from Everything I Need Is Thrown Out #2

2

I haven’t
put them

in Producers’
letterboxes

for recording
studios

in times of lyrical
shortage.

I did stencil
some

on placards
of low tide

sand, leaving
behind the business

card of the lonely
calling

love of Poetry.
Left alone

they aren’t
even printed—

Schrödinger’s
poems

in a
laptop.

3

When I take
my Hobo
walkabout

again
it’ll be
with a coin
-toss
of which didge
& one
or two of those hex
shapes

to open bins—
everything
you’ll need
you’ll get:

munny, food—
unopened
items in their use-by
dates, clothing,
water, shelter,
though, by time
within yourself,
the body emits
intention
from the plough-shed
of the male
earning wages
to the prepaid
itinerary of holidays
and I’ll suppose
it looks like
bravery
to the guilty—as I bath,
bask, in
the pitying looks
judged a creature failed
by the passing Shodwells,
who see a homeless nodevout,
but sister, it’s a new
and living manuscript,
a hatful of cooling coins, a plan
to place an architect
ahead of time, to scout the
brother-minerals to feed
a body singing

into death
the simple, light travel
of sound through a stick
and symbols from a writing
tool
spoken more in jest,
a sign, that I may aim for
align this moment now with.

Everything I Need Is Thrown Out

1

Each time I buy a new didgeridoo
I like
to wander for a month and find
out
what it can
do

by busking in the echo
-tiles of an underpass
and under the roof
-acoustics
of storefronts

it was winter, north
enough, I thought, but Rain
travelled the sky
in armadas of dark ships
and I left
at home
the unexplored
instrument

and rode trains with manuscripts
calligraphic with Edit

it might be
age, and comfort
of addiction
but as the heavy
boats fired across the harbour
rainbows, and hail stones
loudened bus trips
instead of the
unlocked hotels
of the homeless
I stayed in
a mixed dorm
the oldest man amongst
the assorted
colours and
cloth, travellers crotch,
the smell of the month
with womens’ unwashed
underwear rustle-y
in plastic shopping bags
beneath the bunk

other men my age
have paid their houses off
their children left
by wives and are
become grandparents
some of them
of Business flops
or minor titans
of mercantile
gusset

these mornings you
will find me on
the end of
a toilet brush
or an industrial
Allen key
opening the mouth of
municipal rubbish
bins

flower shop

 flower shop
to Naran and her daughter

that flower shop
at that corner of the
avenue flowers in
coloured buckets of
water stood before
dirty glass windows
not a shop for
exclusive shoppers
but anyone simply
in that dusty town
who needed flowers
for whatever purpose
flowers had, in night-clubs
gifted across beer-spilt
tables or laid in a
hand girlish for
that moment
at the door,
the sole flower
shop of that
dull stretch
of avenue
at that shop
she told me
we’d meet
and she waited
there i found
the place the
only one looking
up and down those
streets she told
me walking how
she waited for her
mother there who
worked inside among
those flowers behind
the dusty glass she
waited her mother
in gladness as glad
as a flower drinking
in water her mother’s
hands must have
smelt of pollen of
brown paper her
mother who died
so young and left
her to a step-father
and soon step-mother
she told me how
she’d even come here
years after to smell
the flowers in buckets
and recall that fine
woman, the singer, the
woman who taught her
the russian word for everything
she put into her hand the woman
who was singing in the yurt and
a child she saw through that
opened flap at the apex
the snowed in peaks of
the altai those legendary
mountains that smote
asia apart from europe,
she’d remember her,
her mother, kneeling at
the bucket looking
at the flowers
settled with dust.

i’m sure she’d told
told her own daughter
of this shrine she’d
made of coloured buckets
and flowers for a face
not shown there,
a daughter who
who goes remembering
past that corner now
how her mother waited
for her mother there and
she pauses there fresh
in age and thinks of
her mother who would
run to the ends of the
earth for her, of everything
that happened to her mother
as much as she knew her
and finds maybe kneeling
at those same buckets
in a dusty wind
and i too have to hold
her mother and her mother
both in mind and
not spill a drop
for a flower needs
every bit of water
in such a place
every drop
of her, of ‘she’
who i once
called ‘you’.

  2004 – 14 october 2013
ulaanbaatar, auckland

A sad farewell

I watched alone by sunlit edge
of pond and meadow touching hands
those flirting leaves that twitched and swirled
gold dessication incomplete
while water ruffling to shore
beneath bowed willows’ trailing arms
pushed tender shards of russet brown
to curl contentedly in reeds
no harsh sounds to be heard that day
for everything seemed hushed and still
but autumn whispered in the breeze
and summer hummed a sad farewell

 

2017 © Lesly Frances Finn

What’s worse, being dead or dying?

