A Hundy In My Pocket

I’m broke but I’m happy, I’m poor but I’m kind, so go the lyrics in Alanis  Morrisette’s song”, Hand In My Pocket”. Hand in My Pocket .

A Song for Grace

A song for Grace

It has been said that I am a little romantic, a soft side to me.  As a young man I had notions of greatness, a passable singing voice and a self- taught ability to string a few notes together on a guitar despite my dyspraxia.  Whilst I had up to date tastes, Billy Joel, Donna Summer, Blondie (oh be still my beating heart) my taste was eclectic, Barbara Streisand, and John Denver to mention a few . I enjoyed the melody of John Denver and his songs were easy for me to cover.  John Denver was a man with flaws, often the way with creative people but this is not a blog about being flawed…

Wearing your heart on your sleeve (hots) has many manifestations, and many labels.  Labels of course because people have to hang something off people and more so for people who challenge us. Words such as bleeding heart liberal, do gooder, are a couple of the most in offensive that I can think of, essentially people who have a predisposition for caring enough to engage, this blog is for one of these people, Grace we will call her, an apt name, charm, beauty, gratefulness, intuitive, heart centred a few synonyms for Grace. Passionate and expectant as well.

There is a cost to wearing your heart on your sleeve, it took me four and a half decades to work that out.  I remember as a social worker the chief executive came to visit our site, we had been a bit grumbly about pay rates and she unwisely commented that it really didn’t matter because us social workers didn’t do it for money.  I called her on that and we walked out to her surprise but she is right, the caring professions tend to be female dominated and consequently under-paid and over worked. Even within this there is another hierarchy, the hardnosed don’t give a shit nasty crew, bullies and generally unregenerate emotionally illiterate.

My friend”s daughter Grace is a social worker and I know a bit about that career and I know a bit about Grace.  Grace genuinely cares for people, on her days off she is texting clients, if she is not texting she is thinking about them,  Grace has lots of leave outstanding, no-where near as much as she is owed if she were really to count the total hours’ she works, the early starts, the late finishes she won’t claim for because she won’t be paid and she can’t take the leave anyway because no one-else will do her work and if they do they won’t either be able to do the work with the level of care needed, either they have too much of their own work to do or they Just don’t care.

Grace like many hots is intelligent, inquiring reflective, she will always do more than her share and will care deeply, celebrate success, and mourn failures.  I suspect that Grace like many hots will be hard to give to, she will see herself as only doing what is right, nothing special and you will need to have earned her trust before she will let you into her life to minister some care to her.  Grace epitomises the things that are good about social workers, the things that impact on people’s life, make no mistake though, she is not a pushover, she is principled and has huge integrity.

So my song for Grace is more a prayer or a poem.

May the sun always be on your shoulders

The wind on your back

May love surround you

May you be cared and cherished

May you be complete and fulfilled

May your dreams come true

And may your life always be

Inspirational and healing.

Grace is not hard to love and his post is just a gentle expression of the love and admiration that I have for her.

Walk tall Grace…

Paul

Walk tall Grace…

Paul

One great love, really?

This is a notion that I have wrestled with for a couple of years.  For a number of reasons I wondered if in this life we are destined to have just one great love.  I know this is a result of suffering loss,

A repost of a riposte

Tonight for you,

without further adieu

I bring to you

a poem

Verse is hard

So it’s said

the like

has not been read

ever before

in Hansard.

Tonight’s poem is from a man who is a poet but till now he didn’t know it.  I was going to write of budgets and housing but tonight this will do.

This is the poem Andrew Little read in Parliament, quite funny I thought!

Twas the night before the Budget
When all through the House.
The National Back Benches were keen for a stoush
The promises were hung during the election with care
Of course they would fill them
How could they not
They wouldn’t dare.
September 14 was a different time
The Back Benchers quite happy, some in their prime.
Nested all snug in their leather armchairs
John, Bill and Steven washed away all their fears
There had been promises of surpluses, of poverty relieved
Of great fiscal wonders, or so they believed.
“They’ve got us this fat, the Back Benchers said”
“What could possibly go wrong?”
“We’re so far ahead!”
But Bill English knew, he just hid his fear
That all their good words were just plain hot air
It was great that Mike Hosking and Paul Henry were glowing
But nothing could mask an economy slowing.
“We have to do something, we have to be quick”
Said John Key to his Cabinet that had run out of tricks.
“Now Bennett, now Adams, Now Bridges and Tolley
Forget Steven Joyce and his conventional folly.
Where’s Woodhouse, McCully, Crosbey and Textor
If there’s one thing clear – you all have to do better.
I need plans to help Auckland, to slow housing prices
To help feed the kids, and fix other vices.
Where is the plan for trains, trucks and bikes.
My Facebook page tanking, I can’t get no likes.”
“And I’m sick of seeing Andy, the new man about town
He never gets angry, we can’t bring him down”.
Bill English stepped forwarded in canonical mood;
“Just stop there John, I don’t mean to be rude
You may not have noticed, but we have a crisis
And it’s nothing to do with our troops fighting ISIS
Exports are diving, dairy is down
There isn’t much happening in any small town
I know I have said the problem’s inflation.
But there’s something much bigger – John Bank’s compensation.
You said don’t touch taxes, levies and fees
But how will we pay for this – it don’t grow on trees.”
And then the talk came to a stop with a shudder
The Prime Minister knew -his heart now aflutter
Up from the back came a great throaty roar
Judith Collins appeared on Parliament’s floor.
“I’ve heard all of your talk, me and Todd Muller
All you’re known as now is ponytail puller”
“Out of the way – shove this in your gob
I’m here to take over, it’s my turn in your job.”

