Sliding

My Dad says "In the library,
I had a moment, when
it seemed that I was not there.
But I could see it all.
It was very quiet."
"You're slipping away" I think
but ask "Does it happen often?"
"No" he says "I wonder if I'm slipping
out of life, slowly"
How did he know what I thought?
So I say "It's the heat, or
what you're eating."
He knows I'm covering up,
an eyebrow is raised and he looks
sideways at me and says
"Yeah, it's nothing to worry about."
Which is how it is.
I am still not allowed to worry about him
it is all the other way.
Though I want to help,
he still sees it and me
as slightly ridiculous.
He is still my parent
and I'm his child.
There are some shared laughs
but his age group do not open up.
So this moment has left a mark on him
if he even mentions it to me.
He is half amused  and
thinks about what it means.
So I look at him and say
"You're worried by it?"
"No, it's nothing much. But
I'd rather not just slide away."

Career in Security

Did you see me in there?
The nice guy with the ready smile.
What about my part, my lines?
I said the right things at the right time?

The professional speak
which is almost satire now
random words jammed together,
the emperor's new clothes, for birds of a feather.

It is a double deception,
because I want this job.
But to lay it out so flat?
You'd never get anywhere, like that.

So I overlayed it with
the business of jargon
to stress the company's leading of the edge.
Cutting through the corporate hedge.

It's part of the process,
when joining the club.
Using the right words
to separate you from other herds.

And,  look, no broken bones
The phrases do no damage
I use them, they don't use me
The only loss is honesty.

Homing in

As it gets nearer
you relax.
The landscape
grows to
become your family.
The sigh of homecoming
escapes you and her.
For it is
your mother
who says the welcome
and tells the history now.
It  curls
and unfolds
around this body.
It weaves you
back in, taking
a marked place where
both ends of
the timeline
can be seen.
And the time
when there
will be a gap.
When the land
will enfold you again.

Warming

I will remember you
wrapping yourself,
around the shards
of ice
in your heart.
Because they were
solid and something
to hold on to.
From the mess
he had made of
your life.
When he lied and
left you and
left me too.
Because he was
not the person
we had thought
he was.
There was silence
for a time.
After that you rang
and we had coffee
where you said "It's over,
I'm done"
And your smile,
lit me up from inside.

New Air

A blue sky with
strips of thin cloud.
A mother and daughter
walk past discussing something
called a brownie revel.
When you might think
girls of that age would rather be rebels.
A tortoiseshell cat accepts my
greeting, smells my offered hand
and allows some chin scratching.
The footpath starts to slope up here,
so that the park at the end
of the road emerges to view
quite suddenly. Sometimes startlingly,
when rain has flooded it
and ducks find an unexpected lake.
Today is warm and soft and
at the top of the road I pause
to appreciate it.
I have not walked far but
my heart has come a long way
and I can see the horizon now.
I am back in the world
and learning to breathe.

Death of a Pianist

I do not think that his fingers
would let him go quietly.
They would be so used to,
coaxing and cajoling beauty,
from felt and wire and air.
They would have gripped with ferocity,
to hold him here.
There would always be more
to do, there would always
be a concert to come.
But when it could not be denied,
that the piece had been played,
with maybe a gentle air
to lead to new sounds.
New music no one else could hear.
 With the promise of
passion and drama unknown.
He would have to acknowledge
the turning of a page.
He would have to move on
to the next stage.

Altered native

Explanation: When I was growing up in Whanganui, one of the main topics of conservation was about the commune set up by one of New Zealand's most well-known poets James K. Baxter. Recently I read the play "Horseplay"   and was struck by the way NZ society treated the "different" among us. I think we have got better at it and can only report positive reaction to my poems.
The title is a convoluted pun on the word "Alternative".
Poem:

You had to sing, James K.
With your fine, mad words.
You had to show us, about us,
and make some ask why.

So that we could reply with scorn,
or fear because you were different.
The ideas you had were odd.
"Full of shit and God."

Oh sure, some would listen,
think what's he on about?
Maybe read some more,
but mostly we buttoned down and moved on.

I don't know much about you, hard to like from what I hear.
though I don't think that should matter.
You had to sing so we had to listen,
lifting our ears out of the clatter.