Live Encounters Aotearoa New Zealand Poets & Writers March 2026
Coming Home, Alone, poems by Mike Kilpatrick.
Coming Home, Alone
I march into my sloping driveway as the rain smashes
Upon hot summer concrete. The cracked earth
And brown grasses greedily swallow water as bubbles
Of petrichor explode, a sweet-smelling congratulations
For my exhausting run. Sweat from my forehead blinds,
The stinging salt reminiscent of oh so many tears.
Before I’m distracted by the laundry list of problems
Waiting behind the cool grey door, the kereru
Standing to attention on its nikau palm rampart
Offers up one if its juicy red berries. It floats along
The gushing water towards the overflowing gutter.
Saluting the brave bird’s kindness, I soldier on.
As the berry circles the drain, I start up slippery steps
Knowing someone is waiting for me, but no-one
Is present. Moving from our own worlds seemed idyllic
In those heady moments of love. Before the battles
Commenced. Hindsight is a bitch. White flags wave,
I venture across no man’s land. Loneliness persists.
Disappearing
She was a tiny ball of energy, a tight grey perm
Forever making soup, challenging me to games
When I was a wee boy, it was ‘Stop the Bus’
Played with pennies from a bright yellow jar
With cards smelling of stale smoke from a pipe
Sitting on the fireplace, Saturday afternoons
Grandad shouting at wrestling on television
I remember the night I met your grandad
Leaning on his bike up on South Street
A lovely warm evening, tall and handsome
He was waiting for me and Mame to pass
He wanted a word, at the end of the close
The one the runs up the side of Boots
She was a tiny ball of energy, a tight grey perm
Introducing me to Uncle George, he bets me
A pound I can’t solve his sliding puzzle games
A pound? Victory, Sherbert Fountains galore
She celebrates with a tiny glass of sherry
I remember the night I met your grandad
I think it was on South Street, up from Boots
Did he have his bike? He was leaning on it
At the end of the close, I was with Mame
And he asked me out as we walked past
She was a tiny ball of energy, a tight grey perm
Always wanting to feed me up, even if I was full
A refusal always blamed on me being in love
Though I’d just finished soup and her gateau
I remember the night I met your grandad
He was waiting for me and… Mame?
Somewhere up on South Street I think
He asked me out as we walked past
She was tiny with a tight grey perm
I hugged as hard as her fragile bones
Would let me, I never wanted it to end
Have I told you how I met your grandad?
He waited for me as I was out with Mame
Somewhere up town, not sure where
She was tiny with a tight grey perm
Why didn’t I spend more time with her?
Do you know how I met your grandad?
I can’t quite find it in there any more
She was tiny
I don’t remember how I met your grandad
She was
Fade To Black
How I longed to be invisible
While all could see the black dog
Dragging me down living streets
Sickness dripping from pores
Threatening to infect those
Surrounding me as they wait
To see if I’ll pull back or let go
The gaping pit in my stomach
Left unfulfilled by binges
Trying to satisfy desperation
Clothes always getting tighter
And I’m more visible than ever
Struggling to keep up the pace
The black dog dashing onwards
Doctors prescribing rainbow pills
Some bringing sleep like death
But when I try to kick the habit
I’m left bleary-eyed, zombified
Withdrawal worse than disease
How close to the edge of the cliff
Was I dragged on my worst day?
I didn’t need to fly that morning
But I’m wondering if wings
Will unfurl when I need them
To flap and chase away words
Which cut through pallid skin
“Cheer up, it could be worse,
At least you’re alive.” Barely
Then one day I’m disappearing
A snarling hound’s grip easing
Muscles moving, not groaning
I’m demanding human touch
Side-effects of drugs fading
From a chrysalis I’m emerging
The man in the mirror familiar
I sometimes see the black dog
In the corner of my eye, growling
Far enough away I don’t panic
The mocking hound of depression
Has taken it’s leave, temporarily
I have my wish, I’m all but invisible
While those who need me, see me
© Mike Kilpatrick
Mike Kilpatrick is a former scientist and journalist, who turned to poetry writing later in life after realising it wasn’t as scary as he remembered it being from English classes at school in Scotland.
He now works as a communications professional and annoys those in his life by trying to reply with haiku or senryu in any conversation.