Today’s choice

Previous poems

Jackson 

 

 

Patterned with cows

I want to tell my mother,
I made a successful loaf
in the bread machine you didn’t know
you were leaving me
which has sat untouched
on the benchtop since you went
as Dad sat untouched on the couch

I used your stick mixer, too
I made some hummus
And thank you for buying
such an excellent set of pans

I want to tell her,
I sometimes wear
your cosy blue wool jumper
but I gave away most of your clothes
I gave away all the homespun cardigans
Sorry
I gave away your red thermal top
It was warm, but I found it scratchy

I want to tell her,
I donated the ornaments to Hospice
but I kept the engraved teaspoon you won at golf
and the solid silver serving spoons –
were they your mother’s?
I found the polish
at the back of the laundry cupboard

I want to tell her,
Look! I photographed this rainbow
from your deck
I’m surprised you never tried to paint
the view
I’m living in your house
I never imagined that – did you?
The bedroom had no mirror! How did you stand it?

I want to tell her,
I’m looking after Dad
He’s in a home
I bought him a dressing gown
and winter socks
and – can you believe it? – they’ve got him
using deodorant

He traded in the old Swift
for a fancy new one
then had a stroke

He left the house in quite a mess
but I’m fixing it up. Do you like
my red vinyl floor? So easy to clean!
It was the only colour I could find
that went with the timber

I want to tell her all these things
but I know she wouldn’t have listened

except for the bit about Dad
Deodorant! Good heavens! she would have said

The loaf smells delicious
It needs to cool
I’ll wrap it in one of her tea towels
patterned with cows –
definitely not my thing
but too good to throw away

 

 

Jackson has four published poetry collections and a PhD in Writing. Their poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Poetry Aotearoa Yearbook. They were born in Cumbria, grew up in Australia and now live in New Zealand. writerjackson.com facebook.com/writerjackson Instagram: @writerjackson

Oliver Comins

Working the land on good days, after Easter,
people would hear the breaks occur at school,
children calling as they ran into the playground,
familiar skipping rhymes rising from the babble.

George Turner

Some days, the privilege of living isn’t enough.
The weight of the kettle is unbearable. You leave the teabag
forlorn in the mug, unpoured.

Clive Donovan

If I were a ghost
I think I would shrink
and perch on wooden poles
and deco shades – get a good view
of what I am supposed to be haunting

Seán Street

There was a time when I took my radio
into the night wood and tuned its pyracantha
needle along the dial through noise jungles
to silent darkness at the waveband’s end.

Jean O’Brien

Winter soil is hard and hoar crusted,
birds peck with blunted beaks,
pushing up are the blind green pods
of what will soon be yellow daffodils,
given light and air.