Deb Curreen Author

 I'm off to join the convicts, because I know I'm going to jail. I know I promised myself and the world, I wouldn't write poems about any friend, but I have, I just can't help myself, so poetry jail will be my end. I hope to make new friends in there, someone new to write about. I hope my words will make them sing and laugh, and dance and jump about. I hope I don't upset anyone, I don't want to get thrown out. Because where do you go after jail, when you can no longer stay, where do the fallen poets go, when their words cause outrage and dismay. Is there a dark and dreary dungeon, where ostracised wordsmiths dwell? A place to sit and mutter, a room that smells like hell. Even though my subjects were anonymous, you could still guess their names, I always new my verses were dicey, but I still played that tricky, slippery game. My editor tried to warn me, but her words sailed straight past my ear, "people can get upset, so stop making fun of them with your wor...

. The sun is bright and a soft wind blows calmly through your window, I say, "Listen to that singing outside, what can it be?" "It's the tuis,' you say, "they're waiting for me." "But not today," I said, and you laughed with me, "not today, I'm not ready, they will have to wait." I agreed, no one was ready yet, and you stayed for a while longer. They returned the next day, and the next, those tuis sang together, and we came to enjoy their boisterous chorus. "They're still here," I told you. "Yes," you said, "but it's sunny, so they can just stay in the trees and cry," We laughed together, as we watched the tuis in the kowhai, harmonising together, in the branches that touched the sky. I stand over you, some days later, the sky was grey and the clouds hung lower than broken hearts, you were gone, leaving us quietly, in the early morn. I looked in the kowhai but the tuis were also gone. You...

I remember the Post Office in Mangonui across from the store, beside the shore where we collected our mail, Cashed a cheque, bought a stamp stood outside in the morning sun enjoying a friendly chat,  about this, and also that. The telephone exchange nestled out the back, the place that linked the town as one,  by party line, one conversation at a time. Long short long, funny ring tones back then.   The Post Office was all business inside, socialising  outside before we wound our ways home, By foot, bike or  a car driven slowly,   round that windy, pretty harbour road. Where flame trees hung splendidly in red, throwing shade on our foot steps ,  protecting our head, as glorious flowers beckoned birds in for lunch, allowing nests to be built in their arms. Now I walk in your door, Post Office, like it’s 1904 precious years later, many incarnations of cafes and bakers, bars and meal makers, we have our own Littl...