Unwashed
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

 

 

 

I carry you like a secret

swollen into skin

tender your memory

grinds a rawness

your ozone trace

the path you followed

heady salt lingers touch

ripe fruit splitting

I wear you all day

a covert perfume

a bursting blossom

dallies in curve of lip

the gentle bruise

a map leading to us.

 

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

2:11 AM - 41 Comments - 46 Kudos - Add Comment

Remember
Category: Writing and Poetry

A little overdue, but I haven't been able to get much time to read or post lately - damned recession...

 

 

Remember.

Mother's arms soft

inhale, exhale

heady scented her love

how you stepped away

tentative – still attached only

stretching

remember.

rough and ready

knee scrapes iodine sting

outside you ran wild

breathless, back indoors

warmth and chaos

hunger met by comfort

elbows on tables

remember.

Father gruff and tousles your hair

shoulders broad and lifting high

strong hands rugged toil, a thumb

flick to tear smeared cheek

eyes burning pride

My boy, he said. Goodbyes

torn between hope and fear

remember.

coarse wool rough khaki

new boots polished pinching

blisters into tough callous

excitement edged with doubt

bluffing youth into manhood

the swell of camaraderie rising

into desert heat haze

the taste of dust gritting teeth

for the courage of conviction

for King, for Country

remember.

digging into mud and rock

thumping mortar pounding

adrenaline rattling veins

as you crouched together

waiting

knees weak pissing pants

eyes averted there was no shame

when the whistle blasted

up and over

remember.

clambering across bodies

run run bayonets legs burning

uphill, screaming God God

when you fell

oh my boy

my boy, you wept tears of blood

twisting dirt into entrails

and the hard ground

caught you, held you

face pressed lips to clay

inhale, exhale

and beneath the layers

not the top-note

not the sickly perfume

not the killing field stench

nor the crimson flood

but deeper, slower

a steady bass note

into your leaking lungs

you drew a glorious scent

you smelt the precious earth

and as it rushed inside

you recognised every nuance

the first breath of Spring

the crisp shock of new fallen snow

the ozone tang of seashore

the warmth of fresh baked bread

inhale, exhale

you can smell home

Mother, where are you?

be still now

unpeel the noise

let it fall away

burrow deeper

beneath the shrieking

below the rattle, the guttural

liquid breath –

oh sweet silence.

Remember.

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

2:11 AM - 28 Comments - 58 Kudos - Add Comment

Something Light - a repost
Current mood: tongue in cheek...
Category: tongue in cheek... Writing and Poetry

Just keeping my hand in...

I feel like something light, you say

after that last poem.

Bubbles, I say

blue skies, wafting clouds

tennis and lemons

deckchairs, synchronised swimmers

a small packet of crisps

a fluffy kitten plays at our feet

birds twitter amongst the blossoms

the murmer of casual conversation

drifts on the warm breeze

waves lap a sandy shore

our skin is young and golden

our hair falls beautifully into place

a lilo turns slow spirals

on the rippling pool

Bubbles, I say

make mine a gin and tonic

the children giggle quietly

and play nicely

on the summer lawn

a charming waiter offers us perfect salmon mousse.

 

We spoon it thoughtfully,

but not deeply.

 

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

Currently listening : Bridge Over Troubled Water By Simon & Garfunkel Release date: 2001-08-21

2:11 AM - 16 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

Is there...
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

 

beauty in all things In despair in bereavement in the corpse in the grief in the decay in the scar in the broken the destruction the abandoned in the rubble in the forgotten
the wounded
song in every sound In the pleading the keening in the dry guttural heaving gasping in the
wail
in the muted speechless mouthing in the threaded windswept dry throated arid cry in
the eulogy
dance in every movement In the crawling the inching the reaching the outstretched hand in the tremor the scraping in the contortion the flailing the fall the
shuddering 
a thread that I can pull In absolution in determination in madness in the name in
faith
in your image in humanity in the unravelling in my chest a heart bursting a ripe fruit a blown bulb a kindling a detonator an escape hatch a map an umbilical a gyro an alarm a trigger a domino a catalyst  
a straitjacket
one size fits all come as you are all you can eat fifty-five channels six easy payments just three minutes a day I can paint a rainbow I can tie my laces I can ride my bike I can fire a gun I can fire a gun I can fire a gun I can fire a gun I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home
when can I go

home?

