Cosmic traveller

Cosmic traveller

Cosmic traveller

navigating space

hurtling through

the vacuum

little speck of ice

with a bright

lighted tail

streaming

out

no effect 

on any celestial body

a comet

of interest to some

but affecting no one

apparently bright

maybe a ball

of space-dust

at the center

Happy Little Poem

Happy Little Poem

Nelson,

that crisp little seaside town.

You can rely on it.

Large yellow sun on the weather-map

day after day.

Expansive views to be had,

if only the eyes are open.

This evening the stars

twinkle, off in space.

Alien life forms

comment to each other about the bright,

crisp view they have

of the little town at the 'V' of the bay,

at the top of the big island,

beside the fish shaped island,

at the lower end

of the Pacific Ocean, on the planet

known as Earth.

They note the abundance

of oxygen, water and food.

They focus in on people who can

relax and enjoy time creatively.

Comment, as they tend their rockeries,

on the clarity of the air

compared to other places,

humid, foggy places

cloud covered or haze infested...

I hope they aren't thinking of paying us a visit.

Class sizes go up in New Zealand

Class sizes go up in New Zealand

Class sizes up,

more children in each classroom...

one teacher fewer in each school...

"...when I was at school there were 43 of us

in the room and look... we all did well..."

Really? What about those who got the strap?

(and hate school still ...( and who instil in their children

(in ways covert and overt) that school was, is and will be 

a bad place.

I wonder what caused the level of frustration that caused the teachers of old to use the strap?

hmmmm.....

What about the children who were scared of the people

who were supposed to teach them things? 

 They had seen the "bad" children getting the strap and crying 

(yes, even the tough ones could not come out without red eyes and tears)

What about those who 

could not read 'said', 'and' or 'what'

 let alone 'Lesley saw the Viscount'

 by the time they were 11?

They couldn't get cheque accounts and licences. 

I wonder why those children were not able to succeed then??

(They may not even be reading this poem. Why would they?)

I remember the teachers then too. 

I learnt to read with the same teachers.

so I know it was not because of bad teachers.

What about the boys who cheated because they knew

their teacher could not monitor everyone all the time?

I wonder now why one teacher might not have been able to monitor the activities

of forty-three 11 year olds???

What about the people who knew that some were cheating

but also knew that there was no way of proving that

 because there were too many other children in the class.

And now, today, on the news, a great idea

lets have only the best teachers teaching

because studies tell us that it is the quality of the teacher

not the numbers of children in the class.

Sounds good.

What's the catch?

They will have 43 students each to teach.

oh.

Hang on, wouldn't it make sense to have both?

Excellent teachers and low class sizes?

Too expensive for now to have both?

ok then why not keep the status quo?

and what if we already have excellent teachers?

Getting rid of one teacher in each school "willy nilly" 

without a complete test of all teachers across all curriculum areas

 and across all extra-curricula areas and including

tests which measure conflict of interest

philosophy, pedagogy, number of hugs given per day on a pro-rata basis,

level of humour, joke telling skill level (poor in my own case (fingers crossed and hoping these words are not my own personal downfall as I can't remember even 1 funny joke (yes, you've guessed, I'm a teacher)))

poetic, artistic, physical skill level

balletic, gymnastic, and musical ability

ability to resolve conflict between both 6 year old girls and 11 year old boys

as well as conflict resolution for the adults in the lives of said students (both professional and personal)

number of times a teacher has called CYPFS or CYFS or whoever they are (you know...the authorities.... the ones with the authority but no common sense)

multiplied by the number of noses wiped and then multiplied by the number of bottoms wiped, band aids placed, shoes tied, lunches provided

balls kicked, ribbons tied, stickers given out, smiles, thumbs ups given

praise relayed to a parent, oh and the number of times those teachers have called a parent to say "I hugged your daughter today when they hid under the desk because of the lightning" (in case a hug is bad) multiplied by the number of times children were ferried from the office to the car when wind gusts over 100kph were being recorded multiplied by the number of children attended to, in the night, during class camps

multiplied by the number of times a black eye has been received by that teacher because a child could no longer cope with getting on a boat

and the number of times the teacher has stood in the centre of a southbound lane with a pen and paper in one hand and the wrist of an unruly child in the other as a 22 wheeler log truck swerves to avoid the two of you....

what, you don't think any of that should be in the test for excellence

oh, 

then how will you test it????

oh

Academic results.

but what if larger class numbers mean that academic results fall?

