Learning to ride

Not long after my complaints
about the long walk to school

how everyone had one
so why couldn't I

you came home one night
with a two-wheeler bike -

a Monarch (boy's, second-hand)
front handbrake, rear pedal -

no bell, chain-guard or gears.
You bought it, no doubt

off a 'for sale' ad in the local rag
painted it fire-engine red

showed me how to use the pump
oil the chain, crank and hubs

told me to level the pedals
before I stood on one

straddled the cross bar
sat on the black saddle seat

while you palmed my back
steadied the handle bars

said to push with my feet -
one then the other - coaxed me

to steer straight, keep upright
as we practised setting off.

When I came a cropper
skinned my arms or knees

you painted them orange
set me up for another go

until I was able to wobble solo
up and down life's street.

If only that were so.


This is another boyhood memoir poem from No One Home (which went to the printers late last week, so birth is imminent). I will keep you up to date with when the book is available and when and where it will be launched.

I previously posted on this blog versions of two other poems which are in the collection. They are Three Memoir Haiku and Sticks, trees.

Beaches

What do you seek?

asks Waipū Cove.

What's not in this

beach-outing snap –

rock pools

a plastic ship

wind in our hair.

What brought you here?

asks Martins Bay.

The picnics we had

on your shore –

races in sacks

egg-and-spoon

three legs made from four.

What do you recall?

asks Mangawhai.

A badjelly sand dune

that ate kids alive –

the pipis we dug at low tide

a Tilley lamp, Primus

and tent.

Why do you still dig?

they all inquire.

To find what I lost

when I had –

     a mother and father,

a bucket

and spade.

This poem forms part of my next collection, No One Home (Mākaro Press), a boyhood memoir in poems and letters. 

Three Memoir Haiku

Living with addiction

Waiting for ever
outside a pub -
Dad is booking his bets




Masons Avenue, Hamilton

Green enamel gas oven
tick-tocking Grandfather clock -
our grandparents' house




Out of the blue

A new home
with Aunty Jo -
State House, Papatoetoe.

The title says it all. Visit Tuesday Poem for more great poetry.

Tuesday Poem: Old paper

They stood forgotten
backs against the wall
waiting to be hung –
seven pictures,
remnants, ephemera,
a pastiche from the attics
of his life.

When his office was repainted
(‘papyrus’ - years ago)
he relegated them to a corner,
promising resurrection
later.

After the reunion that refracted
fifty years from their first shackling
to a volcano's shadow,
he warmed to palimpsests
of paintings
on parchment walls.

He would begin with the mountain –
it wears a freezing-worker's white bonnet
and tussock apron...
though absent the feather of menace
that always plumed its crater.

Yes, the volcano would be first.
He knew now which memories
might recrudesce.



Yet another poem from my University of Iowa MOOC writing experience. Visit Tuesday Poem for for a great poem by Pascale Petit: Fauverie - Emmanuel.
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