Pine cone;

you;

red shoes,

grass/New

moon/pale

 

sky, so

cool  –

evening. Think:

 

if you

go does Day/

Night also?

disappear

 

as if

it

never was

even

here.

 

Hold on,

WE

these days there is a shadow on my heart
a stone so weighty breathing is suppressed
such sadness from this time we’ve been apart
and memories of times when we were blessed

no sleep while eyes keep searching in the night
your warmth no longer felt here at my side
without your arms to hold me nothing’s right
no comfort to be had for tears I’ve cried

why did you have to be the one to go
how could I be prepared for such a day
you’ve taken secrets only you could know
I’m left with all these words I didn’t say

dear love, I do so long for it to be
no longer ‘I’ but once more back to ‘we’

=============================

from Nowhere/ Always/ Everywhere #3

In the waiting room at the hospital
a young man, with a topknot
and brown lakes
for eyes, comforts, in a front harness
his four week old baby.

And I wonder how we did it, the lady
and I— by living apart?
Letting birds fly? Once a week,
flock, once a week, sky?

Meaning-phoenicians, weeks & strongs;
chopped into pieces… The man speaks English
with a Spanish accent. How close they came—
their Monarchy aflame, their version of Jesus:
Boats in the Water, Magic and Mortar.

The child’s head fits into his palm
which strokes and shields and holds
his ear against the time
-partitioner of his heart.

Letting Go

This cold, cold earth
last resting place
I heard your voice
you kissed my face
then all was gone
without a trace
in cold, cold earth

This hard, hard ground
no need for sight
for those who lie
in this dark night
not to see again
the sun, the light
in hard, hard ground

Yet comes this sound
there is a sigh
like wind in trees
or the faintest cry
of a flock of birds
in a cloudless sky
yet comes this sound

Away I fly

2016 © Lesly Frances Finn

Purple Glow

Man sleeps

Dog sleeps

Cat sleeps

Snoring sounds

Whilst washing

swishes

Dishes sit soaking

in the sink

I sit

and think

Cars flash by

Lights flash

in the night sky

I sip my wine

Contemplating…

Meditating…

Soul finally

at rest

Comfortable

in my nest…

A purple glow

in my heart

Resonating

to the sleeping souls

Replete

in their slumber

deep end

deep end
to ‘Auntie’ Wanda Kiel-Rapana

out Tolaga Bay way
my auntie’s hearth
and homestead earth
there’s a wharf you
can walk out beyond
the breakers, a wharf
to take you over the
line where the tide
changes colour as the
sea deepens and the
swell lengthens,
a wharf you might
think is a fiddle of
the lens, the short
warped marvellously
long, a mirage like
a headland that breaks
off into the shine of day
and dallies above the ocean,
yet it’s real enough, you
could picnic out there
above the waves that
glide in like gulls
coming in to land
a wharf like any other
running out however long
leaving you nowhere else
to go except back over
the sea-scoured cement
or off the deep end into
the dark strained with
sun and the cold of its rays
down above the fluttered
sea bed, the wind out
Tolaga Bay way lifting
the dandelion web
of a reaped soul
into the dawning hearth
and homestead light.

april 2017

Tolaga Bay Wharf, the longest in the southern hemisphere

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry – Memo to self

a rhymer’s style is one that’s neat
following form and counting feet
free-versers claim their way is better
no need to follow to the letter
some poems only seem to ramble
endless screeds all in a tangle
esoteric styles depress me
grandiloquence just don’t impress me
so what’s the best thing I can do
(the point of this iambic stew)
– read those I love and worry less
write from the heart, not to impress

2017 © Lesly Frances Finn

In Passing

What became of whats-her-name
the one who hung around last fall?
Or was it spring, I can’t recall?

Seemed quite sad and melancholic.
We thought she might be alcoholic.
Remember her?

She was with us at your brothers ‘do’
And we talked of how our nails grew?
Well, WE talked, she listened.
Or seemed to.

Then she cried, her mascara ran.
Describe her? I don’t think I can
No, never saw her with a man

Yes! That’s it, you’ve got her now
The one who said you were a cow
to laugh at her that time.

Hey, WOW!

Gassed herself? And her cat?
Why ever do a thing like that?

So ….. who’s now living in her flat?

2017 © Lesly Frances Finn