Ah, you would simply get rid of those useless teachers too,

oh

but then if that happens won't you end up with fewer teachers again?

and larger class sizes still?

and worse academic results?

then no more teachers????

so...

"businesses can educate children"

I see...

"It will be cheaper...

and more efficient"....

Hmmmm, Ten 9 year olds and 1 truck driver, all in a truck drivers cab, all learning as they bowl off down the highway... "hey, Johhny put my CB radio down, Jeanny, leave the gear lever, no Bertie we don't send faxes while in motion, well at least not to ACC anyway, something might go wrong... Sandie recite Pi to 50 decimal places, Roger, were we supposed to take that off ramp???.....

'Here we go round the mulberry bush, the mullberry bush, the mullberry bush...

little ray of sunshine

Little Ray of Sunshine

I hadn't minded the blond curls 

of 4

 because I didn't know 

that hair was important.

I used to hate 

when I was 15

and my grandmother

would say 

"you've got lovely curly hair"

It seemed everyone else had straight hair.

they could grow it long .

Not me, a gorse bush of wiry, wavy hair.

I grew it thinking a Sampson would emerge, 

it took on the look of a mushroom.

A teenager with a silly grin AND a mushroom mop!!

It took me 25 years or so to begin to like my hair.

Now I am happy to follow in the 

stylish footsteps of 'Beaker' from the Muppets

(A young Indian hairdresser in Tashigang,

 was happy to go with that)

or Christopher Lloyd as 'Doc Brown' in

"Back to the Future"

as grey takes over.

Ronan has the genes from both his mum and dad.

He fights the same hair battle I did,

so I tell him

I think he has the look

of a Celtic Warrior

he goes with that

and grins.

That boy is a little ray of sunshine.

a constant silky swish

A Constant Silky Swish   or      On My Beach

On my beach

the constant hum and crash

welcomes me.

Sand is rock, hard 

and should grate on my ear,

so much more than a sigh,

as grain rubs grain. 

Instead there is 

a constant silky swish

as some million rough wet grains 

make contact with the rest.

Sand, dry, sifts through my toes,

tactile and begging for some 

interaction and creativity;

a swirl with a stick,

a letter, or even my own name,

for the world to read before the next tide swoops,

or a child chases a ball

through my masterpiece.

I stand still and watch and wait.

Tide in or tide out,

on the make or on the run?

Subtle difference when you stand and watch.

One big wave in ten minutes. It's coming in

I decide.

Simultaneously the waves

surge one at a time, gathering in height,

for an onslaught,

but then they

transform and with a little magic,

become delicate translucent ballerinas.

The peak of each,

waiting, tantalisingly

for the very last moment when, 

with curl and crash

they implode

adeptly avoiding the gliding seagulls.

No wind today,

no spray.

Sometimes

it is what is not here

that is as important as what is.

Wind would whip this surf

and the resulting spray might sting

the face with a salty slap.

Instead two boys,

avoiding the tidal heave,

toss shoes that float about

amongst the froth and ripples at the waters edge.

Their laughter and the far off sky...

sigh...

A Close Shave

A Close Shave

Sometimes I wonder why we both went down that night.

He had been sick.

We saw him at about the same time,

only two and a bit, standing up in his cot.

He had been sick.

As if he was saying "something's not right".

He had been sick.

Unusual, staring,, gripping the rail,,, then... 

as we watched.... he began.... convulsing.

He had been sick.

Phoning the doctor. 

He had been sick.

Desperate late evening dash to hospital

that drive, those same streets, always on my mind.

Nurses take over, with drugs and tubes

but I know, 

40 minutes of non stop convulsing is not good.

By a whisker it stops.

It is not right... but it stops.

nothing is right

even when his 6 month old brother

props himself up in an incubator and cranes his neck to see the action

his parents, the nurses and doctor all laugh.

Too soon it begins again ,

tests almost as frightening as the illness

and a diagnosis

and the right

drug.

But it gets worse and then

in the Intensive Care Unit,

where families don't stay,

the four of us stay the night.

It is touch and go

I sleep.

I wake.

"You've lost your little boy" says the ICU nurse

...

...

another nurse is holding my other little boy outside so I can sleep, she meant.

