Tripling Absent Bacon

Tripling 

Absent 

Bacon

♠♠♠♠          

Mana-grain bread:

triangle slices of

sky, mountain, trees, and sun.

Nourishment of a promising morning.

♦♥♦♥          

Canoes of Polynesian pixies

carved into palms of trees

provide a shady welcome mat.

Pass Go the caged jungle gym.

♦♥♣♣                  

A variety store displays tropical outfits.

The playful breeze

flicks the fronds of a black coconut tree

against a green Polynesian shirt.

♦♦♥♦          

Rustling siren leaves over three island benches

entice desirous hero faces,

Come, come, triple your dole here.

Trinity temptations: Riches, Pleasure, and ‘Malo, malo, you da man!’

            ♣♦♣♦

Enter the cavern mouth of Chance

Going-nowhere breaths

stagnant over glossy black tabletops. 

Gloom-blue carpet hides the stains of loss

but not the whiff of burnt tobacco.

Skeletal greyhounds on betting screens

cheaper and easier to raise and transport than horses.

Jingles of pokie machines lure seekers deeper.

Asians in Pandora’s booth, Brownies in the game hole

exchanging life savings for imposter Fortune.

Animated crown jewels glare

Horus’ eye looks on suspiciously

Pharaoh faces to the left, to the left

- how far he has fallen.

SHOW ME THE MONEY in candy-pink bold. 

Buttons like fat money bags flash at you 

Bet1, (up to) Bet 20, Spin, Take, Win, Gamble.

         

          ♥♥♠♥

            We have a winner! 

            One one-thousand, Two one-thousand seconds

            of a river gold-rush

            before the winnings are trickled back

            into the smirking slot, for another

            One one-hour, Two one-hour more.

            “Any luck?  I’ll try this one.  If not, then shit aye.”

            Mouths of females with masculine language. 

            Printed white sheets

            posted on fabric covered cork boards –

            obituaries of bank balances

            and family time.

            Brown faces accessorised

            with Made-in-China baseball caps

            that sport American champions.

♦♥♣♠

Back in the outside world, sniggers of siren leaves

rain on op shop Wu-Tang jackets.

Go, go, take your empty pockets back to your hungry home.

Trinity tricks:  Riches, Pleasure, and ‘Faafetai lava, sucker.’

♣♥♠♦

Polynesians buy a variety of Polywear

from Asian displays.

A purple pule tasi sun

sets on a lavalava flower.

♠♥♦♣

The butcher has “Whole Beef, Lamb, Pig, Available”

but not for fractioned wallets.

Silver bullet shit-sheds - call 09 301 0101 for toilet tissues.

Call your relatives for “Pay you back next week, suga” issues.

♥♣♠♦

Cross the zebra bridge again

walk the white planks.

DB Bitter boxer knocked you the fuck out.

Your Mana reduced to crumbs.

First published in the third volume of MIT’s (Manukau Institute of Technology) art journal,

‘Ika 3’.  

New Aoteasamoa

My name is Eleni.  It’s a name from Samoa, the birthplace of my parents.  The vowels are pronounced like those of the native Maori alphabet, but Te Reo wasn’t promoted in New Zealand back in the 1970s.  As a consequence, many palagi mispronounced Polynesian names.

***

            Wh-tch!

            The sting of Miss Ellen’s leather strap burned the palm of my hand.  Miss Ellen was my primer two teacher at primary school.           

            “Eeleenee, I’m speaking to you!” she said.

            I was being punished for standing up for myself.  Sarah Wilkinson had lied.  She told our teacher I had ripped her crayon drawing for nothing.  I had tried to reveal the truth, but Miss Ellen had already brought out the thick leather strap from the bottom drawer of her desk, and pulled me to the front of the classroom. 

            So, I shut my mouth, bowed my head, held out my hand like Miss Ellen told me to, and waited.  My Samoan upbringing taught me to respect my elders and don’t talk back.

            Wh-tch!

            The pain was sharper.

            “Did you hear me, Eeeleenee?  I said look at me!”

            The blue carpet became a watery blur as tears overflowed from my eyes.  I was confused.  I wasn’t supposed to look elders in the eye when they were talking, especially when reprimanding me.  It was a sign of disrespect and defiance.  Yet, I was also supposed to obey my elders without question.

