Wednesday, August 9, 2017

New Dark Age: Auckland

I see fat white men planning assaults over the Korean peninsula
While I walk the harbour breathing in the salt air
I read of a woman whose voice is shut down
while a tax defrauder runs the country
In a graveyard off Karangahape
a homeless man smiles
at the sun
he says
‘I have the best real estate’
until the night comes
a text
an argument over who has done the cleaning
another reminds me my accounts overdrawn
I pass by tree studded roads down to the park
past icons of buildings past
internally I scream
no fat white men in suits rule me
no politics tears me
no pointless arguments pursue me  
as I scroll my feed
I question
is this the new dark age?
then why does everything seem
so grey
except in front
a tree blossoms
early spring explosion
reminding me 
to turn my phone off

and appreciate it.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Ngati Pakeha

'Ngati Pakeha'
You have lived so many lives in so many places
Whose blanket is that you wear?
When a tree has no roots
It is only driftwood to the sea

 'Ngati Pakeha'
You borrow parables like those words are your own
'Aroha atu aroha mai'
Yet you wonder why it does not balance
Love is received in the giving, not as a result of it

 'Ngati Pakeha'
Where is your mountain? 
Where is your river?
What supports you?
Why are you here?

'Ngati Pakeha'
By the name you use for yourself you lay claim
To be more than a passing traveller
Come sit by the fire
There is plenty of kai to go around
If you don’t abuse your welcome.

'Ngati Pakeha'
Share your blanket
Love is in the giving
Truth is in the knowing
Who you really are.

Come, Come sit by the fire
I promise I won’t eat you.  

Saturday, May 13, 2017

Child's Play





The word I won’t say lest it scare her off
That sits at the top of my tongue waiting to slide down and out
And when it does the playground will be open to me
Or not.

The word I won’t say because it scares me to say it
To let myself go and leave myself open
To what she says in return
What If the seesaw drops and she is not there on the other end

Other words come easy
I will climb up and over them
Roll with them on the grass
Shout them from the top of the castle
But they are not what I feel
  
I yearn to
not always play alone in the sandpit
I want to take walks to the point and further
To grow up just enough to
At some time stop acting like a child
Gain the courage to say

I love you

But only in some moments
The rest I just want to play on the swings.





Tuesday, April 4, 2017

I want nothing from you world.

I want nothing from you world.


No sour grapes sold before their time.
No old avocados brown when opened.
No irate tellers who are there to give me my money at the bank.
I don’t want sad service in a restaurant,
Or overly happy people selling me insurance I know I don’t need.
The sun that shines to hard.
The winter chill that makes me not want to get up.
What you gave me,
Equally, you take away.
Why is everything an example to me of that which I am going to lose


I want nothing from you world


Are women so different than men that they can say, you’ve got me now you don’t?
Why should we gamble when the odds mean we are going to lose?
Does every morning have a forecast for rain?
Because if it did, that’s what we would expect.
Then when the sun came out, it would be a surprise.
But how many of those can we expect to get,
In a river that flows downstream,
In a tide that always seems to be out.


I want nothing from you world because,
when I get a surprise,
I want it to be. 


 


Sunday, February 26, 2017

Western Park.


It’s a deafening roar the cicadas shuffle, echoing out across Western Park..
Here in nature's morning, I expected silence, away from the cities drone.
What I got was Gaia shouting louder than cars.
 A ball of fluff rides the breeze across in front of me unidentified in its origin,
 maybe a dogs shedding coat, possibly a duvet inner or violence ripped jacket.
 Artificial or not it seems to belong,
 while it still dances just for me.
 But then it settles beside cigarette butts, pie wrappers, and empties.
 The breeze drops letting the acrid smell of urine permeate upwards.
 At this moment the cicadas are alone in claiming back this patch of nature,
 from drunks spoiling exercises the night before.
 Raising the question, Whose park is it anyway?
 Who is  to say that another’s freedom through the dark hours is the use it was
 intended?
Then the breeze returns, and on it floats away my dancing fluffball.

 Shards of light break through,
 looking all biblical,
 a church shop faded Jesus scene in broken frame,
 The atheist in me laughs that it is him who notices.
 I lay back now looking up at the trees,
 Embracing green mottle jades replacing dancing distortions,
 My glazed eyes little by little seeing clear.
 Reborn I breathe in nature’s fresh desire swimming in each lungful,
and then I expel,
move on and off the seat,
back home and towards other worlds.
Perhaps by night, I may come back for a ciggy and a beer.

                                                                                Kirk Lafferty Feb 2017

  

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Anonymous

A large cardboard refrigerator box opened out from under her, for comfort, of sorts, for the collection of change from those who passed her by, who kept on walking.
Across the road a café opened, the smell of shower gel and hairspray fresh on the customers who walked in and out anonymous.
Cars sped by, their drivers trying not to spill their paper cup lattes, checking their Facebook, picking the coagulated sleep crustaceans from their eyes, trying to make that light, always red, always red, why are the lights always red when you have to be somewhere you think is important?
 She tips over, a mass of dirty clothes now hiding a body which is also worn, also spent.
She cries out, a  breath carrying silent words wheezed from lungs tarred from rollies, fag ends discarded by others, her last luxuries, from a life without. No words, just a breath gently escaping as her body turns off, at ease, at last.
No-one hears all ears are turned else ware.

The lights turn green and Grey Lynn’s morning gets back on track, hardly missing a beat, that anyone notices.


Kirk Lafferty 11/16  

Thursday, November 3, 2016

Cuppa / Short Short Fiction.



Photo , The key , Mexico 2008

My Writing Tutor told me 
never write about the mundane, cups of tea,
or going to the bathroom or the things in life that really 
do not have too much meaning, I took that as a challenge 
Here is Cuppa

Cuppa

     ‘Come down for a cuppa', she said, as if nothing else mattered. Had she forgotten all that had gone before? Of course she had, she was old. It was easier for her to forget than to remember what it was she said.

        That day she called me by my brother's name, sitting me down scone and cream, thinking I was he, reciting all the crimes, I as me, had committed, some so bizarre that it was hard to believe she believed they were true. It was impossible to stop myself from shaking. My hand faltered as my mind tried to leave the room.
         I watched as crumbs dropped from the side of my now tilted saucer, the sane times disappearing into nothing, Christmas cheer, and birthday celebrations from a time when her mind was clearer, no reminder, now there was only dry scone accumulating on a un-kept carpet. All that had gone before lost, so many happy memories now dark stains in the bottom of my now empty cup. In a mind that believed in good and evil, here I was, her grandson, in her newly formed memories more evil than was possible.
  I scuffed my shoes against her worn down chair leg, stared away from her at the threadbare cushion. It was well past its time, so to was her mind, one stray thread too many leading nowhere and too far gone to be repaired.                                                                          When she left the room for more jam, I left by way of the side door.  A month later the phone call,‘Come down for a cuppa', she said.‘Sorry, Grandma I am too busy'.

Kirk Lafferty 2016