Two little boys, irresistible to ICU nurses, used to working with grey old men.

close shave.

Close shave after close shave continue,

encephalitis, brain injury, epilepsy,

it all runs on.

By some miracle

13 years later,

tonight,

I introduce my son to a razor

another close shave. 

Always a dreamer

Always a dreamer

"Greggs" cordial drinks 

came in small squat glass bottles, 

just right for a little hand to hold.

Guess I was three or four.

We sat on little low wooden benches

beside the tennis courts

while mum played tennis

with other mums

beside the Memorial hall.

Two tall firs and a big oak

stood on the grass 

with the main road on the other side of a fence.

The library and a hall beyond the road.

Not much traffic then anyway.

Grey stone Memorial gates, as well

with wreaths and poppies on ANZAC day.

The local Plunket Rooms on another side of the courts

All providing a barrier to

the rest of the world.

I felt cocooned there.

It was open on the other side,

the old racecourse was used for cricket,

with a clear view to the western mountains 

the sun and sky covering us all.

I liked that view too,

different not cocooning at all 

a view to adventure in a far away place.

Always a dreamer.

Which "loving tongue"?

Which "loving tongue"?

Speech; an intriguing thing.

Communication of thought relies on it.

(I'll admit thought intrigues).

but

Choosing a second language, difficult step.

Which to choose? There are many, interesting;

Malayalam, Russian, Indonesian, Sanskrit, Latin or Berber.

Bob Dylan sang "Spanish is the loving tongue",

French is 'the language of love', they say, although 

I'm guessing Monsieur Sarkozy may be using

words not so loving right now.

so...

speaking a second language, tried it myself. Not easy.

"want I onions 3 cost of 5?"

must have sounded lame

to the locals!

So when youngsters 

give language a go

we can hear words so humourous

strung together;

"I can speak English now".

... "een hoy tut tut tu ip odd dada ip"

Classic. Understanding? Words! Thoughts! Ha!

wash-bowl change

Wash-Bowl Change

One season closes.

A glorious autumn slides toward winter.

The high blue sky switches places with

a cover of grey, close clouds.

Sunlight, bright and vivid

exploding colour out of every object,

leaves us for more fortunate places.

We remain, almost trapped,

in a dull, grey light,

morose and oppressive.

The free spirits of this sunshine centre

are quick to flip. They are not used to the 

broody, moody

closed in feeling.

They object, complain

and play up for each other.

Within this wash-bowl change of season

they squabble and fight, allowing their minor irritations

to take over.

They are overrun. 

The place sounds like a chicken coop, where this crowded cage of rats 

await the return of the well-loved sun.

I was 10 in '73

I was 10 in '73

I was 10 in '73,

and learning was not 'cool'.

Knowing "stuff" was showing off,

OK with teachers,

but children and adults gave you 'the look',

even cheered if you got it wrong.

Telling adults information that they did not know

was foolish.

Letting people know things earnt "shut up"

so shut up I did.

I changed myself for them.

People want to tell you things

and people want entertainment.

People don't want to know things.

Unless you could make it funny.

Usually at the expense of someone else

and I grew to dislike that

so I made fun of myself,

that made it safe for people to hear things.

I changed myself for them.

Communicating serious thought 

requires people who are serious,

so I dropped the funny act,

I changed myself for them.

Tonight watching my son 

in a hall full of excited academic teens

who all had fun showing that 

knowledge still has currency,

I could see people who do not have to

change themselves for others.

I celebrate for them,

but now, who am I?

The smile quota

In support of teachers

I am a person of rare privilege;

I work in classrooms created by other teachers.

These precious environments 

shape the lives of the students in them.

Children, some whose lives are in turmoil,

some who are loved and cared for.

The smiles,

no one wants to know about the smiles.

No one checks to see if the smile quota is being met.

The hugs

the hugs that a generation lost 

this generation dishes hugs out with ease

boys, girls, both... to the adults...

who will count that, assess that?

"Room 7; 13 hugs today, well done".

"Room 2 only 1 hug this morning, not enough, please improve".

I work in one class 

where the growth in education is exponential.

That teacher has made huge gains

recognised but not measured.

The hardest work I have done

is done there daily.

Another room has writers who changed their writing

crafting, polishing, improving.

In one room learners learn to learn and leap like fledglings

into a world of APPs and books, words and numbers. 

