A degree would earn her
a good income they told the
young woman. A government
bursary for books and fees,
savings from summer holiday jobs
to pay for living costs if she lived
in her parents’ house paying board.
All balanced neatly on the accounts.
Yet term time day by day was
harder than she could ever have
imagined as she sat in the study
cubicle silently reading, taking notes,
drafting essays, writing final copies,
while the promise shown in her
school days faded slowly away.
Study room silence allowed the
doors of the cupboard of her mind
stuffed full of memories past and
present to gape open. Memories
pouring out, disturbing, displacing
trains of thought needed to produce
logical reasoned expositions of facts
and ideas, proposals, solutions to
thoughtful complex questions.
A degree could help her leave her
home, an obstacle to that degree.
Previously posted February 2017.
Farewell Spit
Farewell Spit
a lengthy sandbank curved
across broad Golden Bay
staunch against the surging
ocean behind damming sand
inside its sheltering bulk.
Conservation staff and volunteers
revive and refloat occasional pods
of stranded whales on its waterline.
Disaster came recently as over four
hundred whales stranded overnight,
three hundred dead by morning.
A nationwide call. Conservation
staff, local residents, passing
tourists, slept in cars by night
sat with whales by day in shallow
water, holding them upright, pouring
buckets of water on their backs,
talking and singing to whales who
clicked, squeaked, whistled to
humans and each other.
At three high tides they steered
whales out to sea, stood with linked
arms across the bay in shoulder high
water to prevent the whales’ return.
At last for twenty whales, distressed,
exhausted, euthanasia brought relief.
Far out to sea other whales had heard
their calls, crossed the ocean, the beach,
to their aid. Again the rescuers worked
to reverse another stranding.
After three long days the last whales
returned to sea, the rescuers were
done with their long drawn out task.
Previously posted February 2017.
Many Shades of Green
Delicate greens blend with brown,
yellow, white in fine brush strokes
composing a landscape in many
greens – light, dark, in between.
Trees broad and burly, elegant and
slim, short and stocky, gather in copses,
windbreaks, over paddocks stretching
across tussocked terraces and hills
edged by sturdy wire and post fences.
Light shimmers on the leaves
rippling in the wind like wavelets
in the breeze on a fast flowing stream.
What pleasure to have such a
scene painted for me by a
friend for my milestone birthday.
Previously posted February 2017.
The Rabbit Next Door.
Next door lives a handsome
white rabbit with ginger patches
in a spacious stylish hutch with
a movable enclosure on a luscious
lawn by the north facing fence under
branches from their neighbour’s tree.
He belongs to their daughter but they
all like to bring him tender weeds,
juicy vegetable chunks. When at
home they pick him up, take him
inside, which he clearly expects.
He was taken to the front garden to
smell the lavender, but road noises
upset him, he was taken inside.
Hopping round the house he is happy
but has been seen on the back door
step gazing thoughtfully at the back
lawn as his nose whiffles fast, this way
and that. Many large cats live nearby,
he needs to be fenced in or escorted
outside but sometimes appears by the
garden shed far from his hutch. The
grass is greener there but he
interrupts brother’s golfing practice.
No burrowing shows, his paws are
clean. He jiggles his door till the
latch falls down, opening his door
setting himself free.
His family rescue him
from becoming cat dinner.
Previously posted February 2017.
A Call From An Editor
Designated poets, esteemed writers
at a national poetry magazine
scrutinised my submitted poems
among a vast heap of others.
From his faraway megacity office
the editor telephoned to mentor me.
Excited that an eminent literary figure
should call me I jotted down his words.
My mood flattened as he spoke of
writing sounds and words in patterns
and juxtapositions, auditory and visual,
of deftness with obscure metaphors.
What about the people ? the story ?
I wondered. What about everyday lives
of everyday people in and everyday world ?
Awed by his stature i said nothing.
He told of his writing’s rejection here
seventy years ago, his joy as his style
then his poems were accepted, published
overseas then in our own country.
Now he was highly regarded by the
highly regarded literati of the west.
Today his style is esteemed, but not mine.
Yet the internet releases me from
the need to find publication in
local and overseas print runs.
The world wide web
brings world wide forums
in a world wide range.
Previously posted in February 2017.
Regrets
Throughout her three year contract
the young teacher in 1950’s Fiji
prepared young Fijians at high school
for university and skilled employment
as Fiji grew into the post war world.
