The farther we go, the father we see.

Today I uncovered a collection of poems I’d penned about my late Father…

No Son Should See This

Dead roses outside
the council flat
cigarette butts
in a marmite jar
The Maori lady from next door says

‘No son should see this’

The fruit bowl empty
amber circles inside a mug

like dirty Olympic rings
He always was
a gold medalist with the booze

Three shirts hung
with razor crease
and tobacco smell
half a tube of toothpaste

the life squeezed out

Blood in the sink

‘No son should see this’

Some Maori Chief

I saw him once
on the ferry to Waiheke
hair eroded by the wind
tussock clinging to a dune

I sat beside him
watching Devonport shimmer
both shivering in our summer shirts

he too drunk to know

I watched him
stumble up the quay
a sailor’s bandy leg
and by the statue of some Maori chief

he turned his head
and shoulders back
he smiled

e taku tama

Always Fixing Things

He put a hole in his hand
with the blade of a screwdriver

Always fixing things

slipped on a worn screw
blood on the Herald

He put a hole in his hand
with the blade of a screwdriver

Always fixing things

like Jesus Christ
blood of the Herald

hole in His hand

Spider

“Goodnight Spider”

his nickname for me

whispered in my ear

with beery breath before he left

for battle with my mother

There was a spider

webbed in silver thread
in the Manuka tree outside

my bedroom window

And as the battle raged
I shone a torch
and watched the creature

watching me

With beery breath?
Arachnid in his tree
Whispering something just for me

And I wished to God that I was he

“Goodnight Spider”

The Thing That Parents Do

We had no car
So Dad and I
walked to school
one night when I was ten

to see my teacher

and talk of why
I was so shy
and why I thought

clouds so interesting
The thing that parents do

I had no fear
Of what my teacher might say

that night when I was ten
My Dad was there
On children’s chair
The thing that parents do

And on the way home
Streetlights shone
and I could smell Old Spice on his collar

he smoked and talked
My Dad and I
The thing that parents do

Smoke Curl

He was burnt to ash
And I didn’t know
I was preaching about Lazarus

But he didn’t come forth

An old friend attended the funeral.

Wondered why I wasn’t there

Dust to dust
Ashtray to ashes

Just the funeral director

and her
Watching the smoke curl

He always liked that

So he was burnt to ash

How could I know?

Our conversations were

stubbed out long ago

Lazarus, come forth!