Auckland Poem

Auckland

Bursting at the seams

You polyglot

Desires and needs

Thrash against each other

Like wind against tide.

Your burgeoning waters

Explode with many hues

From sparkling blue to muddy brown

They are coloured

Like the people that you encompass

Manicured streets

With emerald green lawns and swaying palms

Battle against the meanness of your grey neighbour hoods

Your dirty stories not so secret

Struggle to have their voices heard

Everywhere monuments

To unfettered desires pulsate in the street

Like flashing neons

Fast food, fast cars, fast women

Scream out their desires

Your promise of new hope and opportunity

Tantalises and lures

Like insects to a flame they all come

Some to die in fleeting flashes

Others lifted to the sky

Auckland you vagabond, jewel, and whore

Selling yourself for the price of another fix

Bigger roads, brighter shops, more cars

How much is enough

When will you be satisfied

(c) Paul Cronin 2010

A spring poem

Redemption Songs

The sun shining brilliantly,
on the grass.
Rays bounce off the remnants of the dew,

I am a Writer?

That’s what the facebook test said, well a writer writes I guess.  Tonight I am too tired to write, i have a post about 1/3 finished but here is what I give you tonight, one of my poems that i wrote a while ago that I like a lot, (AM I allowed to like my own poems).  Who cares I do and if you do as well then hey its a bonus, if you don’t then… it’s ok as well!

 

Words falling

from my mind,

from my heart,

from my fingers.

Sometimes slamming onto my slate,

searing their mark,

with clouds of smoke and

streams of sparks,

tiny meteors,

sending shockwaves of surprise,

coursing through the synapses of my mind.

Messages formed by life, love and wonder.

Wonder at the beauty I see,

wonder at the pain I feel,

wonder at the things I know,

wonder at that which is mystery,

in my life.

Words of danger, denigration, desire,

derision, despair, deprecation.

Falling from my mind,

confined, by doubt,

set free on a page.

Words falling from my fingers,

Fluttering, flying and fleeing,

From my quotidian life,

Refugees from mediocrity.

Finding safety as they land,

Never reaching the edge,

Never quite finishing their fall,

ready to rise again,

stirred by the wind of hope,

blowing through the corridors of my mind.

Given wings of

life, love and wonder

Words falling from my mind.

Purple Rain

Oh Misery Oh Misery

Rain falling in my heart,

cold, dark, dismal rain.

Soaking through the bindings,

that tied it back together.

A quiet despair, that pervades and infiltrates every nook and cranny.

No hiding from this rain, no place to run or flee.

Sapping the warmth from my heart and reaching into my soul,

this rain. Every where I turn there you are.

What is your name?

Rain falling on my heart, not the rain of spring and life,

no, not the warm gentle summer rain, not the rain of prayers and hope,

not black or grey, not hail or sleet but as cold as charity.

Purple rain falling on me, washing over me drowning my soul.

With you purple rain you have your amigos,

desolation hopelessness, mediocrity, failure.

All along for the ride, come and see what fun we can have.

There it is laid out on the bare hard ground, spilling its life blood,

quickly now while its down, slash a little more, see if the beating will stop.

Teach it a lesson, reckless, forgiving, and hopeful, we can fix that.

Have another dose of reality, have a look at your foolishness, see them

all standing around, “I told you so”, wont you learn?  Why do you bother?

A chorus of disdain and shrill laughter,

shrieking like a polar blast, uprooting and destroying.

Is there any fight in you?

Will you get up again?

Go another round?

Or is that the towel I see thrown in,

bloodied and torn, rent asunder.

Just a useless piece of dirtied rag, fit only to be discarded,

burnt, destroyed turned into ashes.

Oh love you whore, your irresistible siren heart has shown your nature true.

No redemption in you for the shallow man.

What destruction have you unleashed this time,

with your flood of purple rain?

What will be left behind if you ever recede.

Anything worth keeping?

© Paul Cronin 2012

Koru

 

 

Koru

Coiled like a spring you emerge,

just visible above your sisters.

Coil on coil, spiral on spiral.

Embryonic, prehistoric

ancient and wise.

You rest for just a moment,

 biding your time,

waiting and watching,

and then…

You begin.

As if testing the waters of life,

you open your self,

spiral upon spiral,

leaf upon leaf.

Each the same and yet different.

One supporting the other,

perfect harmony and order.

Reaching out and reaching in,

touching and caressing,

like words falling softly.

Ancient wisdom at your centre.

Always the same and yet each frond different.

New narratives unfurling with soft whispers,

Strength and softness,

 constancy and change.

Imagination here, tenderness there.

 Opportunity and hope.

Glorious hope.

Dancing in the dew,

your message draws itself

as if painted on the morning.

New beginnings and old endings.

Thursday Night U Turn

For Uncle Trevor aka Mr Bojangles

A Thursday night U turn.

Hamilton, where the wild things lurk

on the golden mile.

Not so golden

For Mr Bojangles,

more dark,dank, damp,

derisive,dangerous and damaging,

that not so golden mile.

Thursday night on main street Hamilton,

Where kerosene cowboys lurk,

Boys drive fast

frightened not of riff raff, cows,nor sheep.

Unmoving monuments of brass,

But of Joe Citizen

just trying to make his way in the world.

No robbers to stop this time,

Mr Bojangles.

Just a moment in the new millennium,

taking time to smell the rubber,

hear the grating, crash,

metal on metal.

Rather next time be it roses,

Thursday night on main street.

No place for Mr Bojangles