For those who fear that

I am missing in action

I am back

and the oysters were good

but you would know that

if you were following me

on facebook

i put clean socks

on today

‘Too Many Years’ was first published in ‘Blackmail Press 32‘. [ISSN 1176-4791], New Zealand. 2012.

———————————-

Too Many Years

She’s tired
too many years
wars and wars and so called freedom
wearing and wearing her out

Pain etched lines across her face
lost loved ones
alcoholics and children
ravaged by life

Pork grease and dirt warmly embrace her
garlic and salami
sing with her sweat
songs of isolation dancing in loneliness

Prolonged survival hardness
elbows her way down the trolley-bus
she stands, stares and glares without seeing
refusing comfort and seats alike

she won’t sit down
because if she did
her pockets would relieve themselves
of her boss’s cutlery

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Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

‘Saplings In a Forest of Poverty’ was first published in ‘Blackmail Press 32‘. [ISSN 1176-4791], New Zealand. 2012.

————————————

Saplings In a Forest of Poverty

[Poverty is fruitful
malnutrition and infirmity
grow from the hearth of the poor]

Rodelio and Rohelio
twins born into a
hessian hut amongst
the pigs and papaya
of a poor
Philippino
village

Malnourished mum
addicted dad
produced a son
with club-foot

[Another sapling rises
promising to bear
more fruit for the stricken]

With quick action
such an ailment
can be treated

The poor
have neither
money nor influence
Treatment is
another person’s
dream

But with a sense of injustice
that only the rich can have
I wage war
on a
system
that I know
nothing about

[I search for the sapling
to rip it free
never to bear
fruit again]

My doctor said
“I don’t help the poor”
Community Council said
“no money, can’t help”
City mayor said
“I will pay”

[I finger the
fresh bark
of poverty's
sapling]

A mother
a four-day-old twin
humid heat
and an open-top jeep
journey together
to the city

Four days later
Rohelio
returns
to the
pigs and papaya
bamboo and hessian
with a straight ankle
and a leg in a cast

[I snap that sapling
clear from the earth]

Itchy casts are no fun
for newborns
Rohelio screams
through the night
His mum comforts
her inconsolable infant

But waking from
the haze of glue
his father takes action

Morning light
reveals a suffering mother
and a castless child

[I missed the
root, the
sampling sprouts]

Father said, before
disappearing
back into the peace
of his addiction, “it is
the divine
will
of God
that my son
be
like this”

[the root grows strong
and takes its place
in a forest
called
poverty]

And Rohelio
now
drags his
foot
amongst
the pigs and papaya
of a poor
Philippino
village

[Poverty has
fruited.]

———————–
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

To view my cycling route across Lithuania, click here.
To view a detailed personalised map following chapter 1, click here.

——————————-

Well, that about explains everything really.

Here I am trying to fake a staged entry for the purpose of this story. I am on my bicycle pretending I have just come off a Baltic ferry from deepest, darkest Germany and am about to cycle my way across swinging, happening, twenty-first century Lithuania.

It is a cloudy but dry Sunday evening and I want you to think that I have just sailed up a rather industrial harbour and that, through the haze of second-hand cigarette smoke, I have just viewed mile after mile of Klaipėda’s identical red tiled Soviet apartment buildings. I have kitted up my bike, pushed it off the ferry and have just entered this relatively recent addition to the European Union. I am nervous, excited, and after seeing Klaipėda[1] from the sea, somewhat scared.

Okay, that is what I want you to think; it is not the reality, but for now it works.

For a cyclist, from the ferry terminal, the entrance to Klaipėda is absolutely fantastic, in fact couldn’t really be much better – there is a brand spanking new cobble-paved, red cycle path[2]. It offers hope, comfort and reassurance for the journey. Problem is this path only lasts about 10 metres before it stumbles upon a sudden and premature ending. Smack in the middle of the path is a sign that simply reads “Klaipėda”, and there the cycleway stops. And if this is not bad enough and if you are like me and have five heavy panniers[3] on your bike, you need to disembark and carry your bike down a rather steep gutter.

Ironically, this sign encapsulates how I have come to view this, my adopted nation, it explains everything really. It seems to me that Lithuania is regaining some of its old status and becoming a borderland and frontier country where East[4] meets West. Lithuania has been pillaged by multiple  wars and is on the cusp of shedding its oppressive and oppressing Eastern shackles and beginning to tickle the concepts of an allegedly more Western, open and tolerant governmental culture.