Born to young English immigrants
struggling to start married life
far from Mother England’s poverty
she put herself through university
in New Zealand as her parents
supported their children in education
to higher employment.
A young Englishman taught beside her,
having put himself through university,
supported by low income parents through
education to higher employment.
The young couple’s three years together to
blossomed richly. Yet each craved the
return home to family and homeland
to support their generous parents.
In great anger they separated to
their far distant homelands never
to meet or communicate again.
In her hospital bed twenty years later
she had met no one else who fulfilled
her. As cancer devoured her last days
…… she wondered …… what if ……
…… she had gone home with him.
Previously posted February 2017.
A Birthday
A bold black email subject line
” …… is turning 70 ……” !?!
A shock greeting in my inbox.
I had become accustomed, privately
within myself to yet another decade.
But this sudden blaring forth quite
dismantled my equilibrium.
Yet I could not object to such happy
good intentions by energetic younger
relatives planning this celebration.
Turning 20 was exciting
then each successive decade was
an uneasy milestone … 30, 40, 50, 60.
Father passed in his nineties.
Mother’s unhealthy family genes
lasted into her eighties. I may have
two more decade milestones yet.
Public opinion deems us old by 50.
A clear demarcation sets us apart
half my life will be old age.
Employers ignore us after 50.
Unknown young people object if we
join their conversations. How dare we !
But a bright light has arisen
above the horizon.
After years of paying taxes
I am paid a retirement pension.
I am enjoying my old age
with family and friends.
Previously posted February 2017.
When Mum Went Out
On a wet school holiday afternoon
Mum went out with baby brother
leaving Auntie Jo in charge of his
sisters’ bathing and hair washing.
After the sloshy business of bath
play with many toys in a well
filled tub they added more suds
as they washed themselves. Now
joyousness became tetchiness as
Auntie Jo washed hair and wriggling
feet poked ribs and tummy.
Auntie Jo’s firm response to the
seven year old’s impatience with
adults and younger sister was not
what the seven year old wanted.
The five year old with thick tangled
hair cried loudly as Auntie Jo
tried to brush her hair to dry it.
So Auntie Jo left her to brush it
herself, dried the seven year old’s
hair instead. Loud howls poured
forth from the five year old who
wanted her hair dried right now !
The black and white cat now tried
his luck for and early dinner while
the parents were out, meowing
desperately to say he was fading
away to a skeleton ! He was not.
Auntie Jo knew children
pushed boundaries, but cats ??
A very strange afternoon !
Previously posted November 2016.
Praying Mantis
Praying mantises climb through
the shrubs in the narrow garden
under the front windows
of my little ground level flat.
Their green shapes with leaf like wings
vanish among rose bush leaves:
long thin males, bulge bellied females
about to disgorge dozens of eggs
all hatching their tiny replicas
with narrow flattened faces
and eyes pinned to the sides
of those long thin heads.
The females seeking seclusion
come through my open windows
climbing the walls to the ceiling
swaying in the light with
no leaves to shelter them.
we need all their young mantises.
I catch them and drop them out
the window on to the bushes below
where they sway again with
their front legs in praying stance
before climbing down inside
those leafy green lairs.
Previously posted July 2016.
Weta On The Foot
Wetas are similar in size and shape to crickets, though unrelated.
They give a sharp nip when scared.
The barbs on their back legs draw blood when they kick.
The tabby hunter brings trophies
inside: flapping butterflies,
crunched beetles, desperate birds,
disembowelled worms, struggling wetas.
She stops the bells on her collar ringing
no matter what Mummy does.
Mummy said don’t play with wetas,
they bite, their back legs make your
hand bleed when they kick.
The four year old, so fascinated by bugs,
stood staring at a weta on the floor.
It hopped on to her foot, her parents came
running at her piercing screams.
They tried to calm her, remove the weta,
but she ignored them.
Daddy wrapped one long arm
around her arms and shoulders,
the other long arm around her legs.
Mummy gripped the leg with one hand
and slowly peeled off the sock,
keeping the sock around the weta,
took it out, tipped it on to a bush.
Clever Mummy !
At last the house was quiet again.
Mummy and Daddy leaned back,
exhausted, on the couch.
Grandad says someone should
tell the tabby hunter
that wetas are indigenous,
protected, by law.
But Tabby doesn’t care.
Previously posted July 2016.
lifecameos 