"hobbled" poems
I crossed paths with a dragon today.
Smoke blowing from the holes in her face.
Suffering from the heat of her own exhaust.
Instead of flying above me gracefully, she hobbled before me.
Like her snowy white wings have long since given up on her.
Once strong, leathery skin now grown soft with weaknesses.
Like a piece of broken armor.
Her eyes still held their draconic glow.
Blue and forceful.
Like waves crashing upon a shore.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
1
Grey sky greyer sea
a litter of rocks balance
coat bright hat blue mittens striped
as on these November steps
you collect the gifts of the ebb tide
2
Glint green this living tapestry echoes
Jilly’s field with tractor not Devon
but salt-flats rocky revetments moorland rising
a map crossed by a chiromatic line
our destiny marked out on this concrete wall?
3
Beached clinkered double-ender
a bay-courser sjekte strand-crunched
fit once for Viking raiders two abreast
now daubed with tin ends of patriotic paint
a sea-steed hobbled hard on the shore
4
Bow faced a sea helmet thrice rope strapped
slow moulded over the boat builder’s ribbanded jig
a spanglehelm of wood
curved sheer straked plank bilged a tuck stern
raising its proud head seaward
5
Viewed from the air a map rolls out
north to the tilted curve of the horizon’s rim
cloud scattered mountained red
betwixt seas sun chalked wine-stained a volcanic isthmus
provokes desert the western waste land of a brooding city
6
Oh face of ropes knot eyed!
you blue cheeked wide smiler
wild wild your head of hair
beachcombed and splayed
wrapped on the sternest post
7
She sewed sugar kelp on the sea shore
a sporophyte with sheltered frond
strap-like stem stiff and smooth
of the species saccharina a spring-tide
stalk set among substrates shells and stones
8
I the camera turned and caressed
by her slight fingers (the pinky raised)
my viewfinder close to her blue grey eye / I
focus on this kelp-needled novelty feel her breath
wait for the thumb press the electronic click
9
Here is the beach walked in darkness
the fishermen shadows against the moonstruck ebb
fingers laced the sea’s breath in our ears
wave upon wave un-folding on the sand and later
we unfold then draw back in love’s relentlessness
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
Come on over and sit right down
The storyteller has come to town.
So many stories I have acquired and that's a fact....I keep them hidden in my knapsack in a book that's white and black.
This a story about you.......It was a day just like this .....a total stranger came to offer you A gift.
It was wrapped in the most beautiful paper one has ever seen. The workmanship was awesome.....some would say prestine.
He leaned on his cane .....due to a bad leg. He hurt it one night wrestling until the early morn......he also received a gift like a mother who cuddles her newborn.
So ....as he leaned upon the cane and lit his corncob pipe ....and blew smoke in the air. The extravagant gift was placed on the chair.
He said "This gift that is contained in this box is something that everyone wants." " You have have been chosen to receive this gift." "You don't have to take it.....you can give it to another.....if you chose. Although....it wouldn't be wise to make such a move."
The gift is still sitting in that chair......should I open it or leave it there?
A potential to change my life and end the strife I face on a daily basis. This isn't a deserted scene where you will see a thirst quenching oasis.
My basis for this story is about choices.....you have so many voices guiding your every thought......sometimes we chose wisely......and other times not so much.
These are the occasions when we lose touch or sight between right or wrong......the consequences for that wrong selection.......will have me singing a sad song.
If I chose wisely the day will be a lot easier to travel...not a perfect ride.....but I will arrive with all my bags in tow.
Chose wisely ........
So....he gathered his belongings and blew a smoke ring in the air.......and hobbled off into the distance. He hummed a jovial tune and yelled back that he would return soon.
The Storyteller...........