Another room has readers starting down the rocky road of literacy

nervous, hesitant but well supported and loving the challenge.

In a room not far away students are exposed to that addictive elixir- thought.

This teacher over here is thinking Vygotsky

and his Zone of Proximal Development.

I churn through all this and think

who can still say "measure these students against each other"

who is telling teachers to "teach the way we tell you" 

The 'suits' don't know and could not discuss Vygotsky.

They would not force a builder to build a 30 metre deck extension

 on the 10th story because they want it that way.

Rise up, teach, teachers

continue to teach, love, sing, play, be passionate, creative, sensitive, emotional,

caring, nurturing, literate, numerate, sporty, scientific, artistic people

your children need you even though

you have been 

cast out

by the current political

beast.

The beast is only as real as the wild things.

When politicians behave badly we can choose...to ignore them.

Kiwi Cowboy

Flash of Red

Flash of red.

Shapely amongst the other trees. 

My maple tree, leaves

juxtaposed delightfully against the cobalt blue

sky, sunlight angled in just so. 

This morning view sends me off 

to another place and time...

... the cold cowboy of winter 

ambles slowly down the valley,

approaching with a ten gallon hat and spurs,

leading a tired horse,

hand on the leather holster, ready for a lightning fast draw.

luckily, today, there is no breeze, 

so the local leaves hang on,

leaning on the horse rail branches of the town,

watching the winter stranger draw near,

knowing that sooner or later,

maybe when the moon thins out to a crescent

and the local dogs howl,

his icy bullet or its forceful ricochet

will hit and blow them clean away.

Supermoon 2012

Supermoon

I scan the hills for a sign.

Too early.

but then

The light, 

silvery bright.

My senses take over 

and I am

drawn towards you.

Hills hold

sky unfolds

the orb

of 

white

silver supermoon

beauty

tonight.

out of body experience

Life and Memory Morph

Where ones own mind 

has its own landscape,

and rules, dreams, fantasies, 

'what ifs' and daydreams, 

which seem to be a part 

of a perceived world .

Why does the mind do this?

Is it a help, benefit or gift?

or a hindrance, the inside 

of some dark organic coal-sack?

Does this happen to everyone

or only a few?

Are you reading this?

Then are we geeks,

different, weird, freaks?

Words and thought swirl, collide and bounce.

Visions like video replays of life 

and memory morph

in a kaleidoscope with time as the glue

and colour as a vehicle

and food as the hallucinogenic energy, 

but these are no psychedelic views,

merely everyday collections

nothing remarkable here...

but

I still, really, want to know what it is that you think. 

So send your thoughts,

but

if you don't read this how will I know?

What if you don't say?

I just won't know.

Send them anyway,

they may arrive and click

some telepathic thought centre 

to open...

... so maybe it is not about me...

Another passing meta-cognitive thought

makes me wonder;

what is and is not real.

Is touch real or just another

perception?

If atomic science says it is impossible for 

atoms to touch...

then...

there is no touch!

except oneness

or electricity passing between...

fffitttzzzzzxxtttxxtzztzz

you were warned! 1984

"Hello, it's big brother here".

Big Brother is watching you!

Yes, you there in the computer chair

in your cosy room.

You've been digitally recognised

a dozen times today.

That was you at the pumps,

buying petrol this morning,

sauntering across the forecourt.

10:15.

We know all about the $82.56

 worth of petrol (and the secret 

packet of chips) from your EFTPoS

transaction.

10:18.

Your tweet about your eldest 

child's win at sport

was a give away too!

11:35.

Then you drove through town

for lunch at the mall.

your blue sweat shirt

was a give-away.

12:14

And your number plate,

73 kph (close to an instant fine)

as you approached the motorway.

W4LLY is so easy for our

cameras to pick up!

13:25

Thought you were safe at home?

That photo of you and your sister

that you tagged and posted

we got that too.

16:52

You just finished watching your favourite

cooking show

and as expected,

blogging again.

21:38. (same every night)

shattered all over the road.

Shattered all over the Road

Something is wrong. My mind speeds up.

A car in the middle of the road?

think, quick. See. 

A car across the road!

That car is facing the wrong way.

think. act. Foot off the gas.

That car is not moving.

I slow down. Wait. A split second.

The car moves off the road

onto the shoulder.

A crash?