This sign reminds me of grumpy, rude public-sector officials and friendly, innocent, smiling children. It reminds me that this country, at its core, is fighting corruption and intolerance, but yet often lost wallets containing money get handed intact to the police. This sign warns me, for better and for worse, that what you see is not necessarily what there is. And finally this sign tells me that adventure lies ahead.

So whilst dismounting my bike, I noticed a gaggle of bedraggled trucks, pick-ups, trailers and shady, dubious-looking men all congregating around an equally shady and dubious collection of tired second-hand cars. I got the feeling that this was a regular post ferry shindig[5]. Lithuania, and to the east Russia and Belarus, have a boisterous trade in hand-me-down and often allegedly stolen  German and Scandinavian cars. And here in front of the railway crossing, haggling was happening as minor fortunes were being made and derailed whilst feverish men frantically pushed cars from truck to trailer before setting off on their journeys to greener pastures.

I cycled on, knowing that these very vehicles would soon be overtaking me, showering me with dust and stones. The five kilometres of road from the end of that oh-so-beautiful cycleway to the first of Klaipėda’s abundant supply of luxury shopping malls is simply the ugliest, most decrepit stretch of raw, rough, road I have seen anywhere. It is shocking, and a totally embarrassing gateway to our city. If it was my first time on this road, I think that I would have simply turned around and got my butt and bicycle the hang out of there. I want to make a sign and peg it about every two hundred metres along the road saying, “It gets better”. ‘Cause truly it does. But for now the collection of collapsed Communist cement, burnt out trash-cans, vandalised signposts, rusty-leaning-lampless-lamposts, volcanic-crater-sized potholes and the bedraggled-paint-peeling bridge are all just too much for your average guest to our nation to handle. Maybe it is a play by the local brewery to drive people to drink.

I was glad that my 14.74km round trip from our Soviet flat and back was not the actual start of my journey across the country; it simply would have been too depressing. Instead, I got to go home, finish packing my four gifted ‘Ortlieb Classic’ panniers, and ready myself for the baffling, butt-buffering bike-ride which lay ahead. I was nervous as I had once ridden 120km along a flat road with no weight on my bike and I came home utterly and totally cream-crackered[6]. Yet the next morning I was setting out on a four hundred and something kilometre marathon across roads and through villages I had never seen before. That evening I had a flitting, dreamless sleep and spent much of the night questioning whether my head needed examining.

———————–

A detailed glossary will be included in the print and eBook version of this story.

To view other chapters please click here and please though the story is free,  if you could contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

‘Emo‘ was first published in Blackmail Press 31, MARGINILIZATION. issn1176-479

—————–

Emo

My hair is in my eyes,
it’s a tragedy.

black   sunburnt   leaves   floating
spiralling down
in the winds of depression

I am an emo.

Surviving in the pain and suffering
that I call existence.

emotional      emotionally hardcore

Suicide is such an unjust ending
when your shoe lace is undone.

that’s heavy

———————–
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

Well it is not long before we trade in our Baltic snow for some Kiwi sunshine. We are looking for to the trip and I am in the process of packing.

Speaking of packing would anyone like me to pack any of my books for them. I will be selling them as I travel, but will only be bringing pre-ordered books and then only if I have enough weight. It will be a case of first in first served.

So if you are interested these are my books.

-

-

To find out more about the books just click on them. It would be best for me if you were to buy them on-line, however cash when I see you is fine. Remember I will only be carrying books that have been ordered in advance and orders need to be placed before February 26.

And on another note, as soon as I get a NZ phone I will email it to you.

See you all soon, please turn that sunshine on for us.

Cheers Kel

A Fresh Red Wound was first published in Blackmail Press 31, MARGINILIZATION. issn1176-479

—————–

A Fresh Red Wound

In horror she watched
her drunken mother
tumble to her end
and in horror
she read
of her drunken father’s death
ten years institutionalised
and craving the honour
of being treated
as if someone cares for her,
that is her life

cast into the shadows of school
to be tolerated not taught
a bad one, an orphanage kid
drowning in a system
that refuses to acknowledge
her existence

slowly she sinks
into the claws of poverty
its talons wrapped around her throat
quenching her pain
with the spirits of addiction
until death shares her bed

she is an orphan
a fresh red wound
from an old Soviet scar.

———————–
Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

~7th Place Editor’s Choice Award

‘Ticket to Life’ won ’7th place ‘Editor’s Choice Award’ and ‘Highly Commended’ in the ‘Masters Level’  in a ‘FaithWriters’ writing competition. USA, 2012.

To see the poem at ‘FaithWriters’ and to read all the lovely and sometimes not so lovely comments it has received click here.