            Wh-tch!           

            My hand burned and started to shake uncontrollably.  My silent weeping escalated into hiccupping sobs.

            “LOOK AT ME, YOU RUDE GIRL.”

            Miss Ellen’s angry words puffed through the fringe of my hair, feeling hot on my forehead. 

            Finally, I slowly raised my head. 

            Red blotches spread along Miss Ellen’s cheeks and nose.  It reminded me of how my blood soaked into the fabric of my dad’s jersey when I tumbled off my bike and grated the skin on my legs, outside Eden Park. Miss Ellen’s was dynamite ready to explode.  Spittle from her barking snarl sprayed my tear-streaked face. 

            How could she terrify children by forcing them to watch her full-blown wrath and hate? 

            If I misbehaved in front of my elders, they gave me loud, long lectures that included common Samoan sayings - empty threats, such as “I’ll stomped on your head, you shit eater.” Sometimes, I’d feel the whack of a belt or jandal.  But never had I actually witnessed terrifying, shape-shifting rage until Miss Ellen’s strap incident. 

            Afterwards, Miss Ellen would grip my chin in her thumb and index finger, and pull my face towards hers when speaking to me.  I found it excruciatingly uncomfortable undoing the conditioning of my Samoan culture, but I didn’t want to unleash the white dragon with the fiery face again, and so, within a week I was able to make and keep eye contact without needing Miss Ellen’s ‘guidance’.  

            Then came the day I lost my prescribed glasses at school.  My dad was furious!  I sat on the floor in front of him, crying as he yelled at me.  I didn’t realise I had started staring at him until he stopped in the middle of his rant, his eyes widening in shock.

            In Samoan he said, “How dare you disrespect me and look at me like that!” 

            Whack.

***

            My birthplace is Aotearoa; it’s reclaiming its nativeness.  My roots are Samoan; distance of time between us grows.  My elders are less offended when people hold eye contact. 

            My name – Eleni - is not so hard to pronounce anymore. 

First published in 'Landfall', issue 230, in December. 2015
http://www.otago.ac.nz/press/landfall/current/otago059857.html

starry night

life

lives

one

all

connection

distant                                                             connection

connection

all

one

lives

Otoliths:  A BlogSpot of poetry I'm damn glad I stumbled across.  Not only have I come across a variety of works that are wonderful and unusual , but also, more importantly, poems that teach me. 
Otoliths is the first to publish this poem online.  The first to publish my work this year. 

http://the-otolith.blogspot.com.au/2015/01/otoliths-issue-thirty-six-contents.html

artistry effect

The weaver

proceeds

with skill and care to intertwine

a fine cloak

of  communities

- of life.

The artist

carving a tree

follows the grain

in harmony

with its natural character.

These significant spells

of kinship with all creatures

seen as living

in the carving or cloak.

           

            We cannot simply

            govern the process

            of the artist -

            what criterion we might use for ‘worthiness’.

            We cannot choose

            what is going to reflect

            someone’s essence.

            Look once more

            uses we might make

of enhancing value.

What is of importance

            is the idea

            in the abstract -

            in the impossible.

Published first by Blackmail Press; the first online to publish any of my work.  Forever grateful. 

http://www.blackmailpress.com/RM37.html

http://www.blackmailpress.com/index.html

just another haiku

The Brown Paper Bag

Kid, inhaled deeply to make

life worthy again.

 Published first by Blackmail Press; the first online to publish any of my work.  Forever grateful. 

http://www.blackmailpress.com/RM37.html

http://www.blackmailpress.com/index.html

Cross Religions

He spits at the idol feet of Jesus

and sleeps on the cathedral steps

waiting for God to come

and answer him Face-to-face

cos he aint got time for go-between mediators

he wants to hear from the Horse’s mouth

why only the Devil’s drink can burn his pain

in his darkest hours.

The priest told him

he must pray to Jesus for salvation.

He replied with a grubby middle finger,

‘I shit on your thou art thou!

I’d rather fly to the heavens

on Zeus’ winged stallion

to wrestle my answer from Yahweh,

than ride economy-class

on Mr. J’s damn ass!’

Published first by Blackmail Press; the first online to publish any of my work.  Forever grateful.  http://www.blackmailpress.com/RM37.html

http://www.blackmailpress.com/index.html