I slow and stop.

Plastic lies, red, white and amber,

shattered all over the road.

I hit the hazard switch.

Death? Blood? What?

I get out onto the road.

Tell-tale tyre marks.

Nobody seems hurt.

Relief.

They are all in shock.

Passing cars crunch 

over the broken tail lights.

A cycle lies on the verge,

beside the road. Its cyclist looks grey.

But ok.

Blue and red lights flash.

Another reminder.

Safety on the road.

after midnight in May

Sheets of steel.

Sheets of steel,

tyres and glass,

plastic and fragments of

unknown atomic structures

all quietly party, out on the driveway

through the long hot summer nights.

But the temperature

lowers after midnight in May

and as each morning stirs,

the moisture in the surrounding air

gathers, swirls and 

condenses

clinging to any car

left sitting in the open.

The cold forces change,

the moisture alters,

liquid becomes solid,

white beads of ice 

coat the metal and glass.

The ice has formed a bond

and does not want a separation.

Ice clings to metal with a fiercer grip than

the local octopus.

The garage calls out

"Bring your party in here

I'll protect you from 

Jack Frost."

I hear their frantic conversation

and rescue both.

The cars, happily chat to each other,

the garage, bursting with pride and

usefulness.

And me, just pleased to have no

frost to clear tomorrow.

Nowhere to Hide...

Hide n Seek

In childhood I loved being still.

Realising early that being silent 

had advantages. More lately

wishing that I had not learned that.

In my twilight twenties

sardines was fun,

quiet still,

but a more...social version of hiding!

Grin.

Watching my own children play,

at first noisy and surprised to be found,

then silent and still

stealthy and refusing to disclose the 

perfect hiding spot.

Adult self

hiding behind

the masks

and tasks

we choose

and accept.

At work, observing

clever children forgetting that

they are hiding from the adults

around

and disarmed, not alarmed,

to be suddenly found and spoken to

with directness,

suddenly

nowhere 

to hide.

Always new things we all should learn.

Could be news,

local, national or global...

or personal.

An old friend

An old Friend

The ice blue sky

lifts higher still.

The relentless southerly wind

shifts the autumn air,

like the slipstream from

a Formula 1 racing car

or a passing logging truck,

turning the leaves into glorious fashion statements

with vivid reds, bright yellows, but also

stripping the warmth and insulation

from our cosy summer bay.

Snow, fresh and pristine white,

sits on the nearby mountain tops

like an old friend

dropping by for a cup of tea. 

It is only when you get close up that 

you realise; 

first appearances can be deceptive

and your face recognition technology

has let you down badly.

Too late! This is no friend

the bite and scratch of ice and frost

are hiding behind

the veil of white.

Winter sneaks down from the tops for an early visit.

Simply fixing my world

Simply fixing my world

So much wrong

with my world...

war

because of people

We could try with no guns...

I wouldn't care if megalomaniacs 

and survivalists had to chase 

people with sticks.

poverty

because of people

We could try sharing more...

I wouldn't care if no one had any gold taps.

hunger

because of people

We could try sharing more...

I wouldn't care if I had to do without

my second helping.

greed

because of people

We could try living with what we have...

hard as that may be.

theft

because of people

We could try fixing the other problems...

I could be patient.

disease

that is too hard for me to fix

We could help others fix it though.

where to start

fixing

it all?

My own back yard

is still the best place

for me to begin

simply

fixing

my world.

Take a Closer Look

Take a Closer Look

Take a look,

the hair style,

the cuts are different.

The clothes are

older, two or three

generations back, perhaps

and the buildings in the background

wooden, rough, weatherboard.

Lots of boots

everywhere boots,

someone was a boot-maker!

and serious expressions,

all serious, eyebrows,

narrowed faces,

wrinkled searching brows,

eyes,

and all picked out in black and white

Take a closer look

that face has such a 

familiarity

about it...

these people

were hard living people.

This old photo

shows my

father's

family.

all used up

all used up

Thinking hard about poetry readers;

you all there,

eager to read,

waiting to pounce on the poem

devour it, savour the words,

hold it in your mind and 

churn through the twists and turns.

Maybe you are hoping 

for a simply worded cul de sac where you can 

ruminate and relax with a thought that

resonates with your own.

Maybe you like the express ways 

that reading though my new poem,

flash ideas and clever images,

brings to you.

