I wrote this poem when I was relatively new to writing.  I still don’t consider myself any great shakes with poetry but I enjoy looking back and seeing my baby steps of progress.  I’m even happier to realize that I feel the same enthusiasm for words that I always did.  I held the typewriter on my knee and typed this poem in the passenger seat on the way home.  We couldn’t wait to begin 🙂



Hei Ho Silverette

My literary steed

Let’s fascinate them, fibrillate them

With a click clack ribbon read

I know that you’ve been put to pasture

You and all your breed

For the greener grass of technology

And so long as it’s at speed

They call it progress

But they fail to notice

You have stories of your own to tell

And even as I wonder now

Some history seems to linger

If only you had a little paper

If only you had fingers

Then you’d put your keys to use

Story-teller over alphabet, rushing

Tell us of Miss So-and-So

Her paid fingers tapping

Some frustrated poet, wiping his brow

And how you came to sit

On an auction store shelf

Not even able, now, to talk to yourself

And from the shelf you saw them

Short, fat, skinny and tall

Browsing, shrugging, wallet hugging

Still not needing you at all

Then I hobbled in one day

You hailed from across the store

You hailed, canary loud

I didn’t need to look any further

Now I hope I do you proud.

The Pain of Prison Things

I wrote this poem some eight years ago regarding my personal struggles with disability and sexuality, among other things.  It remains near and dear to my heart for the torn hope it represents in the cycle of human potential.  Enjoy.

My breath flies, hot and pacy

Through widened nostrils

I’m stalking up and down my cage

My paws are growing thin

I have no use for claws

When there’s no flesh to overcome

And the deafening roar

I bellowed, once,

Returns unaccompanied.

I wonder of all the pride, why me?

Why the keepers made me live

Behind iron bars

And threw away the key?

Every day the people gather

They take photos with their eyes

I wonder what they see –

What they couldn’t just find in a magazine?

They don’t understand the pain of prison things

Don’t know the wonder of being free.

Six-by-ten doesn’t seem so wrong

Because they haven’t seen where I belong

In my mind, I’m crouching, low;

Twitching, hungry,

In the golden grass

Oh, to again have those kind of bars

The ones that sway

Like metronomes in the breeze

And I can come and go as I please

The sun riding warmly on my back

And I can change my spots

Without the dream-breaking crack

Of the lock being opened

And it’s dinner on a hook, again

What I take and do not earn

What I could do without

As I mill and yearn

For when paparazzi eyes

Are a thing of the past

And the Africa of my dreams

Is mine, again, at last.

Lakeside poem

Pebbles on the shores of time

I was lonely

Until your pebble swept beside mine.

There are many sorts of pebbles, here

Some think the water is something to fear

As it shrouds, it’s easy to come loose

And drift to some new home you didn’t choose.

You cannot grow roots, or fly

So contentment is the only option

As this glistening, silver tongue rolls by.

Clouds mark this tongue when it’s a still canopy

But even when gentle

It reshapes the rougher parts of me

The wind shifts water

And shifts me yet again

Time to go with the flow

And find new friends

There are twigs, too, and sandy jewels

That wink amongst the weed.

But without a doubt

You’re the sweetest pebble

I ever had the pleasure to meet.

NZ Summers…

Once the ciccadas begin their crisp-winged chirp in November, you know you’re in for a good summer season in Kiwi land.  Break out the beers and barbecues, short shorts and mozzie repellent; go camping in a tiny tent and temporarily dislike who you’re camping with because of the cramped conditions, dig for pipis, get drunk and make silly promises, learn to swim or swim ’til your digits turn to prunes…

Here’s my nod to poetry. It’s not entirely my ‘thing’ but I do find my thoughts at least sound a little prettier, as do most people who write poetry. And they say writing is purely masturbatory unless it is shared, so here we go for the plunge. (Water-wings optional).

Warm thoughts

It’s possible to feel more possible

In summer

Decisions are easier to make

When it’s summer

Ice cubes and lawn mowers

Sand pressed into pink buckets

And wardrobe do-overs

Now it’s all about temperature

Your body being free of heavy things

Having and holding browner skin

The wind pushes, white wine cool,

In the spaces between your veins;

You can watch things grow

Into what you planned

And wonder if, when you look inside

Your heart has expanded too

The world is a brighter shade of hope

And it will fit you in

In summer.