A record of thanks
Considering that
I feel ill standing on a wharf
watching boats rock’n roll
invariably
throw up at sea
withdraw the contents
of my stomach on light aircraft
I’d
like to thank
whoever is responsible for
the earth’s airpocketless
revolutions
____________________________
After the
rains
After the ten day rains we ease our way out of
the house where we have become to ourselves
and each other,
unbearable.
He points out the lettuce tree like the one at kindy.
I correct with ‘cabbage.’ As long as there’s no
brussel sprout trees
he’s not bothered.
He whispers, see the wind breezing the
beautiful
flowers, and the daffodils nod in delight
at this
recognition.
Our stale and snappy winter words have been
released and spring’s warmth is seeping
into our conversation.
I’ve got little hummings bubbling inside me and
I haven’t
swallowed a bee. I catch his sideways
look and we burst out laughing.
____________________________
Motorcycle Ballerina
Leaning into curves, balancing on
tyre rims, angling away from
gravelled edges.
Dusking through tree shadowed
streets,
mapping out the minutes,
staging her own performance
she
collects him from his ballet
class. He, the pillion passenger,
pirouettes into the night.
____________________________
Grin and bear it
im Pat Lawton
1. Hair
raising
Last night your head was shaved,
the few remaining
strands
made you feel, Trumpish.
Today you rang suggesting a
test drive.
We parked at St Clair, meeting
the Southerly head on.
Hands trembling in pockets, you were
courageous. Hands at alert,
I was ready
to scramble or scream, Stop that wig.
Inside the
Saltwater café we celebrated,
leaving the beaten wind howling
at
the door.
Mr Pig, Mr Pig let me come in, I laughed.
The only
trouble is, you said, I still have
hair on my chinny chin chin.
2. Wig instructions:
Be careful not to put your head in
the
oven, you may damage this
synthetic wig
You had never
contemplated putting your
head in the oven but would talk to
your
specialist.
Maybe it was a side effect of the chemo,
the
desire to delve into the depths
of your oven.
3. Full
House
A day trip for chemo. All seats taken
so you dragged a
chair from the
waiting room,
creating an epicentre in the
whirlpool
of patients hooked to their
lines.
You’d
forgotten your book so compiled
a shopping list, visualising the
empty
spaces in your pantry.
4. Ginger scones and apricot
jam
We’ve been phone calls apart for days.
My common cold,
life threatening
for you.
Saturday morning wellness sees us
gathering netting at the Red Barn,
strawberry protection.
Too soon to return to solitary confinement
we direct the car
towards Port, stopping
for a peek in Posh, and
a mosey in
Myfanwy’s, before salivating
over ginger scones and apricot jam
at
The Port Royale Café.
5. Sunday evening at St Clair
Tomorrow you’re spending the day
infusing a cocktail of new drugs.
This evening
we’re on the beach, paddling
in freedom, tossing
old wounds,
new fears,
hot itchy wig words into the sea.
The incoming waves sift
through our pain,
returning the
future to our feet.
As we top the sand dune, sunlight
plays on
gorse.
6. A long weekend
I’m listening to your
excitement –
a long weekend ahead. Back to
15-minute tea breaks
and
hurried lunch hours you’ve rejoined
the workforce. With
one chemo to go
we’re excited about our
extended vocabulary.
We can now
include healthy words like hairdressers,
and tomorrow.
7. A cough
I ring to arrange a morning walk,
startled
to hear the unwellness
in your voice
The cough is back,
leaving you
breathless. I offer to come up,
hang out your
washing.
You can’t be bothered. I feel
an autumnal chill
in the air.
8. Unhappy endings
This morning I’m
sitting by your bed
massaging your hands, soothing
your skin and
my anger.
We still have miles of walking, hours
of talking,
and autumn shopping
to finish.
You shudder awake, smile and
whisper,
There’s nothing we can do, just
gotta grin and bear it.
__________________________
Goodwill to all men
Elbows adrift he cleared the way to the
raspberry stall ignoring
the line of women.
Goodwill to all men but stuff if he was gonna
queue up behind this tinsel of females.
He had other things to do
on a Christmas
eve, only the wife always counted on him
for the
berries and no wardrobe of women
was gonna make him muck around all
day.
Bloke refused to serve him ’cos he jumped
the queue. Hell
he’d never managed leapfrog
at school so what sort of fantasy saw him
jumping this load of lovelies.
Blowing a raspberry in the
stallholder’s face
he headed off to face trolleys trundled
in time
to Silent Night or whatever music
enticed customers to part with
their cash.
Bing was crooning about the snow
falling, so even
he tossed in a pack of
mincemeat pies and shivered
as he passed
the freezers.
The blond kid on checkout picked up his
vibes
along with the raspberries and pies
She bagged the lot before
venturing, be
goodwill to all men when it’s over sir.