Ticket to Life

We were young men and women
who were taking the world by storm.
One prostitute, one heroin addict
one boy prostitute, one transvestite
at a time, for the kingdom.

We strolled Sydney’s
seedier, darker streets
making friends
and handing out
sugar,
coffee with sugar,
sugar,
doughnuts with sugar,
did I mention sugar?
(Addicts love sugar).

One perilous evening
we stumbled upon
a young prostitute
who wanted a better life
she repented of her sins
and surrendered her life to Christ.

We were unable
to find a new home
for her that night
and agreed to return
a few days later
to pick up her things
from her brothel
and take her away
to safer, healthier places.

Return we did.
We could not find her,
searched and searched,
then spied her
across William Street’s
six wide lanes.

My pastor promptly
in his eagerness to help
performed a u-turn.
Immediately we were being pursued
by blue flashing lights.

The officer said,
“ Your u-turn was illegal,
I am going to have to give you
a ticket”.
Watching our young
sex-worker disappear
into the night,
my pastor replied,
“But officer you don’t understand,
I’m a pastor
looking for
a prostitute”.

This is one of many true stories that one gathers serving God in a red-light district. This young woman was rescued from her life on the streets and after much explaining, no ticket was given.

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Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

~6th Place Editor’s Choice Award

‘Little Kristina’ won ’6th place ‘Editor’s Choice Award’ and ‘Highly Commended’ in the ‘Masters Level’  in a ‘FaithWriters’ writing competition. USA 2011/12.

To see the poem at ‘FaithWriters’ and to read all the lovely comments it has received click here.

—————————

Little Kristina

My broken heart
skips a beat
as I round
the corner
to be greeted
by your
widespread arms
and little legs
running so hard
rushing to wrap
me in the
innocence
of your
loneliness.

I want to smother you
with a father’s love
and lavish you
with words
tell you
how
cute you look
and special you are
to whisper
sacred little things
like
‘I love you’.

Alas, I am but
a foreigner
a volunteer
a
protector of orphans
who will
one day
return to
the familiar
embrace
of his loving
kin.

I won’t be there
when the darkness
of the night
drowns your tears
I won’t be there
to calm your fear
and hold your hand
on your first
day
of school
your first boyfriend
will never
grace my
doorstep
and I will
not be
giving
you away
on your wedding
day.

I cannot
be there
for you
cannot
take
you
home
so when
you look in
my eyes
and melt
my hurting
heart
please feel
what is left
unsaid
I cannot
be there
for
you.

But someone
else can,
he will hold
you and
not let go
he will lavish you
love you
he is your adopter
and salvation
little Kristina
spread your
arms wide
and
welcome
Him
He is
your
Father.

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Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.

Th’ Cheap Chieftain won second place in the Robbie Burns Poetry Competition. New Zealand, 2012

————

Th’ Cheap Chieftain

It’s bin a while since mah hurdies
graced an’ greased Glesga’s dour streets
th’ rain an’ th’ rain an’ th’ rain
dog shite shod an’ trod
Jimmy addicted, duckin’ an’ divin’
wee hens shriekin’ an’ hurlin’ abuse.

When th’ rain’s tay wet an’ th’ hurlin’s tay heavy
an’ th’ Tron hangs lik’ a noose aroon yer neck
duck an’ dive yer way intae Val D’Oro
plonk th’ erse on solid Formica
order yersel’ a haggis supper
and thus sae let the Lord be thankit.

Sae ah did an’ aw
but th’ bard woods greit
auld Scotlund has skinking ware
white chipped plate
cheps an’ mingin’ stomach
minced liver, heart an’ lungs
oats an’ oats an’ oats
swimmin’ suffocatin’
in a cess ay vinegar an’ suet.

Th’ ware swirls aroond mah plate
always runnin’ but ne’er leavin’
this manky mess
slithers doon mah beard
clogs mah hanky an’ clots mah arteries
an’ suin leaves mah weel-swall’d kyte
stretched an’ bent like a drum.

But aye will be a week afore ah eat again
an’ noo aam naturally waterproof
I can brave Glesga’s duckers an’ divers
the wee hens an’ th’ rain an’ th’ rain an’ th’ rain
fur ah hae experienced an’ ah hae survived
th’ cheap chieftain o’ the puddin-race!

Written in Glaswegian except when referencing ‘The Selkirk Grace’ and ‘Address To a Haggis’. Inspired by ‘Val D’Oro’, my favourite fish ‘n’ chip restaurant.

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Thank you so much for reading ‘out for lunch’. If you would like to contribute, please do. Thanks Kel.