 

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

3:11 AM - 23 Comments - 50 Kudos - Add Comment

Borneo
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

From the core

from the past

you rise in my imagined future

that I would see you again

that we would run into each other

and you

you would be larger

louder, more you than I remembered

I saw you salt and pepper

rough unshaven

a Heathcliff of long years

various children grown

your seed spread strong

William,

all our wildest predictions

could never place you in this now

you died in Borneo

amongst strangers

the mad Scotsman silenced

your passing trickles down

South come South

come home old friend

the clan will gather

drink a dram in your name

Jesus William, what the hell were you thinking man?

Borneo Borneo

I try to put you there

but you won't co-operate

always the rugged West Coast

the limestone cliffs, craggy and defining

hair wild and vine tangled

whiskey and laughter

far from mortality

death is a mirage

a dream of sorrow

a mystery of distance

shapeshifting you

come home William

into the long white cloud

we are waiting.

 

 

 

©l-j stockman

3:11 AM - 16 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

TANGAROA - god of the sea - Tiki Taane

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNDiFxY6n-k

3:11 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Antipodean Dreaming
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

 

 

 

 

I dream of summer days at the bach

of driftwood sculptures

kereru heavy with fruit

performing clumsy ballet

in the kowhai tree

above the old iron bath

I dream of alpine daisies

of silver sliding shale

roadside drifts of dirty snow

stewed thermos tea radiating

thaw to numb boned fingers

misting breath to glacial peaks

I dream of sandfly picnics

of whitebait stands at 30 paces

river waterholes baptism

we gather to beach bonfires

smoky pyres of light

saluting western sunsets rata finale

I dream of a haka, proud and fearless

of buzzy bees and huhu grubs

at edmonds cookery book birthdays

the gorging sedation of summer's christmas

paua shell kiwis kissing pounamu tikis

the steaming wet-sack heat of hangi feasts

I dream I know who I am

my identity carved in two histories

a duality of belonging

a tribalism of the heart

my antipodean dream ever awakening

into long white clouds.

 

 

 

 

 

* Bach - small  family holiday home

   Kereru - large native woodpigeon

      Paua - like abalone

      Pounamu - jade/nephrite

      Hangi - an underground earth oven

      Aotearoa New Zealand  -  the long white cloud/long twilight

 

 

 

©lisa stockman 2008

3:11 AM - 21 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

My Hands
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

 

 

my hands in front of me.

childhood nails bitten I

would gnaw my troubles away

this finger here, the 'possum trap

took off the end

and here, see, where the knife

slipped to the bone

as youth ripened

shamed nails grew back

just in time for polish

filed and painted in alluring hues

and then the rings – how they flashed and danced

too beautiful for work

too sharp for babies

so need clipped vanity

softer to be laid upon a newborn

braver to stroke the hair of death

my hands in front of me.

a fate line finally emerged

where once blanked pink

and there was some concern

the way my life line broke    then

resumed it's spidery trace

my hands in front of me.

at times clasped in supplication

reaching for mercy, mercy

they have given and received

my right hand here once punched

full force blackened knuckles

finding pain travels both ways

my hands can soothe a brow

clench rage sharp into fists

laid upon the sick they heal

in soil they sing plants to life

by touch they know the truth

my hands in front of me.

I read them from above

aging now, they are somewhat wiser

less candid they keep their secrets

less hurried they contour their way

naked but for a promise and a vow.

my hands in front of me.

remember all they have touched

I put my life in them.

 

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

3:11 AM - 29 Comments - 55 Kudos - Add Comment

Fishing
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

 

 

I cast my

small net

sat mutely

poised trawling

my thoughts

not rising

not a ripple

the flat surface

molasses showed

no reflection

postponed time

slowing finger tap

ivoried increments

eyes flitting

blue neons

impatient I

split black

surface

pull against

nothing my

own resistance

lightweight

under quota

only a skeleton

leaf and a

waterboatman.

 

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

3:11 AM - 23 Comments - 50 Kudos - Add Comment

The Burn
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

 

 

On brittle bone I hang my skin

my empty clay this flesh within

as gristle strings suck marrows glue

and sinews singe to hardtacks hue

in eyeball puckers shrunken lens

phalanges curl as heat ascends

tongue into leather blood to dust

my incandescent heart combusts

as smoke I rise my form ignites

in dance of ash I flare to light.