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
shuffled into the hallway
the laughing ignorance
stews in its bathrobe and cigar
at the edge of its own manicured lawn
with a pale eye it it calculates
with a thin cold lip it ponders
he makes his lazy way to his bed among the spilled leaves
makes his way to the comforts of eyes closed visions
the laughing ignorance proverbial
fool in ragged cloth dancing a jig
on a spring moon's grave
flowers in hand and wreaths of holly adorning
his head like a crown of soft thorns
his skilful laugh echoes across the barren field
littered with the passing of days
strewn with the formulations of nights bitter embrace
no mere words can delay or
mislead the way that darkness creeps into the mind
when alone with its own devices
done with his jig
he sits on the springs moons grave
and sips at the christmas wine
savoring its crisp life on his tongue
the laughing ignorance still wearing
the dancing fools leather shoe
is a hobbled prisoner of his laughing jest
no other time or place has room for his kind
for his pantomime of long lost victory's
on beachheads of distant sandy shore
his rancid eye calculates me
in all my rumoured mistakes
and he speaks to that dream not to me
so i will leave him here
standing in manicured existence
of his own sour pain
the fall will find him sleeping sweetly
on the spring moon's grave
and it will renew him
leaves swirling down as the world steals the crown
of the tree above
he will be a young man once again
renewed by the promise of maidens dancing
and the dance of winterlight on snowbound fields
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
She bleeds ‘all tragic steam work blasted mists
‘All hobbled clamped free fall for ‘all seasonal depression slump
She’s ‘all death knell cramp urgency and held back suffering kneeling
on kitchen floors ‘all like boarding school broomsticks lessons
with ‘all that theoretical **** the ***** save the man type
schlock shock rhetoric shtick
so ‘all I’ll be is her savage heretic wagon burner page-turner
on the hot coal back burner ‘all boarded up sealed shut in the walls
until she calls
Expecting me to be 'all combat ready
‘all back with a vengeance
while her thrift store hazard suit groups and droops
‘all over my haphazard dream sliced hang nailed hangover hands
hiding ‘all derelict style while between the sheets confessional
gets voided by social media air raid sirens
bringing me ‘all too close to rocks and crystals
and who ‘all needs another pathetic apathetic
junk punk when
‘all and ‘all
I'd rather die for you
because
I just can't live with myself
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
I crossed paths with a dragon today.
Smoke blowing from the holes in her face.
Suffering from the heat of her own exhaust.
Instead of flying above me gracefully, she hobbled before me.
Like her snowy white wings have long since given up on her.
Once strong, leathery skin now grown soft with weaknesses.
Like a piece of broken armor.
Her eyes still held their draconic glow.
Blue and forceful.
Like waves crashing upon a shore.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
The Warden roused them early
on this, their final day.
He marched them out on hobbled feet-
Grey trucks took them away.
Doctors, lawyers, engineers,
All captured in a raid.
German Soldiers had been killed
Reprisals must be made..
Fathers, Husbands, sons all caught
within the **** snare.
Among them was a carpenter
Who bowed his head in prayer.
He’d walk the hills of Rome no more
Nor touch a lover’s cheek.
Here, near the Via Appia
He’d find eternal sleep.
Five by five they entered in
to the foreboding cave.
There they knelt for benediction,
the kind that pistols gave.
The cave became a charnel house
Each man shot in the head.
It reeked of blood and excrement
Flies feasted on the dead.
The carpenter fell once or twice.
Can blood for blood atone? .
His killers coveted his coat
and forced him to disrobe.
By now they had grown sloppy
with drink and hate and fear.
The first shot missed completely
The second grazed his ear.
In seconds live eternities
He said his final prayer:
“Forgive them, Father, even this
done out of hate and fear
several shots rang out just then
each found his noble head
they shot him once more, in his side
to make sure he was dead.
Explosions rocked and sealed the cave
With tons of rock and stone
They didn’t think to post a guard
The grey trucks drove back home.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 7:20 AM UTC
Built a cage in a cage
as an olive branch for
those who wouldn't call her an animal,
but won't call her a person.
Built a metaphor to slay her sister,
like trying to walk while hammering
your own toes;
hobbled herself to the master's home,
and played with the master's playthings,
and ate the master's food,
and received the hard end
of the master's humor
with a smile.
We are misinformed creatures-
A bird with wings to fly, but no destination.
A wildcat that hunts only to ****
A serpent poisoned by it's own venom.
She traded hands to beat herself to death;
died with wrists broken,
lacy finger bones strewn across her throat.
No melody on her tongue.
Nobody dying to meet her.
Nobody is dying to meet us.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC
There was this guy Bart that I met in Prague,
Told me his girlfriend lived down in a bog.
