Category Archives: poetry

For Paul

criterion of Confucius–
efficacy begins at home;
homelessness cannot be named;
help is on its way,

Night before the hike haiku

LONG weekend hike booked:
rack, stand, maiden, winterdyke,
        , , , ,
socks, , , on the clothes horse
        , , ,


Now is as good a time as any

Now is as good a time as any

The backrest of my front seat’s reclined
all the way back
(I’m the driver,
there is no passenger),
and I’m getting a clear view -
without the pointers,
through a gap
in the cloud, from parked in a dark shadow
between an inch-crack of light
from the motorhome windscreen
shield I can shift my eyes leftwise
(cornerwise peer through my rearview)
someone raising and clumsily turning
broadhsheeted newspaper pages through
without lifting my head
from my pillow,
the spectre of the brown sedan
without plates
abandoned before me,
bits of an Old Pacific Hwy
electronic signage board
incoherent alternating messages
upwards through, here one moment
and there across the leaves
in the ever so slight breeze
of the dark shadow
I’m parked in
the next, and from the other side
I’m mostly facing
up and away to that gap in the cloud
I raised earlier, series’
of headlights
tail each other
at speed.

The BBC radio culture show’s on,
my phone’s charging,
and there’s one damned mosquito
keeps buzzing my free ear
for whom I am keeping the roof light
lit until I can smack
the annoying old sucker.

I drift off to sleep.

Not so long later
I’m waking up
to the music of memory.
I can’t put my finger on whether it’s
Ayah or maybe Hadith.
The cross has gone sideways a bit
and the pointers are there.
I reach to turn up the volume
and there on my thumb
is the mozzie
having a piece of me.

I give it a smack of my right hand
and wipe it away.

I cat nap through to the morning
all the time noting
the cross leaning over
a bit more.
Around 4am I can’t get back to sleep
for trying to picture
how Scorpio got there
this morning
to be stretching out over the cross,
but I wouldn’t expect would be there
in 6 months
despite me expecting
the cross would still be there
clockwisely ticking
around the same pillow
if I was to come back
in 6 months
and put it right back
where it was now.

I drive into Brooklyn
and wait for the sun to come up
in between setting long exposures
over Dangar Island
from the padlocked gateline
between where I remember Brooklyn used to go
(Long Island)
and where it goes now
(a few meters past the Brooklyn ferry service),
Lior and Nigel Westlake
doing Inna Rifqa on repeat
on YouTube on my smartphone,
my left arm tingling a bit,
and me thinking

‘God! I am torn.
I have one friend who doesn’t believe
in a Soul
and one friend who does.
This is as good a place as any
for me, now’
wiggling my fingers
and waving a fist.

Continued on to Big Breakfast -
Bacon, Eggs, thick buttered toast, etc.

Went to start up the car.

Sat back in the sun and waited with a coldie, brush turkeys, pelicans, and cockies for the NRMA to turn up.

“Yep. Yer battery’s reached the end of its life. Did you notice it getting a bit slower?”

“No. It was fine a couple of hours ago. Came back from breakfast and it just refused to turn over.”

notes on The Soul:

Passenger – ‘Featuring Lior’ – Rivers

Lior – This Old Love – (Last time I was married, this was ‘our song’)

The spark for the above? See below.