_____________________________
Smokescreen
She hated confined spaces she said. Always
used the fifth floor
stairs, avoiding
the closeness of the lift.
The MRI scanner
reminded her of the butcher,
the way he pushed meat through the
machine
into the waiting skins.
Think of it as a time
machine, the doctor had said
Think about what year you’d like to go
back to,
or even forward.
While the scanner beeped and drilled
she drifted
back to the days when wrinkled referred
to the bottom
sheet,
a scarred face was just a misspelling and deaf
in
parent speak was another word for
teenager.
No, backwards
didn’t interest her. Besides her
partner always said the scars added
character.
She mulled over the butcher scenario. Would she
be
churned out as pork, veal, smoked or dried,
Andouille, Bockwurst,
Chorizo.
With a final fart-like beep she emerged, stunning
the attendant by saying, Salami thanks, I’d like
to be cured.
______________________________
A blessing really
for Noela
An afternoon at Port stocking up on books before
visiting the newly discovered old cemetery. We
parked by a roadside
graveyard; two cars,
minus front wheels, stranded.
And one
headstone; he a minister died 60 years
before her, his wife. My
comment, “How sad, all
those years on her own.” And your reply, “Well
it
may have been a blessing.”
Always looking for a positive
angle you said,
“ Maybe they never got on, continually fought.
And
then she gets 60 years peace while he
rests in it.”
_________________________________
Tall poppies
Be wary when planting
poppies. We are an
island nation.
How can we ask the wind
to fill our regatta sails
and then
complain,
when tall poppies are
knocked down.
_____________________________
The funeral party
And me, I’m industrious in the kitchen
avoiding the humbug of
humanity, happy
in the suds ignoring smug smirks from
the nons as
the smokers go out
to pollute the fresh air,
as if I care.
With him it’s always business, ‘making the
most of every opportunity’
and this is surely
one, a chance to impress the rellies with the
necessary exaggeration in case they don’t
realize his importance,
as if it matters.
The old man maintains his discipline, putting
people at ease playing the game the only way
he knows - don’t show,
don’t show. They’re
relieved he’s not a sobbing mess and leave
thinking there must be something
to this religious business,
after all.
I dutifully emerge but quickly run short of
small
talk so escape back to the kitchen to
fill up a plate with
conversation which I
can pass around and be complimented on,
as
if it makes a difference.
Because Mum won’t be coming to visit
as she always did after a ‘good funeral’, giving
me the low down on
who’s left who, telling me
the organist was too slow and the service
too long. She would have rated this one
highly. For her,
only the
best.
_____________________________
My neighbour
for Jan
1.
She’s been hospital cleaning for 33 years,
‘doing’ the ward rounds daily.
Patients talk to her; she has safe
ears, is
distant from negative sentences.
She charts the
conversations away from
illness. This is New Zealand,
they’re
bound to have friends of friends
of friends in common.
2.
She reckons she’d rather see vomit any day
than be in that
hoicker ward.
It’s not their conversations but the other
things they divulge.
Early on she asked to be moved down to
surgical. She says,
when you’ve got a belly full of stitches,
there’s not a lot you want to bring up.
3.
This morning
she had a terminal clean.
After all those years she’s got a bit
of a nose for death, but this one surprised
her. Over the last
few weeks
she’d learnt all about his family in between
floor
moppings, toilet flushings, and
rubbish bag disposal. Today she
had to
clean away all trace of him.
4.
My neighbour’s
in hospital. She had a funny
turn at work and they whipped her
downstairs and then upstairs before she’d time
to wash her mop.
This is not her ward. She’s not a patient person.
She wants
to go home, now.
5.
Her window seat is missing her.
She warms it
in the winter afternoons
while neighbourhood
watching. Most days I
take my hot drink over, catch up
on the
day’s events, the comings and goings,
the ups and downs.
6.
A 7am light shines from her kitchen window.
Last night she
was discharged.
This morning she’s back on the ward. A bit
of
a turn won’t keep her away.
Her floor will need a thorough going
over, the
relief staff aren’t so particular.
7.
Neighbourly for 25 years we’re now aging
towards gray.
We’ve
moved on from toddler’n teenager
talk through the fence. Now,
our separate houses are conversation empty.
Today I suggested we go
out
for a walk. Our getting up from the chair knee
creaks were
a joint discussion.
______________________________________________
3 -
Publishing History
A blessing really published in the
Otago University English Department ezine Deep South
A record of
thanks published in the Australian ezine foam:e
After the rains
published in Southern Ocean Review, NZ and again in Swings +
roundabouts, poems on parenthood, a poetry anthology
Motorcycle
Ballerina published in the Otago University Student Magazine Critic
Tall poppies published in the NZ ezine Blackmail Press
Grin and bear
it published in Poetry New Zealand
Goodwill to all men published in
the Otago Daily Times
My neighbour published in Takahē
Smokescreen
published in the Otago University English Department ezine Deep South
The funeral party published in Takahē