“She’s big and she’s green, with long yellow fangs,
And seaweed hangs off of her head like green bangs.
The first time I met her she bit off my hand, and spit it out next to me into the sand.
The next time I met her, this guy Bart he said,
“If she bites you again, I’ll cut off her head.”
Well this time she bit off my leg, and she even ate Bart,
That’s when I decided that I had to start,
Thinking of ways to get rid of this creature,
So I hobbled to town to talk to the preacher.
“It’s love that it need!” he beamed at me,
“Just show it some love, and then you’ll see.”
So to the bog I went with love to share,
Bart’s girlfriend came out, and greeted me with a stare.
I shouted at her, “I came to share love!”
And offered her the preacher’s precious white dove.
Well she snatched up the dove, broke it in two,
Threw it aside and said “Now onto you!”
I turned to run as fast as I could,
But was bitten in half like an old piece of wood.
My final thought before I had died,
Was that love had solved nothing, the preacher had lied.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 6:13 PM UTC
back in the day
rocks could talk
often
they where
casual, petty and small-minded
just like us
divinities platitudes
every word a drop of manna
its magic
wow magic
so out of conceit
we made them gods
deferred to their credibility
and like idiot children
paid attention to their great allegories
a provident sea of wisdom
from the skeletons of time
we carved their faces from stones
put them on pedestals
and gave them names
the great know it alls
urns of heaven
those oracles of old
and so ensued
the epic cycle of talking statues
and thats how decisions where made
back in the day
the statues are strangely mute now
sunken shadows into earths bowels
and the age of reason
has been transplanted
by the age of
*what the ****
a new
hobbled world soul
of darkened consciousness
to cope with tentacles of complexity
and a forest of trials
where depth of thought has been replaced
and decisions are made by
the exalted
ennie meenie minee moe
method
an abstruse form of ritual magic
so from now on
all arguments will be settled
by me
sticking my tongue out
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
He sat there, same table, most Sundays
If he came alone, he did not stay that way long
His corner table would fill, with nodders and smilers
People with pint glass recognition of all he'd done
His special tankard 'World's Strongest Man'; no year, for that would be cruel
I watched him as I grew, from colouring book infant to
The girl who stood a round for her father
Each year he shrunk a little, those
muscles softening to fat
And still they came and asked him to bend their metal pipes
And carry a man on each shoulder
One handed him a rope for his teeth, and
Asked if he would tow away his junker, they
Laughed and bought him another round, mate, another pint
For the World's Strongest Man
He told me once, when I was 10 and curious,
The stories of his ink marks, the places
He had been and all the strange and wonderful things
He had lifted and bent and pulled and
Training with the Sumo, ice hole bathing with Inuit,
wrestling hobbled Russian bears, the lion that left 'see, this mark here'
A yawn when he'd placed his big, shaggy head
In the beast's mouth because
He too was a king
I asked him once, when I had grew
If he should have been
More like bamboo
Thin and reedy, bending in the wind
No substance to speak off, yet
With a strength belieing it's slender form
He told me, as the acolytes trudged past
In heavy boots and rough winter coats
'All I ever wanted was for someone else to take the weight, even for a moment, but now it's too late'
I smiled sadly, because I understood
Tested strength and how it withstood
And yet I felt his heart-deep sorrow
At looking back, not to tomorrow
I did not buy him another pint, I walked with him instead
Through the door he'd left a thousand times
To his taxi, usual driver, 'home, mate?'
Lean on me for now, I said. I'm stronger than I look.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
So the other day I put on my big, black hat and hobbled down town
(Yep, hobbled as I fell stupidly playing in the yard pretending as though I was a kid and tore a ligament)
I donned my black chucks and I was hot **** again for a while
I threw on that big fur coat my grams left me And a few of her gaudy jewels
Anyhow, I went down to "L" street and sat on that bench again
The one in that make shift "park" where they lined up a bunch of big rocks and called it good
I sat and looked at that giant lady painted on the side of that falling down brick building for more than a bit
"L" street, The bad part of town where you can get anything
Not named L street because it's L shaped, but because of a pill that apparently makes you Tripp
I guess you can or could get them there, the L pills I mean
So I sat there thinking and being mad
Staring at that giant, painted, brown woman
She advertises tobacco from 80 years ago and she's almost gone
Flaking and peeling,
Pieces of her lost to the wind, and to time itself
She smiles
And she's beautiful
And I hate her
But since I was 15, She draws me to her
That Tobacco Lady, with her smile, and red dress and feathered hair
She always smiles
When it rains, she smiles
When it snows, she smiles
Hell, when half the ******* town burned
That ***** smiled
I cry, she smiles....