If you do then I'd like to welcome you

seriously and personally...

Stop.

A new thought sneaks about 

amongst the tomato sticks of

my south pacific garden...

a few of you may be

shy,

readers who prefer

the quiet of a study,

or den,

maybe a hammock

in some private back garden

magazines tidy on a nearby table

what about you?

Here I am leaping over your literary back fence and shouting "Hi!"

and waving, too keen...

one of those creative types all

loud Saturday shirt and wild hair.

Well, it is me, so without apology

I present...the subject of this poem...

air

yes a little surprise all right.

But the magic of the stuff.

blowing about all mysterious and unseen

so... necessary and vital

lungs, blood and brain

waiting for transformation

and separation,

oxygen extracted,

surging towards brain cells

and powering the thoughts 

and imaginations of countless people

everywhere.

Sustaining perception and the several billion

realities we possess.

Sharing these and heading together towards some

super-mass of collective, productive, self perpetuating,

utopian, shangri-la...

sorry folks you'll have to take it from here

the oxygen in my room has been 

all used up.

spirits

Small Dark One

No ghost haunts this place, moaning or clanking chains.

No, tonight we have something from this side of the spiritual divide!

No mountain dew distilled through copper coil neither,

although the tell-tail wisp of wood-smoke does 

curl and drift skyward

now that the first rains of Autumn have fallen.

It is instead from expire and inspire,

the breath of life,

so important to us all,

in and out, to breathe, to be alive

so, yes,

life is the spark for this infant poem.

Keeping alive is our grail

having fun, sharing the craic, a laugh, a song, a birth,

all involve the unfettered surge of air to and from the lungs.

To be in good spirits 

requires a communion with other minds,

sharing a smile or a laugh;

or a mind that perceives

beauty, perceived already;

the flower, mountain peak, river bend or

new born baby, held  for the first time.

This piece is for you, son of mine.

Gloom; a lack of mirth

and hell, that dark, foreboding place, 

can both be shaken off

with time spent

in the company of friends.

So, by all means, get together and share...

even in the sharing of anger and grief

the heave of air transforms us

out of gloom

and into the light of

humanity.

..catch the horse..

Catch the Horse

We think.

We think we like the status quo,

the way it is seems fine.

The effort to change

seems large from the start.

That first step out the door

or off the couch,

out of bed.

Don't change anything.

I like it just the way it is.

Sometimes I'd like to have nothing change,

but it seems that everything 

is in a state of flux

right now.

All change!

and when we come back tomorrow 

the mysterious 'they' have changed it again,

or made a new one

(my parents iron (a wedding gift) went for 40 years).

We seem to have to replace ours every two years.

No! Wait, that book "I wish that I had Duck Feet"!

If I wanted no change

what would happen then?

I'd have to get up earlier in the morning

and catch the horse...

and hitch it to the wagon...

and boil the porridge on the fire...

"The only constant is change".

 Heraclitus of Ephesus, a Greek philosopher (c.535 BC - 475 BC)

said something similar 2500 years ago.

Freedom

Freedom

A National holiday

is freedom of a type,

although nations rich

and nations poor have these.

I'm not up at dawn.

The service is at 10:00am 

where I live.

So freedom of a kind again.

I have breakfast in bed,

 served this morning

by a generous son.

10:00am draws near but

no one will go with me,

so I must go alone.

Another type of freedom,

although this double edged sword

leaves its cuts in a random manner.

Alone, yes, and free to walk

to the village hall but

also, alone with no company

but the trees and houses, birds and sky

they all free too.

Alone and no one to look after, 

my attention can wander freely;

to the flags,

to the poppies,

the servicemen in uniform and

the medals of the old warriors.

Free to attend to the speech

by a soldier in uniform

"this day remembers no battle,

only the men who went

and did not return",

pride in our people,

remembering the grief;

not 'the glory'.

The hymns, prayers, poppies,

wreaths, and then

the bugler lets The Last Post

dance through our ears

amongst the autumn leaves.

A solemn sound as winter

sneaks unnoticed into the village.

We all free to talk now,

mingle with friends

wander on home;

not knowing all of our freedoms,

knowing some of our bonds,

knowing some freedoms,

not knowing all of our bonds.

Injustice

More Questions than Answers

I feel angry

when I see injustice.

Something here is just not right.

