Buckwheat husks

A flock of dehydrated birds
suddenly fell from the sky,
bellies hollow, wings frail,
beaks open against
the famine-worn wind.

Below, the fields lie cracked,
dry buckwheat husks scattered,
like forgotten dreams decomposing in the dust.

The air trembled
with the shrieks of starved children,
ribs pressing against withered skin,
like the frail walls of a bombarded house
waiting to collapse.

Desperate mothers stirred empty vessels,
sobbing to their ancestral deities,
while weary fathers walked endless miles,
chasing water and food.

And then,
she knelt among the fallen birds,
cupping them gently,
as if holding the last embers of life.

Her fingers, thin as candle wicks,
scattered grains of unseen buckwheat.

With a mantra,
she breathed life into the windless air,
and one by one,
the birds rose--
their wings slicing
through the stillness of despair.

I stood,
mouth dry as the barren earth,
feeling small,
like a child
watching a goddess
stitch the torn sky.

How I wished
she could revive me like the birds.
How I wished
she could drift my hunger away.

How I wished
her touch could quench my thirst,
her smile could fill my stomach
in this famine-ravaged land.

​She looked at me,
eyes kind yet weary,
and shyly smiled--
her smile fluttered,
like prayer flags
weathered by the winds of the Himalayas.

Blueberries on my porridge 10 times removed

Carefully I spoon frozen blueberries from the self-sealing pouch,
Purchased from New World frozen food section,
Stocked by part-time underaged and retired night staff,
Offloaded from the Gilmore’s frozen food behemoth in the middle of the
night,
Coming from a central depot, previously shipped from the Hastings
factory,
On to my porridge.

Thanks sorters and the pickers from far and near Flaxmere, paid for
performance,
Not to forget the bankers, advertisers, and human resources,
presumable well reimbursed.
The blueberry plants imported from North America,
Where I found them in ‘57 growing wild on “Blueberry Hill” Sudbury
Canada.
Food for thought, now to add a sprinkle of Chia seeds.

First published in 30 Years of the Hawke’s Bay Live Poets’ Society, Seasons’s Voices, 2022

BIO: The Canadian Shield is their Maunga, the Niagara is their awa. US poet Billy Collins is an ancestor-in-law. Aotearoa New Zealand is their home.

Cold Crooks by This Fire Pit

A pigeon naps by a dozing man,
their heads are tucked in. One to its chest,
the other under cardboard. How long

will they stay a duo by this fire pit?
These cold crooks, thieving flames.
A chip wrapper folds in wind.

Whose meal was that – and when’s the next?
It must be hard to live without respite.
Pigeon’s feathers twitch, man’s grunts

dampened by coats, one trainer beside his head.
A helicopter whirrs. Crew searches for convicts.
Nearby, a woman fist bumps anyone

in sight. She thumps of optimism, even
near this pit, as graffiti warns against the 9am-5pm.
Suits jest on their way to lunchtime drinks.

​Pigeons fly up to 700 miles in a day –
more if they break their trip. This one chose
to doze here. Still half a day to go.

Click to hear the poet read the poem.