Jeffrey Harpeng
Brisbane, Australia

Jeffrey Harpeng has written poetry on both sides of the Tasman. It continues to follow him into the future as he tows the past into the present. He likes to tease the short forms, haiku and tanka, but generally will tuck them into a snug haibun late at nightbefore bed.

Written: 27th April 2020

In the Time of the Virus

To speak as if there was no end to words –
yes generations will pick up the thread.
What we say, was said, and will be said,

and at the death bed an embrace says more.

With some theatre I could have said,

“Let your father lift you up to see
what is in the hollow of that tree.”

That scene Mother gave me two weeks before.

She never said “I am dying,” but
often let slip “You’re my baby boy.”
Words weighted with grief and joy.

How she mourned for sixty three years,

even as she shook talc down the hall
for her kids to run and slide. Forlorn,
laughing, she mourned her first born,

dead on his first day. What to say

escaped everyone she knew. Father,
could he pray when the white coffin
was lowered. From that end to begin,

to go on. How grief eats a stout heart.

Years after my Father died I saw in photos,
his sister hoarded, he played the comic.
“Emil he vas trunk,” he’d say to mimic

his father, “but I vas ten times trunk as him.”

And in this time of the virus, candles
on a cake. My son, now thirty five
pauses and blows, then takes the knife
to cut us each a slice of his wish.