A for Blog

Nostalgia has a bad name.
Nasturtiums. Neuralgia.
Remember them
without blame.

He’s a shoulder.
Should do this, should do that.

Cold shoulder.
That showed her.

He should, should, should
offer a shoulder

and murmur,
“How do you feel?”

If anyone tells your secret,
let it be you
and let it be true.

You hear the frozen notes
of roses in the air.

Since she got cancer,
her roles are reversed.
Joy of living is her job,
saving the world
her hobby.

In April 1996

I stopped lusting
after men

and men stopped lusting
after me.

What clever tricks.
What symmetry.

So did you learn
how to think?

You think so.
I may think not

if you don’t
think like me.

The forecast for your life
is mainly fine.
The harbour glistens
like grey velvet.

Elsie wants to walk
but her baby legs

roll like commas,
dangle like italic Js.

One day they’ll stand
a sturdy A

and she will walk
vertical, away.

Nobody knows your neck squeaks.
Nobody knows your heart
is a bowl of poems.

That stone
waits in water
like a moon.

Someone threw it
from Vancouver
to Peru.

Was it you?
Better come and get it
Real soon.

“You look young.
For your age, that is.”
That’s cool?

Worship my wrinkles,
you fool.

(for Max, 5)

Run around roses,
run through the maze,
run around reds
for days and days.

Run around Monday,
run around thorns,
run until Sunday,
roll on the lawns.

Run until you’re lost,
jump until you’re found,
run around the rose beds
around and around.

Run through hedges
and perfume,
find your way out
and run back home.

Up the mountains go
the foolish ones
followed by
the rescue volunteers.

Why do they climb
sans boots, sans food,
sans sleeping bags?
Blame Frodo. Make Frodo foot the bill.

Folder A in Folder B in Folder C.
Heart within ribs within skin.
Decisions have repercussions.

Folder C in Folder B in Folder A.
Skin within ribs within heart.
Please construct with care.

See the point.
See the end.
Make bones without whimsy.

You write because
you decide to write
when a sudden jagged
uninvited light
shines in the eye of your mind.

On Eden’s architecture tree
you see
trunk, boughs, fruits and leaves

but not the database of pips
programmed to explode
into tidy orchards

of apples packed
and sterile and
obeying orders.

If you want eternal life
don’t be a human
or an intranet.

Be
a sea
anenome.

Michael King
we honoured you.
Kiwis anonymous,
numberless, numb.
You showed us our skin.
You showed us our world
and ushered us in.