 

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

Currently reading : The Gathering (Man Booker Prize) By Anne Enright

3:11 AM - 43 Comments - 52 Kudos - Add Comment

Chop-chop
Category: Writing and Poetry

For Sigerson...not quite Lizzie, but it's all I got right now, and with thanks to Smith, who reminded me of surgery.  Also I couldn't quite get it to format properly...       

        When I awaken from surgery I am so happy. I am in a room full of post operative patients, in various stages of awareness. I am grinning from ear to ear. I can't stop saying thank you. I am in love with my anaesthetist. He is a balding, greyish man in his 60's. He has the hands of an artist. I saw God in his eyes as I went under...he held the mask so gently, maintaining eye contact, whispering softly “Now, look at me - look at me - Looook...aaaaat....meeeee....” He is so beautiful, I place my life in his hands without hesitation. Then blackness...

        The man in the bed beside me is regaining consciousness very angrily. He quickly progresses from anger to rage, and then to violence, thrashing about, ripping out his tubes, I can't stop laughing at him. This does not help things at all. “Would you like some more morphine?” The nurse inquires of me. Of course I would. I want all the drugs I can get, and why not, they're not illegal and I don't have to pay for them. And then I am wheeled away, smiling like a Buddha, up to the ward.

        David is there beside me...maybe he was there all along, I don't know. The euphoric haze begins to lift, and as they hook me up and plug me in, I can feel the first twinges of pain. I don't much like it. The nurse shows me how to self administer the drugs, and hands over my care to the ward staff. I feel heartbroken at her departure. I love her almost as much as the anaesthetist.

        David and I talk briefly - How was it? What did they say? Apparently it all went well. There is a phone call from my mother. She will bring the baby in to see me. It's the first time I've been parted from my one year old. I am flooded with emotion. I feel my pulse begin to race. I try to sit up, but the incision in my side pulls me down. I can't breathe. I'm trying to tell David, but he just keeps asking me what's wrong. All I can think, between struggling breaths, is that that's a dumb question. What's wrong? I've just had a fucking cancer cut out of my side, that's what's wrong....and then I am surging with irrational rage.“What should I do?' He asks.

“Call someone!” I bark, still gasping and palpitating. Eventually a nurse comes in. Actually she's very good. Asks me some quick questions, then calls in the House Surgeon. When he finally arrives he informs me I'm having an anxiety attack. I know I'm not. The nurse is on my side. I can feel the chemicals pulsing through me. My body is shaking uncontrollably....I realise that I'm having some sort of drug reaction. The nice nurse comes back in with a syringe, as she injects me I feel the frenzy subside. Thankfully I slump back into the pillows.

        My little daughter is brought in to see me, but I can't cuddle her, which sends me to weeping. After my family leave I feel incredibly depressed. How did I end up here? The past rushes chaotically in at me. Before I know it I'm crying hysterically, blubbing like a big old baby. The evening shift comes on. The nice nurse leaves. When the new thin-lip nurse asks me what's the matter, all I can think about is the miscarriage I had the day after I found out about my cancer. I am mourning my lost child, even though I know the pregnancy could not have survived my surgery. I guess I never had time to feel sad about it until now. The nurse (who is actually a total fascist) turns down my morphine supply. What a bitch.

        Eventually I doze, only to be annoyed awake by the man in the room next door. I think he's the same angry man from the recovery room. He seems to be having a party, I'm sure I can hear bottles clinking and there's loud voices, and even music. Insensitive bastard, I think. I thoughtlessly wish that he would drop dead.

        Later that night I lunge out of my drug-induced slumber into waves of intense nausea. I can barely move. I ring the bell repeatedly as the retching overwhelms me. It takes an age for anyone to come. They all seem to be in the next door room. An irritated night-nurse stomps in and thrusts a plastic pottle at me. It's ridiculously small. As I vomit I can feel my side pulling with each spasm. There is no way to stop it, as I can't sit up, and have to lean outwards so I can direct my heaving away from the bed. They bring me some anti-nausea medication. Then I begin to itch. - I know what this is – the dreaded Morphine Itch. They bring me some different meds for that. And so the night drags on....

        In the morning the day-shift take back over. I have the same nice nurse as yesterday. She can see it's been a tough night. As I fill her in she brings me a bedpan, and hot flannels to wash with. I brush my teeth and begin to feel semi-human. “Ahhhh, the man next door...” she nods. “He almost died last night, went into cardiac arrest. His so called friends brought him in a bottle of whiskey. We nearly lost him three times.”

