve had enough,
lies to my body to just bring rest –
until the instant my lids open to sun
when the whole rough chorus
sings the day awake

poetry

garbled

garbled

I remember a time
I could run my finger across your forehead
and set things right

now I gush mouthfuls of words
that hold no comfort
and I fear your heart is moving away
outside mine

but after midnight, it’s just us awake
and in the stillness
you tell me a story we both understand
about unfounded fear
and losing parts of oneself
and then we know
in the dark together
we are truly loved well
whatever we might say
however we might fail

poetry

dormitory room

dormitory room

in the sleeping room
bodies stay busy
minds turned out to shake
gallop eat daisies and peer at sky
make whatever worlds they will
bodies stay home
limbs heavy
but blood pulsing, lungs pumping,
mouths restless, straining to speak
air squeezing in and out of all
the little face holes
the dark unknowing hours mumble by
one exhalation at a time

poetry

satellite stream while awaiting the Okarito kiwi

satellite stream while awaiting the Okarito kiwi

at least 30 glowing pearls on a string
arc across the sky
below Orion’s belt
evenly spaced
long enough for us to
discuss the phenomenon
while it unfolds

satellites, the simple answer
but to what end?
the old Englishman and I both say
we’ve never seen anything like it before
what could it mean
but war?

at the library next day
I consult the 1s and 0s
and quickly find an answer
Starlink-1, a chain of 60 satellites
Elon Musk’s put in the sky
sailing over New Zealand each night,
an effort at connection not destruction
another wonder
that still doesn’t approach
my delight at seeing
B-Zed the kiwi

poetry

Sand Creek sigh

Sand Creek Sigh

wending our way
through ghosts of kahikatea trees
shattered into cheese crates
we all go sour

buttons pushed
silent or silenced
vacant stares
and equally frosty penetrating scowls
the irritating jabs like mozzies upon us
I steam
why can’t we all just get along?
as usual
not seeing how I’m running things off the rails
not taking into account
a hierarchy of needs
no amount of sunshine or seaspray can fill

tonight the little morepork owls are everywhere
their 2-note incessant cries
like the repeated badgering question
of one son grinding his will against another

no, I can’t fight it
that little morepork must say his say
share all his dark time wishes and won’ts
sing his little heart silent
and I must summon more patience
again tomorrow

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

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