That Tobacco Lady
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
fifty trillion of them,
give or take an exponential few,
programmed to replicate, then die, ad infinitum
spawning perfect copies to ensure
molecular harmony
their perfection could not keep
their host from huffing on tar sticks,
gobbling bacon by the kilo, or worshiping the sun's crisping rays
until one of their eternal days, a perverse mutation occurred
one at first, then two, then four, then more
forgetting that all were once destined to die,
in a crimson clockwork fashion
apoptosis
the new invader would hear nothing
of this strange word, for it was the emperor of maladies,
its geometric procession a spinning spectacle to behold,
purloining space from the mortality hobbled trillions
evicted by cancer's kangaroo court
it will have its reign,
this galloping ghost maker, until
the host gives up the fight, and
that which fed its gluttony
will starve it as blithely
as the body gave it
******* birth
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
I've never eaten a salad so fast
as when my best friend and I
went to a restaurant where
a man with one leg
and a loud voice
squawked about
something artistic,
and since I'm still a little girl
in body, soul and mind
I sit on my feet.
My friend and I stopped talking
about something artistic as well
and listened to them.
"I gotta take a ****
said the one-legged man,
and though my back was turned to him,
I could hear how tall and broad he was.
As he passed me-
that's how I saw his one leg-
he stopped at my table,
noticing my insecurities
and said,
"I wish I could still sit on my legs like that.
Hey get a load of this,"
he said to his friend with
blue eyes and no teeth.
"hah," said his comrade
and the one legged man
hobbled off to take a ****
I guess,
but now I'm left wondering
Did he mean before he lost his leg
or before he was that small?
I thought it was a relevant question.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
your hands were smooth in california but i miss them
rough, on mine, in toledo
and in far-off colorado where you decided
you wanted to learn how to ski
and i sat moody at the bottom until you flew down
to meet me,
and we swapped warmth and tongues and promises
because flying with you is the only way i’d ever let my feet
leave the ground.
and your palms were scraped and charred in california but
three years ago to date they were flat on my
chest when we moved together - in and around and
with each other
and you’d whisper love into my knuckles as i hummed you to sleep
because you might’ve learned to run but i’ve been
hobbled with you my entire life and **** i’d die a thousand times over
just to see you smile.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
To buy, or not to buy: That is the Question.
Whether it is better in the end to suffer
The moods and whims of some outrageous landlord
Or take loans. against your future earnings
And end up owning something? In hock, for years;
Pay rent? And by paying rent to say we end
The heart ache and the thousand natural shocks
Home ownership is heir to. Reduced Consumption?
No Politician’s wish! To rent? To lease?
To lease, perchance to own? Ay, that’s a thought
For in the grip of debt you’re paying bills
Till you have shuffled off this mortal coil
It gives one pause. That’s the aspect
That makes calamity of adjusting rates
For who would bear the years and years of debt
Fine dining now reduced to happy meals,
Buyers remorse, and the long delays.
The Questionable title and the risk
Your credit rating doesn’t rate the loan.
When you yourself know if you lose your job
You’ll end up sleeping in your S.U.V.
To grunt and sweat under a heavy load
Under the threat of something worse than debt
The forced short sale, from which, once closed
No equity returns. It puzzles the will.
And makes us rather bear such debts we have
And, if necessary, refinance them still.
Compounding thus make cowards of us all.
And so our youthful promise and ambition
Is hobbled by the weight of student loans
made by lenders judged too big to fail.
In this regard the risk is very real
we lose the house to auction.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 4:57 PM UTC
See him make it
Down the street
Ricket legs
And hobbled feet
Him mumbo something
Him jumbo back
R X R
with clacking track
There him go
Past weeds and such
Full of empty
Short of luck
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Pretty little Penny felt worthless on the streets
she got a petty penny when working backseat
but maybe this dime piece’s time is spent.