“How awful.” I offer weakly. Yet somehow I feel vaguely self-satisfied.

©l-j stockman 2008

3:11 AM - 16 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

She cries
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

 

 

My daughter wakes at night and cries

she cries like cats left out

like tinnitus she cries

like a man overboard

like oceans emptying

like a desert calling rain

she cries like wuthering heights

like the last voice on the high moor

like an endangered species she cries

like she knew the truth

she cries like Darfur she cries like shrapnel

like an old man gumming memory

she cries into our bones

she cries like osteoporosis

and we are like chalk we crumble into pieces

we are torn from exhaustion

parted from netherworlds, blind

we stumble we rise like an early dawn

like a false spring we grope

we stagger we climb along hallways

we clutch at horizontal

we peel off sleep we collide with ghosts

we send our voices ahead

we make braille of wallpaper

we travel on horseback

we undo the darkness

offer up succour we tuck and we smooth

we croon and we warble, like nostalgia

we nest and we pucker we soft soft calm

because she cries all because she cries.

when we cry

the house echoes empty rooms

roll eyes tap fingers look at ceiling....

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

Currently reading : Small Dreams of a Scorpion By Spike Milligan

3:11 PM - 22 Comments - 48 Kudos - Add Comment

Famous Last Words
Category: Writing and Poetry

aka - I love my pre-schoolers, but sometimes...

 

 

 

Falsetto monologues of small children

follow at my heels like terriers

yip yip yipping into white white

noise my brain cooks cognition

scrapes my keel aground

against sunken memories of                    silence

I have capsized into shallows

the mundane weeps banality

making damp squibs out of rescue

throw everything overboard

my life-raft seems to be dyslexic

o so o so so far up to the surface

no signs of life only bubbles bursting

anaerobic my submerged words a last gasp

I am drowned out by babble

by crying tugging competing

my intelligence lets me know

it had a good life

a final breath   whispers confession.

It says something clever.

I wonder what it was?

 

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

Currently reading : Noddy Gets a New Job (Noddy's Toyland Adventures) By Enid Blyton

3:11 AM - 22 Comments - 40 Kudos - Add Comment

This Page
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

 

 

There's nothing I can say to you

that I can't tell this page

at least the page will listen

it's only made of paper

not a brick wall

not a finger pointing

the page will take me in

the page my refuge from

the futility of argument

I can wrap myself in words

lay my head on a warmth

that's not in your eyes

and if tears should fall

the page will not flinch

stoic in blank silence

the page soaks up my grief

I would climb inside

these gentle layers

into welcoming folds

a familiar smell

a genesis of pulp

the ghosts of trees lie here

scattered upon my desk

I am grateful for this

small resurrection

a padded comfort

that does not begrudge

my human frailty

the page knows me

it's heard it all before

been crumpled and

thrown into corners

torn and defiled

burnt ashen into dust

and even then

always so loyal

it never spoke a word

that I had not already said.

 

 

 

©l-j stockman 2008

3:11 AM - 25 Comments - 51 Kudos - Add Comment

Poor Roland
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

 

 

A small country school

all of us from hard-times

Poor Roland the new boy

arrived driven in a sleek Jaguar

he was doomed from the moment we saw him

never mind his bendy legs

his pinched too adult features

his 1940's brylcreem look hair

his bri-nylon shirts and neatly creased long trousers

we didn't take kindly to strangers

Roland's parents were older

they seemed somehow out of their time

his father a broken, dapper little man

mother worried with hair neatly set and blow-waved

she always wore dresses and heels

Roland was a late surprise for them

he was one of twins

but his brother was stillborn

Roland lived in a super-sized caravan

his father's business had gone bust

they sold up everything and hit the road

but had to move from town to town

Roland made people feel slightly uncomfortable

there's no doubt he was annoying

he boasted endlessly of his father's prowess

he bragged of his mother's beauty

he skited fantastically of wealth and plenty

and when we had to drive the 25 minutes

from school to small town manual classes every Friday afternoon

the four of us got to ride in Roland's parents Jag

Roland always sat in the front, smiling like Royalty

the leather upholstery smelt freshly polished

his mother in bright red lipstick

would sing to the old style radio tunes

and we three girls would glower sulking in the back

one day in the reserve behind the school

we made up a new game

all the children were there