Three children

affected, 

not protected.

Who will look after them?

This is not about who takes them after school,

but who will explain

the whys and the decisions?

To the children.

Maybe someone did something wrong,

but why are they punishing the children

A baby, taken from it's mother

for months?

Who makes these decisions?

Is this a procedure?

Or is it guesswork?

Why not have an observer in the home?

It would be cheaper,

and less intrusive than this

split up

mess.

Who will fix it?

How will they fix it?

What will they fix it with?

Why don't they talk to us?

The view is not Just

from here.

My granny said she felt like she was 18!

 Have you got time for this?

Drove home from work today

with the radio on in the car.

I heard the time pips

and made it from the car

to the kitchen before

they finished.

"I'm home before 5!" 

I said proudly to anyone who was listening.

They all gave me one of those

"Andrew, you are such a fool!" looks

and carried on with what they were doing.

"Listen" I said

I heard Jim Croce singing "...time in a bottle..."

Just then Mary had dinner on the table.

Mary and  our 3 sons (and one sons friend)

gathered round,

eating.

We forgot Jim and the bottle for a moment.

Stop! It's News time!

We all stopped

heard the news.

Homework time is next.

"What is for homework?" says I

"Theories about time." says Finn.

As if you could figure this out like 27 times 4.

Look Dad! Stephen Hawking has a theory.

"Imagine a hill..."

I imagine a hill.

"...with a hole in it..."

I imagine a hill with a hole in it.

"...if you run around the hill..."

I imagine running around the hill.

Me, fit, young, fast....

"Dad! (a little exasperation from Finn)

...now if you went through the hole..."

"yes"

"and time went around the hill..."

"...?"

"You'd beat time!" says Finn...laughing.

He's 13.

I'm not.

Just like that.

Quick as a flash.

I'd never understood wormholes till then.

Poem time now.

Family tucked up.

Goodnight kissed

and teeth brushed.

What'll I write?

Time springs to mind.

The time of a childhood memory

as long as my brain allows.

Me by a river 40 years ago.

A laugh in my head. 

I tell 5 year old

students at work

that waiting

is the hardest thing!!!

Then it hits me.

A memory

My granny said she felt like she was 18!

She must have been 85.

I emerge from a hole in the side of a hill.

How come you're not here...

yet?

My Place

My Place

My place has trees that you can look at or climb.

such a big sky, really huge, all over. 

You can see half of space from here.

Phenomenal light and it can hurt your eyes, but beautiful.

Beaches where you can sit or swim or play.

Mountains big tall ones for climbing and for snow.

Warm summers, cold winters, four seasons.

We won!

Winning in Wakefield

Saturday afternoon.

The domain is a picture.

The pitch looks perfect;

green and well mown.

White lines give us all some structure!

New nets strung up like

two opposing trampolines.

The team warming up;

belting practice shots

at the goal mouth.

Stretching, running, drills.

The referee's

whistle blows.

Match time.

Back and forward,

football bouncing,

rolling, shot back, forwards.

Thump as a head 

connects 

with the ball.

Out! throw, touch, pass.

Stringing them together now.

Pass, pass, fumble,

foot to ball.

Goal.    It's ours!

Keep the pressure on.

We score our second.

No time to catch breath,

opposition have the ball,

he goes by me,

their goal.

Dejection.

Focus.

Foot to ball.

Whistle goes.

We won!

People love winning.

Be enticed!!!!

Give it a go!

First glimpse.
 Do I want to?
   My first time.
       Of course I want to!
           Never been brave enough before.
             Looks so exciting,
                enticing and inviting
                     shown off in the best light.
                       Middle of a sunny day,
                        bright and colourful.
                           Sunday best.

                        Second view,
                     little scary.
              What would it be like?
                    The thrill increases...others have tried.
                                                              They look happy.

                 Decision time.
                     Yes I will!
                           What will be the cost?
                                Hell! I'll pay, whatever the cost.
                                                                 This will be excellent.

At first I am enveloped...
             comfortable, promise of a thrill...
                                                              but what? a safety bar? Never mind.
                                    You've come this far.
                         We're off ...gentle start,
slowly uphill... what a view!

Moment of anticipation
                              hurtling down
                                             stomach
                                                         lurching
                                              twists and turns
                                                                     stop it now!!!!
                                                                                          ...
   another climb
              another thrill
                             oh no another drop is up ahead
                                                                      Scared this
                                                                                    is a microcosm
                                                                                                    of my
                                                                                                            lifeeeee
                                                                                                                      eee
                                                                                                                         ee

    a swoop, dips and sways
               bucks and turns
                        slowing now
                                             no not yet!!
                                                            I want more...

and line up for the next roller-coaster ride.

Creation

Thinking Possitively

create make do Ghandi 

think Dalai lama write mother

 paint cook build 

Mother Teresa act dance

 father meditate sing produce

 nurture share teach stitch love

 sculpt care play grow

 plant Martin Luther King counsel

 listen see hear talk 

compassion

destroy ruin argue fight

war shoot kill harm 

waste cheat pollute lie

 deceive bomb embezzle

 defraud maim hide 

imprison shout

kidnap

contain

No names

they do not deserve

to be mentioned.

I am in both.

It is shameful

for me.

How is it for those who dwell in that second group?

Now I have compassion for them.

Not for the faint hearted.

Scary treasure.

Reader be warned.

I'm writing intimate tonight.

Not the poem of joy

of excitement

or newness, beauty

or vast colourful vista.

Tonight is just me.

I'll share my thoughts, my emotions and my feelings.

I'm often scared.

But not of things

not distance, not height, not dark nor moths (used to fear them once).

I'm into the Zen of things now.

No, I'm scared when I wonder what you think

about me and these words.

I'm a man poet teacher husband father

but I don't know what it is that you think.

And that scares me.

Reader

should I keep wondering?

Questioning myself?

Questioning you.

Questioning worth.

This may be uncomfortable.

Rest easy 

it is not about you.

I like my poems and I'm proud that I write and publish,

but care that you don't like them.

Careful here, you may end up with nice words and poems.

So I prefer to hide behind the words and use them as a screen.

I can pump the words out fast, as I go.

A western quick-,draw crossing the street

hat down covering the eyes.

The words can take a shape, they can camoflage,

they are a cloaking device

as good as a hi-tech fighter jet

I think and then think again;

they shield nothing,

drip off my tongue but

they don't fool you.

They screen off time, questions and sometimes people.

You're in the circle tonight and lucky,

I don't step out from my screen very often.

Greetings from this

man old poem new.

I love my family

my wife

my boys. 

They are my treasure. You may not have my treasure.

You will have to seek them out yourself and ask them for that privilege.

I have shadow but I don't share that except face to face when my screen and yours are down

and you don't want to know.

I know.

Ancestry

Ned and Helen

Ned                            Helen
the man.                      the woman.

Leaving Newcastle in 1860.
Tears on the dock.
Leaving  home and all you know.
Going somewhere so far away.
Torn.
Sailing ship
tossing on the endless ocean.
Down through the Doldrums
into the Roaring Forties.
Dunedin and the promise of gold in Otago.
Walking or wagon or horse.
Tracks maybe but no roads then.
Big lakes, unforgiving rivers.
Mountains to climb.
Women give birth in a calico tent
in a Macetown Southern hemisphere winter.
House of rock or timber
but ... not much in the way of firewood.
Men working the quartz mines for the
elusive gold
mixing mercury.
Hard times
tough folk
resilient
stoic.
Ancestors

Harsh Old Coast

Harsh Old Coast

Decent to the Gates of Haast.

Boulders make ready to tumble,

precarious in this narrow ravine.

Mountains to left of us,

Mountains to right of us.

We make it through,

unlike the 600,

safe at the coast.

Tasman sailed by here much earlier,

this "land uplifted high".

It is uncluttered:

raw,

free,

natural,

harsh.

Little in the way of human interference,

vast in its natural abundance.

Trees bent, gnarled and sculpted by the wind,

vivid green 

with west coast palm fronds

poking about.

This coast gets a bashing;

wind, waves, glaciers, tumbling rock.

Weather lined rocky beaches

with

salt sea spray 

hanging about,

 drifting nonchalantly

amongst

ragged cliff silhouettes.

Pungent smell of coal fires

from the spewing chimneys

 of the sparse dwellings,

clogging Nelson noses.

Grey valley.

Sadness,

our hats off to you

in remembrance.

Brunner.

Pike River.

Lone miner walking home

in the evening.

Evocative.

We pass through and head for home.

Farewell coast.