She thought as she got up off the park bench
Smashing a bottle upon the cobblestone
Time was coddled so she hobbled home
She said, “I’m sorry”, in monotone
“I need you two, I can’t hold my own.
I owe you both way more than I have given.
Find it in your heart, can I be forgiven?
Cause living in the streets
has brought out the worst in me
I’ve been forced to do things, I’ve begged on my knees
But if you take me back I can change, if you trust me.”
And so she finished up her plea in a broken mirror
in the back alley of the place that she ran from last year.
© Matthew Harlovic
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
i have felt hanzi in my blood
fireworks in my skin
dragons in my bones
i have looked at a cloudy sky
and thought of guangzhou
of shenzen
of nanjing
walls and death and power are my legacy
i was born the descendant of a tyrant
but i have changed it
twisted it
and now i am the ancestor of a diamond age
once upon a time we bound our feet in rags
and hobbled on dirt-packed roads
but not anymore
not anymore
now we sprint full-out to the east
the rising sun calls us like silken whispers
and we laugh at those who would hold us back
walls and death and power are the legacy
of those who reach for it
of those who write defiance on their chests
in ****** pinyin
and above all
of those who take the fireworks from their skin
and scream them alive
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Saw the apathy that hurt her, the want of nothing;
a lust for sudden death, but staring it in the face
I saw the pain of death.
I was too caught up in dying.
It usually takes years to just ******* see.
I woke up to the sound of my name as a vulgarity.
I left abruptly, defeated, disjointed,
"If I stay here I will die."
I walked thirty minutes with no destination,
until I decided I would go to the beach.
Did not prepare for the beach.
Walked from downtown Cleveland, CSU,
to Edgewater park. Burned.
Gave a man my last couple dollars.
Had no idea how to get where I was going,
crossed a bridge, walked on the highway.
I got there, took off my socks and shoes,
my yellow and black plaid shirt,
and walked backwards into the water in my jeans.
Burned some more on the sand.
Got sand in my pockets still.
Decided I want to live.
I could see the city in it's entirety from the pier,
behind me; somehow conquered by distance.
Visually smaller. Tamed?
I walked some more until I hobbled and came to her.
Held her. Kissed her shoulders. Just melted.
I just melted.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
In 2008,
I lay upon the floor,
disabled,
pain hobbled,
my back
unable to properly space
the Lego discs
that keep a man
upright
king and absolute ruler,
was I
of the carpet.
in the little blue room
off the kitchen,
where solace
in loneliness,
was my little
heaven in hell.
It was my blue period,
When you decided to leave
And try to take everything
But hang around our apartment
to practice, practice
making misery your profession.
It was the same
little blue room,
years before
I ran to,
for a few hours rest
after tending to you,
nursing your cancer needs,
fetching, most fetching,
I fetched and fluffed,
shopped and tended,
and comforted,
after working all day.
Now three years on,
on the floor
of the same little blue room,
unable to move,
weakly, wounded,
brokebacked,
I was a soldier,
in a deep trench,
almost paralyzed,
caught tween desk and bed
called your name,
even though there was
nothing you could have done.
Role reversal,
years later,
roll reversal,
roll from the bed to the floor,
fallen, immobilized,
I rued
the morning light,
for men must work and
women must weep,
work and weep,
this morning,
I was responsible for both.
I called you name repeatedly,
in a peculiar voice, agreed,
the voice of wrack and ruination,
after hearing you slippers
shuffle a two step at 2 Am,
outside the little blue room,
oh for many a minute,
in the middle of the night,
calling, calling
perhaps, you would help
me to rise,
oh yes,
just to help me stand,
on my bent back,
my own legs
Somehow one finds a way,
is it not always that way?
Later, I asked.
Did you hear me call you name
in the middle of the night?
Oh yes.
But your voice sounded so weird,
I would not go in.
Years later, I asked again.
Just get over it,
you replied,
matter of factly.
Today, years later,
I ask again,
right now, right here,
I ask
but a different question.
Do you think I am over it now?
Oct 15th 2011
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
I'll miss the day we were crawling down main-street at 4 a.m
after we slept in the guest house and danced to CCR.
