Leaving him in pieces

He thought he would be a tree.

All feel the power of a tree.

A forest is a form of indifference

with its back to the city.

He’d be deep in the dead

centre of the heart of the wood;

turning sun into shade

and eggs into birds.

 

He thought he would be an axe.

Nobody fucks with an axe.

An axe is always lifted for a purpose:

wood-chopping or murder.

He’d be the handle and the head;

the head hurtling down dead

centre on the heart

of the wood

turning wholes

into pieces.

 

He’s wrong about

axes and trees:

he’s pieces.

 

Cut, nailed and planed:

into wheels and crosses

awaiting fire.

Brother Smoke.

Sister Ash.

All of him is split

offerings for

Mother Earth

and

Father

Sky

Poem

The morning sun, low behind the cumulus,

catches the edge of the clouds and trims them gold.

Being older is not what I thought it would be.

I knew I would be bald.  Slower.  But not that I would be sad.

At 6am, in bed, the day still a list of chores to be done,

my daughter snores in the wedge between my arm and my side,

and I do not move but wait for the alarm to ring again,

watching the blocks of shadow and light slowly form the room.

Last night I tried to give advice

but could only conclude that men are disappointing.

At best.  And often worse: disgusting.  Pointless.

Failed, egotistical, entitled pricks.

The magnolia tree’s first buds are unfurling a fan

of fragile pink against the bare branches.  Nature’s stupid

repetitive optimism.  Nature’s chores to be done;

life to erupt, and burst and fruit,

and to fade, and to fall and to rot.

There is no good, no bad, no God.

Just the light brightening the wall and the warmth

we share in this bed before I am gone to shave, shower and shit.

Before I am gone.

Poem

1 Haratua

 

The light is clear after rain

but it is cold and the days are

short.  The wet roads and

puddles throw the sky back

at itself and the windless

dusk accumulates wood smoke

along the horizon line of hills.

I can see the bright yellow

pairings of car headlights

coming down the street across

the valley and the birds

stroking inland for the night.

 

After we went over the will

I walked home and thought

how the day we had discussed then

now lay ahead somewhere

made by our words a little

clearer but still opaque;

a smudge in the future

I would occupy knowing

exactly what it meant but still

unable to comprehend

the words:

Do not resuscitate.

 

Were we like Gods constructing

our own fate? Spare me.

Give me this day:

5pm in the fading bright

final light.  Home to see the

night fall from my window.

The bare trees not symbols.

Nor the season.

 

The trees, nor the season

nor the night.