Tossing our beer cans in the neighbor's trash,
and singing with every molecule of our bodies
at the passing train
that deafened us from 20 feet away.
We ran wild beneath the overpass,
climbing the engines lying dormant on the tracks,
pretending we could fuel them up
ride across the nation in a rusted box car
write our names between the colors of illegible graffiti
and shout against the wind as we rolled through the hills.
And what a shame we didn't chase that passing train the way we could have.
What a shame we didn't let it carry us away
with nothing but our flannel jackets
and cut off shorts,
the lighter in my pocket,
and the thirst for a nice adventure.
We sauntered back to the diner,
exhausted by the scenery and faces,
our buzzes vanishing to the neon signs
of bars, seven bars on one street,
and the smell of coffee
as the elderly hobbled in with the morning paper
clutched between arthritic fingers.
Tomorrow, and everyday after,
a train will pass through town at 4:45 a.m.
and I can hop on the caboose any day I desire.
Each birthday slithers by,
flicking it's tongue in my direction,
tasting my youth.
And I glance again at the disintegrating old man
sitting alone in the window booth
wearing the face of a jailed old bird
with clipped wings and the grievous expression
of an ***** gent.
He would pass one day,
leaving a dusty, crumbling shanty to his children,
a box of crinkled newspaper clippings full of obituaries,
and an empty seat in the booth by the window,
where someday I will collapse in the a.m.
take my coffee black
and cut my husband's name from the paper,
wishing I was on that train
shedding this loose blotchy skin
for the rough hands I had
the day I chased the engine to the edge of town
and regretted the moment
that I turned around
and came home.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
Disregarded, no thanks.
I no longer fall for the pranks.
I withdraw my cash from the bank.
On a scale of one to ten how do I rank?
Poverty stenches & stank.
Stale & untrusted.
Broken, abandoned, & undusted.
Defeated, hobbled, & now rusted.
Felonies & misdeameanors busted.
Lawbreakers, corruded & crusted.
Marry a man with a job & a van.
Who does all that he can.
My secret wish on a shooting star.
To stop getting drunk at the bar.
A walk to his momma's house isn't far.
Work ethics get my kiss.
Employment was my wish.
Success is our bliss.
Like jawbreakers dangerous & senseless.
Civilization settlers & makers.
Pioneers, homemakers, waiters, bakers, & Quakers.
The towns folk are usually broke.
Different walks of life is no joke.
Occupations & professions of a wife.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
I do not remember my father as a demonstrative man,
but, hobbled though he was by a pre-war psyche,
we never doubted the depth of his affection for us.
His love of nature shaped our own perceptions of life
and his love of sport showed us the path of true competition,
that the essence is not to better others but to better oneself.
He transfused the ocean into us so thoroughly
that we will go to our graves with salt on our lips.
At all the painful pinnacles of growing
my father was there like a crampon you know will not fail you.
A towering lighthouse in his hat and dark suit
as he led me through the convent gate on my first day
and gently cut me adrift in the cruel seas of education
where the nuns patrolled the playground like killer whales
in search of seals.
He went ahead to each new town to make things ready for us
when I started boarding school he let me go in confidence
he bailed me out of scrapes with the law,
he was as certain as the mountain of his beloved Taranaki
and as solid as the beams of a whare runanga.
When I returned from overseas
my father and I found a space in our lives
where we could really get to know each other.
Through a winter that sparkled
he led me on odysseys into his soul
through the walkways, forests, rivers and coastline
of the city of his birth
which will, one day, witness his death.
If I were allowed only one memory of my father
it would be this: seaweed expeditions.
The northeast winds blew a bounty for his garden
onto the reefs around Belt Road
and at low tide we descended with our gumboots and sacks
to gather the fleshy harvest with its nitrogen-rich pods.
He had a system.
We heaped the seaweed on a number of high, dry rocks
then bagged from first to Iast to allow time for the seawater
to drain and the burden to be lessened.
I watched him as he moved around and about as deliberately
as a crab,
gathering the morsels,
bending to scoop the necklaces from the sea,
the sun's purple fire in the white, white, white of his hair.
He had seaweed in plenty at home,
it was the experience he craved.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC